The saloon smelled of spice and smokewood, the air heavy with velvet drapes and the slow crackle of the hearth. It was late—too late for courtiers, too early for whispers. The room had been cleared of all but the essential, and the ones who remained sat in silence, the weight of truth settling like dust around them.
Gabriel sat curled into one of the high-backed armchairs, Damian's robe thrown over his shoulders like a mantle he hadn't meant to claim. His legs were crossed, expression unreadable. Tired, but not defeated. He hadn't said much since the reception.
Max lounged on the couch like he owned the place—booted feet on the edge of the low table, wine in hand, eyes flicking between the rest of them with the kind of smugness that came only when one was right about everything. Alexandra perched on the arm of his chair, chin resting in her palm, watching Gabriel.
