Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 276 - 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 department."

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 me in heat for the first time?"

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 me that image."

Gabriel leaned back against the pillows, eyes gleaming with the kind of dangerous amusement that only came 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 omega armed with both wit and a security clearance.

"Is this your way of getting back at me," 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 me."

"I’ve seen the archives," Edward replied dryly. "You’ve wounded noble houses in less time 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 omega," Gabriel said, tone sweet as arsenic. "I simply helped him clarify his vocabulary. Publicly."

"You rewrote his land title and renamed his estate Whiny Hollow in the official records."

"It has a poetic ring to it."

Edward pinched the bridge of his nose, muttering something about divine punishment and early retirement.

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 moment.

"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 time 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 armed, 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 movement not with recognition of her leader.

Damian stopped. Looked over the field, the ready squads, the faint shimmer 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 perimeter, 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 perimeter 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." frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

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. Some didn’t breathe.

Damian paused again—this time, 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 moment.

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 perimeter. If war comes, it won’t come 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 name 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 someone who knew exactly what was worth burning for.