Three years slid by on the hum of the palace wards and the steady pulse of ether conduits beneath the capital. The Empire grew, the archives swelled, and the Shadows whispered of enemies at the borders, but inside the Emperor's wing, time took on a rhythm all its own.

Arik was nine now, all elbows and sharp questions, his golden eyes too quick for tutors who swore he was either born to command or to drive them mad. Cecil was three, steady and solemn, where his brother was fire, silver eyes watchful under the soft black curls that marked him as Damian's double.

And Gabriel… Gabriel was once more pregnant.

At last.

The weight of it pressed steady beneath his palm as he leaned over his desk, brown eyes cutting across the rows of reports that Irina had already thinned into piles of relevance. Alexandra lounged in the chair opposite, her green eyes glinting with the smug satisfaction of someone who had insisted he slow down and was now ignoring the fact that he hadn't. Rafael stood at his shoulder, the sleek glow of an ether tablet in his hands, his tone clipped and precise as he read aloud the latest summary from the Shadows.

Gabriel listened, sharp, restless, but calmer than he had been with Cecil or Arik. This time, the pregnancy was no storm. He wanted the child, stubbornly, fiercely, and beneath his exhaustion lay a defiance aimed at fate itself. At least one of them would carry his face, his blood written clear, not swallowed whole by Lyon's genes.

The air shifted when the door opened. One of the imperial secretaries stepped inside, his tone formal, almost hesitant under the weight of the wards.

"Excellency," he began, bowing low before extending a sealed note across the polished desk. "Notice from the foreign office. Wrohan has confirmed their delegation for His Majesty's coronation anniversary. Their ambassador… will be Duke Cain Canmore."

Alexandra's brows arched at once, her lips parting in sharp recognition. Irina's blue eyes widened faintly, the pen in her hand stalling mid-line. Rafael's expression hardly changed, though his grip on the tablet tightened just slightly before he set it down.

Gabriel's fingers, steady over the curve of his stomach, stilled. His gaze dropped to the sealed notice, then lifted, brown eyes narrowing to a fine, dangerous edge.

"Cain Canmore," he repeated, his tone deceptively mild. "The son."

"Yes, Excellency," the secretary said, his voice taut. "Eldest son of Grand Prince Felix Canmore. Crowned Duke of Veyne last year. He will attend with full ambassadorial privileges."

For a moment, silence pressed the room heavily. Gabriel leaned back in his chair, one hand stroking absently across the swell of his stomach, the other tapping once against the sealed message. His smirk curved slowly, thin and sharp.

"How thoughtful," he murmured, dry as glass. "Wrohan sends us a reminder that ghosts breed heirs too."

Gabriel's fingers tapped once more against the sealed note before stilling. His gaze slid from the paper to the secretary, brown eyes glinting with something that made the man shift on his feet.

"Has the Emperor been informed?" Gabriel asked, his tone mild enough to be dangerous.

"Yes, Excellency," the secretary replied quickly, bowing his head again. "His Majesty has already accepted the envoy. Preparations for Wrohan's reception are underway."

The faintest silence followed, broken only by the quiet hum of the conduits in the walls. Then Gabriel's mouth curved, slow and razor-sharp, his palm smoothing idly over the swell of his stomach as if the child within might hear the words.

"Good," he murmured, his voice low but carrying. "I want to see him too. The blood of the one who brought Goliath to his knees. Let's see if it runs strong… or thin."

Alexandra tilted her head, green eyes glinting as she studied her brother. "You're smiling like you already know the answer."

"Perhaps I do," Gabriel drawled, though the curve of his lips was more shadow than amusement. His gaze lingered on the seal, then flicked upward, sharp and decisive. "Leave the notice. And have Edward prepare the full brief on Cain Canmore's movements before he sets foot in the Capital. If Wrohan means to parade bloodlines in our halls, I'll have every page of theirs before me."

The secretary bowed, almost stumbling in his haste to retreat. The wards sealed behind him with a low hum, and the room shifted back into the steady quiet, only now threaded with a sharper current, anticipation under the calm.

"Blood remembers," he murmured, more to himself than to the others. "And I want to see what kind of memory Wrohan sends us."

—

The weight of the palace changed when news reached the Emperor. Not the staff's hurried steps, nor the Shadows' silent movements; those had remained constant for years, but the wards themselves were faintly alive with the awareness of their master's focus.

Damian stood by the tall windows of his office, golden eyes catching in the reflection of the Capital beyond. The city burned bright with ether conduits, the anniversary preparations already beginning to coil like banners through the streets. Yet his gaze was not on the celebration. It lingered on the name that had crossed his desk an hour ago.

Cain Canmore.

Behind him, Gregoris waited. He had taken the unspoken place to Damian's right, the seat no general dared occupy without invitation. His ash blonde hair was tied back, his uniform immaculate, though his sharp gaze never left the Emperor.

"You don't like it," Gregoris said finally, his tone blunt, unvarnished in the way only he was permitted.

"I don't trust it," Damian corrected, his voice low, steady as steel dragged across stone. "Wrohan has survived seventy years by pretending to be small. Felix Canmore built a throne out of betrayal and restraint. Now his son wants to set foot in my palace under the guise of diplomacy." He turned, molten gaze cutting across the room until it fixed squarely on Gregoris. "It's not diplomacy. It's theater."

Gregoris's mouth curved, faint but grim. "And you're wondering what part he means to play."

Damian's thumb brushed once against the seal he still held, the crest pressed deep into the wax like a wound. "No. I'm wondering if he knows whose blood sits on my throne. If Felix whispered it to him when he was young, or if he kept it hidden even from his own line."

Gregoris tilted his head slightly, though the movement carried no softness. "Gabriel will want to see him."

Damian's jaw tightened, his golden eyes narrowing. "Gabriel already does."

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, the hum of conduits filling its edges. Then Gregoris leaned forward, his voice low, measured. "Do you want me to arrange shadows for Cain Canmore or for the people around him?"

Damian's smirk curved, faint and dangerous. "Both. I want his steps measured before he takes them. Every hand he shakes, every glass he lifts, every word he lets slip, I want it written before it reaches Gabriel's desk."

Gregoris inclined his head, sharp and certain. "Consider it done."

Damian's gaze returned to the city below, where ether burned bright against the dusk. His voice, when it came, was almost a murmur, but no less final.

"Felix Canmore lived long enough to see his betrayal mistaken for loyalty. His son won't be given the same luxury."