The tension in the ballroom did not dissipate even as Anya lowered herself into a curtsy. If anything, the air became thicker, coiling like a serpent around those who remained focused on the conflict. The nobles, ever the opportunists, exchanged sidelong glances and whispered speculations.
Gabriel did not need to hear them to know what they were saying.
'Fucking hypocrites. They would talk about anything to get access to important parties and events.' He could feel his head throbbing from the rumors and problems that these events would create.
The foreign princess, the Emperor, and the man who was at the heart of the rebellion but managed to escape unharmed.
Anya's words had done their job. She did not need to accuse him directly; she would planted the seed, and the court would water it.
'Predictable.'
