CHAPTER 172: CHAPTER 167: SCHEDULE OF SUFFERING (3)

Gabriel walked with Edward at his side and a full imperial escort behind them: two attendants in court silk, four palace guards in black and crimson armor, a royal scribe, and a shadow guard he’d only noticed after the fourth turn. His footsteps echoed slightly faster than the rest—just enough to remind Gabriel that even privacy was a luxury.

The last month made his senses dull; before, he would have felt the moment someone was watching or following him. Shadow or not.

He walked, chin high, expression bored, spine straight despite the persistent throb in his lower back and the low-grade ache curled just beneath his ribs. The tonic dulled it but didn’t erase it. Just enough for him to function.

Edward, of course, was unbothered. He walked in his right, half a step back, polished and calm, reading from his tablet with the serenity that only someone used to imperial chaos could muster.

Gabriel didn’t need to ask. He knew why the escort had grown.

Today wasn’t just another meeting.

Today, he was walking in as the Empress-in-waiting.

’God dammit, Damian. Couldn’t you chose a day in which I am rested?’

Gabriel didn’t say it aloud. But the feeling persisted with each step, like a headache worse than the stiffness in his shoulders. His body wasn’t made for full-day theater on three hours of sleep, half a bottle of regret tonic, and exactly one spoonful of honeyed porridge before Edward confiscated the tray and declared, "You’ll bloat."

The only thing bloated was his sense of impending doom.

’Maybe I should run away.’ He tried not to jump out of the grand window and into the garden below.

Then, just past the archway of the reception gallery, sunlight met silk, and so did poison.

"Your Grace," a voice said, smooth as wine and twice as dangerous.

’I definitely should have run away.’ He didn’t reply immediately, his gaze fixated on the garden below and the bush that could ease his landing. Three floors. He had done worse than this.

"Don’t." Edward whispered only for his ear.

Gabriel didn’t move. Didn’t look.

He stared out the window like it offered salvation. It didn’t. Only the neat hedgerows of the imperial gardens and a very climbable drainpipe. Three floors and a twist of the ankle would be worth it.

’I could be unconscious before the tribunal starts. That would solve several problems.’

But Edward, curse him, had already anticipated the thought.

"Don’t," he whispered again, his voice smooth, clipped, and with just enough edge to sound like a promise of violence if Gabriel leapt.

"Your Grace," Anya repeated.

Gabriel finally turned, slowly, like someone unbothered by the sound of circling vultures. He let his gaze settle on her, lower lids heavy with disinterest, spine straight with practiced disdain.

Anya stood beneath a shaft of sunlight like a painting meant to offend.

Her gown was silver-threaded ice blue, sharp-collared, and impeccably tailored. Her light brown hair pinned with imperial pearls. Her posture relaxed, deliberately casual. And the scent...

Damian’s scent. Subtle. Chemically mimicked. But unmistakably his.

The same violation from the garden.

’Is she stupid?’

Gabriel blinked once. Slowly. His stomach turned, but his expression didn’t shift.

"Princess," he said blandly. "You’re still here."

Anya smiled. "I was invited. Out of respect for my station."

"A generous gesture," Gabriel said. "Considering you’ve already abused scent laws and the court’s patience."

Her smile didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened. "Oh, I don’t think they’ve run out of patience just yet."

Gabriel stepped closer, and Edward’s hand ghosted near the fold of his robe like he wasn’t entirely certain what Gabriel might do next.

"You reek of desperation," Gabriel murmured, voice low. "But you knew that, didn’t you?"

Anya tilted her head, lips curving. "And you reek of opportunity. Do you think you’ll keep it long?"

Gabriel’s lashes lowered just enough to look almost lazy. "I think Damian made his choice."

"And I think choices can change," she said lightly. "Especially if he realizes what he’s missing."

Edward made a sound that could be described as a cough or a choked laugh. Gabriel didn’t look at him.

He leaned in just slightly, voice soft, unhurried—pitched just loud enough to carry to the guards, the attendants, and the hovering court eyes pretending not to listen.

"So," Gabriel said, calm as ice. "Marrying Elliot isn’t enough punishment for you?"

Anya blinked. Her lips parted, but no sound came out.

Gabriel watched it land.

He watched her expression shatter at the edges.

That smile, the smug little curl at the corner of her mouth, had frozen halfway through its arc.

"I see," Gabriel replied smoothly, a cruel smirk forming on the corners of his lips. "Your convoy hasn’t informed you yet."

Her face quickly lost color, turning white beneath her flawless makeup, a mask cracking in real time.

"Your marriage to Prince Christian is off," Gabriel said, tilting his head slightly, as if offering a consolation prize. "You’ll be bound to Count Elliot. A man with a decent title. A respectable lineage. And he carries the same idiocy. A match made in heaven, if I may say so."

She tried to speak. Just a breath. But Gabriel wasn’t finished.

He leaned in just enough that their attendants could not pretend not to notice, and his faint, elegant, and poisonous smile barely changed.

"But now," he murmured, "after this second attempt—after you dared to walk into the tribunal wearing his scent again..."

He let the sentence hang in the air like the edge of a guillotine.

"...I don’t know how Damian will react."

Anya’s eyes widened. Her lips moved without sound.

Gabriel noticed the flicker of panic behind her lashes. The way her posture stiffened, too sudden to be natural. She hadn’t known. Not about the marriage. Not about the punishment.

Not about how deeply she’d overplayed her hand.

He stepped back with graceful detachment, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve with a calm that only made it worse.

"You really should speak to your uncle before entering rooms like this," he added lightly. "There’s a limit to how many times you can insult a crown and remain relevant."

Then, without another glance, he turned his back on her.

He stopped a moment. Not for her, but for the silence that ensued. The kind that echoed more loudly than words.

"You still have time to get rid of it," he said softly. "Or at least most of it."

A pause.

"But he’ll know. He always does."

Then he walked forward, footsteps perfectly measured, leaving behind the chill of inevitability in his wake.