CHAPTER 179: CHAPTER 174: LADY IN WAITING

Imperial Office, East Wing

The scent of old parchment and morning ink hung in the air, mingling faintly with the citrus oil used to polish the curved spine of the Emperor’s desk. The sunset light filtered through high arched windows, gilding the imperial seal stamped onto a stack of treaties awaiting signatures. Damian stood in front of the map table, sleeves rolled up, gold cufflinks abandoned to one side, eyes narrowed at the expanding web of alliances sprawled across the southern border.

Astana stood beside him, motionless except for a flicker of his gaze across the charts. He’d been silent for some time, hands clasped behind his back in perfect military form—just as he’d been taught. Just as Damian had taught him.

"You’re quiet," Damian said, without looking up. "That usually means you’re either judging me or bracing for a storm."

Astana cracked the smallest of smiles. "Both."

Damian exhaled, the sound low and amused. "Fair. Which one do you think it is this time?"

Astana’s eyes flicked toward the treaty stack. "You’ve cornered the king of Pais with the marriage announcement. Anya is flailing, Hadeon is stalling, and Elliot looks ready to drown himself in imported wine, and Daniel Rhine is planning to overthrow the king."

The young man paused and leaned his hip against the table, knowing that he could address the Emperor by name, an honor few people his age had. Astana crossed his arms over his chest with a thoughtful look. "But I believe the biggest storm is your plans. You agreed to help Daniel, and Elliot and Anya now have less than a year to live."

Damian didn’t respond immediately. He shifted a figurine on the war map, one marked in Paisian colors, and allowed the silence to stretch as heavy as a loaded gun resting on velvet.

"You’re assuming I’ll let them live that long," he said at last, his voice calm but cold enough to make the air feel sharper. "They’ve both had chances. They chose Hadeon."

"Good riddance; honestly, both of them made my life a nightmare." Astana’s tone was dry, but the edge was real. "It’s only their mistake that provoked you. They should know better."

He pushed off the table, rolling his shoulders with the ease of someone used to physical training—though these days, his bruises came more from diplomacy than swordplay.

"I warned Elliot last month. Told him you were done playing politics with children. He laughed and tried to flirt with my aide. She nearly stabbed him with a quill."

Damian raised a brow. "Why didn’t she?"

"She thought the ink might be cursed. Said poisoning him felt too merciful."

A low, amused hum escaped Damian’s throat, but he didn’t interrupt.

Astana continued, running a hand through his hair with a sigh. "Honestly, I blame myself. You gave me a personal secretary, and I used the time to study foreign policy and reorganize the Southern Defense Council. I could’ve taken up drinking instead. But no—duty first."

"You’re the one who begged for a chance to prove yourself," Damian reminded him mildly. "Said you’d trade anything for being one of my advisers."

"And you granted that wish like a benevolent tyrant," Astana said, eyes narrowing in mock accusation. "Now I’m three months behind on sleep, two letters away from adopting Gabriel’s caffeine dependency, and one step from becoming a bitter old man in his twenties."

"You’ll survive."

"Barely," Astana muttered, then added under his breath, "I considered fleeing when I realized I had to deal with the Paisian convoy and the Coming-of-Age ball. I had to meet Anya three times."

Damian looked up with faint, amused cruelty. "Only three?"

Astana gave him a look like he’d just been cursed. "Yes, and every time was to program a meeting with you. A private one."

Damian leaned back slightly, hands braced on the edge of the table. "How persistent."

"She came with gifts the second time. Flowers, letters, a book of imperial poetry she clearly never read."

"And the third?"

"She brought tears," Astana said flatly. "Not subtle ones. The theatrical kind, with trembling lips and wilted posture—like a tragic heroine who just discovered her estate had been lost to fire and treason."

Damian exhaled a quiet laugh. "You didn’t give her a meeting, did you?"

"I told her your schedule was being reviewed by the stars and required imperial blessing. Then I gave her a pamphlet on the Empire’s public tour routes."

There was a pause.

Damian blinked. "You gave Princess Anya a tourist brochure."

"She said she wanted to understand the Empire better," Astana said with a shrug. "I gave her the map."

Damian pressed his fingers together, lips twitching. "You’ll make a fine diplomat."

"I’ll make a dead one if she finds out I’m the reason her carriage got rerouted through the servants’ gate."

Damian couldn’t help the low chuckle that escaped. "I’m starting to think I should assign you to her wedding planning committee."

"If you do," Astana said seriously, "I will defect to House Claymore and help Max spike the cake."

Damian smiled, slow and sharp. "He’d welcome you. He’s already suggested swapping out her vows with an apology letter."

Astana snorted. "I’ll write it myself."

"Letters, that reminds me." Damian tilted his head slightly. "How’s Irina?"

Astana’s posture shifted, just enough for Damian to notice. The edge in his voice softened by a degree.

"She’s fine," he said after a beat. "Too fine. She’s convinced herself that palace life is a gilded play waiting for her debut."

Damian raised a brow. "Still romanticizing it?"

"Worse now," Astana muttered. "Ever since the ball, she’s been sending sketches of potential court outfits and practicing her signature for formal introductions. She asked if she’d need to rehearse a curtsy for you."

"She would," Damian said dryly. "Not because I need it. But because the court will."

Astana rolled his eyes. "I told her that. She’s still hoping for a fairytale."

"Fairytales can have tragic ends," Damian said, the words low and deliberate. "Send for her tomorrow. Gabriel needs a following, and I will be damned if I let Nicholas stand beside him."

Astana paused, brows lifting. "Who?"

Then it hit him. His expression turned slightly incredulous. "Wait. You mean that tall alpha? Curly black hair, too polished, too charming—too friendly at the coming-of-age ball?"

Damian didn’t look at him. "You remember names better than you pretend."

"I remember threats," Astana said pointedly. "But don’t tell me you’re the jealous type. Nicholas is an old friend. Academy colleague of Gabriel’s. If he’d felt something for him, he had enough time to show it. They’re just friends."

Damian’s fingers stilled against the edge of the map.

"Just friends," he echoed, slowly. "You think Gabriel is the kind of man people stay ’just friends’ with?"

Astana blinked. "Yes. Because some of us are capable of restraint."

Damian straightened, rolling his shoulders. "Bring Irina tomorrow. As a trial lady-in-waiting."

Astana arched a brow. "To Gabriel?"

"To serve Gabriel," Damian clarified. "She’ll learn the court from his side. See what it means to be watched, measured, and whispered about. And perhaps, if she doesn’t try too hard, he will tolerate her."

Astana let out a quiet breath. "That’s not the same as liking her."

"I don’t need him to like her," Damian said, voice level. "I need someone new, unaligned, with no loyalties to the old court, learning the Empire through him."

"She’s romantic," Astana warned. "She’ll want to impress him."

"She won’t," Damian said. "Gabriel isn’t the type to entertain theatrics."

"Then why assign her to him?"

Damian’s golden eyes met his. "Because she’ll learn faster by failing."

Astana’s lips thinned, but he didn’t argue. Not this time.

"She’s your sister," Damian added, quieter now. "You wanted her to see me for who I really am. Let her see him first. The one who chose me anyway."

Astana gave a single nod. "I’ll bring her."

"Dress her well. No crowns, no lace fantasy gowns. Make sure she looks like she belongs by his side, not in his storybook."