Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 308 - 303: The Things Left Unsaid

Marin paused, pen halfway to the margin of his notes. His eyes flicked up, narrowing with the speed of a man used to dealing with lunatics in high positions.

"You what?"

Gabriel, who had already begun buttoning Damian’s coat for him with slow, elegant efficiency, didn’t even look up. "He means the one forged with dormant sigils and an ego problem."

"The ceremonial sword forged to amplify resonance during public rituals?" Marin asked, voice carefully level—but the rise in his brow betrayed his incredulity. "The one that reacts to emotional flux like a weather vane in a thunderstorm?"

"The very one," Gabriel said dryly, finally glancing at him. "He keeps it hidden in his study; it was collecting dust until now."

Marin nodded once, restrained but curious. "I would be interested in examining it. Purely for medical documentation."

Then, with a glance between the two of them, he added, "You both have two days of freedom left. I suggest you use them for actual rest. And—Your Majesty—" he inclined his head with due formality, "no fieldwork for at least a month. Any fluctuation in your output will be obvious to the wrong audience."

"I’m aware," Damian said quietly.

"Let’s go then," Gabriel said, already turning to the door with a fluid, deliberate grace. He flashed a grin toward the door. "I have ether reports to read in your study. And since someone is banned from fieldwork, I’m invoking imperial law that says you owe me tea while I work."

Damian gave him a look that was all cool exasperation and deeply concealed amusement. "That’s not a law." freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

"It is now," Gabriel said over his shoulder, already walking ahead with the confidence of a man who rewrote laws with a pen dipped in sarcasm and sealed them in royal wax.

Marin didn’t comment. But his mouth twitched slightly as he turned back to his console, muttering just loud enough to be heard, "I should’ve written that paper when I had the chance."

—

The imperial office was quieter than usual—too quiet, in Astana Blake’s opinion.

Stacks of reports were arranged with surgical precision along the conference table. The sun filtering through the high frost-glazed windows cast a cold sheen across the polished floor, but inside the room, the air was warm, saturated with the scent of ink, paper, and the faint traces of Christian’s cologne—amber and cedar, sharp with intent.

Astana didn’t look up as the second prince stepped in, already shrugging off his outer coat and tossing it over the nearest chair with the casual disrespect of someone who’d never filed a tax reform request in his life.

"Tell me you’ve done the speech drafts," Christian said, rolling his sleeves.

"I’ve done three," Astana replied, tapping his stylus against the edge of his tablet. "One for the merchant guilds, one for the northern provinces, and one in case your brother starts another war by blinking at the wrong noble."

Christian snorted. "So... the usual."

Astana didn’t smile, though his eyes did narrow in dry amusement. "The Emperor’s absence will be noticed after tomorrow. The council expects a brief appearance or a formal explanation; it seems like imperial rut is not a good enough excuse."

Christian leaned forward, elbows on the table, resting his chin on one hand like a prince bored with statecraft but far too aware of its weight to fully detach.

"They’d rather he crawl into a council meeting half-feral with his scent flooding the carpets?" he muttered. "Half of them would faint. The other half would try to propose marriage."

Astana arched a brow. "Including Lady Thalia, three counts, and two ministers from the agriculture committee."

Christian made a face. "Gods help us all."

The corner of Astana’s mouth twitched. "Fortunately, he’s not giving them the chance."

He tapped a few more notations into the imperial schedule. "The next two days will cover for the sudden reduction in visibility. I’ve already adjusted the press distribution. No official complaints yet, but the Claymores sent the request of naming the new duke as George is not capable anymore."

Christian’s brows lifted. "Already? That was fast. He’s barely cold."

Astana didn’t look up from the screen. "He’s not dead, Christian."

"He’s in a coma, Astana. Which is political death, if not the useful kind."

A dry breath of silence followed. The lights above the imperial desk buzzed softly, filtered through the frosted glass etched with the Empire’s seal. Outside, winter light pressed against the windows like a polite intruder, all soft edges and no warmth.

Astana finally responded, voice neutral. "They want Max formally instated."

Christian scoffed. "Elliot must be losing his mind in Pais. I wonder how he’s doing."

Astana didn’t bother hiding the edge in his voice. "Not well. King Edmund wasn’t exactly thrilled to see his only daughter insane after being tortured by Shadows and married to a count exiled in disgrace by Damian."

Christian blinked. "Wait—insane?"

Astana finally paused in his typing, gaze lifting, cool and unimpressed. "After the incident, she was found screaming in the palace courtyard, covered in ether burns and trying to scratch off her mark. The Shadows didn’t lay a hand on her, but the interrogation spell used... wasn’t gentle."

Christian exhaled, not exactly surprised but still visibly unsettled. "Damian let that happen?"

"No," Astana said sharply. "He ordered it."

A beat of silence passed between them. The kind that came when truth felt like a blade laid bare on the table.

"You know, for all it’s worth, I’m glad that I’m on Damian’s side."

Astana’s mouth twitched—just enough to be noticed if someone was foolish enough to look too closely.

"For all it’s worth," he echoed dryly, "you didn’t have much of a choice."

Christian scoffed. "Of course I did. I could’ve joined Hadeon. Or even kissed up to one of the northern courts. But none of them have you." His tone became serious; he dropped hints to Astana since Gabriel’s first tea party, but the secretary refused to respond back.

Astana paused, just slightly—fingers hovering over the edge of the tablet, tension coiled so tight it almost vanished.

"That’s not a compliment," he said after a beat, his voice smooth as ever but quieter. "It’s a diversion tactic. You’re avoiding your next assignment."

"No," Christian said, stepping closer, his voice dipping just enough to matter. "I’m not."

There was silence again, but heavier now.

Christian let it linger before adding, more softly, "I’ve been dropping hints since Gabriel’s tea party. You pretend not to hear. You act like I’m just joking. I’m not."

Astana finally looked at him—slow, deliberate. His silver eyes were unreadable, but his voice had softened into something nearly reluctant.

"You’re a prince. I’m a secretary."

"And you’re the only person in this palace who scares me," Christian said, smiling faintly. "That has to count for something."

Before Astana could come up with another excuse, a notification popped up on his tablet.

It was Damian asking for him and a report on what happened while he was absent.