Onscreen, a series of warning sigils flickered—first red, then gold, then blue, and finally green.
The green should have meant stability. It should have meant control.
It didn't.
Alexander remained standing for a moment, as if gauging the weight of what he carried, then lowered himself into the seat across from the Emperor with a silence that wasn't reverence, but readiness.
He didn't waste time.
"Hadeon made a bet," he said.
Damian's thumb tapped once against the side of the tablet.
Alexander continued, voice flat, precise, a soldier delivering not information, but coordinates for a strike.
"He called it a challenge. He raised his glass in front of half the court and asked them—explicitly—who could ruin the Golden Consort without killing him. His words, not mine. Break him, but keep him pretty. Said the one who succeeds gets his favor. And their relatives… become the next Empress."
The tablet screen stilled.
The air inside the car changed. Just slightly. Just enough.
