Damian Lyon.
Still as stone. Dressed in black, without medal or sash. No court regalia. No throne. And yet the entire room bent around him, as if the shadows themselves acknowledged who ruled here.
Callahan froze mid-step.
His tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, dry and sudden, the weight of the folder in his hand now ridiculous. Pointless. It slipped slightly under his arm.
The doors behind him shut with a hiss and a lock that didn't echo—too precise for palace hinges.
"Your Majesty," he bowed with ease, "I thought that Gabriel wanted to see me.
"Gabriel?" Damian echoed, his voice soft but laced with steel. He tilted his head, just slightly. "Who permitted you to speak the Consort's name so easily?"
Callahan straightened. "I only meant—"
"I know exactly what you meant," Damian cut in. "You thought you'd find him here. Pale. Tired. Vulnerable."
He descended the final step, slow and deliberate. His presence didn't grow louder—it grew sharper.
