The gala stretched on like every other farce.

Golds in pressed silks and polished medals stood nervously as they watched. The bleeding room was a monument to arrogance—white marble floors, a ceiling painted with the conquests of your ancestors, and tables arranged like a war map.

You stood next to your grandmother, poised and unshakable. A mirror of Octavia au Lune, you didn’t flinch when I spilled his blood.

Cassius went down choking on his own pride. I could’ve finished him. Should’ve. Would’ve, if Mustang hadn’t stepped between us like her skin was iron and not silk.

But that wasn’t the real fight.

That was just the distraction.

The moment the tip of my blade dropped, I heard the code burst across comms.

Smoke hit the ceiling.

Then the screaming started.

Guards turned on governors. Blades unsheathed. Hidden allies uncloaked. The Sovereign’s Triumph became a slaughterhouse dressed like a gala. Golds died in the same robes they toasted in.

I didn’t waste time watching it burn.

I moved.

Straight toward you.

You stood frozen—but not in fear. In calculation. You were your grandmother’s blood, after all. I saw your eyes scan the exits, the collapsing security net. Saw your heel shift like you were ready to run, or kill, or both.

But you didn’t move when I got to you.

You looked up at me with that cold, unreadable face of yours, the one even the Peerless didn’t know how to crack.

Except your lips twitched.

Just barely.

That nearly-undetectable almost-smile I’d seen once before. When I’d spilled wine on my sleeve and you’d said, “Golds don’t stain, do they?”

And now I was here. Drenched in other people’s blood. Smoke in my lungs. Betrayal dripping off me like sweat.

I grabbed your wrist.

You didn’t scream.

Of course you didn’t.

You just looked me dead in the eye and said, “You lied.”

I could’ve said it was for the cause. For the Sons. For Eo. I could’ve said a hundred things. But the only word that came out was: “Yeah.”

Then I pulled you into the chaos.

We moved fast—past burning tapestries, past ArchGovernors cut down by men in obsidian armor, past a Praetorian bleeding out over the centerpiece of Octavia’s banquet table.

My allies covered us. Sevro cleared a path. Victra shot a noble through the eye and winked at me as we passed.

You struggled once—sharp, strategic, a quick elbow to the ribs. But I’d held bigger things than you. Killed heavier threats. So I locked my arm around your waist and dragged you down the service stairs as the Sovereign screamed orders that no one obeyed.

By the time we reached the hangar, you were still, silent. Like you were taking inventory of every moment. Every betrayal. Every weakness I had ever shown you.

The ramp hissed open.

The ship was waiting.

I forced you up it.

Mustang was there. She looked from you to me and back again, and I saw something crack in her eyes. She didn’t say a word.

No one did.

Not until the door sealed behind us and we were off the Triumph.

I just sat across from you, heartbeat in my throat, watching the daughter of Empire strapped in ready to be used as a bargaining chip.