Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 241 - 236: The Blade at the Table

"Are there any objections," Gabriel asked mildly, fingers flipping to the second page of the report, "before I begin dismantling your precious bureaucracy?"

The silence that followed wasn’t mere hesitation—it was survival instinct.

A few papers rustled. Someone—likely the provincial judge—shifted uncomfortably. The chancellor from the Northern Consortium cleared his throat, but no words followed. It was one thing to protest a proposal. It was another to protest one backed by the Emperor’s direct authority, delivered by the consort who had survived assassination, court politics, and the Emperor’s own bed.

Gabriel waited precisely two seconds longer than necessary, then raised his eyes at last.

Dead calm. No challenge in them—just inevitability.

"Good," he said.

He reached for the stack of red-marked pages Edward had prepared earlier and laid them flat before him, each sheet annotated with long, efficient edits. "We’ll begin with the new eligibility standards. Bloodline privilege will no longer qualify a candidate without academic merit. If that offends anyone, I suggest they take it up with a tutor."

That earned him a stiff inhale from one of the older ministers, but no one interrupted.

Gabriel continued. "Exam locations will rotate regionally. Standardized criteria. External grading boards. No bribery, no appointment by favor, and no more questions that cater to nobles raised in high towers."

Damian remained silent, golden eyes unreadable, watching.

"And if anyone leaks the questions," Gabriel added casually, "I will personally see to it that the next examination includes a written defense of their own resignation letter."

That one earned a muffled cough. Possibly a suppressed laugh. Hard to tell. Gabriel didn’t look to see.

Instead, he leaned back in his chair and smiled, thin and controlled, with just the right amount of venom to taste.

"Shall we proceed?"

No one dared say no.

There was a hesitant shuffle of parchment as the ministers turned pages, eyes lowered, voices swallowed. Even the chancellor, who had arrived with a reputation for arrogance, merely nodded once, stiffly, as though afraid a single word would snap the tension too loud.

Across the table, Damian watched.

Not with amusement. Not with approval.

But with calculation—like a king who had just confirmed the blade he’d placed at the table was not only sharp but willing to draw blood without being asked.

And Gabriel—Gabriel didn’t gloat. He simply continued.

"Proposal packet three," he said, flipping to the next set of documents. "Expansion of educational access in rural sectors, with funding redirected from three inactive elite academies in the Western Territories. Those schools have been operating on name and reputation alone for six years. No published research, no passing scholars. They’ll be defunded within the month."

That earned a few looks.

"I take it someone here is an alumnus?" Gabriel asked without glancing up.

No one answered.

"Noted," he said coolly, making a mark in the margin with Edward’s pen.

It went on like that. Precise. Efficient. Unapologetic.

And by the time the meeting was called to a close, no one questioned why the Emperor had placed this reform in Gabriel’s hands.

Because clearly, he hadn’t needed a committee.

He’d needed a blade.

—

The sun had already begun to fall, casting long amber shadows across the polished floors of the imperial quarters. Ether-lanterns flickered to life one by one, their soft glow brushing the edges of draped velvet and carved stone. The chambers were quiet—too quiet for someone who had just conquered a meeting that would reshape the academic future of the Empire.

Gabriel sat curled on the end of the chaise in their shared study, a stack of reports at his feet and a covered tray untouched on the low table beside him.

Edward stood near the hearth, arms crossed, a familiar expression of polite exasperation tightening his face.

"You need to eat."

"I need to think," Gabriel replied without looking up, thumb skimming down the margin of a proposal he’d already read twice. "Someone has to prepare the task list for the team tomorrow. The civil exam is in two weeks, and I still don’t trust half the provinces to spell their own names correctly."

Edward stood by the table, arms folded like a statue built from disapproval and patience. "You’re delegating, not micromanaging. That was the entire point of building your ’spine squad.’"

Gabriel let out a soft snort. "Spite Department."

He threw the proposal near him on the chaise with a flick of his fingers, the pages fanning out in surrender. Then he looked at the food tray like it was his mortal enemy.

The nausea and sickness had dulled after the poison was flushed from his system, but his appetite hadn’t quite returned. Eating still felt like a task—another duty added to a schedule that already felt more imperial than personal.

He picked up the fork reluctantly, looking at the food being uncovered by Edward: vegetables, simple rice, and a piece of chicken breast steamed so delicately it looked like it might apologize for existing.

"Is this... flavorless on purpose?" Gabriel asked dryly, stirring at the edge of the plate.

Edward didn’t look up from folding the linen napkin beside the tray. "It’s balanced for recovery. Gentle on the stomach, nutrient-dense, non-inflammatory."

"So a culinary insult," Gabriel muttered.

Edward merely raised a brow. "Your child doesn’t care about your taste for spice."

Gabriel gave the chicken a suspicious glance before cutting into it. "My child should prepare for disappointment, then. They’re being raised by sarcasm and caffeine withdrawal."

From behind him, Damian’s voice drifted in—low, amused. "And yet somehow, that child already has better instincts than half the ministers I met today."

Gabriel didn’t turn. "Did you threaten anyone important?"

"I gave a smile," Damian replied as he shrugged off his coat. "Same effect."

He crossed the room, steps unhurried, and came to a stop beside the chaise. Gabriel didn’t look up right away, but the slight angle of his body shifted toward him, subtle but automatic.

Damian leaned down, eyes flicking to the plate. "You’re eating."

"I’m attempting," Gabriel corrected. "This chicken tastes like regret."

Damian brushed his knuckles lightly along Gabriel’s jaw. "Eat it anyway."

Gabriel stabbed a piece of rice with unnecessary precision. "Tomorrow we have to go to a ball."

"I’m aware," Damian said, settling beside him, close but not crowding. "It’s on your calendar. And your formalwear has already been adjusted twice."

Gabriel made a low, disgruntled sound. "Nothing says ’I’ve just survived poisoning and administrative warfare’ like silk-lined robes and forced diplomacy."

Damian’s mouth curved faintly. "You’ll look stunning. Terrifying, too, if you scowl the right way."

Gabriel gave him a dry look. "Remind me again, why I agreed to attend?"

"Because Lady Serathine is an ally. Because her winter ball is one of the few social events that actually serves a political purpose. And because," Damian added, his tone lowering just slightly, "you gave your word. Publicly."

"Right," Gabriel muttered.