By the time the smoke had cleared, literally, and the ward stabilizers finally stopped flashing red on every palace ether panel, it was universally agreed that the Emperor's quarters were no longer livable.
Between the melted furnishings, cracked ward stones, and one very traumatized goldfish from the ornamental fountain, the damage had surpassed even Edward's ability to spin with dignity.
Which was how, two hours later, Gabriel found himself standing in the pristine, far-too-scented Empress Quarters, arms crossed, expression grim.
"This room smells like powdered treason."
Damian, who was gingerly lowering himself onto a tufted sofa that didn't actively smell like fire and retribution, tilted his head. "It's lavender."
"It's oppression," Gabriel muttered, glaring at the pale cream walls, the soft pastel cushions, and the delicate crystal chandeliers. The curtains had lace. There were flowers embroidered into the ceiling.
