Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 365 - 359: Ten

The capital had not slept in days, not from unrest or border tensions, but from celebration so loud it made the sky seem louder too. Ribbons of light carved through the avenues, trailing from lamppost to spire in streaming banners of gold and crimson. Children were given sweets without ration, street vendors doubled their prices and still sold out, and a paper flag bearing the imperial crest sat proudly on every windowsill, fluttering in the early summer wind.

Three days of revelry had been announced: days off, distributed gifts, open banquets at civic squares, and all of it funded not from the state treasury, but from Damian’s personal accounts. The Emperor had not asked for taxes to commemorate the birth of his heir; he had given coin instead. Not out of pure kindness, but to show the neighboring countries and his subjects that even without his title as the Emperor, he was still the richest man in the Empire and possibly the continent.

The message was clear. This was not a government-funded gesture. This was a personal declaration.

And those blessings flowed. With coin, with spectacle, with calculated indulgence that turned every flickering lantern and every rosewater-soaked pastry into a subtle proclamation: This is what power looks like when it chooses generosity over demand.

In the capital, nobles held private galas trying, and failing, to compete with the Imperial Palace’s schedule. Provincial lords sent absurd congratulatory gifts: enchanted cradles that floated, miniature fountains carved from marble, and a swan that screamed the heir’s name once every hour, despite the fact that no name was announced. The swan was discreetly returned.

By the third evening, the celebration reached its peak.

The Grand Hall of the Imperial Palace had been transformed into a living mural, light catching on polished stone and veined crystal, floral arrangements twining up columns in the Empire’s colors, and enchanted ceiling panels reflecting the shifting dusk sky outside. The chandeliers burned a high-spectrum blue-white, rare and volatile, a light only blood-bound to the imperial line could control.

At the top of the raised dais sat two thrones. The right side, grand and shadowed in dark velvet and cold metal, belonged to Damian Lyon, Emperor of the Unified Empire. Golden-eyed. Spine straight. Dressed in full court regalia: a high-collared coat woven with metallic silk, dark as midnight and threaded with etched wolves and rising flame. His shoulders carried a deep blue cloak lined in silk and trimmed with fur, not as a nod to the season, but to the empire’s founding banners. And atop his head: a crown.

Not the infamous jagged ring of black gold and blood-red stones he wore into war councils and rebellion trials. This one was quieter but no less commanding, smooth imperial gold shaped with clean lines, bearing only three visible gems: sunstone, citrine, and opal. A symbol of rule by reason, not fear. Though everyone knew he had both.

His hand rested lazily on the armrest.

His other hand...

Gabriel didn’t sigh, but he could have. Because that hand was on his.

Technically, he was seated beside Damian. On the same raised dais. Wearing a ceremonial robe too white to be practical and too heavy to be breathable. His collar was stiff. His shoes pinched. His shoulders already ached from sitting through the first round of noble blessings, each one longer than the last.

And worse... he was wearing a crown too.

Simpler, of course. Thin gold, circlet style, tucked just behind his temples where it wouldn’t flatten his hair or give anyone ideas. It had no gemstones, no crest, and no authority, except for the fact that Damian had insisted.

Insisted. Blackmailed. Promised to cancel the entire city-wide festival and personally oversee the performance of the state orchestra in their bedroom if Gabriel didn’t wear it.

So now it sat there, delicate and irritating, gleaming mockingly beneath the chandelier’s light.

"Three down," Gabriel muttered through his teeth as another countess bowed low enough to nearly crack her spine. "Only another fifty-seven to go."

"Fifty-two," Damian said under his breath. "I excused the border lords."

"How merciful," Gabriel said flatly, and smiled just in time to nod graciously at the next bowing pair of guests.

Somewhere across the room, the orchestra swelled, and servants in formal livery began distributing the first round of wine, but Gabriel could already see the glittering scrolls being brought forward again, blessings, requests, and declarations of allegiance all wrapped up in heavy perfume and pretended good will.

His fingers twitched against Damian’s.

Not out of nerves, but calculation. Because if one more person bowed so low they made direct eye contact with the floor, Gabriel would be forced to test how far etiquette could stretch before it broke under sarcasm.

"I swear," he muttered, "if someone presents me with another silver rattle engraved with ’blessing of fertility,’ I will throw it at them and claim diplomatic exhaustion."

Damian didn’t look over. His grip shifted just enough to remind Gabriel that the court was watching. Always.

"You said you wanted diplomacy."

"I wanted strategy," Gabriel whispered. "Not scented scrolls and veiled suggestions that I should breed a second heir immediately after delivering the first."

Damian’s answering silence was suspicious.

Gabriel didn’t look at him. "No."

Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned forward, just slightly, enough that his lips nearly brushed the shell of Gabriel’s ear. A gesture that could pass as regal intimacy to the room, but Gabriel knew better.

"Ten," he said casually.

Gabriel turned his head, slowly, dangerously, until their eyes met.

"Ten what?"

"Children."

A heartbeat of silence passed.

Then Gabriel exhaled in a low, measured, murderous tone: "Are you out of your imperial mind?"

"It’s reasonable," Damian said with the smooth conviction of a man who had never once been kicked in the shin under a banquet table. "One per year, more or less. A full house. Symbolic strength. Legacy."

Gabriel blinked once. "I am not a fertility rite. I’m currently carrying a being who tap dances on my bladder at night and makes me crave soap. Soap, Damian." frёewebηovel.cѳm

Damian didn’t flinch. If anything, he looked encouraged, with a dangerous gleam in his golden eyes that meant he was about to say something profoundly stupid.

"You said the lemon one was tolerable."

"I licked the lemon one," Gabriel hissed. "Because my body has been hijacked by ancient instincts and your genetics."

Damian, to his credit, paused. But only for a moment. "You’re glowing."

"I’m swollen."

"You’re radiant."

"I’m constipated, Damian."

Damian gave a thoughtful hum, completely unbothered. "That can be managed with pears."

Gabriel blinked at him like he was trying to summon divine judgment through sheer will.

"I haven’t slept properly in two months. I cried over the wrong color of bedsheets yesterday. I can’t see my ankles. And your solution to all of that is pears?"

Damian, still Emperor of the Unified Empire, leaned in closer with the deranged composure of a man who had personally broken fourteen bloodlines and survived it all. "And soft music. And a massage. And another child."

Gabriel stared at him.

"I am an only child," Damian murmured, with the shamelessness only a golden-eyed tyrant in love could possess. "It was lonely."

Updat𝓮d fr𝙤m fre𝒆webnov(e)l.com