Lucius did not flinch. His tone was even, but there was an edge of resignation. "Alive. More than that… he thrives. Felix Canmore, a dominant omega like you, returned to Wrohan after the poisoning. They crowned him Grand Prince within the year. He married, secured his position, and has two sons, one near Damian's age, the other only five years younger."

The silence that followed tightened, sharp as wire. Gabriel's hand pressed harder against the swell of his stomach, grounding himself in the child's weight. His smirk, when it came, was thin and dangerous. "So while Goliath's body burned out, his consort walked free. Not a victim, not a shattered relic, but a prince with heirs."

Lucius's gaze darkened faintly, as if he had lived too long with the bitter taste of that truth. "Yes. The Empire assumed him loyal. Many whispered he was forced, that Wrohan's independence was bought with his betrayal. But the fact remains, he lived. He prospered. And he never once sought to clear the stain of Goliath's death."

Gabriel rose from his seat and looked out the tall windows, the city's ether lamps burning like scattered stars below. One hand remained over his stomach, steady and protective. "Thank you for telling me. I'll ask you to put everything you know into a report. Leave it with Edward."

Lucius inclined his head once, the gesture sharp but subdued. "Would you tell Arik?"

Gabriel stilled, his eyes catching faintly on his own reflection in the glass. His son's face flashed in his thoughts: dark curls, bright golden eyes, and the careless ease of a boy still unburdened by the weight of legacies.

"No," he said finally, his voice low, cutting the silence like a blade. "Not unless he asks. And not unless he remembers."

—

Later that day, the imperial rooms carried the low hum of ether lines threaded through the walls and the soft thrum of conduits hidden behind stone and glass. The lamps burned steadily, their cores pulsing faint blue, washing the room in a muted glow.

Gabriel sat back on the couch, a tablet balanced loosely in one hand, its screen asleep. He hadn't looked at it in an hour. His other hand rested over the swell of his stomach, absently tracing idle patterns through the fabric of his shirt. The silence was steady, save for the faint whisper of the air system and the wards resonating in the background.

Damian entered from the inner chamber, his jacket slung over his arm, his shirt still open at the collar from the day's meetings. The door sealed behind him with a hiss of ether locks, and his golden eyes found Gabriel at once.

"You spoke with Lucius," Damian said, voice low but edged with certainty.

Gabriel's lips curved faintly, dry. "News travels fast when your father decides to unburden himself over shards and state secrets."

Damian crossed to him, his steps slow, controlled, the weight of authority never fully leaving his frame.

"Felix Canmore," he said, the name carrying venom. "Do we deal with him ourselves… or leave him for Arik?"

Gabriel tipped his head back, brown eyes sharp under the lamplight. "I thought about it; we can deal with them. They have their own king now, George of Wrohan, but…" His hand slid across the curve of his stomach, anchoring himself in the steady pulse beneath his palm. "…If I were Goliath, I would want to decide what happens with the one that took everything from me."

Damian stilled, golden eyes molten, his hand tightening against the back of the couch as if to keep himself from pacing. "You're saying it should be Arik's choice."

Gabriel's smirk was faint, bitter at the edges. "Not now. Not as a boy with ink on his fingers and figs on his plate. But if he remembers, if the fragments ever return to him, then Wrohan belongs to him. The judgment will be his."

The ether conduits in the walls gave a soft pulse, like the room itself responding to the weight of the words. Damian's jaw flexed, the predator in him unwilling to wait years for vengeance, but his gaze never left Gabriel's.

"And if he never remembers?"

Gabriel leaned back, his sharp composure softened only by exhaustion, by the child's weight he carried. "Then Felix Canmore will live out his days as nothing more than a name on a file. George of Wrohan will smile for cameras and sign his trade deals, and bow when he must. And one morning, if the Empire decides it has no more use for them…" His smirk curved, razor-thin. "…you can burn them out without a second thought."

Damian's hand finally came to rest at Gabriel's shoulder, firm, unyielding. His voice was low, steady. "You're trusting our son with vengeance older than either of us."

"No," Gabriel corrected softly, turning his head so their gazes locked, brown into gold. "I'm trusting him with choice."

For a long moment, Damian said nothing. The silence was thick, filled only by the hum of ether through the veins of the palace. Then his thumb brushed once against Gabriel's collarbone, grounding, possessive.

"Then so be it," he said at last, voice low and final. "Felix Canmore lives… until Arik remembers, or until I decide he's wasted enough of the Empire's patience."

Gabriel's smirk curved again, sharp and knowing. "You know, at first I thought that maybe, maybe we should dispose of Felix just to get back at Goliath."

Damian's brow arched, golden eyes narrowing. "Petty."

"Mm." Gabriel's voice was dry, but there was something heavier beneath the edge. "He manipulated our fates for this… shaped them like pieces on a board neither of us ever agreed to play. And for a long time, I thought the only way to answer that was blood." His hand pressed absently against the swell of his stomach, grounding himself in the steady weight there. His gaze lifted, brown eyes glinting under the lamplight. "But I would've done the same and he also gave me you. And I can forgive that."

For the first time, Damian faltered. Not outwardly, not in the straight set of his shoulders or the steel of his jaw, but in the way his hand tightened over Gabriel's, the smallest crack in the armor he carried everywhere. His golden gaze softened, molten instead of sharp.

"You call it forgiveness," he murmured, voice low, almost rough, "but it feels more like damnation. Because it means no matter what he planned, no matter what he took, he still gets credit for what's mine."

Gabriel's lips curved faintly, razor-thin but not cruel. "Not his. You were always mine to choose."

The silence stretched, humming with the soft pulse of ether in the walls. Damian bent slightly, his forehead brushing against Gabriel's temple, his voice a quiet vow. "Then let him rot in Wrohan, surrounded by his heirs and his titles. He'll die knowing the Empire thrived without him… and that you were never his to claim."

Gabriel's smirk softened into something rarer, the sharpness dulled by truth. "Careful, Emperor. You sound almost sentimental."

"Only with you," Damian said simply, his mouth curving against his skin.