Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 332 - 327: Me too

The chime that marked the end of the examination was not loud, but it rang with finality. A soft echo that rolled across the vast amphitheater like the last note of a funeral bell. Pens dropped. Scrolls rolled shut. Breaths were exhaled like prisoners being granted a stay.

And still, Gabriel remained standing.

"Pass the scrolls forward," Alexandra called, her voice cool and clear. "Proctors, verify signatures and ether stamps. No one leaves until your name is cleared."

No one argued.

The Department of Spite moved with the efficiency of war veterans. Scrolls were gathered, stacked, sorted. One student tried to sneak a last-minute addition—Julian caught it before the ink dried. Irina double-checked magical residue against assigned seats. Rafael began organizing stacks with alarming precision, muttering revenge-themed poetry under his breath.

Within minutes, it was done. The final scrolls passed to the professors now waiting behind the reinforced barrier, their expressions unreadable behind the thick folds of their ceremonial robes. No thanks were offered. None were expected.

The team exited the hall with the ease of people who had done this before—or at least pretended convincingly they had.

Gabriel didn’t speak until they reached the corridor.

"You did well," he said simply, a nod to the team.

Rafael looked like he wanted to cry.

Alexandra slipped her arm through Irina’s. "Tea. Then a nap. Possibly murder if someone tells us there’s a second round."

"No," Gabriel said. "That’s my job."

That earned a few tired chuckles as they dispersed, the exhaustion setting in only now that the task was over.

Gabriel didn’t go with them.

He returned to the palace instead.

Damian’s study was no longer the singular, sovereign throne it used to be. The reconstruction had been subtle but absolute: the space doubled, soundproofed, and restructured. Two desks now sat across from one another, equal in stature and design, their edges aligned like mirrored blades. Between them, the wide hearth burned low, the scent of cedar and citrus curling faintly in the air.

Damian was already there.

He sat in his chair like he owned the oxygen, his collar unfastened and the top buttons of his shirt open, revealing the line of his throat. The gold cuffs at his wrists caught the firelight, glinting like weaponry. In one hand, a thick report with a wax seal already broken. In the other, a glass filled with something amber and sharp enough to strip the idiocy from any conversation.

He didn’t look up when Gabriel entered. "How many cried?"

"Three," Gabriel answered, closing the door behind him. "Five if you count the ones who shook."

Damian’s mouth twitched. "And how many cheaters?"

"Seven. One illusion charm, two memory spells, and a glyph hidden in a hairpin." Gabriel crossed the room slowly, his hand brushing the back of Damian’s chair before continuing to his own desk.

"Creative," Damian said, then drained half his glass. "We should offer the glyph girl a job. If she survives."

Gabriel sat down, letting the firelight catch in the dark curve of his robe. "She was thirteen."

Damian finally looked up, eyes narrowing. "...Offer her a scholarship."

Gabriel nodded once, already opening his own stack of sealed papers. "Done."

Then he paused.

His fingers stilled on the wax seal, and his gaze shifted to the window. The sky outside had turned the color of old bruises, deep, navy-shadowed dusk settling over the Capital like a held breath. He watched it for a moment longer than necessary, as if weighing something unspoken.

Whatever the conclusion, it came quiet and firm.

He stood.

Damian didn’t look up until Gabriel rounded the desk. By then it was too late to ask questions, Gabriel didn’t leave room for questions.

He didn’t say anything, either.

He just slid into Damian’s lap like he belonged there.

Damian’s hand, still holding the glass, tilted slightly to avoid disaster, but he didn’t stop him. He didn’t even look surprised.

Gabriel settled slowly, his back to Damian’s chest, head tipped slightly as he exhaled a soft, measured breath.

"You really enjoy complicating my life," Damian murmured, his voice rough at the edges. "Or testing me."

Gabriel didn’t deny it. He let the silence stretch between them like silk pulled taut, then said, "You said you liked a challenge."

"I said that once," Damian replied, lips grazing the edge of Gabriel’s temple. "In a war council. About invading a fortified mountain range. I wasn’t talking about you."

Gabriel hummed and leaned more onto Damian until his face settled against his chest, right over the steady rhythm of his heartbeat. He inhaled slowly, deep and familiar, Damian’s scent laced with cedar, warmth, and something sharper now, the trace of fire and command that never quite left him.

He didn’t open his eyes.

"I still think it applies," Gabriel said quietly, voice muffled by fabric and closeness. "Fortified mountain range. Terrible weather. Explosive consequences."

Damian’s hand slid up his back, slow and steady. "And yet you let me win."

Gabriel let out a breath that might have been a laugh. "I didn’t. You lost. Happily."

Damian tipped his head down, pressing his lips into Gabriel’s hair. "And you’re proud of that?"

"Yes," Gabriel said simply, still not moving. "Because for once, you didn’t have to fight for power. Just for me."

Silence stretched between them—not heavy, not tense, just full. Gabriel’s body had softened in his arms, tension bleeding out now that they were alone, no titles, no audiences, no schedules demanding they be anything but this.

Damian’s hand didn’t stop moving. "We’re going to have to tell the court soon."

Gabriel’s eyes fluttered open halfway. "Which part? The pregnancy or the part where I’m sitting in your lap like a well-fed cat?"

Damian chuckled. "Both."

Gabriel yawned, utterly unbothered. "Give it a few more weeks. Let them think we’re just emotionally co-dependent and politically terrifying."

Damian smiled against his hair. "That’s already public knowledge."

"Good," Gabriel murmured. "Then we’re ahead of schedule."

Before Damian could come back with a remark about Gabriel being needy, something that never quite matched his personality, even if the evidence was currently purring in his lap, the door of the study opened with the soft click of imperial hinges and the ghost of a sigh.

Edward stepped in, perfectly composed as always, carrying a tray of dishes with the kind of silent dignity reserved for palace ghosts and butlers who had survived at least three coups.

He didn’t blink at the sight in front of him.

"Dinner, Your Majesty. And Your Grace," he said evenly, like he hadn’t just walked in on the Empress draped across the Emperor’s lap like a cat in heat and absolutely no shame.

Gabriel didn’t even lift his head.

Damian, naturally, looked like he was considering throwing a fork at someone.

Edward set the tray on the low table beside them with the precision of a man who had once served tea while bombs fell six districts away.

"There’s roast duck, sautéed greens, and that ridiculous dessert the chef insisted you liked, even though I suspect you only complimented it to make her stop crying."

Gabriel raised a finger without looking up. "It’s good. I just don’t need five variations of it in one week."

Edward adjusted a silver dome and nodded solemnly. "Then perhaps Your Grace might consider saying that directly next time, before the pastry team attempts a commemorative tart."

Damian exhaled, something close to a laugh escaping. "You see what I deal with?"

Edward lifted a brow. "I deal with it too, Your Majesty. Except I don’t get to sit on his lap while doing it."

Gabriel finally cracked one eye open. "Would you like a rotation schedule?"

Edward gave the most dignified non-answer in palace history. "No, thank you, Your Grace. I’m far too old for laps and scandal."

He bowed once, then retreated toward the door.

"Enjoy your meal. And please, if you must christen the desk, not the one with the gold seal folders. They’re still drying from last time."

The door closed behind him.

Gabriel sighed, melting a little deeper into Damian’s hold.

"I missed him."

Damian kissed the top of his head. "Me too."

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