Gabriel and Damian moved through the banquet hall with the same effortless dominance they had displayed on the balcony. Every step was trailed by holo-cameras hovering discreetly along the perimeter, projecting highlights of the evening onto translucent ether-screens suspended above the crowd. Nobles adjusted their suits and gowns under the glow of engineered chandeliers that shifted from warm to cool light in rhythm with the music, as though even the atmosphere bent to the empire's design.

The nobles orbited them like satellites, voices lowered, words careful. Foreign envoys, some connected through sleek translation devices pinned to their collars, leaned forward with carefully curated smiles. Their aides tapped quietly on ether-tablets, cataloguing every gesture, every response.

Gabriel's dry wit made them laugh when they least expected it, while Damian's rarer words struck like heavy signatures: permanent, binding, and impossible to misinterpret.

And yet both had noticed the fault line running across the room.

Rafael's cream-gold suit gleamed under the ether-lights like molten sunlight, his posture deliberately languid, his smirk sharp as glass. Every time he tilted his glass, the reflection shot straight toward the dais where Gregoris stood at his post, uniform pressed, epaulettes gleaming with rank, golden eyes locked on Rafael with a hunger that protocol could not conceal.

Gabriel caught the exchange in a flicker of peripheral vision as he redirected a cluster of envoys toward Crista Lyon. His smile didn't falter. "You must forgive the atmosphere," he said smoothly, his tone carrying the easy confidence of someone who knew the room would obey regardless. "We are still balancing peace with the memory of war. Tonight is meant to… test our hospitality."

The envoys nodded quickly, some murmuring reassurances. Their eyes darted between Gabriel's composed expression and Damian's golden stare, as if trying to gauge which edge was sharper. Damian said nothing, only let silence stretch until their smiles tightened and their gazes dropped.

Meanwhile, Rafael tipped his glass again, the shimmer scattering across the hall like deliberate provocation. Gregoris's jaw flexed once, the only crack in his flawless composure. Irina groaned, muttering into her drink, "The wards themselves won't save you when this ends."

Gabriel turned smoothly to greet another minister, but the faintest curve touched his lips as his gaze passed over Rafael. This was not a coronation misstep to be silenced. This was theater, and he had no intention of ending the performance early.

Damian leaned closer, his voice pitched for Gabriel alone, low enough to be drowned by the hum of music and conversation. "You blessed this, didn't you?"

Gabriel's glass tilted, the gold threads in his sleeve catching the light as he drank. His smile remained serene, untouchable.

"Of course," he murmured. "Every empire needs its entertainment."

The first notes of the orchestra swelled, their instruments wired through discreet ether-amplifiers so that the sound rippled flawlessly across the vast hall. The chandeliers shifted again, their glow cooling to a softer silver that poured across the tables now laden with immaculate service: rows of crystalline glasses filled with shimmering wines and plates set with precision by attendants in dark uniforms whose movements were timed to the music itself.

The official program had begun.

A steward's voice, projected clearly through the comm system hidden in the vaulted ceiling, announced the sequence: toasts, courses, then the first ceremonial dance. The crowd adjusted in one collective ripple, attention pivoting toward the dais.

Gabriel and Damian ascended the shallow steps, the holo-cameras trailing them, capturing every tilt of Gabriel's head, every line of Damian's profile. The ether-screens overhead shifted into a kaleidoscope of close angles, refracting their joined presence into a thousand beams across the room.

Damian raised his glass first. His words were few, but they struck like iron dropped into water, sending concentric ripples through the hall. "The empire has been tempered by war. Tonight we prove it can be tempered by peace. To its future."

A chorus of voices echoed back, glasses lifted, faces schooled into reverent smiles.

Gabriel followed, his own glass steady in his hand. His voice slid smooth through the speakers, carrying easily without the weight of force. "May this future stand not on promises but on vigilance. May those who test our peace remember why the empire still stands."

It was not a toast so much as a warning dressed in silk. The nobles drank anyway.

At their table, Rafael reclined further in his chair, unbothered, the cream-gold of his suit glowing like firelight beneath the silver wash of the chandeliers. He clinked his glass lazily against Irina's untouched one, smirk sharpened by the sound of polite applause. Across the hall, Gregoris's fingers twitched once at his side before tightening again behind his back.

Irina whispered furiously, "Stop it, he'll tear you apart when this ends."

"Then he'd better wait until dessert," Rafael murmured back, eyes locked with Gregoris's across the distance. "I never waste a good banquet."

From the dais, Gabriel caught the exchange again, the gold threads of Rafael's sleeve, the fire in Gregoris's restraint, and turned purposefully away, his arm brushing Damian's as he settled into his chair.

Damian's mouth curved faintly. "Still enjoying the show?"

Gabriel's eyes gleamed as he lifted his fork, the tiniest edge of amusement slipping through his mask. "Beautifully dressed, aren't they? Even war looks good in gold."

—

The orchestra shifted, strings swelling, brass weaving underneath until the hall itself seemed to hold its breath. Lights dimmed at the perimeter, leaving the dais and central floor bathed in silver-white brilliance. The steward's voice rang clear through the ether-comm:

"Their Majesties, the Emperor and Empress."

Damian rose first, tall and unyielding in his black and gold. When he extended his hand, Gabriel placed his own in it without hesitation, the muted grey and gold of his suit gleaming in the refracted light. Together they descended, the crowd parting like a tide, holo-cameras pivoting to follow their every move.

The floor belonged to them alone.

Gabriel's expression was composed, lips curving faintly as he let Damian draw him into the first steps. Their hands clasped, their shoulders squared, their movements perfectly in time with the music, as if they'd been born to this choreography.

The empire saw serenity.

But the court, watching too closely, saw something else: the push and pull of power woven into every motion. Damian's guiding hand was firm, unbending, but Gabriel's gaze was sharper still, daring anyone to mistake grace for submission.

Applause swelled when the first turn swept them across the hall, the ether-screens blooming with their mirrored reflections. Nobles clutched glasses tighter, foreign envoys whispered into translators, aides tapped furiously at tablets to record the elegance now being broadcast across the Capital.

From the far end of the hall, Rafael tipped his head back, watching with a smirk that bordered on indulgent. His gold suit caught the light like a flare, his eyes glinting as he caught the taut, predatory line of Gregoris's jaw.

"Even their dance is a war," he murmured.

Irina groaned. "You're incorrigible."

But when Gabriel laughed, soft, private, almost inaudible, as Damian spun him back into his arms, the sound carried just enough to reach the microphones overhead. The nobles heard it, the envoys noted it, and the ether-screens replayed it.

It was the sound of an Empress who had no fear of fire, and an Emperor who burned only for him.

The empire drank it in like gospel.