A month later, the Empire had resumed its usual ceremonial, calculated, and rumor-filled rhythm.
The whispers were like moths in silk: soft, persistent, eating through the truth one thread at a time.
They claimed the Empress-in-waiting was never an omega. That he was born an alpha and had used rebellion-era falsifications to pass as something else. That his bond with the Emperor was forged with illusion and chemical control, not soul and ether. That the mark on his nape was painted onto him, an artificial stamp to hide the truth.
No one dared to say it publicly. Not in front of Gabriel. Not within range of the Emperor. But behind closed doors, under marble archways, and among trusted ears, they talked. And they felt safe doing so.
He didn't address it.
Not yet.
Instead, Gabriel stood in his office, across from a father who now addressed him like a colleague, one stripped of familial indulgence and affections neither of them believed in anymore.
