"You backed the wrong gods," Max said, his voice almost pitying now. "And now you're praying to corpses."
"Just so you know," he added, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "Gabriel is a good man now. Strategic. Calculated."
He tilted his head slightly, studying Elliot like something broken beyond repair.
"But before? He was on equal footing with Damian. Before the contract shattered his memories".
Elliot's mouth went dry.
"You should pray," Max continued, the edge of a smile cutting across his face, "that Damian never lifts the contract from Gabriel's mind."
There was a moment of thick, unbearable silence. Then Max reached into his jacket and tossed a small sealed envelope onto the table, the wax stamped with the imperial crest.
"You have a year," he said, casual, like he was delivering an invitation to a ball. "That's what Damian told me to deliver."
Elliot stared at the envelope as if it were a live thing.
A year.
