Gabriel had dressed quietly and formally by the ti the clock struck seven. No regal embroidery, no hint of royal favor, just a dark suit with clean lines and a crisp white shirt buttoned to the throat. He looked every inch the man who had built his position through intelligence, not blood.
He made his way through the eastern corridor of the Ministry building, pausing near the large arch of stained glass that bathed the hallway in morning hues. There, already waiting with a steaming cup in hand and a folder tucked beneath her arm, stood Anabelle Sinclair.
"Long ti no see," said Gabriel, grinning with his arms open for a hug.
Anabelle raised an eyebrow at him and handed him a cup of coffee, ignoring the hug. "No offense, Gabriel, but I would like to see my daughter’s wedding."
Gabriel chuckled and took the cup with a small nod of surrender. "Noted. I’ll keep my arms to myself."
"You’re still charming," Anabelle said, sipping from her own cup. "But i don’t think the Emperor would let live after this."
Gabriel smirked. "Aren’t you too dramatic?"
"No." She stated flatly.
Gabriel sat with one leg crossed over the other on a cushioned bench by the central pillar, coffee in hand, posture relaxed but mind sharp. Beside him, Anabelle was flicking through her slim notebook, but her attention kept drifting back to him.
"Do you know," she said, "if we sit here long enough, soone’s bound to accuse us of plotting sothing dramatic."
"We are," Gabriel said simply. "I’m quitting."
She grinned. "Fair point."
They both looked like they would stepped out of a magazine, dressed in clean lines and dark palettes that exuded old money and calculated restraint. There was nothing showy about either of them, and that was what made them stand out.
Footsteps echoed on the stone.
Maximilian Claymore approached with such casual grace that people forgot who he was until he spoke. He wore a tailored black suit with an open collar, no tie, and not a single mark of his title, yet he might as well have worn a crown for the way eyes followed him.
"Should I be concerned because you two appear to be attending the sa funeral?" Max asked, dropping into the seat beside Gabriel.
"We are," Gabriel replied without missing a beat. "Just waiting for the body to be formally identified."
Max gave him a sidelong look. "And here I thought this was a civil gathering."
"It was," Anabelle said, not looking up from her notes. "Then you arrived."
Max put a hand over his heart. "You wound , Sinclair."
"I’ll try harder next ti."
Gabriel sipped his coffee, his posture easy, but his eyes never left the hallway leading toward the conference room. "Have you seen George? Or Callahan for that matter?"
"Uncle George arrived earlier," Max said. "Didn’t say much. He was... quiet. He ignored ."
"That’s new," Anabelle murmured.
"No, it was the wrong kind of quiet," Max clarified. "Like he was following a script he didn’t write."
Gabriel’s gaze narrowed slightly. "Was Elliot with him?"
"Of course, the guy is basically everywhere George is, and there are rumors that he sohow got my uncle’s favor back."
Anabelle frowned slightly and closed her notebook with a sharp sound. "You don’t believe that."
"I believe he thinks it," Max muttered. "That’s what makes it dangerous." He places his right foot on his other knee with a carefree attitude.
Gabriel exhaled through his nose. "Elliot doesn’t know the aning of subtlety."
"No," Anabelle agreed. "But whoever is pulling his strings does."
Their words were brief, quiet, and not rushed. They looked like a war council dressed in civilian clothing.
Before more could be said, raised voices rang out from further down the corridor.
"I demand to be let in!"
Elliot Claymore’s shrill tone cut through the elegant silence of the Ministry like a badly played violin. His voice echoed along the marbled walls, drawing glances from both staff and officers as he squared off with Astana near the main chamber’s entrance.
The Emperor’s personal secretary was dressed in his royal uniform, perfectly arranged, his wolf head brooch shining in perfect harmony with his gold glasses in the early morning light. He did not seem impressed and was probably expecting it.
Gabriel didn’t rise yet. He simply shifted forward slightly, like a predator who’d caught the scent of sothing familiar.
Max, however, groaned under his breath. "Why is it always so early with him?"
"He’s trying to force his way into an imperial eting," Anabelle noted, her voice sharp. "That’s not bluster. That’s soone too confident."
"Or too stupid," Max muttered.
Astana stood unmoving before the doors, arms folded across his chest, looking like a fortress co to life.
"You do not have clearance, Lord Claymore," he said, voice calm but final. "You were not invited. You are not permitted entry."
"I am his son!" Elliot snapped, jabbing a finger toward the door. "I represent Claymore interests—"
"You represent nothing today," Astana said. "Step back."
Gabriel’s expression didn’t shift. His gaze, however, slid past Elliot to George Claymore, who stood just inside the threshold, oddly silent. The usual authority in his posture had vanished, replaced by sothing... detached. He stared ahead blankly, not responding to the argunt at all.
"He’s not stepping in," Anabelle whispered, eyes narrowing.
Gabriel didn’t reply. But his jaw tightened.
Elliot was still ranting, demanding entry, ntioning his family, and insulting Astana with the refined arrogance of a noble on the verge of relevance.
Astana remained unmoved. "You may wait in the hall."
"Odd," Anabelle murmured, her eyes locked on George Claymore, just loud enough for Gabriel to hear.
He nodded slightly but said nothing.
And then, the doors at the far end opened.
The room shifted.
Damian Orion Lyon stepped in, flanked by two quiet Shadows who faded into the wall the mont they passed the threshold. Three more imperial soldiers followed suit.
He wore black, his official coat heavy with gold trim, and the imperial crest was worked into the high collar. Over his right shoulder was a black cape lined with deep crimson silk, the color catching the light like blood in motion. His boots clicked once against the stone before silence reigned again.
Every conversation died.
Astana stepped back at once. "Your Majesty."
Damian’s gaze didn’t so much sweep the room as command it. He didn’t spare Elliot even a glance. "We begin now."
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