The dining room Edward chose was one of the smaller imperial salons, tucked just off the west wing's central corridor—formal enough to remind Lucius of Gabriel's rank, but private enough to make it seem like a family dinner. The walls were a muted charcoal grey laced with veins of gold, and the lighting was low, almost reverent, the ether-powered chandeliers casting a soft glow over the long obsidian table.
Gabriel entered alone.
No attendants, no heralds, no guards. Just the quiet sound of his boots on the polished floor and the heavy weight of every conversation not yet spoken.
He looked every inch the Consort. The tailored coat hugged his frame with clinical precision, his hair pulled back and fastened with a black pin bearing the imperial seal. Only a faint line of bruises peeking above his high collar betrayed the toll of his private life. That, and the subtle way he held himself—spine straight, expression sharp, exhaustion tugging at the edge of his eyes.
