Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 391 - 385: Heir

The next day, the imperial council chamber hummed with low conversation and the soft scratch of styluses against tablets. Tall arched windows let in clean daylight, filtered through etched glass panes that pulsed faintly with the palace’s ether wards. Brass sconces lined the walls, the glow of their lanterns steady and precise, powered by carefully tuned cores but designed to look traditional.

Damian Lyon sat at the head of the long table, black suit tailored like armor, cuffs sharp enough to cut. His posture was composed, almost lazy, one hand resting against a leather folio, the other loose at his side. Only his eyes betrayed him, molten gold, unreadable, and far too intent.

For hours, the matters were simple enough: approving repairs to mountain bridges after floods, confirming the budget for ward‑masters on the eastern border, and reviewing grain allocations after a poor harvest. Paper files slid from hand to hand, tablets were passed along, and signatures were carved in careful script with wax seals waiting beside each stack.

It was only after a lull that the tone shifted.

A southern senator rose, bowing slightly, his hands folded over the tablet he carried as if for protection.

"Your Majesty," he began, polite and measured, "we are grateful for your attention after such personal joys. May the gods bless your house." A breath. "Yet... some clarity would bring further stability."

Damian’s gaze lifted, slow and sharp. "Clarity?"

The senator’s throat worked before he continued. "On the matter of succession. The Empire rejoices at the birth of Prince Arik, but... certain voices in the provinces ask whether it is Prince Christian who will inherit or whether you intend to name your son as Crown Prince now. They wonder if the council might benefit from formal confirmation."

Murmurs rustled through the chamber like dry leaves. A baron, draped in ceremonial green, cleared his throat and spoke up.

"With respect, Your Majesty, the line must remain strong. Christian Lyon has proven himself in service; some would see his leadership as the safest course until the young prince is of age."

"And alive," Damian said softly, cutting across the room like a blade drawn from a sheath. "Do you realize that the child barely had ten days?"

A ripple of unease swept through the chamber at the quiet weight of Damian’s words. No one moved. Even the sound of styluses halted, the scratch of ink and ether‑script silenced as if the wards themselves were holding their breath.

The baron who had spoken shifted on his feet, color draining from his face. "Your Majesty, I meant no..."

Damian’s gaze locked on him, steady and bright as molten metal, and the man’s words withered in his throat.

"You meant no harm," Damian finished for him, voice velvet‑soft and all the more lethal for it. "And yet you speak of the future as if the present were not enough. My son is ten days old. Ten." He let the number hang in the air, sharp and unyielding. "He is under the watch of the Empire’s finest physicians, in a palace whose walls have stood longer than most of your Houses, and already you whisper of replacing him."

No one dared answer. The sound of the lanterns’ faint ether‑pulse filled the space, steady and patient, a heartbeat against silence.

Damian rose slowly, the chair legs brushing the stone floor with a sound far louder than it should have been. He rested both hands on the table, leaning forward just enough for the edge of his shadow to touch the nearest senators.

"The Empress‑in‑waiting is recovering," he said, voice low and deliberate. "There will be no discussions, none, until we decide the time has come."

"You will not speak of succession again," he said, calm and absolute, "until I place the crown myself. Christian remains Crown Prince. Arik is heir."

A brittle silence followed Damian’s words, heavy enough that even the hum of the ether lamps seemed subdued. One senator cleared his throat, then thought better of it and lowered his eyes to the tablet in his hands. Another shifted, robes whispering against polished stone, but no one dared speak.

Damian let the quiet stretch until it became uncomfortable, until the weight of his gaze reminded them why even whispers about the throne could be dangerous. Then, with a slow and deliberate motion, he straightened, sliding one hand along the edge of the table as if drawing a line none of them were to cross.

"You are here to keep the Empire standing," he said, his voice carrying through the chamber without effort. "Not to play at power while my son breathes in his first days."

He reached for the folio at his side, flipping it open with the kind of precision that made the smallest gesture feel like judgment. "The matter of succession is settled. Let the court gossip if it wishes; you will not."

A senator in the back, an older woman in deep violet robes, bowed her head and murmured, "Understood, Your Majesty." The others followed in quick succession, a ripple of submission moving around the table like a tide finally retreating.

Damian gave them one last look, his expression unreadable save for the faint edge of pride sharpening his gaze. Then he lowered himself back into his chair with the same controlled grace with which he’d risen.

"Now," Damian said, tone settling into that dangerous calm that meant the true work was about to begin, "the eastern grain tariffs. I expect solutions, not stalling."

The chamber stirred, senators exchanging brief glances as styluses resumed their careful scratching. Damian listened, expression carved in marble, while a pair of trade ministers outlined proposed adjustments to the tariff brackets. He let them speak, let them present figures and projections, until the final numbers were read aloud and the council fell into a thoughtful hum.

Then Damian closed the folio with a soft snap.

"And Donin," he said.

The word was quiet, but it cut through the chamber like a blade drawn in the dark. Heads lifted. A handful of councillors froze mid‑gesture, and one of the ward‑masters stopped breathing entirely.