He hadn't looked back.
The corridors emptied for him. Not in fear, not quite. But in the quiet reverence people gave only to gods or monsters, no one in the palace seemed quite sure which one Gabriel had become.
Rosaline was a closed file. A headache resolved.
There had been no pleasure in it. No real anger either, not anymore. Just the dull, familiar rhythm of strategy and closure. The same way one doused a fire that was already choking on its own smoke. Pity wasn't necessary. Neither was rage.
When he reached the imperial private wing, the guards stepped aside with a casual salute. The doors opened on a whisper of enchanted locks, and Gabriel walked into stillness.
The chambers were warm, softly lit, and scented faintly of cedar and the sharpest note of citrus from Damian's bath earlier.
Damian wasn't in sight
