Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 309 - 304: Inheritance Is Not Enough

Astana’s eyes flicked down to the screen, and the moment between them dissolved like mist in sunlight.

"Saved by the Emperor," he murmured, his tone dry enough to scrape bone.

Christian tilted his head. "Temporarily. You’ll still have to answer me eventually."

Astana didn’t dignify that with a response. He was already moving, straightening the cuffs of his jacket with the precision of a man accustomed to deflecting affection with task lists.

"His Majesty wants a full update," he said, stepping back into motion, posture flawless as always. "I’ll speak to him in the study. In the meantime, try not to rearrange the diplomatic meetings. Again."

"I rearranged them for morale," Christian called after him. "Mine!"

The door clicked shut behind Astana before he could hear the reply he wasn’t going to acknowledge anyway.

Outside, the corridor felt cooler. Still, he didn’t pause. Damian rarely summoned him during recovery unless something had shifted. And from the phrasing of the message—"Bring everything. I want to know it all."—he suspected it wasn’t just about reports.

It was about what hadn’t been said out loud.

The Claymores. The silence from Pais. The whispers from the eastern gates.

Astana moved faster.

—

Despite the open windows, the smell of burnt ozone lingered in the Emperor’s private study. Damian stood near the hearth, sleeves still rolled up, golden eyes catching the firelight like polished coins. The bruising under his skin had faded, but not the marks carved by the channel removal They pulsed faintly along his arms, like dormant sigils humming to life when noticed.

"Your Majesty," Astana said, placing the tablet down on the desk without preamble. "You asked for everything. I’ve organized it by threat level."

Damian turned, but slowly, like someone who hadn’t yet decided whether the news would matter more than the silence before it.

"Start with the court optics. I have a guess that they use my absence for something stupid."

Astana didn’t waste time.

"They think you’re in rut," he said. "Locked away with Gabriel and—according to the more dramatic ones—contemplating names for your heir while swearing off war in exchange for fatherhood."

Astana paused a second. "Christian’s formal excuse for both your missing appearances held until now, if you ignore that the entire court is expecting news about your child."

Damian’s jaw tensed; he moved from the hearth to his desk, Gabriel’s side still occupied, and leaned on it, his arms now crossed on his chest.

"They are not wrong; there is a child, but it will be announced only after Gabriel’s second trimester. They would do the math." He sighed heavily. "We need to speed up Gabriel’s coronation before nobles start to get ideas."

Astana didn’t flinch. "Ideas are the court’s favorite currency. And right now, they’re spending generously."

He stepped closer, placing the final report on the desk beside Damian’s hand. "Rumors say the child will be declared heir regardless of status. That you’ll name them before winter ends. Some houses have already begun shifting alliances—either toward Christian as a fallback or subtly courting Alexandra to test her influence."

"Of course they would. How did they receive the news that five househeads, loyal to Hadeon, had disappeared?"

Astana’s expression didn’t change, but the air around him seemed to still.

"They received it like nobles do," he said flatly. "Half with silence, half with performative shock. No one’s asked questions publicly. But there’s already speculation. The word ’purge’ has been used twice in private circles. The fact that none of the bodies have been recovered is... unsettling to them."

Damian’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "Good. Let’s unsettle them even more; make sure that Patricia is executed tomorrow. Nothing should interfere. Make it public, streaming stations, imperial seal. I want it to be the only thing they talk about for a week."

Astana didn’t flinch. "Understood. I’ll prepare the clearance. The press will receive the official decree by midnight. Public charges, imperial sanction, and final sentence."

"Keep the charges limited to treason and interference with the bondmate of the Emperor," Damian added. "Don’t list the image fabrication. That part stays buried. It’s more useful as a weapon if they think we haven’t found the source."

Astana nodded once. "The press barely can wait for the moment. Will you and Lord Gabriel participate?"

Damian grinned. "Of course."

There was a flicker of something colder beneath it. "Let them see exactly what it means to stand at my side. I’ve been lenient for less than six months and they think I’m a tamed beast."

"I prefer this version of you," Astana said without missing a beat. "Less administrative work in dealing with the cleanup."

Damian let out a soft huff—something between amusement and warning.

"What about the rest of the events? How is my sweet father doing?"

The word sweet was poison on his tongue. It froze the room more effectively than winter ever could.

Astana didn’t flinch, but the chill slid down his spine all the same.

"He’s been keeping quiet. Politically, militarily. Not docile, he is still moving, but nothing outrageous."

He adjusted the screen, pulling up a secondary report. "Gregoris and Alexander have eyes on the garrisons. Any troop shift would be reported within the hour. I’m monitoring court channels. So far, he hasn’t responded to the public declaration about choosing an empress."

He glanced up. "But the phrasing still lingers. ’One who can break Gabriel.’"

Damian’s jaw tightened, shadows flaring briefly beneath the gold of his gaze.

"So brave of a man who didn’t even have the guts to complete the ceremony to become Emperor."

Astana’s brows lifted slightly. "Ceremony?"

He knew Damian had taken the throne by force—through fire, blade, and rebellion—but no historical record mentioned a rite outside the coronation.

Damian’s gaze didn’t leave the hearth.

"Yes. But that’s a kind way to name it."

He finally looked back, his voice edged with something older than anger. "Most of the imperial line wasn’t chosen by vote of nobles or people. They were defined by the ether. By whether it tolerated them."

Astana stayed quiet. Damian rarely spoke of the old rites.

"There’s a chamber beneath the northern tower," Damian continued. "One that predates the current palace. If you survive its threshold, you enter. If you survive inside, you leave... changed. Claimed."

A pause. "I did the challenge with Max."

Astana’s eyes narrowed faintly. "He failed?"

"No," Damian said. "He didn’t finish."

That silence said more than any verdict.

"The ether didn’t reject him," Damian added. "But it didn’t crown him either. It held him in the palm of its hand and found him too kind." His mouth curled faintly. "He would’ve given his throne away to avoid hurting someone. That’s not a flaw. But it is a death sentence in a place like that."

Damian moved to his desk and sat in the chair that was usually used by Gabriel. He reached for the first of the thick folders laid out before him, fingers brushing the edge without opening it yet.

"There are two ways of ruling this Empire," he said, his voice low and steady. "You either pass the challenge or inherit the throne from your precursor."

He glanced up at Astana then, something colder in his expression now. "But the latter always dilutes. Blood alone isn’t enough. That’s what happened with Olivier. And his father before him. A crown inherited without trial turns into costume jewelry—pretty, but useless when the empire bleeds."

Astana tilted his head slightly, absorbing the words without comment. Then, after a moment, he asked, "And your child?" novelbuddy.cσ๓

Damian didn’t look away. "They’ll take the challenge. No matter the bloodline. No matter whose name they carry. I will not build another line of ornamental sovereigns."

"Then what does Hadeon want?"