Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL) Chapter 276: Chapter 271: Fine

Edward stared. "Swear. It."

Gabriel sighed dramatically, the kind of sigh that belonged in operas or deathbed confessions, as if he were signing away the rights to his soul, dignity, and access to red ink pens.

"Fine," he said. "I swear I’ll rest. Eat. Bathe. Not rewrite legislation. Not terrorize the accounting departnt."

A pause. Then, with the solemnity of a man accepting exile:

"And disappear in silence and sin for the next days of heat."

Edward blinked. Once. Slowly.

"I was going to say ’recover quietly,’" he said, expression unreadable. "But yes, let’s call it that."

Gabriel smirked, far too pleased with himself. "Would you prefer I suffer in chastity and linen sheets?" he drawled. "Do you think Damian won’t want to see in heat for the first ti?"

Edward stopped halfway to the door. Very still. Very quiet.

Then, without turning around, he said flatly, "Gabriel, I am begging you. On behalf of the palace walls, the soundproofing budget, and my rapidly declining will to live—do not give that image."

Gabriel leaned back against the pillows, eyes gleaming with the kind of dangerous amusent that only ca from knowing you were winning. "I’m just saying," he murmured, "he’s never seen it before. Might as well make it unforgettable."

Edward didn’t even flinch. He’d faced down assassins, noble tantrums, and Damian in a blood-soaked coat. But nothing—nothing—tested his patience quite like a smug oga ard with both wit and a security clearance.

"Is this your way of getting back at ," Edward asked coolly, "for calling your sorry ass out?"

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to explain. The weight of historical precedent—and at least four diplomatic incidents—hung in the air like a damning footnote.

Gabriel tilted his head, lips twitching. "You wound ."

"I’ve seen the archives," Edward replied dryly. "You’ve wounded noble houses in less ti than others change their furniture. You’ve barely been in the palace five months."

Gabriel raised a hand in mock surrender. "I prefer to think of it as accelerated diplomacy."

Edward gave him a long, withering look. "You made a count cry in front of the trade council."

"He said I was charming for an oga," Gabriel said, tone sweet as arsenic. "I simply helped him clarify his vocabulary. Publicly."

"You rewrote his land title and renad his estate Whiny Hollow in the official records."freewebnovel-cσ๓

"It has a poetic ring to it."

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering sothing about divine punishnt and early retirent.

Gabriel watched him, amused. "You could always transfer to the northern post. I hear the snow keeps people honest."

"I’d rather take my chances here," Edward said. "At least I know who’s causing the damage."

Gabriel grinned. "Flattered."

"Don’t be," Edward said flatly. "I’m emotionally numb."

And with that, he turned once again toward the door, cloak sharp, posture sharper.

But before he stepped out, he paused and glanced back, just for a mont.

"Five months," he said quietly. "And look what you’ve done."

Gabriel blinked, caught off guard by Edward’s tone. The faintest thread of awe, pride, and weary affection.

—

Damian moved between formations like a blade through water—silent, focused, terrifying in his precision. The plain cut of a field coat, high collar turned against the wind, gloves off, sleeves rolled to his forearms.

His right fist, once bloodied and fractured from striking the wall, was already healed—imperial ether threaded into the veins beneath his skin, knitting muscle and bone like it had never broken. Only faint, pale scars remained. Thin lines that hadn’t had ti to fade. Silent proof that whatever had happened before this inspection was not forgotten.

Beside him, Max kept pace with quiet efficiency. Halbrecht followed on the opposite flank, clipboard in hand, already murmuring about strategic gaps and elevation faults in the southern line. Behind them, a full escort of Shadows trailed loosely, all ard, all alert.

They didn’t follow because of the title. They followed because it was Damian.

Because he had bled with them. Fought beside them. Dragged wounded captains out of collapsing strongholds and knelt beside dying privates in snow-covered trenches while high-born commanders retreated behind their banners.

Here, on the field, he wasn’t the Emperor because of the crown.

He was the Emperor because he had earned it.

A squad captain—barely older than twenty—snapped to attention as Damian approached. Her salute was sharp, flawless. But her eyes followed his movent not with recognition of her leader.

Damian stopped. Looked over the field, the ready squads, the faint shimr of ether lines embedded in the stone.

"They’re fast," he said.

"They’re ready," Max corrected under his breath. "And they know why."

Damian didn’t reply, but his jaw tightened slightly. He looked out toward the northern periter, where the sun caught the gleam of a polished rifle stock resting against a training dummy.

"General Halbrecht, reassign the second wave," he said. "Too many sharpshooters, not enough ground tacticians."

Halbrecht scribbled a note.

"And rotate the sixth battalion. I don’t want anyone sleeping near the cliff periter until the storm warning clears."

"Understood."

Max gave him a side glance as they walked again. "You’re quieter than usual."

"I’m thinking."

"You’re always thinking."

Damian didn’t look at him. "Then you should be worried."

Max snorted. "I’m always worried. It’s how I survived childhood with you."

They walked past another line of cadets. Not a single one moved out of turn. So didn’t breathe.

Damian paused again—this ti, at the edge of the southern training yard, where the ground turned from stone to hardened dirt and the flag of the Empire fluttered against a steel post.

He looked at it for a long mont.

Then he turned to Halbrecht.

"Call in the lieutenants from the Black Division. I want a private evaluation."

"All three units?"

"Yes," Damian said. "And start prepping the periter. If war cos, it won’t co from where they expect."

Halbrecht bowed slightly and turned away.

Max, still at his side, folded his arms. "You’re moving the core troops before the official call."

"I’m not waiting for another report that ends with Gabriel’s na written in blood," Damian replied.

Max fell silent.

The wind caught again.

And the soldiers watched, not the figurehead of the Empire—but the man at the center of its defense. The one with scars on his knuckles and the resolve of soone who knew exactly what was worth burning for.