Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 310 - 305: When the Emperor Is Generous

Chapter 310: Chapter 305: When the Emperor Is Generous

Damian leaned back in the chair, expression unreadable, though the tight line of his jaw betrayed the restraint coiled beneath his stillness. He let the silence stretch, the weight of the question hanging between them like smoke.

"Hadeon wants absolute power," he said at last, voice low and flat. "And he can only get it by placing a puppet on the throne. Don’t fool yourself into thinking he ever cared about Olivier or his shard. Or the pathetic loyalty of Callahan and George."

He exhaled once through his nose, as if the names themselves tasted bitter.

"George was obsessed with restoring the lost imperial line. Not with his son. Not with his nephew. Maybe, maybe, if Max had finished the trial, they would’ve kept Olivier dormant. But Gabriel?" His gaze darkened, gold flaring with restrained heat. "They would’ve killed him the moment he stopped being useful."

Astana didn’t flinch, but his voice came quieter. "Then why did you save Callahan? I don’t understand."

"Ah," Damian said, a slow, poisonous curve spreading across his lips. "That."

The smile alone made Astana’s stomach tighten with an instinct that warned, this is the version of Damian no one survives twice. And he thought he was used to the Emperor by now.

"I let Callahan live," Damian said, tone deceptively calm, "so Gabriel could see it for himself."

He didn’t elaborate right away, letting the silence stretch again, coiling around the edges of the room like a snake too full to strike.

"I could’ve told him," Damian continued, "and he would’ve believed me. But there would’ve always been a question: What if it wasn’t that bad? What if they were forced? What if there was a reason?" His smile faded, replaced by something colder. "Now there are no questions. No illusions left."

Astana gulped slowly, trying to swallow that the Emperor wasn’t sparing anyone. Especially Gabriel.

"Your Majesty, you are terrifying."

Damian tilted his head, one brow arching with deliberate poise. The faintest smirk tugged at his mouth, as if the accusation amused him.

"Am I?" he asked, his voice all velvet and steel. "That was me being generous."

Astana exhaled through his nose, the tension bleeding into something closer to resignation. "We have very different definitions of generosity."

He didn’t wait for permission this time.

"Does Gabriel know you manipulated the narrative just to bring him back? That every report sent from the front, every whisper about his survival, every delay and leak—was crafted to make sure he would return to you?" His voice stayed even, but his eyes held the sharp glint of someone who’d read too much and said too little for too long.

He had seen the hidden files. The ones not stored in the Emperor’s study. The ones written in ink and ether both, reports most wouldn’t recognize for what they were. Ones Gabriel likely never would.

Not unless Damian personally gave them to him.

Astana straightened the cuffs of his coat, as if the motion could shield him from the weight of what he was about to say.

"You knew he wouldn’t trust his family," he said, tone clipped. "That George and Callahan were compromised. And you didn’t tell Gabriel. Not even Maximilian."

Damian’s eyes didn’t narrow, didn’t flicker, but the stillness in his expression felt louder than any retort.

"I told him enough," he said, voice low. "The rest... he discovered on his own."

Astana didn’t hide his disbelief. "You let him walk into it blind."

"No," Damian corrected. "I let him walk into it awake." He stood, slow and steady, like the storm hadn’t passed but chosen to dress in quiet. "If I had told him everything, he would’ve tried to forgive them. And if I’d stopped him from seeing it himself, he would’ve hated me for it."

Astana studied him. "And now?"

"Now he knows what they are." Damian’s voice thinned to a razor’s edge. "And who I’ve always been."

There was a beat of silence, brittle and charged.

"You love him," Astana said finally. "But you never planned to be soft."

"And?" Damian’s gaze sharpened. "Are you afraid that Christian is more like me than Crista or Hadeon?"

Astana didn’t answer.

Damian stepped closer, not threatening, but simply present in the way that only he could be. Inevitable.

"I wouldn’t be surprised," he continued, quieter now. "I’ve been more of a father to him than his own."

Astana’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t speak.

Damian gave a low, humorless chuckle. "Are you afraid now that he has his eyes on you?"

"You knew."

"I’m not blind, Astana." Damian’s tone was almost amused, but it had a sardonic edge to it, like he was watching a chessboard he had previously solved. "You flinch less when I threaten war than when Christian smiles too long in your direction."

Astana exhaled through his nose. "He’s a prince."

"And you’re not," Damian said simply. "That never stopped anyone. Definitely didn’t stop me."

"I’m not like Gabriel," Astana replied, sharper than he intended, then quieter, bitterness threading through. "I’m not a powerful omega. I’m a beta. The Prince wouldn’t have to notice me."

Damian’s gaze didn’t waver. "But he does."

Astana looked away.

"That’s the part that scares you," Damian said. "Not that he wants you. But that he sees you."

There was no mockery in his voice now. Only the kind of understanding that came from knowing exactly what it was like to be seen by someone who could unmake you with a single word and choose not to.

Astana straightened the cuffs of his jacket again, more out of habit than need. "He should be focusing on stabilizing the court. Not playing at affection with his secretary."

Damian’s smile was a flicker of something dangerous. "Christian doesn’t play. If he wanted to, he’d pick someone easier. But he watches you. And you’re the one stalling him."

He leaned back, his tone cutting with quiet authority. "Make up your mind."

Then, as if the conversation had never happened, he reached for a folder from the stack on his desk and flipped it open.

"Now," he said without looking up, "get to work."

Then, after a beat, his voice dropped—quieter, colder.

"And Astana... I trust this discussion remains between the two of us."