Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 328 - 323: Deadline

Astana offered a small, dry shrug. "He’s adjusting. To court life. To the scrutiny. To the way everything he does echoes through the Empire like a thunderclap." He paused, then added thoughtfully, "And he’s still beautiful when he’s furious. That hasn’t changed."

Damian looked down at his desk, at the sealed reports, the blood-soaked edges of war dressed in bureaucracy, and smiled faintly. Just enough for someone who knew him to notice.

"Well, that does define Gabriel. Now, let’s finish this."

Astana nodded once, sharp and efficient, the way only someone trained to march through fire with a clipboard could. "First docket: trade concessions with the southern coast—your approval is pending on the revised tax ratio. They tried to sneak in a clause that would exempt them from emergency levies."

"Strike it," Damian said without blinking. "If they want protection, they’ll pay for it like everyone else."

"Done." Astana tapped the screen. "Next: General Halbrecht’s request to review the new troop deployment map. He’s asking for authority to restructure the western command if conflict with Pais escalates."

"Give it to him. He knows the terrain. And tell him if he so much as touches the eastern lines without notifying Christian, I’ll send him to teach fencing to prep-school aristocrats in silk gloves."

"Threat received. Cheerfully noted."

Damian’s gaze flicked to the next report. "What else?"

"Three nobles are requesting private audience slots. One of them wants to present a wedding gift early."

"Let me guess. A horse. A relic. Or an insult disguised as heirloom gold?"

Astana didn’t flinch. "A painting. Of you and Gabriel. Commissioned before the engagement announcement."

Damian’s hand twitched. "Burn it."

"I already had it ’lost in transport.’"

"...I really don’t pay you enough."

"You don’t," Astana agreed without shame, flipping to the next file. "Final matter: your brother."

Damian’s eyes narrowed. "Which one?"

"The one you don’t call brother," Astana said dryly, swiping to a secondary tab.

Damian’s jaw tightened. "Let me guess. Another flower-child of Hadeon?"

"Yes. This one’s claiming nobility through his mother and apparently a profound spiritual connection to ’the land and its ancestral ether.’" Astana didn’t bother hiding the contempt. "He’s also suggesting that, since you have no heir—publicly, at least—he should be included in the line of succession."

Damian let out a slow, measured breath through his nose. "How generous." freewebnoveℓ.com

"They’re crawling out now. The moment Christian stepped into the spotlight and your engagement solidified, they all decided they were part of some divine reunion arc. Hadeon’s bastards are multiplying like flies in high summer."

"Flies don’t demand succession rights," Damian muttered.

"They do now," Astana replied. "They want a piece before you get Gabriel pregnant."

There was a pause. A flicker. The faint hum of warded silence shifting beneath the weight of truth.

Damian’s fingers tapped once against the desk, gold eyes dark with something unreadable.

"I already got him pregnant."

Astana froze, mid-scroll.

"...Does Edward know you said that out loud?"

"I didn’t tell him. I told you." Damian leaned back slightly, lips curling into something far too dangerous to be a smile. "And now that you know, make yourself useful."

Astana composed himself with the grace of a man trained to survive volatile emperors, collapsing dynasties, and emotionally weaponized fashion designers. "So we are preparing for a formal heir announcement."

"Not yet," Damian said. "In three months."

Astana nodded once, already adjusting a mental timeline of sealed archives, palace press control, and which nobles would need sedation by week two.

He glanced back at the report. "The brother is from the desperate batch. He’s been caught searching through black-market archives, trying to figure out how to make his eyes match yours."

Damian paused mid-step.

Then smiled. Slowly. The kind of smile that kingdoms mistook for mercy—right before they caught fire.

"Oh, really?" he said, with the casual delight of a man selecting which mountain to throw someone off. "Then we should give it to him."

Astana raised a brow. "Would you send him to the trial?"

"No," Damian said, already reaching for the next file. "But the Shadows could get creative. I believe there’s a method involving a syringe, a cooling spell, and his eyes. We can send the gold to him in a velvet box."

Astana stared at him.

Damian didn’t look up. "Symbolism, Astana. It matters."

"God damn it." Astana closed the tablet. "I need to find Gabriel and beg him to retrain you."

"He’ll approve," Damian said without missing a beat. "He likes practical consequences."

"He likes them when they’re in a court speech, not when you’re offering ocular imperial favors in a jewelry box."

"You exaggerate," Damian said mildly. "I’d have it etched, at least."

Astana rubbed his temples like a man too tired to be surprised and too loyal to run. "At this rate, I’ll be the one glowing from stress."

Damian finally glanced up, gold eyes sharp and amused. "Then wear something silver. Christian would love it."

Astana froze mid-step like a man caught between a falling chandelier and divine judgment.

"...Pardon?"

Damian leaned back in his chair, absolutely shameless. "You know he would. He has a thing for dramatics and people who look like they’ve barely survived a coup."

Astana turned slowly, tablet clutched like a shield. "Your Majesty, if this is retaliation for the sparkling rosehip, I assure you, I suffer enough."

"I’m simply observing facts," Damian said, perfectly serene. "You wear silver well. And Christian likes things that shine. Especially in his eye color."

"I’m a beta," Astana said flatly.

"And Gabriel was alpha once," Damian replied with a smirk, "until someone got creative with their bloodline."

Astana looked skyward like he was searching for divine exit instructions. "I’m not going to bond with your brother."

Damian hummed while reading the report in front of him. "We would see about that."

Astana let out the kind of sigh usually reserved for collapsing ceilings and exploding treaties. "No, we will not see. You will scheme, Christian will flirt like it’s a battlefield, and I will be drafting the palace evacuation plan in case he gets handsy during a gala."

Damian didn’t look up. "You’re overreacting."

"I’m not reacting enough." Astana stepped back toward the door like a man who knew escape routes by heart. "Your brother collects complications like medals."

"He does, but on the other side you don’t have to worry about me scheming. I have no interest in getting involved in your decisions until they might complicate my work. So decide and be fast."

Astana paused at the threshold, hand still on the door handle. Slowly, suspiciously, he turned his head. "That’s a trap."

Damian didn’t look up. "No. That’s a deadline."

"You’re telling me you won’t interfere unless it starts affecting your empire-building?"

"Correct."

"So if I hypothetically decided Christian is too loud, too smug, and too fond of sneaking into restricted archives shirtless—"

"Then I’d consider you a man of rare good judgment," Damian replied, flipping to the next page of the report, "until your rejection started affecting Christian’s mood."

Astana narrowed his eyes. "And what happens when his mood affects your schedule?"

"Then I interfere." Damian looked up finally, golden eyes calm and lethal. "But only to stabilize the variables. You’ll still have to live with the consequences of whatever you choose."

"So I get freedom and accountability. How generous."

"I thought you liked responsibility," Damian said mildly.

"I do," Astana muttered. "But not when it comes from your bloodline."

"Wise."

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