The palace bells rang low and resonant, their ether-cores amplifying the sound across the Capital until every street thrummed with the countdown. The coronation hall glittered like a prism, walls veined with streaming light, the air thick with incense and the hum of power drawn from the great wards above.

Backstage, though, was chaos.

Arik had been a vision of cherubic calm in the rehearsals, sleepy, pliant, and happy in anyone's arms. But the moment the day itself arrived, the moment Gabriel was buttoned into his ceremonial robe of deep crimson lined with gold, the child decided the entire empire could go to hell.

Every attempt to take him from Gabriel ended the same: Arik's face screwed up, lips trembling, and then the kind of wail that seemed designed to rattle the bones of every attendant within three wings of the palace.

Edward was nearly beside himself. "Your Excellency, please, he must be handed to the nursemaid before the procession; we are minutes from stepping into history…"

"He is already making history," Gabriel said flatly, rocking his son against one shoulder. "As the loudest voice in the Empire."

The attendants fluttered uselessly, tugging at hems and collars, their fingers nervous against fabric woven with ether threads that caught every flicker of light. Gabriel's robe was nearly identical to Damian's, red, imperial, merciless in its symbolism, but his expression was anything but ceremonial. His jaw was tight, his patience thinner than silk.

"Try again?" Alexandra suggested dryly from the side, her own gown immaculate, eyes gleaming with amusement.

Edward swallowed hard and reached once more for the child. Arik immediately screwed up his face and let out a piercing shriek, small fists clinging desperately to Gabriel's robe.

"Enough," Gabriel snapped, pulling him back. He stripped the ceremonial outer robe in one quick motion, ignoring the horrified gasp of an attendant, and tugged free the plain shirt he'd been wearing underneath earlier. With ruthless calm, he wadded the fabric into Arik's small hands and pressed it against the child's mouth.

Instant silence. Arik sighed, latched on to the shirt with the fierce determination of a creature who knew exactly what he wanted, and gnawed on the cloth happily.

The room exhaled as one.

Edward looked ready to collapse. "That is not protocol."

"It's survival," Gabriel said, voice sharp but softening as he glanced down at the now-content bundle against his chest. His lips curved, almost amused. "And if protocol can't survive a five-month-old, it doesn't deserve to exist."

When Arik finally quieted, clutching Gabriel's shirt with the stubborn authority of a prince who already ruled his household, the nursemaids eased him gently from Gabriel's arms. The boy whimpered once, but the lingering scent of his father's clothes kept him docile, drifting into drowsy silence as he was carried away to the private wing.

Only then did Gabriel allow the attendants to finish. The robe settled into place like a mantle of flame, red as blood, gold-threaded, imperial. A single clasp fastened high at his collarbone gleamed with the sigil of the Empire. The fabric was heavy both in weight and expectation.

The herald's staff struck against the polished ether-stone floor. The sound reverberated like thunder, amplified through hidden channels so it shook the air of the great hall beyond.

"His Excellency, Gabriel von Jaunez, Consort to His Imperial Majesty!"

The doors parted.

The coronation hall stretched like a river of light. Rows upon rows of nobles, foreign envoys, military officers in crisp ether-forged uniforms, and priests in white lined the space. The glass vault above shimmered with currents of restrained ether, like a storm caged in crystal.

Gabriel stepped forward.

The walk was long by design. Each footfall echoed across the stone, ceremonial, absolute. Behind him, as custom demanded, came his attendants and staff-in-waiting, Rafael carrying the ceremonial record, Edward stiff as a blade, Alexandra radiant and smug in her gown, and Irina bright-eyed despite herself. The "Department of Spite," as Rafael had christened them, walked in perfect formality, their mismatched presence somehow sharpened into a procession fit for an empire.

But it was Gabriel the hall watched.

He did not smile. He did not bow his head. His gaze was steady, cold as the steel of his knife, the crimson of his robe echoing the Emperor's at the far end of the hall. If they whispered about rebellion, about the child, about the bond, they whispered into silence.

At the dais, Damian waited.

Imperial red cloaked his broad shoulders, gold glinting with every shift of light, the crown still cradled in the priest's hands at his side. His eyes, molten and unflinching, followed Gabriel's every step.

At the final measure of the carpet, Gabriel stopped. The hall held its breath.

He lowered himself smoothly to one knee, the crimson robe pooling around him like a tide of fire, his head bowed in ceremony.

The herald's voice rang out, amplified by the ether wards above: "The Empress of the Empire, crowned by His Majesty's hand!"

Damian descended a single step, the crown gleaming in his grip. His shadow fell over Gabriel, and the hall of nobles bent forward in anticipation.

The crown caught the ether light as Damian lifted it high, its facets scattering fire across the vaulted glass. For a heartbeat the hall seemed suspended, every whisper, every breath pulled tight into silence.

Then, with slow precision, Damian lowered it.

Gold brushed Gabriel's brow, cool against his skin, before settling firmly into place. The wards above pulsed once, acknowledging the act with a subtle thrum of power that rolled through the chamber like distant thunder.

Gasps rippled down the rows of nobles. Foreign envoys leaned forward. Even the priests, long-trained in composure, allowed the faintest flicker of awe to touch their faces.

Damian's voice broke the silence, low and resonant, carrying as though the empire itself had bent to amplify him:

"Rise, Empress."

Gabriel lifted his head, the crimson of his robe blazing against the crown's fire, his expression a mask of serene composure. He rose in one smooth motion, taller now beneath the weight of ceremony, and the hall trembled with the impact of the moment.

Damian descended the final step, closing the distance. His golden eyes never left Gabriel's face as his hand reached forward. Gabriel's own fingers met his without hesitation, the clasp a simple gesture that rippled louder than any herald's call.

Together they turned.

The great doors at the end of the dais swung open with mechanical precision, ether seals disengaging with a hiss. Beyond them stretched the balcony, vast and gleaming, its pillars etched with channels of glowing power that fed straight into the wards of the Capital.

They stepped out as one.

Below, the city was a sea of bodies and banners. The avenues leading to the palace gates thrummed with people, the roar of their voices rising like a tide that shook the stone beneath their feet. The ether wards above the metropolis pulsed in rhythm with the crowd, amplifying the sound until it became a living thing.

Damian raised their joined hands high, his expression carved in fire and command.

Gabriel stood at his side, crown glinting beneath the sun, his face serene but his presence razor-sharp, an Empress not of soft words, but of survival, of blood, of defiance.

And the Capital erupted.

A single, unified cry swept upward, a sound so immense it swallowed even the bells tolling across the skyline. The Empire had seen its rulers crowned, bound, and unbroken.

On the balcony, Damian's thumb brushed once across the back of Gabriel's hand, small, private, and unseen by the masses.

It was not for them. It was for him.