CHAPTER 211: CHAPTER 206: SCRATCHING THE MARBLE

The music softened as the reception officially began, strings lilting with forced elegance and practiced cheer. The grand ballroom of the Winter Palace was filled with nobles pretending to smile, servants gliding between trays of gilded desserts, and foreign envoys observing everything with that predatory curiosity unique to diplomacy.

Gabriel stood near one of the frosted windows, a glass of something sparkling in his hand, eyes narrowed as he watched Lady Patricia holding court with three ambassadors near the far end of the room. Max, Alexandra, and Irina had wisely retreated a few steps away, sensing the distinct shift in his mood—the moment his jaw tightened and his grip on the stem of the glass turned surgical.

"I should’ve poisoned the cake," Gabriel muttered under his breath. "The exile is for his safety."

Max, who had just taken a sip of wine, choked on it.

Alexandra didn’t even flinch. "Darling, if you keep muttering things like that, someone’s going to start writing sonnets about your villain arc."

Irina blinked rapidly. "Wait—whose exile are we talking about?"

Gabriel’s eyes didn’t leave Patricia. "Elliot’s. He is to leave the Empire and marry in Pais with the Princess, never to return." He put the glass on a corner table. "Patricia is unusually calm for someone who has lost her only child."

"She hasn’t lost him," Max murmured, tone dry. "She’s just realized he’s no longer useful."

Alexandra glanced over her shoulder at the cluster of nobles still orbiting Patricia. "She’s quiet because she’s regrouping. That woman doesn’t mourn. She calculates."

"She’s probably still hoping for a miracle," Gabriel muttered, brushing an invisible speck from his sleeve. "Or for me to publicly humiliate myself and Damian to second-guess everything."

"I’d like to see her try," Irina said, more fiercely than expected.

Gabriel turned to her, one brow arched.

"She won’t. For fuck’s sake, why is Elliot coming here?"

Irina’s eyes widened as she followed Gabriel’s line of sight—sure enough, Elliot had just stepped into the reception hall, flanked by two Paisian delegates and dressed like he was attending his own coronation rather than his imperial exile.

"I thought he was with his new fiancée," she whispered.

Elliot moved deliberately, weaving past guests like he owned the hall, eyes scanning. And when they found Gabriel—he didn’t hesitate.

"He’s coming here," Irina said tightly, almost incredulously.

"Of course he is," Gabriel muttered. "Why let a ruin rest when you can scratch at the marble?"ƒгeewebnovёl_com

By the time Elliot stopped in front of him, Gabriel shifted the rings on his finger and straightened his posture with regal finality. He didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just waited.

Elliot offered the barest bow. "Your Grace."

Gabriel didn’t return the gesture. "Count. I wasn’t expecting you to address royalty first."

Elliot flinched, just slightly—but enough for Irina to notice it from behind Gabriel’s left shoulder. His smile returned, brittle and strained.

"I was taught to acknowledge the highest rank in the room," Elliot said, too smooth. "And you are, after all, seated beside the throne these days."

Gabriel tilted his head. "How polite. Are you aware that I’m here on behalf of a reluctant diplomatic act, not because I want to?"

Elliot’s smile flickered. "Reluctant or not, the entire hall sees you as the Empire’s jewel now."

Gabriel’s eyes didn’t soften. "That’s a terrible metaphor. Jewels can be stolen. Or cut."

Before Elliot could respond, the Emperor was announced in the room, followed by Astana.

The doors opened with ceremonial force, the strings shifting key mid-measure as Damian Lyon, Emperor of the Empire, entered with all the silence and authority of a storm that didn’t need thunder to be feared.

He was dressed in black layered with silver accents, the imperial crest glinting on his chest like a warning. His posture was relaxed only if you didn’t know him. To those who did, like Gabriel, Alexandra, and Max, the stillness in his steps was calculated. Lethal.

Astana followed two paces behind, perfectly composed and unreadable as always, his gaze scanning the room with trained precision.

Elliot straightened. Then stiffened.

Damian’s golden eyes landed on the small cluster by the window—and held.

He moved through the crowd with glacial ease, nobles parting instinctively. Not because he demanded it. But because even illusions knew better than to block a lion’s path.

"Your Majesty," Elliot murmured as Damian approached, performing a stiff bow that nearly grazed the marble.

Damian’s attention flicked to him once.

Then away.

"Count," he said. "Congratulations on the engagement, but shouldn’t you be with your fiancée?"

Elliot straightened a fraction, caught between the etiquette of court and the bite of the words.

Gabriel, standing just to the side, didn’t hide his amusement. The corners of his mouth curled, slow and sharp, like a knife sheathed in velvet.

Elliot offered a bow again, this one stiffer. "Of course, Your Majesty. I was merely offering a personal greeting to His Grace."

Damian’s golden gaze returned to him—flat, unreadable, and somehow even colder than before. "I see," he said softly. "Then offer it and return. Your place is beside your intended, not circling mine."

The silence between them rang louder than any music in the room.

Astana, just behind Damian, tilted his head slightly—as if registering the shift in temperature and preparing to note it in his daily logs of imperial frostbite.

Elliot faltered, just for a heartbeat. Then he bowed again and stepped back with the awkward grace of a man who had just realized he was balancing on a ledge made of glass.

Gabriel took a slow sip of his drink.

Damian approached Gabriel near enough to feel his heat, but still polite, in protocol.

Gabriel didn’t glance at him right away—not out of disrespect, but because acknowledging Damian too quickly would feed the very narrative Patricia and her entourage so desperately wanted. He let the silence stretch, drinking slowly, his posture a study in effortless disdain.

Damian stood beside him with the restraint of a man who could silence a city with a breath, but chose to murmur instead.

"Do you enjoy watching me play Emperor from across the room?" His voice was low, intimate beneath the music, the kind that didn’t need volume to command attention.

Gabriel’s eyes slid toward him, sharp and cool. "Only when I know it’s an act," he said, swirling the sparkling drink. "You wear the role well. Though I’m not sure if you meant to make Elliot sweat that much."

"I meant to do worse," Damian replied, still perfectly formal, as though they were discussing weather. "But I assure you, this night will be entertaining."

"Oh, as entertaining as Max’s story?"

Damian’s gaze didn’t waver, but there was the barest flicker of something dangerous beneath the gold.

"Which one?" he asked, voice still pleasant, still public. "He’s fond of sharing stories when he thinks I’m too busy to listen."

Gabriel tilted his head, lips curling in the most innocent imitation of a smile. "The one involving a certain folder. And a scent."