CHAPTER 421: CHAPTER 415: COUNCIL MEETING

The morning haze curled like breath over the tall windows of the imperial wing, their runic tint flickering faintly in response to the rising ether current. Light slipped through in thin gold lines, catching on the marble trim and the edge of Gabriel’s blanket, where Arik was curled against his chest, untouched by the world beyond this room.

Damian stood beside the bed, perfectly still.

His gaze lingered on Gabriel’s face, then on the slow rise and fall of their child’s back, soft breaths brushing faintly against Gabriel’s robe. He didn’t speak. Didn’t let the air shift too much. The signature of his ether was already veiled, muted to a near-silent hum so it wouldn’t disturb them.

He didn’t risk a touch.

Instead, he turned, soundlessly, the soles of his polished shoes gliding over the heated floors as he stepped into the adjoining chamber.

Edward was waiting, of course he was, holding a sleek black tablet in one hand and a pressed white handkerchief in the other. He offered both without comment, and Damian took them in the same quiet way he did everything these days: as if the world could tip if he moved too quickly.

"I canceled your breakfast meeting with Crista," Edward said dryly, handing over the cufflinks shaped like lion fangs. "She’ll understand. The rest of the Empire might take it personally."

"She’ll survive," Damian replied, sliding the cufflinks into place. His suit today was a deep, ink-black tailored piece threaded subtly with golden ether filament that shimmered when he moved. The collar of his undershirt was high but not armored. Not today.

"You’re not wearing the ceremonial clasp," Edward noted.

"It’s too loud." Damian adjusted the jacket, smoothing a crease. "And I want to be back before they wake."

Edward gave him a look, just a flick of the eyes. "The council thinks you’re coddling him."

"The council can file a report," Damian muttered.

He picked up the imperial signet from the velvet box. The runes still gleamed faintly, the containment enchantments intact. He hesitated only a second before sliding it onto his finger. The ether response was instant, measured, binding, and cold against his skin.

"He still hates that you locked his ether," Edward said conversationally, not looking up from the morning brief.

"I know."

"And he’s still smarter than you when he’s angry."

Damian gave him a flat look. "I know. But he would behave this time."

Edward didn’t argue, but the ghost of a smirk followed him to the door.

The hallway outside was already active with early movement, quiet guards standing sentinel in ceremonial blues and black, the subtle hum of ether conduits adjusting to the Emperor’s presence, and light panels blooming open one by one along the corridor ceiling. Damian walked without needing to check his route. Every part of the palace moved around him as if it remembered the weight of his footsteps.

He didn’t pause again until he reached the secured elevator leading to the central council chamber.

Donin.

The name flickered through Damian’s mind, not like a country, but like an open wound. What remained of it wasn’t territory. It was wreckage. Years of Aslan’s fractured rule had kept it buried in the dust, underdeveloped and barely breathing with the Empire’s reluctant support. Then came the cold war and Hadeon.

Six months of his control had turned neglect into a nightmare.

Now Donin was more than a wound, it was a liability. Starving civilians. Ghost towns. Fractured loyalties. Ether infrastructure was shattered or reprogrammed to surveil its own people. What hadn’t been broken was warped, and what hadn’t been warped was afraid.

—

Astana stood just outside the council chamber, tablet in hand, posture straight despite the faint shadows under his eyes. The hallway was quiet, hushed in that particular way buildings became before power gathered. He adjusted his collar once, more out of habit than vanity, and tapped the screen to confirm attendance.

The list was full.

Inside, the great circular table had already begun to hum with the tension of gathered power. Not all of it ether-based. Some of it was older, familial, inherited, and strategic. Noble crests glinted under the soft lighting above each seat, and behind every emblem sat a man or woman trained to smile like a blade.

Astana didn’t flinch as the doors opened behind him.

Damian approached with the slow, precise gait of someone who already owned the room. His hair was neat, his cufflinks military-precise, and the dark regalia tailored close over his frame with the imperial lion etched into silver at his collar. He nodded once, and Astana fell into step beside him.

"They’ve been waiting ten minutes," Astana said mildly.

"They’ll wait ten more if they want to eat tonight," Damian replied, his voice dry.

As they entered, conversation slowed, then halted.

High Arcanist Virenth rose first, a tall, fine-boned woman in deep indigo robes, her gaze unreadable behind delicate glasses. On his right, General Halbrecht inclined his head, steel-gray hair cropped close, military ribbons discreet. Paul Blake, his second, followed suit, less rigid but just as sharp beneath the weathered exterior.

The von Jaunez were already seated.

Lucius, eyes heavier with age and decisions, nodded once without standing. Theo leaned back just enough to seem relaxed, though his fingers tapped once against the wooden armrest of his chair, his only tell when tension ran high.

To Damian’s left, the seat of Alamina was newly filled by Gregoris Frasner, cloaked in black, silver ring bright on his hand. He said nothing but met Damian’s eyes across the table with a nod.

Damian took his seat at the head. The room held still.

"Donin," he said.

The name landed like a gavel strike.

He didn’t speak again immediately. Instead, he looked at each face, measured the discomfort, the ambition, the dread, and the calculation. When he finally continued, his voice was low.

"We won’t pretend it’s a country anymore. What we’ve inherited is an open wound with borders."

No one interrupted.

"The ether grid is unstable. Some nodes are still active. Some are corrupted. Half the towns haven’t received food shipments since the last flood, and their own lines were cannibalized months ago to power surveillance wards. And Hadeon’s loyalists? The ones still alive are scattered, armed, and desperate."

He let the silence stretch just enough to taste the weight of it.

"We annexed a graveyard," Theo said grimly.