By the time the imperial convoy cut through the evening clouds and descended toward the Capital, the city was already lit in soft gold, the palace shining with the kind of polished arrogance only achieved through months of servant labor and Gabriel's exhaustion-fueled rage.
Damian didn't care.
He barely acknowledged the salutes, the bowed heads, or the prepared speech Astana tried to shove in his hand.
The moment his boots hit the inner landing platform, his stride shifted from military precision to something quieter. He had a goal. One objective. And it wasn't the tactical report waiting on his desk or the three border skirmishes flagged as urgent.
It was the scent.
Lavender undercut with something darker, warm, and maddeningly sweet.
Gabriel.
