The sunlight spilled across the imperial breakfast room like liquid gold—gentle and refined, as if it too had learned to bow within the palace walls. A soft spring breeze stirred the tall curtains, the scent of jasmine sneaking in from the gardens just beyond the glass.
Gabriel sat at the smaller table reserved for quiet mornings, barefoot, half-dressed in one of Damian's sleep shirts that hung off his shoulder like he wore the empire casually. Across from him, Damian sat in perfect posture, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a diplomatic report forgotten beside his tea.
The morning had, so far, been good.
Damian had allowed coffee. Real coffee. No tea substitutes, no root infusions, no smug Edward standing nearby with a judgmental brow.
