CHAPTER 199: CHAPTER 194: THE PORTRAIT OF A LIE (3)

The door had barely sealed shut behind Alexander when Edward reappeared, his movements crisp, his voice composed as ever.

"General Halbrecht is waiting."

"Send him in."

A moment later, the door opened again—this time to a heavier presence. General Halbrecht stepped in without ceremony, clad in imperial black trimmed with the silver of his rank, his greatcoat still dusted with the cold bite of morning air. His movements were deliberate, calculated, the kind of stillness that came from decades of battlefield experience rather than courtly polish.

He stopped a precise three paces from the desk and offered a nod. Not a bow.

"Your Majesty."

"Halbrecht." Damian gestured to the seat across from him without looking up from the closed folder still beneath his hand. "You’re early."

"Your butler is very persuasive," Halbrecht replied dryly, lowering himself into the chair with the careful grace of a man who’d spent half his life in armor. "He didn’t mention why I was summoned before sunrise. I assume it wasn’t for coffee."

"No," Damian said, leaning back slowly, golden eyes lifting to meet the General’s with that cold, imperial clarity. "You’re taking command of the southern garrison."

Halbrecht didn’t even try to hide his grimace. "You can’t be serious."

"I’m always serious," Damian replied evenly.

"I’m already managing coastal stabilization in the East, integrating new recruits into the Northern watch, and chasing three rogue captains still loyal to Hadeon. Now you want me to babysit a southern post riddled with corruption and strategic vulnerability?"

Damian raised a brow, unbothered. "Yes."

Halbrecht scoffed under his breath and glanced toward Edward. "Is this one of those situations where I can decline, or is that strictly theoretical?"

Edward, standing just to the side, gave a smooth, practiced smile. "I assure you, if the Emperor wanted your opinion, he would’ve requested a report, not your presence."

"You know," Halbrecht muttered, leaning back slightly in the chair, "there’s a reason none of the other generals ever visit this room before dawn. It’s haunted."

"And yet you’re here," Damian said, his voice like glass cutting across the table. "Which means you’re the only one I still trust to handle this without tripping over your own ambition."

"That sounds suspiciously like a compliment."

"It’s not."

Edward cleared his throat gently. "If I may—"

"No," Halbrecht cut in, pointing a gloved finger at him. "Don’t you dare suggest you take this post instead. We both know you’d reorganize the garrison and the court’s flower arrangements by lunch, and I’d be stuck doing cleanup for a year."

Edward blinked once. "That’s the most flattering insult I’ve received this month."

Damian didn’t smile. He stood.

And then, without warning, he threw the folder on the desk toward them. It skidded across the polished surface and landed with a thud, pages half-spilling out.

"Read it," he ordered.

Halbrecht straightened, frown deepening. Edward stepped forward first, lifting the folder with practiced care. Halbrecht leaned in beside him.

The silence that followed was immediate. Dense.

Edward’s eyes flicked over the first image. His hand stilled.

By the second, Halbrecht was no longer leaning back.

By the third, the General’s expression had darkened entirely.

"What the hell is this?" he asked quietly.

"Forgery," Damian said. "High-level illusion magic. Gabriel’s face. Elliot Claymore’s body. Found in Anya’s quarters."

Edward’s jaw tightened, but his voice remained steady. "This was meant for circulation."

"To coincide with the next diplomatic envoy," Damian confirmed. "To cast doubt. Humiliate him. And question me."

Halbrecht turned a page slowly. "This isn’t slander. This is warfare."

Before anyone could respond, the door burst open. The sheer force of Charles von Jaunez’s presence as he stepped through the threshold was enough to fracture the air in the room.

He didn’t bow.

Didn’t ask for permission.

He stopped just inside the study, his boots scuffing slightly on the polished floor, his shoulders squared like he was about to start a duel.

"What the hell is this?" he demanded, his voice a low growl, thick with fury. "You knew about the image, and you were just going to send it to me like a report?"

Edward blinked. "The report was prepared for your review—"

"That’s not the point," Charles snapped. "You sent me this—this abomination—without telling me it was my brother’s face being used like this. You think I’d just skim through it over breakfast?"

Damian’s eyes narrowed slightly, but he said nothing.

"The image includes a detail that only someone who has seen Gabriel naked would recognize. So, either this is a very twisted idea of Gregoris to test me, or..."

"What are you talking about?" Interrupted Edward while trying to find anything in particular on the image. He had seen Gabriel naked enough to know his body.

"The scar on the hip." Said Damian without looking at anyone in particular.

A charged silence fell across the room.

Edward’s eyes, sharp and steady, flicked down to the image in his hands. He looked harder this time—past the illusion, past the glamour. And there it was, faint but unmistakable. A pale, half-moon scar on the right hip, nearly lost in the false glow of enchanted skin.

He exhaled, slow and measured. "Impossible to know without... access."

Halbrecht didn’t speak. His jaw clenched, and for once, his weathered features betrayed the disgust curling at the edges of his discipline. "They didn’t just want scandal," he said. "They wanted to destroy him. They wanted to dehumanize him."

Damian nodded once. "They targeted Gabriel not as a consort, but as a symbol of my vulnerability. That scar was from the rebellion. Only someone from the old court... or someone who handled Gabriel after the fall would’ve seen it."

Charles’ voice was ragged, his control frayed. "Who else has seen that scar?"

Damian met his eyes with a look colder than steel. "I have. You have. His physicians. Edward. And now—whoever helped Anya build this lie."

Edward slowly closed the folder and passed it back to Damian, gloves brushing the edge of the cursed image like it was a weapon. "Whoever cast this enchantment had access to imperial-grade magic, and a model capable of mimicking Elliot’s build. But the detail work—this isn’t court gossip. This is sabotage."

Halbrecht’s tone turned grim. "And you think Anya was just the messenger?"

"She couldn’t cast this herself," Damian said. "Someone helped her. Someone powerful. Someone who knew enough to disguise the casting signature and bury the thread in her mind after."

Charles folded his arms tightly over his chest, trying to force himself still. His voice came low, tight with fury. "I want to know every name she spoke to before this. I want to know who delivered the image, who passed the illusion. I want to know who dared to look at him long enough to map that scar."

"You’ll have it," Damian said. "The Shadows are already peeling back every name. But Charles..."

He took a step forward. Not as Emperor—but as the man Gabriel now called mate.

"...you’re not to go after them. Not yet."

Charles laughed once—bitter and sharp. "Don’t tell me to be patient, Damian. He’s my brother."

Damian’s voice turned to iron. "He’s mine, Charles. You think I’ll let this stand?"

The words cut through the room with finality.

Charles didn’t answer right away. His shoulders stayed tense, but slowly, carefully, he gave a shallow nod. "Then I expect results. And not in a month, Damian. I want names. I want them shamed. And if I find out this came from someone inside my house..."

Halbrecht cut in, calm but deadly. "Then there won’t be enough left of them to shame."

Edward cleared his throat quietly. "I’ll send the necessary reports to Gregoris. He’ll coordinate the secondary search through the archives and check for unauthorized ether tracking."

Damian nodded. "Good. And I want the Scarlet Chamber alerted. If this spreads before the envoy arrives, I want the narrative rewritten—Gabriel is the victim. Not the villain."

"And Elliot?" asked Charles, his voice ragged but quieter now.

Damian didn’t hesitate. "We break him, piece by piece. But politically, not publicly."

Edward’s brow lifted. "Disgrace by scandal?"

"By legacy," Damian said. "Let his own mother’s reputation bleed into his. Let his family circle implode."