After a night of sleep and a quiet conversation with Edward—one that ended with a veiled threat of exile if his matchmaking tendencies continued—Damian now stood still as the attendants finished fastening the last clasp of his ceremonial attire.
The robe was cut from black silk, layered with a crimson mantle that swept behind him like a shadow edged in blood. Gold embroidery coiled over the fabric—flames, thorns, and imperial sigils stitched into every fold with ruthless elegance. At his shoulders, polished pauldrons gleamed, wold-marked and chained across the chest. A sash bound the waist, clasped with a phoenix-and-crown emblem—Gabriel's sigil resting beside his own. Black gloves, leather that hid the scars from ether scorching.
It was a suit of power. Meant to silence rooms before he spoke.
Even if the occasion was an execution.
"Is Gabriel ready?" Damian asked while adjusting his gloves.
