The doors closed behind him with a final, echoing click. Not a slam, no one dared slam a door in this wing, but the sound was heavy all the same, like the weight of something unsaid.
Gabriel stood for a moment in the middle of the Empress's office.
Not his office. Not yet. Not officially.
But no one else had the key.
The room was lit in winter light, blue-grey and quiet, filtering through high glass like a memory refusing to be softened. The air carried the faintest trace of cedar ink and clean parchment. Edward must've aired it out. Or maybe Astana had. He wasn't sure who was on rotation anymore. He hadn't cared to check.
His coat felt too tight around the shoulders. The collar scraped against his neck where Damian's hands had fastened it hours ago. Every thread of him still smelled like the execution. Like the crown that had dug into Damian's brow, casting shadows Gabriel wasn't ready to think about.
He exhaled through his nose and moved forward.
