Gabriel's face was composed, the polite half-smile of a consort standing beside the Dowager while courtiers fussed over lace napkins and ether-glazed pastries. But under that mask, his mind roared with fury.

Someone had dared to aim not at him, not even at Damian, but at a five-month-old child who still couldn't hold his own head steady. That arrogance, that cowardice, had torn straight through the promise he'd once made to Damian: that he would keep his hands clean, that his brilliance would build and not destroy. That the Emperor would not have to watch his mate carve through enemies the way he used to in rebellion days.

But the stench of clove and camphor had hit him, sharp and poisonous in his lungs, and instinct had answered before reason. His ether had snapped outward like a blade unsheathed, and in that breath, the omega had ceased to exist.

'Damn bastards. Why the fuck would you risk your life for such a thing? Damian is marked…' Gabriel thought while still having a polite smile on his face, watching the crowd.

Now the salon pretended at civility, nobles sipping sugared tea while a corpse was quietly removed, their smiles tighter than glass. They would whisper, of course. They always whispered. But none of them would touch Arik, not again, not ever.

Gabriel smoothed a hand down his son's back, feeling the steady rise and fall of baby lungs. The boy had not stirred, nestled safe in Crista's arms, and that alone kept Gabriel's rage from spilling further.

Damian was close enough that the heat of him pressed against his side, golden eyes steady, his hand resting firm at Gabriel's wrist. Silent approval, silent claim. No rebuke, but he, like Gabriel, was near to killing everyone in their son's way.

Gabriel let his mouth curve faintly, masking the storm beneath, but the thought burned cold and vicious through him:

'If they ever come for my son again, I won't stop at one.'

—

When the immediate threat was gone, corpse removed, and the perfume burned out of the air by a swift ether cleanse, Crista rocking Arik as though nothing had happened, Damian stepped back. Not from Gabriel, never truly, but just far enough to take the measure of the room.

The salon was quieter now, hushed in the way of nobles who had just been reminded that beneath the silks and porcelain cups, their empire was built on teeth. Their gazes skittered between Gabriel, serene at Crista's side, and the faint shimmer in the air where ether still clung to the outline of a death no one had seen clearly enough to name.

Damian's lips curved with the faintest suggestion of amusement, though his golden eyes were merciless. He inclined his head slightly toward Gregoris.

"Make sure her name doesn't vanish with her body. I want every channel broadcasting the truth by dusk: an omega from House Veyre attempted to assassinate the imperial prince. She failed. Her family will answer for it."

Gregoris bowed his head once, already pulling a tablet from his coat to issue the orders.

Damian turned his gaze back toward Gabriel then, and the smile that touched his mouth was private, fierce. His mate's control had slipped, yes, but in a fire that made Damian's chest ache with pride.

He hadn't missed the precision of it, the way Gabriel's ether had cut like a surgeon's scalpel rather than a rebel's blade. Controlled even in fury, surgical even in love. The court would whisper of an Empress who killed for his child, but Damian knew the deeper truth: this was Gabriel stripped of restraint, and the empire had only glimpsed the edge.

Stepping closer, his hand brushed Gabriel's wrist again, grounding him. His voice was low, intimate.

"They'll fear you now. As they should. And tomorrow, when the headlines scream and her house scrambles to beg forgiveness, they'll know one thing with certainty."

Gabriel arched a brow, calm, dangerous. "What's that?"

"That the Empress protects what's his."

—

By morning, the empire already hummed with it. Every broadcast, every holo-banner flickering along the Capital's glass towers carried the same headline in neat, merciless script:

"Assassination Attempt on the Imperial Prince. Perpetrator Eliminated on Site."

House Veyre's crest was plastered across the newsfeeds like a brand. Their compounds were locked down overnight, their accounts frozen, and their names dragged through every commentary stream. Not even the neutral channels bothered with restraint, the narrative was clear, state-sanctioned, and airtight: they had tried to poison a five-month-old heir, and the Empress had struck them down without hesitation.

Gabriel sat with his coffee, robe loose over his shoulders, Arik dozing in the bassinet beside him. The palace screens scrolled the news in muted loops. He stirred his cup once and didn't bother hiding his faint smile when another commentator praised the "decisive protection instinct" of the imperial bond.

"They're calling me ruthless again," he said dryly, without looking up.

Damian, sprawled in the armchair opposite, scanned his tablet, golden eyes glinting faintly. "They're calling you untouchable. There's a difference."

"Mm." Gabriel took a sip. "Crista will be pleased. She wanted me to play theater."

"She got a blood opera instead." Damian's mouth curved, though his voice stayed dark, amused. "And House Veyre will pay for the encore. Their assets will keep the border stations running for years."

The knock was brisk, the timing precise. Edward carried a thin case under his arm, the imperial seal glowing faintly along its clasp.

"Morning reports," he announced, though his eyes flicked once to the bassinet before settling on Gabriel. "And a list of nobles who did not sleep last night."

Gabriel arched a brow, setting his cup down. "Because their colleague's perfume backfired?"

"Because their colleague's name is now synonymous with treason." Edward placed the case on the table between Damian and Gabriel, unfolding it with the neat efficiency of a surgeon. A stack of thin holo-slates shimmered to life, streams of text and figures scrolling. "House Veyre's assets are frozen. The estate is already surrounded. Two smaller houses have filed requests to distance themselves, three more are groveling for audiences, and at least half a dozen are attempting to spin their loyalty by offering their daughters."

"Of course," Damian murmured, golden gaze fixed on the shifting data. "Blood barely dries, and they bring marriage contracts."

Edward's mouth twitched faintly. "The desperation is… impressive, even for them. Some of the petitions read more like auction flyers than alliances. One includes an illustrated genealogy chart of their omega line."

Gabriel gave a sharp laugh, leaning back in his chair. "So the solution to assassination is to offer me their cousins? When we have a bond? They are really mad."

Edward's expression didn't so much as flicker. "Mad, yes. Efficient, in their own way. If they can't erase the blood, they'll try to drown it in silk and heirs."

Damian snorted softly, setting the tablet aside. "Idiotic. But idiocy breeds quickly when nobles smell weakness." His gaze slid to Gabriel. "Unfortunately for them, they've chosen the wrong court to test."

Gabriel's smile sharpened, more teeth than warmth. He reached lazily for his coffee again, robe slipping against his collarbone, the mark at his nape catching in the light. "Let them offer cousins, daughters, and their entire family trees if they wish. All it proves is that they've understood nothing."

Edward inclined his head. "And yet the foreign courts are watching." He flicked his fingers across one holo-slate, pulling up a series of diplomatic notes. "Pais requests a clarification on whether the Empress holds independent lethal authority. Donin, under His Highness Christian, is loyal, but their aristocracy is already whispering about overreach. They want to know if this was precedent or exception."

Gabriel hummed low in his throat, eyes narrowing at the screen. "They don't care about the child nearly killed. They care about whether I'm allowed to draw blood without Damian lifting his hand first."

"Exactly." Edward folded his hands neatly behind his back. "Our allies want certainty. Our rivals want cracks. The way you answer will define both."

Damian leaned forward, elbows braced against his knees, gaze burning gold. "So what will you give them, Gabriel? Mercy or fear?"

Gabriel's lips curved, slow and merciless. "Fear lasts longer."