The roar of the Capital still shook the air when Gabriel finally turned, crimson robe snapping faintly in the high breeze. His lips curved, laughter spilling out, quiet, irreverent, cutting through the gravity of the moment like a blade slipped between armor.
"You," he murmured, golden crown catching the sun as he looked up at his mate, "didn't wear it."
Damian's gaze was steady, the ether-glow from the balcony etchings catching in his eyes. He knew exactly which crown Gabriel meant: the one forged in black gold, set with blood-red gems, a relic from rebellion days and the first war that had birthed his empire. The crown that had silenced generals, broken rebellions, and carved his place into history.
Instead, his head bore only a simple circlet, gold, heavy with authority, but untouched by war. Similar to Gabriel's, only broader, thicker, a mirror rather than a weapon.
