CHAPTER 170: CHAPTER 165: SCHEDULE OF SUFFERING (1)

Gabriel woke up feeling like he’d picked a fight with a god and lost.

His whole body ached, not with the dull stiffness of a bad night’s sleep, but with the aftermath of something far more illicit, far more dangerous, and—he would never admit aloud—entirely his own fault.

The curtains were drawn, the room dim. Early morning light slanted through the edges, catching the edges of discarded clothing, half-crushed robes, and a single button glinting near the fireplace like a casualty of war. A very specific war. One was waged between a sovereign and the fool who thought teasing him with a foot to the shoulder wouldn’t result in absolute, merciless retribution.

Gabriel groaned and rolled onto his stomach, only to hiss and immediately regret that motion.

A quiet knock came, then the door creaked open.

"If you brought tea," Gabriel muttered into the pillow, "I want you to pour it directly over my grave."

Edward entered with his usual morning elegance, the door clicking softly shut behind him. A silver tray was already in his hands, steam curling upward like some ghost of discipline and duty.

"Good morning to you too, Your Grace," Edward said, his tone perfectly even, save for the faintest, most dangerous edge of smugness. "You look well. Glowing, even."

Gabriel cracked one eye open.

Edward stood there, pristine as ever, dressed in charcoal grey with a high collar and gloves. The tray in his hands held tea, two sealed envelopes, and what Gabriel suspected was a schedule folded like a declaration of war.

"I am going to kill him," Gabriel muttered.

Edward raised a brow. "The Emperor?"

"No," Gabriel said, his voice muffled by the pillow. "My past self, he had ideas."

"Ideas?"

Edward unfolded the schedule with a motion so crisp it nearly cut the air.

"You have a full schedule today," he announced. "First, bloodwork and a nice screening—"

Gabriel groaned into the pillow. "I did bloodwork four days ago."

"Yes," Edward said without missing a beat, "but that was pre-bond. This is post-coital and politically relevant."

Gabriel dragged a hand down his face. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?! We had sex before this, marked, I might add."

Edward didn’t flinch. "Yes. And now you’re officially recognized as His Majesty’s consort. The difference is status, not stamina."

Gabriel blinked slowly. "So the bloodwork is... what? A ceremonial poke? A rite of passage? Are they going to use it to bless the next state banquet?"

Edward, ever calm, adjusted the tea tray. "No. It’s to confirm potential pregnancy indicators."

Gabriel stared at him, deadpan. "Edward. I’ve been marked for over a month. If I were pregnant, by now I’d be glowing, hallucinating, or vomiting on the palace stairs."

"The palace would prefer not to be surprised," Edward replied. "Especially when it comes to imperial heirs. Or your nausea."

Gabriel dragged the blanket over his face. "I hate this empire. Hit me with the rest; I know there is more."

Edward didn’t hesitate. He never did.

"After the physician finishes drawing blood and confirming you’re not the next imperial scandal," he began, flipping the next page of the schedule like he was announcing weather conditions, "you’ll be dressed for the tribunal. His Majesty will formally declare Princess Anya’s punishment—she will be marrying into the Claymore clan."

Gabriel dragged the blanket higher over his head. "You know, every time I think, ’surely things can’t get worse,’ the court reminds me it has layers."

"There will be a luncheon to celebrate the engagement," Edward said crisply.

Gabriel peeked out from under the blanket with one bloodshot eye. "To celebrate the punishment?" His voice sharpened. "Wait a minute. Claymore?" He sat up a little, suspicion blooming like a headache. "Damian wants to die, and he’s marrying Max and Anya?"

Edward didn’t blink. "Not quite. Anya is marrying into the Claymore clan. She will be formally betrothed to Count Elliot. Lovely boy, if you like snakes."

Gabriel stared at him. Then stared harder.

"Elliot?" he said slowly. "Elliot Claymore? The walking haircut with inherited delusions of grandeur and enough ego to drown a small nation?"

"The same," Edward replied.

Gabriel let out a low whistle and flopped back into the pillows. "Alright. I take it back. This empire does have a sense of humor."

Gabriel groaned and flopped onto his side. "Then what?"

"Dinner," Edward said, flipping the page. "With Count von Jaunez."

That earned an immediate pillow to the face. "Of course. Save the soul-crushing part for dessert."

"I thought you preferred emotional devastation in the evening. It complements the wine."

Gabriel muttered something in Old Imperial that made Edward raise a brow.

"Now this is an interesting turn of events," Edward remarked, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. "I wasn’t aware the palace tutors had added swearing to the Old Imperial curriculum."

Gabriel didn’t even lift his head. "They didn’t."

Edward narrowed his eyes slightly. "So you knew the language before the palace scheduled your lessons."

"I never said I didn’t," Gabriel replied lazily. "I just never corrected anyone when they assumed I was struggling."

There was a brief pause that allowed Edward’s mind to begin rearranging facts with military precision.

"How long?" he asked, too casual to be casual.

Gabriel sighed. "Since Ashmont. One of the field problems had an old rune set etched in imperial dialect. I started picking it up to solve it. It stuck."

"And you didn’t mention it."

Gabriel finally turned his head, resting his chin on his arm. "Because I like my mornings quiet, Edward. If you’d known I was fluent, you would’ve signed me up for God knows what other bullshit."

Edward blinked once. "You mean fulfilling your state duties?"

Gabriel looked at him without a hint of apology, just the quiet exhaustion of someone running on three hours of sleep, sore in places he wasn’t going to name, and painfully aware that half the palace staff now knew exactly why he’d been limping.

"If you call them that. Sure."

Edward didn’t respond right away. He didn’t need to. The judgment radiating from his posture could have filed reports on its own.

"You let the Empire think you couldn’t distinguish verb cases."

"I let the Empire think I was busy struggling, which was true," Gabriel muttered. "I just didn’t say it was with you people, not the language."

Edward’s expression barely shifted. "You’re aware this is technically treason."

"I’m aware you’ve scheduled bloodletting before breakfast. So let’s both make peace with our crimes."

Edward looked away first, but only to mark something off on the corner of his tablet with deliberate strokes.

"Very well," he said at last. "The physician is two corridors away. I suggest you put on something dignified."

Gabriel stared at the black and gold imperial suit still hanging on the valet rack like a looming threat. It gleamed ominously in the low morning light, structured and ceremonial, as if it had opinions about posture and shame.

"Are you aware that I can barely move?" Gabriel asked, his voice flat and dangerously close to pleading.

Edward didn’t even look up from the tablet. "I am."

"And you still expect me to wear that?"

"Yes."

"For fuck’s sake."