Chapter 53: Chapter 53: Emotional damage and violence

Gregoris exited the shower with water still clinging to his shoulders, steam curling lazily toward the ceiling as he reached for the clothes laid out with military precision on the chair by the window. Peter had chosen well, as always. A three-piece suit in deep black, cut sharply but without ornament, paired with a simple black tie.

He shrugged into the shirt first, crisp white against his skin, fastening the cuffs with methodical care. The silver buttons caught the light briefly before disappearing beneath the vest. Black on white, restrained to the point of austerity. If Rafael was going to burn the room down, Gregoris had no intention of competing with the fire.

Norman, one of his personal Shadows, had returned two days ago. Empty-handed.

That alone had been interesting.

The Shadow had reported, in his flat, factual way, that Lord Rosenroth had accepted the delivery. No refusal or theatrics this time. The suit, the jewelry, and the collar were all retained.

Gregoris had smiled then, slow and thoughtful.

Rafael was not careless. He didn’t accept gifts without intent. He didn’t keep them without deciding what they meant, but three days later, nothing had come back.

Which left two possibilities.

Either Rafael would wear what Gregoris had sent, weaponizing it out of pure spite.

Or he would arrive in something else entirely, chosen specifically to make a point.

Gregoris found both options deeply entertaining.

He adjusted the vest, smoothing the fabric over his torso, then reached for the jacket. It settled onto his shoulders like a familiar weight. He had dressed for battles, for councils, and for executions, but tonight it would be more entertaining than killing.

Peter entered without knocking, a long dark overcoat draped neatly over his arm.

“Your Grace,” he said, inclining his head slightly. “Commander Alexander sent a message. A Paisian diplomat has confirmed attendance. Intelligence places him as an ally of Hadeon.”

Gregoris paused only long enough to finish fastening the final button.

“Oh?” he said mildly. “I never cease to be impressed by humanity’s commitment to poor survival instincts.” He reached for the cufflinks, silver and unadorned. “Does Alexander plan to intervene now?”

Peter hesitated, just perceptibly. “He asked for your preference.”

Gregoris considered that as he adjusted the tie, fingers deft. “No,” he said after a moment. “Not tonight. Let him attend and be seen.” A faint smile touched his mouth. “I doubt he’s the most dangerous thing in the room.”

Peter inclined his head again. “Very well.”

Gregoris took the overcoat from him and slipped it on. As Peter stepped back, Gregoris glanced once at his reflection in the mirror; he looked impeccable in simple black and white, the silver buttons and cufflinks matching his eyes.

Rafael would notice.

“Peter,” Gregoris said calmly, reaching for his watch. “Has the Alamina car reported yet?”

Peter glanced down at the tablet in his hand. The pause this time was longer.

“Yes, Your Grace,” he said carefully. “It arrived at Lord Rosenroth’s residence eight minutes ago.”

“And?” Gregoris asked, already knowing the shape of the answer by the way Peter’s voice tightened.

“And Lord Rosenroth was not there.”

Gregoris’s fingers stilled against the cufflink he’d been adjusting over the watch.

Peter continued, tone clear. “Traffic surveillance confirms that Lord Rosenroth departed his residence earlier. Alone. In his own vehicle.”

A beat.

“He has already arrived at the gala.”

For a moment, nothing in the room moved. Not Gregoris, not Peter, not even the hem of the overcoat that had yet to settle fully against Gregoris’s back.

Then Gregoris exhaled slowly and laughed. It was the low, genuine sound of a man who had just been pleasantly surprised by an outcome better than expected.

“Of course he did,” Gregoris said softly.

Peter watched him closely. “Your Grace?”

Gregoris straightened, smoothing the front of his jacket, the amusement still lingering in his eyes. “He didn’t react this time.” His smile curved, unmistakably pleased. “He simply… moved.”

He stepped toward the door, coat settling fully now, posture shifting from preparation to pursuit. “That’s new.”

Peter followed half a step behind. “Should I inform the Alamina detail to reroute?”

“No,” Gregoris said immediately. “Let them proceed as planned. I will teleport there and meet my rogue partner.”

—

The teleport dropped him at the edge of the Lancaster estate with the faintest ether displacement, he left no scorch marks and no witnesses inside the perimeter. Outside the gates, however, it was chaos by design.

Reporters crowded the wrought-iron fencing in layered rows, ether cameras humming and refracting light into sharp, prismatic flashes. Micro-wards glowed faintly where the estate’s security repelled them, a polite but unyielding barrier that did nothing to dampen their enthusiasm. Names were shouted. Rumors were thrown like bait. Every movement near the gates was dissected in real time.

Gregoris didn’t spare them a glance.

He ascended the wide stone steps, coat shifting with his stride, presence alone enough to still the nearest guards into sharper attention. The doors opened for him without announcement.

Inside, the Lancaster manor glittered.

Crystal chandeliers spilled warm light over polished marble and gold-veined columns. Music threaded through the space in something just shy of orchestral, refined enough to suggest taste and expensive enough to prove it. The air carried layered scents: wine, flowers, restrained pheromones, and beneath it all, the quiet hum of ether infrastructure keeping the evening civilized.

Alexandra Lancaster spotted him almost immediately.

Her pale green eyes lit up, a grin spreading across her face with zero attempt at discretion as she crossed the hall toward him. Dark hair fell straight down her back, immaculate and sharp against the deep emerald of her gown.

“Your Grace,” she said brightly. “You’re right on time.”

Gregoris inclined his head. “Lady Lancaster. The invitation was… compelling.”

Her grin widened. “I thought it might be.”

Caelan appeared at her side a second later, tall, with long blond hair now tied back with a severity that suggested this evening had already tested his patience. He looked at Gregoris the way one might look at an approaching storm they were contractually obligated to host.

“Frasner,” Caelan said, resigned but polite. “Before you say anything, don’t destroy anything. Not the furniture, not the guests, not the political alliances. I’ll bill you for the emotional damage too.”

Gregoris arched a brow. “Emotional damage?”

Caelan sighed. Deeply. “Trust me.”

That, more than the warning itself, caught Gregoris’s attention. Caelan was the type of man that didn’t care about others’ business.

Alexandra, meanwhile, was openly delighted. “Oh, relax,” she said, patting her husband’s arm. “If anything breaks, it’ll be worth it.”

Gregoris’s gaze slid back to Caelan. “You’re expecting something.”

Caelan hesitated, then gave a helpless shrug. “I’ve met Rafael.”

’Ah.’

Gregoris thanked them both with impeccable manners and moved on, slipping into the flow of the gala with a predator’s patience. He accepted a glass he didn’t drink from, exchanged nods he barely registered, and scanned the room with the practiced efficiency of a man used to assessing threats.

Then he found him.

Rafael stood near the far end of the hall, half-turned toward a cluster of young nobles who were very clearly pretending not to stare. He was relaxed, one hand resting lightly at his side, posture open in a way that invited conversation and provoked speculation.

Gregoris stopped.

The white suit caught the light first, tailored to ruthless perfection. The coat hung open, the cut low, framing bare skin and a line of collarbone that had no business being displayed in polite society.

The silver-gold chain rested against his chest, subtle enough to be missed by anyone not looking for it.

Gregoris was looking. He had sent that damned necklace.

The room seemed to tilt, focus narrowing until the music dulled and the crowd faded into irrelevance. Ether stirred under his skin, restrained only by long habit and the thin line of restraint he had chosen to keep intact.

’So. This is your retaliation.’

Gregoris felt something feral stretch awake behind his ribs.

He smiled. Slowly, like a man savoring a perfectly executed ambush.

“Oh,” he murmured under his breath, eyes locked on Rafael across the room. “You chose violence.”

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