CHAPTER 197: CHAPTER 192: THE PORTRAIT OF A LIE (1)

Damian woke before the palace did.

The sky beyond the windows was still more gray than gold, the first light of morning bleeding faintly through sheer curtains drawn open the night before. Ether sconces hummed low along the walls, casting a soft, amber glow across the chamber. The air was still, heavy with quiet and sleep.

He shifted beneath the sheets with care so that his mate wouldn’t wake up yet.

Gabriel remained curled against him, warm and soft, one leg slung across Damian’s hips, his cheek resting at the hollow of Damian’s shoulder. His breathing was slow. The curve of his mouth relaxed. The line of his spine had finally uncoiled into the bed. Peaceful.

He was tempted to take his entire day off just to stay in bed with Gabriel, to find out more about what he remembered and what he didn’t, but unfortunately for him, his schedule was packed weeks in advance.

He reached for a robe draped on the bench at the end of the bed. A simple one, deep charcoal and lined with silk, fastened loosely at the waist. It left the mark at his collarbone visible and did nothing to hide the faint bite Gabriel had left on his shoulder last night. A little vengeance from his mate.

He crossed the room barefoot and paused near the tall windows, his eyes catching the faint glint of golden light rising from the horizon. Then, without turning, he said,

"Edward."

There was no sound, but the response came just the same. A moment later, the door opened with familiar, deliberate grace.

Edward inclined his head, his tone dry but soft around the edges. "Good morning, Your Majesty. I trust the night went well."

Damian didn’t glance back.

"It was quiet," he said simply, eyes still on the horizon. "No dreams."

Edward stepped farther into the room, the sound of his polished shoes softened by the thick carpet. In his gloved hands was a small velvet box, closed but unmistakable.

"Is that what I think it is?"

Edward extended the tray with a smooth motion. "Forged, etched, and blessed. Delivered this morning under seal. I had the craftsman brought in personally. The sigil matches yours, save for the band, it bears the Von Jaunez colors on the underside."

Damian reached out, lifting the box carefully. It was heavier than it looked.

He opened it.

Inside, set against midnight velvet, was a ring forged in dark imperial gold, subtle in its design but impossible to mistake. The face bore the imperial crest, flanked by a mirrored etching of Damian’s own. Their bond, rendered in metal.

But it was the underside that caught his attention—engraved with the stylized branches of the Von Jaunez family tree, twisted into a singular arc. Elegant. Personal.

Gabriel would recognize it instantly.

Damian closed the lid gently.

"It will be given to him after the engagement ceremony," Edward said, his voice lowered now. "Publicly, at your command. It will make it official in the eyes of the Empire."

Edward gave the faintest smile. "Will he be informed ahead of time?"

Damian’s mouth curved, just slightly, just enough to unnerve entire councils. "No. Let it be a surprise."

Edward gave a soft hum, somewhere between approval and amusement, as he returned the box to the inner pocket of his coat. "He’ll handle it well."

"He always does," Damian murmured.

There was pride there, buried deep—too quiet to name aloud, but present all the same. He looked once more toward the horizon, the first rays of sunlight now breaking over the edge of the city, gilding the tips of the spires in muted gold.

"Adjust the schedule," he said at last, his tone sharpening just a degree. "Push the open court an hour. I want the morning reports in my study before then. And call for General Halbrecht now."

Edward gave a short nod. "Consider it done. I’ll make sure he’s brought before court convenes."

Damian glanced over his shoulder, a flicker of dry humor curling at the corner of his mouth. "As a butler or an old friend?"

Edward’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a glint in his eye. "Whichever gets him here faster."

Damian gave a quiet huff. "He’ll take over the southern garrison before the week ends; the current commander is an imbecile. Halbrecht will love it."

The amusement in his voice was unmistakable—but so was the edge beneath it. He wasn’t joking.

Not really.

—

The imperial study was still quiet when Damian entered—quiet in that particular way only his private wing could be. The air was cool, touched with the faint signature of ether wards carved into the walls and buried beneath the marble. Protection spells. Silencing runes. Only a few knew how to breach them.

Alexander was one of those few.

He stood at attention by the window, dressed in black that blended into the dark stone like a shadow made flesh. His coat was plain, devoid of rank. His boots still had blood crusted into the laces, but his face was clean, expression unreadable. The Emperor’s favored blade.

Damian closed the door behind him.

"I assume you didn’t waste my time," he said simply.

Alexander inclined his head. "Never, Your Majesty."

He stepped forward and held out a thick folder of sealed pages, bound with the sigil of the Shadows. Damian took it, his thumb sliding across the wax.

"Talk while I read."

Alexander’s voice was quiet but sure. "Anya is still coordinating with a handful of foreign contacts—nothing sanctioned. Mostly gossip peddlers and old nobility from Paisian fringe provinces. She wanted you angry. She thought you’d act publicly."

Damian flipped the first page open, eyes narrowing.

"She baited me," he muttered.

"Yes," Alexander confirmed. "Specifically so the capital would see your temper. So she could pose as the wounded victim to her uncle. She has no plan to seize power, but she intended to undermine the legitimacy of your consort before it could stabilize."

He paused for a moment. "She did more than this... It’s on the last page of the report."

Damian’s eyes didn’t lift from the parchment, but the subtle shift in his posture said everything. His fingers tightened slightly around the edge of the folder.

Alexander continued, steady as ever, "She wanted to spread images, scandalous ones..." He faltered; that wasn’t like him. "The images are intimate poses of His Grace and... Elliot Claymore."