The imperial hospital wing was bathed in silence—the kind that followed emergency and preceded reckoning.
White ether lights hummed along the upper molding, steady and sharp, casting long shadows across polished floors. The scent of antiseptic hung in the air, crisp and clean enough to cut through blood and memory alike.
Damian swept through the main corridor without a word, his cloak trailing behind him like smoke. The attending staff bowed as he passed, but none spoke. His golden eyes were calm—but too calm. The kind of calm that came after something inside had shattered and frozen into shape again.
Astana stood at the entrance to the restricted ward, a black folder pressed to his chest like a shield.
"Vitals are stable," he reported as he fell into step beside the Emperor. "Callahan's ether is frayed but holding. He's unconscious. Likely will remain so until tomorrow. They've contained the worst of the backlash."
"George?"
