Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 318 - 313: Before or After Dinner?

The sitting room was quiet when Damian returned. Not empty, never empty, but quiet in the way only firelight and good walls could manage. The hearth glowed with slow-burning embers, the kind Edward insisted on maintaining "for ambiance," which usually meant to stave off the Emperor’s looming moods without having to say anything aloud.

Damian sank into the chair near the fire, loosening the cuffs of his shirt as he dropped into it. His drink waited, already poured—amber and smooth, the glass cold to the touch.

Edward, of course, was standing by the low table, sorting through tomorrow’s chaos like it was a pleasant hobby.

"Your Grace," he said without looking up, "you’ll be pleased to know Astana has only attempted to kill you with meetings four times instead of the usual six."

Damian took a slow sip, letting the warmth settle behind his teeth before he replied. "He’s growing soft."

"I did consider sending a physician for him," Edward said mildly. "Then I remembered Marin’s patience only extends to one royal patient per day."

A flick of the tablet in Edward’s hands brought up the full itinerary—color-coded, timestamped, and terrifying. Damian glanced at it and decided to ignore most of it.

"Push the cabinet meeting to the evening. They’ll complain."

"Of course. And then they’ll comply." Edward swiped once. "Do you want to reschedule the imperial education audit as well, or simply pretend you were never invited?"

"Second option."

Edward didn’t even blink. "Done."

The fire popped, scattering sparks briefly behind the grate, and Damian tilted the tablet in his lap, not to read the open report, but to stare through it. The crown’s activation still tingled faintly at his temples. Not pain. Just memory, echoing too close to the surface.

Gabriel had touched the edge of something today. A thread, a buried thing.

And Damian... had felt it in the bond. That flicker of recognition, right as the ceremonial crown pulsed in his hand.

He hadn’t asked. Not yet.

He would.

Soon.

"Any word from General Halbrecht?" he asked, still not looking up.

"His courier is due in the morning," Edward replied. "Apparently he’s added extra patrols to the west gates. And you’ll be delighted to hear that the western lords are now arguing over which one of them deserves the privilege of presenting their condolences first."

Damian raised his glass again. "Remind them Patricia died a traitor. They’ll remember how to behave."

Edward smiled slightly, in the way a wolf might if handed a leash and told to sit. "Already handled. I quoted you exactly."

Damian arched a brow. "Which part?"

"’Let them choke on etiquette if it keeps their mouths busy.’"

That earned a low hum of amusement, more exhale than sound. He let the tablet lower slightly, the glow of the fire softening across his scarred hands. The glass in his grip was almost empty.

"Two hours," he said to no one in particular.

Edward glanced toward the clock on the mantelpiece, then back at Damian. "More like thirty minutes," he corrected dryly.

Damian didn’t respond. Just sat there, eyes fixed on the flame.

The doors opened without ceremony, but everything about the man who stepped through them screamed that ceremony had tried and been promptly strangled.

Gabriel looked like he had just emerged from a very polite warzone.

His hair was raked back by impatient fingers, the kind of disarray that only happened when diplomacy frayed at the seams. His gloves were nowhere near his hands—one sticking out of his back pocket like a forgotten casualty, the other probably abandoned in some poor advisor’s office. His coat was crumpled in his right hand, and his tie... well, it existed only in the loosest of technical senses now, hanging askew and halfway to defeat.

Damian blinked once.

Edward, to his credit, did not.

"Spite Department?" Edward asked mildly.

Gabriel exhaled, long-suffering and exasperated. "Rafael made a chart. Irina brought cookies. Alexandra threatened someone’s bloodline, and Julian said I was the problem."

"And were you?" Damian asked, his voice deceptively smooth.

Gabriel tossed the coat onto a nearby armchair, eyes narrowed. "Maybe," he said flatly. "But we will finish the preparations for the civil examination in time."

Edward raised a single brow as he made a note on his tablet. "At what cost?"

"My will to live. Alexandra’s patience. Possibly Rafael’s internal organs." Gabriel took the glass of juice Edward handed him and sank into the nearest chair with a sigh. "Irina tried to draft an imperial seal for the Spite Department, and Julian threatened to walk unless we all took a break."

Damian leaned back slightly, the firelight catching in his golden eyes like flame on metal. "And yet, you still came on time."

Gabriel swirled the juice lazily, watching the liquid settle like he was calculating revenge. "I’m punctual. Not sane."

Edward, who had thus far endured the conversation with the blank calm of someone mentally crossing off escape routes, glanced once between the two of them. Damian had shifted—not obviously, not dramatically—but his posture was too still now, his gaze just a little too focused. That subtle, magnetic brooding that filled rooms like stormclouds waiting for a spark.

Gabriel hadn’t noticed it yet.

But Edward had.

"I’ll go check on the dinner preparations," Edward said smoothly, tucking his tablet under one arm. "Apparently the kitchen staff are in open rebellion against your dessert preferences."

"Tell them it builds character," Gabriel replied without missing a beat. "At least now I can eat mostly anything without problems."

That earned a small twitch at the corner of Edward’s mouth, a near-smile, rare and fleeting. "I’ll pass along the good news. Though I suspect Lady Serathine’s imported patissier may not survive the week."

Gabriel raised his glass in a mock toast. "Survival of the sweetest."

Edward turned toward the door. "If I don’t return, assume the pastry cart was rigged."

And then he was gone, the doors clicking softly behind him—one final bow to dignity before retreating from the thickening air.

Damian hadn’t moved.

But he was watching. Always watching. The moment Gabriel mentioned his appetite, something in his gaze flickered, barely, but it was there.

Gabriel noticed.

He exhaled, a touch quieter this time, the teasing edge slipping just slightly. "I said ’mostly,’ not ’everything,’ Damian. Don’t start glowing with paternal panic."

"I don’t panic," Damian murmured, voice even.

"You do, actually," Gabriel said, lounging deeper into the chair like he had no intention of letting him dodge. "Now, would you ask me what’s on your mind before or after dinner?"