CHAPTER 422: CHAPTER 416: GRAVEYARD

Lucius gave a quiet nod, but his voice, when it came, cut cleaner. "And graveyards breed ghosts. We need to decide what kind of memory we’re building here, one that stinks of war, or one that survives it."

"We don’t have enough men to hold the borders and rebuild the ether system simultaneously," General Halbrecht said. "And the Shadow teams are already stretched. Gregoris?"

Gregoris leaned forward slightly. "We can deploy two full units for containment and intel sweeps, but not reconstruction. If you want compliance, not rebellion, you’ll need someone the people trust. Someone visible."

Paul Blake snorted. "Good luck finding that among the rubble. These people watched their mayors report to soldiers and priests who burned records and taught children to spy on their parents. You think they’ll line up for ration cards stamped with our crest?"

High Arcanist Virenth adjusted her glasses. "The ether lines can be rebuilt. We have the schematics from before the Republic corrupted them. The issue is fear. Donin’s civilians won’t trust anything that glows."

"They shouldn’t," Lucius said. "The last thing that glowed cut through their living rooms and turned their dead into surveillance wards."

A few nobles flinched. Damian didn’t.

"The Empire will send medics, engineers, and logistics teams. We will house, feed, and stabilize them," he said. "But it will not be a kindness. It will be a standard."

Theo glanced sideways. "You want them to know this is what the Empire does. Not what it gives."

"Yes." Damian’s voice was unflinching. "No special treatment. No exceptional mercy. We rebuild because it is what we do. And if they try to resist, we crush it without hesitation. The people need food, not deities."

The table went still again.

Then came the expected resistance, slippery, polished, and rhetorical.

"And who," asked Lady Arenth of Hollowmere, voice brittle with etiquette, "will lead this effort, if not the noble council?"

Damian’s gaze didn’t waver, his tone remained flat. "Prince Christian."

The room breathed in too sharply.

Lucius didn’t react, only gave a single nod, as if he’d expected it. Theo stilled, but his expression didn’t change.

It was Lord Harland who found his voice first. "With respect, Your Majesty... the civilians won’t distinguish between Lyons. They will remember only the crown, the bloodline. Hadeon destroyed their cities."

"Yes," Damian said coldly. "And now one of ours will rebuild them."

"But Christian... he is still..."

"Lyon." Damian let the name drop like a brand. "He is the Empire’s second blade, its public face when mine isn’t needed. The people will learn the difference between a tyrant and a prince. Or they will choke on the similarity. It doesn’t matter to me."

"They might rebel," Arenth pushed, tone sharpened by quiet alarm.

"They might," Damian said flatly. "They’re also starving, unarmed, and terrified. I like our odds."

Gregoris gave a faint huff of amusement, arms folded. "He’s not wrong. And Christian’s the only one who could get a riot to kneel and call it a festival."

Virenth’s mouth twitched, blue eyes sparkling with amusement, though she said nothing.

Halbrecht spoke next, slower. "Give him the full mandate. Military, civil, and ether. Otherwise, the remnants will see a crack and wedge it wide."

"He’ll have it," Damian confirmed. "Complete jurisdiction. He answers to the Crown and no one else."

Paul Blake leaned back in his chair, playing idly with a black fountain pen. "Then what happens to the local leaders?"

"They’ll be invited to assist," Lucius said dryly. "And those who decline will be removed. Quietly or not."

Theo shrugged one shoulder. "Donin is occupied. Let’s stop pretending we care what they feel."

Damian’s fingers tapped once against the table. "They’ll adapt. We’ve given them no other future."

A final silence settled, thick with strategy and quiet dread.

Then Astana stepped forward, already typing. "Shall I inform Prince Christian?"

Damian’s mouth curved faintly. "Yes. And remind him not to wear white this time. It’ll be blood before dusk."

—

The late morning light filtered softly through the sheer panels of the imperial sitting room, casting pale gold across the silk carpet and the edge of the low settee where Gabriel reclined, one leg tucked beneath him. Arik lay against his chest, swaddled in a deep sapphire blanket embroidered with tiny lions. The child made a soft, breathy noise in his sleep, his mouth twitching faintly around a dream.

Gabriel, eyes half-lidded, kept one hand cradled gently over their son’s back, his other arm folded loosely along the backrest. He didn’t speak. Didn’t move. Only breathed.

The walls around them were quiet, quiet in the way only imperial chambers could be. Ward-runes pulsed slow and faint. The fire in the hearth had burned low, warming rather than roaring. Somewhere in the distance, a servant adjusted a tray. The world could wait.

And then the lock turned.

Damian stepped in soundlessly, already shrugging off his jacket, hair a little mussed from the walk back across the palace grounds. His cufflinks were still in place. His tie was not.

"I was going to give you until lunch," Gabriel murmured without looking up.

"I missed you before tea," Damian replied simply.

He crossed the room in long strides and, careful not to disturb the sleeping child, leaned down and kissed Gabriel’s temple. Gabriel’s eyes fluttered shut for half a breath. Then reopened, clearer.

"How bad was it?"

"Manageable," Damian said as he lowered himself to sit beside them, one arm resting behind Gabriel, close but not quite touching. "Christian will hate me. But that’s familiar ground."

Gabriel hummed in agreement. "So he knows?"

"I’m sure by now..."

The door opened.

No knock. No warning.

Christian stepped in, dressed in a dark tailored suit that hadn’t been buttoned all the way, black hair loose and brushing his shoulders, damp from a rushed shower. His tie was undone. His silver eyes, usually bright, usually masked by charm, were raw with despair.

Gabriel stiffened just slightly, enough that Damian felt it.

"Christian," Damian said evenly.

Christian didn’t stop until he was standing in front of them.

"You gave it to me." His voice cracked, just enough to show how hard he was holding everything in. "Donin. You gave me that graveyard."

Arik stirred faintly. Gabriel held him closer, lifting a finger in warning.