The door slid open without warning, the security lock disengaging with a soft click. Ether light from the hallway spilled across the room, catching on the chaos: crates stacked to the ceiling, Alexandra twirling in stolen silk, Irina perched like a nervous sparrow on her stool, Rafael buried in his slate, Edward visibly praying for deliverance, and Gabriel behind the desk, sleeves rolled, knife in hand like a mafia boss inspecting contraband.

Damian leaned against the frame, golden eyes sweeping the scene once before settling on Gabriel. He didn't speak, the weight of his gaze said enough.

Edward cleared his throat, straightening instinctively. "Your Majesty. The Empress is… conducting quality control."

"That's what they're calling it now?" Alexandra asked sweetly, striking a pose in her new robe.

Damian's mouth curved, slow and sharp. "Apparently so." His gaze flicked to her, then back to Gabriel. "Though I was under the impression these tributes were being catalogued, not modeled."

"They were," Gabriel said flatly, setting the knife down with a click. "Until my sister decided she'd rather play dress-up."

"I'm making sure our enemies know the silks won't go to waste," Alexandra countered, unrepentant. "You gave it to me."

Damian chuckled once, low in his chest, before crossing the room. He brushed past Alexandra without another glance, circled the desk, and came to stand behind Gabriel's chair. His hand rested briefly at the back of Gabriel's neck, thumb brushing the bond mark in silent claim, before he leaned down enough that only Gabriel could hear.

"You weren't supposed to touch any of this."

Gabriel tilted his head back just enough to meet that burning gold. "Then perhaps you should stop delegating your mess into my office."

A beat of silence, then Damian's smile sharpened into something wicked. "If I'd known you'd handle tributes like executions, I would've given you this problem sooner."

Gabriel's eyes narrowed, a glint of challenge under the smoothness of his tone. "Then prove it."

Damian's brow arched. "Prove what?"

"That I'm overreacting." Gabriel gestured lazily toward the nearest unopened crate, its ribbon still pristine. "Open one yourself. If it's something normal: flowers, wine, a clock that doesn't sing hymns at midnight… then I'll step back and let the department drown in it without touching another ribbon."

The room stilled. Even Alexandra paused mid-pose, her grin stretching slow and anticipatory. Irina held her breath. Edward looked like he'd aged another decade on the spot.

Damian's golden gaze lingered on Gabriel, assessing, amused. "And if it isn't normal?"

"Then you admit I was right." Gabriel leaned back in the chair, tilting his head, lips curving faintly. "That this isn't gifts. It's garbage wrapped in silk. And I'll keep cutting until it's sorted."

The tension thickened, sharp as ether in the air. Then Damian's mouth curved into that dangerous half-smile, and he moved.

He crossed to the crate with a soldier's steadiness, drew a blade from his pocket, and sliced the ribbon in a single motion. The lid came free with a soft hiss as the airtight seal broke.

Everyone leaned forward.

Inside…

…sat a twelve-foot stuffed peacock. Bright blue feathers shimmered under the ether lights, each tipped with tiny glowing stones that pulsed faintly like beating hearts. Its glass eyes stared out at the room with the soulless cheer of a carnival toy. A small plaque nestled at its claws read in florid script: "May His Majesty's reign be as dazzling as this bird."

Silence.

Then Alexandra collapsed against the window, laughing so hard she nearly slid to the floor. Irina gasped and slapped both hands over her mouth. Rafael muttered, "Dear gods," and typed furiously into the ledger. Edward simply closed his eyes, as though begging for the universe to erase him.

Gabriel lifted one brow, smug and slow. "Well?"

Damian stared at the monstrous bird for a long moment, expression flat. Then his lips curved, sharp with reluctant amusement. "Outrageous."

"Which means I was right." Gabriel spread his hands, mock-innocent. "Congratulations, Your Majesty. You've just proven why I keep a knife on the desk."

Damian huffed a low laugh, shaking his head once before returning to Gabriel's side. He leaned down again, voice pitched low enough for Gabriel alone. "Enjoy it, then. Burn their birds. Auction their silks. Poison their perfumes. I'll give you the entire mess."

Gabriel's smile sharpened, his hand brushing the edge of Damian's coat. "Finally. A gift worth keeping."

Gabriel's smile sharpened, his hand brushing the edge of Damian's coat.

"Finally. A gift worth keeping."

Damian's laugh was low, almost indulgent, before he straightened and stepped back. His gaze swept once more over the chaos, the grotesque peacock statue still humming faintly with its embedded ether-crystals, Alexandra parading in silk, Irina bouncing on her toes like she'd stumbled into a candy shop, Rafael recording in his ledger-slate without looking up, Edward visibly praying for divine intervention.

"Enjoy yourself," Damian murmured, gold eyes glinting. "I expect the office to still be standing when you're finished."

Gabriel flicked his hand in dismissal. "If it collapses, blame the gifts."

When the door sealed behind Damian, Gabriel turned to the room at large, voice cool, crisp, and unmistakably imperial. "Alexandra. Irina. Since I now have full control, congratulations… you're drafted."

Alexandra arched a brow, her tone dripping mockery. "Drafted? I am the Marchioness of Lancaster, your elder sister. I don't get drafted into warehouse duty."

"You're also family," Gabriel said without blinking, "which makes you free labor. Either start opening crates or I'll reroute every holographic centerpiece in Lancaster's banquet halls to play footage of Arik chewing on his toys. On loop."

Alexandra's mouth fell open, then curved into a reluctant grin. "You're getting nastier with age. Fine. But I'm keeping anything green."

"Take it. The palace could drown in fabric and no one would notice."

Irina, meanwhile, was already at the nearest crate, too curious for her own good. She tugged at the seals until Edward hissed, "Stop. Wait for the scanner."

The ether-screen on his tablet blinked green. Only then did Irina pop the lid, revealing a full dining set of gold-plated cutlery designed to look like miniature ether swords. The knives pulsed faintly, as though they had cores inside.

Irina gasped, delighted. "They light up when you pick them up! Alexander is going to…"

"...lose his mind," Rafael finished dryly, not even glancing up. "Because you'll try to eat soup with a blade designed to short-circuit."

Gabriel tapped the desk with two fingers, unimpressed. "Send them to the Shadow barracks. If my husband's private army wants to terrify the Capital, let them do it while eating stew with glowing knives."

Alexandra barked a laugh. "Gods, I almost want to dine there just to see that."

Irina, predictably, was already dragging over another crate, heedless of Edward's glare. This one hissed open to reveal two oversized crystal globes, swirling with colored ether currents that shifted patterns when tapped, mood lighting, branded with a foreign crest.

Gabriel didn't even blink. "Auction them. Some rich idiot in the Capital will pay double for ambient ether storms in their bedroom."

Rafael's stylus scratched efficiently.

And so it began to fall into rhythm. Alexandra complained but still tore into crates with the air of a woman making the best of a farce. Irina opened with breathless enthusiasm, too curious to stop herself. Rafael documented everything with surgical neatness, while Edward muttered under his breath as if prayer might shield him from absurdity.

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, knife balanced on his palm, eyes glinting. Crates opened, scanners hummed, absurdities piled higher, ether-powered tea sets that brewed themselves, holo-portraits that sang in six languages, and an entire set of furniture upholstered in shimmering polymer that shifted color depending on pheromones.

Damian had been right. This wasn't tribute, it was theater. And Gabriel, knife in hand, was the one directing the play.