He reappeared mid-step, the palace air slamming into his lungs like a storm wall. The crystal-inlaid floor of Olivier's private wardroom caught his heel, and he landed steady, the silence of the teleport fracturing around him like glass that hadn't quite broken.
Outside, the imperial wards screamed with light; every strand of protection flared like a thousand lines of fire tracing the sky above the capital. The last shard had almost died.
Gabriel had to find the Damian of this world to finish it… Or had he?
The pain hit before he could stop it.
Not physical, but worse. Memory.
It crawled in through his spine, through the smallest cracks in his consciousness, slow and merciless. He remembered how Olivier died.
No… how he killed him. He always knew that he killed Olivier, but not how or when exactly.
It hadn't been dramatic. There were no screams. No final speeches. Gabriel hadn't given him the satisfaction.
