Chapter 55: Ties (1)

Gabriel didn't move. He saw her hand rise, her body coiling with fury and grief, but he didn't flinch. He didn't even blink. 

'God damn it.' He thought as he braced himself for the impact. He was well aware that wounding a foreign princess would have serious consequences. 

But before Anya's palm could make contact, another hand grabbed her wrist in an iron grip.

"How bold of you, Princess," a smooth, almost amused voice cut through the tension. "Striking one of my people in my own court? That is a rather dangerous habit."

Damian.

The air in the ballroom shifted, the weight of his presence suffocating. Whereas the nobles had previously been captivated by Gabriel and Anya's confrontation, all eyes were now focused on the Emperor himself.

Damian towered over her, his presence swallowing the space between them with sheer dominance alone. The Emperor was already an imposing figure, but standing among nobles who barely reached his shoulder, he appeared almost inhuman in size. 

Gabriel, despite being tall himself, still had to tip his chin slightly to meet Damian's gaze. Up close, the difference was undeniable—the Emperor loomed over him, broad-shouldered and unshaken, his height emphasizing his complete control over the room.

Anya inhaled sharply; her lips parted in surprise when she met Damian's golden gaze. His fingers clamped around her wrist with enough force to remind her of whose domain she was in.

Damian tilted his head, studying her with something akin to amusement. "Tell me, Princess," he continued, his tone mocking, "is this a custom in your kingdom? Do you often mourn fallen traitors with public tantrums?"

A wave of murmurs spread through the crowd. Anya's expression twisted with rage, and her free hand curled into a fist at her side.

"You don't understand, Your Majesty," she seethed. "Olivier—"

"Ah, yes. "Olivier," Damian cut in, drawing out the name as if it were unpleasant on his tongue. "My dear, unfortunate predecessor." His smirk widened slightly. "It is truly touching that you are still grieving for him. Though I must say that doing so here, of all places, is quite a statement."

Anya's face burned with fury. "He was—"

"Dead," Damian interrupted smoothly. "And has been for quite some time. Tell me, Princess, do you make a habit of clinging to ghosts?"

Her breath hitched, her composure fraying at the edges.

Damian leaned in slightly, lowering his voice so only she could hear. "He lost," he murmured, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. "No amount of irrational rage will bring him back. And striking Gabriel?" His golden eyes gleamed with something dangerous. "That will not bring you any peace, either."

Anya inhaled sharply, forcing the tremble in her fingers to still. Her lips formed a thin line before she exhaled, softening the raw anger in her eyes with something mournful.

"…First love is difficult to forget, Your Majesty," she murmured, lowering her lashes just enough to appear vulnerable yet not entirely submissive. "Especially one taken away so cruelly."

The area was silent, with each noble hanging on her words, waiting for the Emperor's response.

Gabriel barely moved, his expression unreadable, but he noticed a flicker of calculation beneath Anya's grief-stricken facade. 

'She's testing the waters. Now Anya wants pity from Damian and the other nobles. First love, my ass. She cares only about the Empress title.'

She turned her gaze toward him then, her expression unreadable. "But I can not help but wonder, Lord von Jaunez, how someone so close to Olivier survived the rebellion unscathed?"

'Ugh. Please, it isn't like I'm the only one. She is fine as well; this will only irritate the Emperor even more.' Gabriel took a small step back, placing a hand on the table in his right to support himself. He was trying to retreat to either his friends or his family. 

A hum rippled through the gathered nobility, eyes flicking between them. The accusation was not made outright, but there was enough ambiguity to allow rumors to spread.

Anya's fingers twitched, but before she could press further, the warmth of Damian's grip on her wrist vanished as he released her.

"A touching sentiment," Damian mused, tilting his head toward Gabriel, his golden gaze never leaving Anya. "I trust that is enough mourning for one evening. This ball is to celebrate the youth of the Agaron Empire; I would not want it ruined for them."

Gabriel took the cue, shifting slightly to take another step back, retreating toward the edges of the ballroom. He had no interest in prolonging this scene—until he noticed the way Damian's eyes were watching him. 

A muscle in Gabriel's jaw twitched, but he stilled. Of course he wouldn't let me leave just yet.

Damian's lips curled slightly, but there was no humor in his expression. "I have little patience for reckless sentimentality." His gaze flicked to Gabriel, keeping him from running away. "And no tolerance for misplaced accusations."

Anya straightened, shoulders squaring. "It was only a thought," she murmured, though the tension in her frame suggested otherwise.

"Then I suggest you keep your thoughts in check while in my court." Damian's voice was smooth, but the steel underneath it was unmistakable. "You are a guest, Princess. Do not mistake that for privilege."

Astana pinched the bridge of his nose, already feeling the dull throb of an impending headache. Of all the things that could have happened tonight...

"She really went there, huh?" Max mused beside him, swirling his wine as if they were simply spectating a play rather than a potential diplomatic disaster. His work for Damian ended a few hours ago, and he is now enjoying his freedom. 

"She's not stupid," Astana muttered, rubbing his temple. "Just desperate."

From behind them, Edward exhaled slowly, arms crossed. "Desperation makes people dangerous. You should know that by now."

Astana let out a quiet sigh. "I do. I did something reckless too." His jaw tightened. "I'm responsible for her convoy. If she keeps pulling stunts like this, the next council meeting will be hell."

Max chuckled. "Ah, yes. Diplomacy. Such a delightful game of polite threats and lengthy debates." He took a sip of his drink. "You have my sympathies, truly."

Astana shot him a glare. "You could try helping instead of being entertained."

Max smirked. "Oh, I am helping. I'm staying out of it."

Edward, ever the responsible one, cut in with a measured tone. "His Majesty is already growing impatient. If she does anything else, there won't be a need for a council meeting at all."

Max tilted his head. "Well, that would solve Astana's problem."

Astana let out a low groan. 

Below, Anya finally curtsied, murmuring a reluctant, "As you wish, Your Majesty."