Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 327 - 322: The First Steps To Normal

Damian didn’t look back as he left the Empress’s chamber. He didn’t need to. The image of Gabriel—robed, radiant, framed by that ridiculous, dangerous embroidery—was already etched behind his eyelids like a brand.

The hall outside was cold, quiet, and gilded in polished marble and authority. The moment he stepped beyond the threshold, two Shadows fell in behind him. Another peeled off ahead. The scent of blood still clung faintly to the corridor air.

He didn’t slow.

By the time he reached the eastern wing stairwell, Astana was already waiting, tablet in hand, posture immaculate, hair neatly in place despite the sprint it must’ve taken to get there before him.

"Your Majesty," Astana greeted, falling into step without missing a beat. "The next meeting was rescheduled per Edward’s request. Your lunch has been redirected to the high office, and the council documents regarding the southern ports are waiting on your desk."

"And the design team?" Damian asked without preamble.

Astana’s face didn’t flinch, but his voice lowered half a tone, polished and precise. "Neutralized. Three confirmed. One ran. He died tired."

Damian nodded once, sharp and final. "The ether signature?"

"Traced and confirmed to Patricia’s faction," Astana replied, flipping to the report without being asked. "They used a loophole in the ceremonial request forms—embedded the changes into the mirror-reflective lining paperwork. Submitted three minutes before the approval window closed. All parties are accounted for."

Damian’s jaw tightened, though his pace never faltered. "Let’s deal with the matters that couldn’t be finished while I was missing."

Astana gave a crisp nod, the kind that usually preceded a cascade of disaster reports and delayed diplomatic landmines. "Yes, Your Majesty."

He adjusted the tablet with a flick of his fingers. "First—House Mernor is still refusing to acknowledge the territorial reassignment near the salt mines. The northern lords are backing them in exchange for trade concessions, but if we wait too long, it will look like the crown is hesitating."

Damian didn’t even blink. "Fine them. Triple. If they want salt, they can dig it from under their own arrogance."

"Done." Astana tapped something into the report. "Second—Seraphine’s naval fleet has returned with one captured ship bearing Hadeon’s crest and enough forged passports to repopulate a province. They’re requesting clearance to interrogate the survivors."

Damian’s voice dropped. "Tell them they have my blessing, but remind them: this Empire still follows protocol. We want confessions, not martyrs."

"Understood." Another note flicked onto the screen. "Third—King Edmund is asking for a justification of Princess Anya’s mental state."

Damian’s hand stilled on the door.

His voice, when it came, was quieter than before—but colder. Sharper. "He dares."

Astana didn’t flinch. "He claims he’s concerned for her well-being. Says the image of her and Gabriel—now confirmed as ether-tampered—implies external manipulation. He wants to know if her actions were coerced. If she was influenced."

Damian let the door close again without stepping inside.

"She orchestrated a political attack on the future Empress," he said slowly. "On imperial grounds. Using forbidden etherwork and a criminal faction."

Astana nodded. "I’ve drafted three responses: one that’s diplomatic, one that’s honest, and one that’s going to make his court wet themselves."

"Use anything that starts with ’Princess Anya’s mental state is stable enough to stand full trial.’" Damian entered the Imperial Office and continued. "With that, send a question to Grand Duke Daniel Rhine. We need to know whether he wants the Paisian throne or if I should annex the kingdom. Edmund is pissing me off."

Astana followed him inside, already updating the message queue. "Understood. I’ll mark the last response as ’preferred level of imperial displeasure: high.’"

Damian moved through the high office like a storm trapped in formal wear—controlled, quiet, but unmistakably gathering force. He passed the central desk without sitting, eyes scanning the reports waiting in elegant stacks. Border movements. Trade violations. Religious appeals. None of them mattered more than the sheer idiocy Edmund had dared to deliver across sealed diplomatic lines.

"Daniel won’t refuse," Damian said, flipping open the top file without looking at it. "But I want him to say it out loud. In writing. And I want it to reach Edmund before his court finishes composing their next insult."

Astana’s fingers flew across the tablet. "I’ll prepare the draft. And I’ll include a gentle reminder of how close the eastern border is to the imperial garrison."

"Make it less gentle."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

"Now, who is the first unlucky one on today’s schedule?" Damian asked for more for himself, as he knew the schedule by heart.

Astana didn’t look up from his tablet. "The Duke of Wellings. Here to beg for his nephew’s pardon."

Damian’s expression didn’t shift, but something in the air around him did—like pressure rising a fraction before a storm breaks.

"The same nephew who tried to breach the outer archives and bribe a palace archivist with imported liquor?"

Astana offered a sympathetic shrug. "At least it wasn’t imported brie this time. We’re improving."

Damian drummed his fingers once against the carved armrest, sharp and slow. "What does he want in exchange for withdrawing the request?"

"A reduced exile sentence. Something charming, like three years on a southern trade vessel. He claims the boy is ’spirited.’"

"Pirates are spirited," Damian said flatly. "I don’t pardon pirates."

Astana swiped the screen. "Shall I prepare a denial with diplomatic phrasing or—?"

"No phrasing. Just the map coordinates of the colony we’re sending him to. Let the Duke learn what generosity looks like when I’m in a good mood." frёewebηovel.cѳm

"Understood."

Damian leaned back, eyes narrowing toward the window. Somewhere beyond the glass, the palace grounds shimmered under the early sun. Somewhere below, the world still thought it had time.

"Schedule the Duke after lunch," he added. "I want to be fed before I’m forced to hear him cry."

"Already done," Astana said smoothly. "Also, your lunch is being adjusted to match the Empress’s order."

That finally earned him a glance.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. "You mean—"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Medium rare. Extra herbs. No wine." He hesitated, then added with a very straight face, "Sparkling rosehip."

A beat of silence.

"Did Gabriel request a meal, or did Edward completely lose his mind?"

Astana didn’t smile. Not exactly. But the corners of his mouth twitched like they were under duress. "Gabriel requested it."

Damian blinked.

"Voluntarily?"

"Used the word ’hearty.’ Followed by ’meaty.’ I believe the exact phrase was ’violently satisfying.’"

Damian stared at him, golden eyes narrowing with the kind of suspicion usually reserved for foreign dignitaries and malfunctioning weapons.

"...Did anyone check if he’s possessed?"

"Twice," Astana replied, deadpan. "Edward had the physician review the food logs. The kitchen staff thought it was a prank until Gloria started sketching a new table layout for meals."

Damian leaned back slowly in his chair, one hand rising to rub his jaw. "So he asked for steak. Wore a glowing rune-like war paint. Told off a royal designer. And let Edward cancel two meetings without threatening to burn the palace."

Astana tapped his screen. "Also, he didn’t insult anyone in the hallway."

"... Are we certain he’s not preparing for a coup?"

"He said, ’sure,’ Your Majesty. Twice."

Damian exhaled, just once. "It was the damn time."