Damian leaned back in the chair, expression unreadable, though the tight line of his jaw betrayed the restraint coiled beneath his stillness. He let the silence stretch, the weight of the question hanging between them like smoke.
"Hadeon wants absolute power," he said at last, voice low and flat. "And he can only get it by placing a puppet on the throne. Don't fool yourself into thinking he ever cared about Olivier or his shard. Or the pathetic loyalty of Callahan and George."
He exhaled once through his nose, as if the names themselves tasted bitter.
"George was obsessed with restoring the lost imperial line. Not with his son. Not with his nephew. Maybe, maybe, if Max had finished the trial, they would've kept Olivier dormant. But Gabriel?" His gaze darkened, gold flaring with restrained heat. "They would've killed him the moment he stopped being useful."
Astana didn't flinch, but his voice came quieter. "Then why did you save Callahan? I don't understand."
