A month later, the palace gleamed like something born from myth, gold polished to the point of arrogance, banners refreshed in thread so fine it made old generals squint, and the outer gardens trimmed into brutal symmetry. Every archway was dressed in crimson and imperial white, woven with the sigils of the Great Houses and the swirling seal of the Aragon Empire, as if daring anyone to forget who ruled.
The coming-of-age ceremony was, by law and tradition, a celebration of promise. Of bloodlines, legacy, youth stepping into adulthood, and the veiled dance of alliances soon to bloom.
To Gabriel von Jaunez, it was hell.
A hormonal, bloated, social-political trap of a hell, crafted lovingly by the Emperor himself before he vanished to go play war tag with Hadeon.
"Gabriel will handle it," Damian had said. Sweet. Soft. Over breakfast. While rubbing his back and pretending he wasn't fleeing the Capital to conquer a continent.
And so Gabriel was handling it.
