Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 74 - 69: Beneath the Surface (3)

Chapter 74: Chapter 69: Beneath the Surface (3)

Astana stayed in his father’s study for a little longer, watching as Paul returned to his reports, the conversation still fresh in his mind. It was strange, he had expected more resistance, but Paul had taken the news calmly, even finding relief in it. Perhaps this was why he had always been one of Damian’s most trusted generals: he understood the delicate balance between politics and personal affairs better than anyone else.

Astana, however, could not shake the weight on his chest. Gabriel was strong, but Damian was relentless. If the Emperor had truly set his eyes on him, there was no way out. That was what concerned him the most.

With a quiet sigh, he rose to his feet.

"I am going to rest for a while before heading back," he murmured, and Paul nodded in acknowledgement without looking up from his work.

"Good. You look like you need it."

Astana chuckled dryly and left the study.

—

When evening fell, Astana changed back into his uniform, straightening his cuffs as he stepped out of his chambers. The estate was as quiet as it had been earlier, but he caught sight of Irina lingering near the main hall. She glanced up at him, eyes guarded, but didn’t say anything.

Good. She was still upset.

That meant she was thinking.

Without a word, he walked past her, heading out to where his car was waiting. The journey back to the palace was smooth, with the city passing by in a blur of golden lights and distant chatter. The streets were alive with the usual evening bustle, but inside the car, Astana allowed himself to sink into silence.

By the time he arrived, the palace was as imposing as ever, its towering spires gleaming in the last rays of sunlight. The guards nodded as he stepped inside, his boots echoing against the polished floors.

He moved through the halls, passing groups of nobles who lowered their voices as he passed. The rumors hadn’t died down. If anything, they had only grown louder.

As he entered the main wing, he noticed Edward waiting near the entrance to Damian’s study. The older man raised a brow as Astana approached.

"You returned earlier than expected," Edward said, his tone neutral.

Astana smirked faintly. "Would you believe me if I said I missed this place?"

Edward gave him a flat look. "No."

"Right. Is His Majesty in the Study?"

"No, he spent the day at the training grounds; he said he was tired of sitting at a desk." Edward shrugged; he knew Damian, and the fact that he tolerated all of the administrative work without complaint was unusual.

Astana nodded, holding back a sigh. Of course, Damian would be there. If he was not working himself to death at his desk, he was doing so with a sword in hand.

Without saying anything else, he turned on his heel and walked toward the training grounds. The walk felt overly familiar. The smell of steel and sweat intensified as he approached, and the distant sound of clashing blades filled the air. The guards stationed outside saluted him briefly before stepping aside, allowing him to enter.

Inside, the lanterns cast a flickering light over the sparring area. A few knights remained, finishing up their drills for the evening. And in the midst of it all, Damian stood, coat thrown aside, shirt sleeves rolled up, exchanging blows with one of his personal guards.

The Emperor moved with razor-sharp precision, striking his opponent with such force that he stumbled. He was not just sparring; he was pushing, challenging, and demanding. His usual restraint was gone, replaced by something harsher.

Astana crossed his arms and leaned against a stone pillar as he watched.

The guard tried desperately to counter, but Damian grabbed his wrist and twisted it just enough to disarm him. The sword clattered to the ground, and the man backed away, bowing his head in surrender.

"Enough," Damian said, his voice steady despite the exertion.

The knight exhaled, wiping sweat from his brow before retrieving his weapon. He bowed again and moved aside, leaving Damian alone in the center of the ring.

Astana smirked. "That looked personal."

Damian turned, dark eyes sharp as they landed on him. For a moment, he said nothing, then a slow, amused smile tugged at his lips. "You always enjoyed watching others suffer."

"I call it observation." Astana pushed away from the pillar and approached, her gaze drawn to the discarded coat. "You should be careful. If you collapse from overexertion, people might think you’re human."

Damian scoffed and ran his hand through his damp hair. "Hardly."

Astana studied him for a moment. Up close, he could see the tension that still lingered in Damian’s posture. This wasn’t just about keeping up his skills—this was a release. Something was weighing on him.

"Trouble?" Astana asked, tilting his head.

Damian didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked at his hand and flexed his fingers before meeting Astana’s gaze.

"Nothing I can not handle," he replied. But there was something quieter about his tone, almost contemplative.

Astana smirked, rolling his shoulders as he picked up one of the practice swords resting against the rack. He was not his family’s best swordsman, unlike his father or brothers, but he was competent enough. More than that, he knew how to read people, and right now, Damian needed a distraction.

He tossed the weapon to the Emperor. "Then humor me. Unless you’re too tired of sitting at a desk to keep up."

Damian caught the sword with an easy flick of his wrist, his smirk sharpening. "Careful, Astana. You might regret that."