CHAPTER 493: CHAPTER 487: UNTIL HE IS READY

The suite had gone quiet, save for the faint hum of conduits threading power through the walls and the steady rhythm of children’s breathing. Arik and Cecil lay tangled in the wide bed, one golden head and one dark, the covers twisted around them in the careless sprawl of sleep. Arik’s arm had fallen over his brother at some point, protective even in rest, while Cecil pressed in close, as if the act of sharing warmth was instinct.

At the table near the balcony doors, Damian and Gabriel sat in silence, the untouched remains of mint tea cooling between them. Neither had lit the main lamps; only the soft wash of the wall sconces painted the room in muted gold, enough to see without disturbing the boys.

Gabriel’s brown eyes lingered on Arik, sharp even softened by fatigue, his hand curled loosely around his glass. "He’s remembering," he said finally, the words quiet but edged.

Damian’s golden gaze didn’t shift from the bed, though the hard line of his jaw betrayed the truth he already knew. "He does and it’s worse than we expected."

The silence stretched again, broken only by the soft sigh of Cecil shifting in his sleep.

Gabriel’s lips curved faintly, humorlessly. "We’ll help him through it. Whatever fragments come back, whatever he sees, we’ll be there first. No ghost would take him from us."

Damian reached across the table, his fingers brushing over Gabriel’s wrist, grounding him as much as himself. His voice, when it came, was lower, molten, and steady. "He’ll never face what Goliath faced. Not while I breathe."

Gabriel’s gaze lingered on him, then flicked back to the children. "Cain confirmed what I suspected. Wrohan doesn’t want war; they want trade. Ether exploitation for storage. But they have nothing near the value of what they ask for. Our storage technology is decades ahead. They’ll never see the schematics."

Damian hummed, thumb dragging slowly across the grain of the table. "So we sell them the equipment instead. Control every conduit, every core, every unit they depend on." His golden eyes finally cut to Gabriel, sharp with quiet satisfaction. "It ties them to us without giving them a blade to use."

"Indeed," Gabriel murmured, his mouth curving faintly. "And Wrohan will pay heavily for the privilege of pretending it’s a partnership. Their ether runs like rivers, but rivers without dams only drown themselves."

Damian leaned back, the lamplight catching on the faint shadows beneath his eyes. His voice was quieter when he added, "It’s better this way. If they’re close, if they depend on us, they can’t touch us. They can’t touch him." His gaze drifted back to the bed, to the boy curled tight around his younger brother. "Not again."

Gabriel’s expression softened, though the edge never left his eyes. He reached across, covering Damian’s hand with his own. "You burned your channels twice already for this Empire," he said, voice cutting but not cruel. "I won’t let you risk it again. Not when we can corner Wrohan into doing it for us."

For a long moment, neither spoke. They only watched their sons, the soft tangle of dark and golden hair on the pillows, and the fragile, ordinary peace of children asleep in their parents’ room.

"We keep Wrohan close," Damian said at last, his tone the final stroke of a decision. His golden eyes burned steady, but his hand shifted on the table, flexing once as though the memory still lived in his veins. "Arik would want his revenge if the pain is anything like I endured when my channels burned."

He glanced down at his arms. The light caught them easily, faint but unignorable, thunder-shaped silver scars tracing along his skin like lightning frozen beneath flesh. The ether made them shimmer when it passed, proof of what he’d forced his body through. He had recovered almost eighty percent, enough to stand, to fight, and to rule without faltering. But some of the damage was irreversible.

"And the poison..." his voice lowered, almost to himself. "That part healed. But the channels..." He exhaled sharply, his jaw tightening. "I can’t imagine decades of that pain. I wouldn’t have survived it."

Gabriel’s hand stilled around his glass. Brown eyes lifted, sharp and steady, pinning him across the table. "No. You wouldn’t. Because you wouldn’t have endured it quietly. Goliath did." His mouth curved thin, humorless. "And now we know what it felt like. What was stolen from him. I don’t need to imagine decades of it to understand why he would demand blood."

Damian’s gaze flicked to the bed. The boys were still asleep, Arik’s smaller frame curled protectively around Cecil. The sight pressed against something raw in him.

Gabriel leaned back, hand drifting to the steady weight of his stomach, his voice turning low, dry, but sure. "We’ll keep Wrohan close. Feed them, clothe them, and give them toys to play with until the day Arik remembers fully. Then the revenge won’t be ours to choose. It will already belong to him."

His mouth curved into a sharper smirk as he glanced at the sleeping boys. "What parents we are," he murmured, a chuckle slipping out as his fingers traced absent circles over his belly, where the third waited, stubborn and steady. "Son, your coming-of-age birthday is revenge. Have fun."

Damian’s golden eyes narrowed faintly, but his mouth curved slowly, reluctant amusement breaking through the steel. "You make it sound as though we’re sending them to hunt with sweets in their pockets."

Gabriel’s smirk sharpened. "Would you prefer I dress it up? Call it duty, legacy, destiny?" His brows lifted, brown eyes gleaming with wicked humor. "No. Let them hear it plain. The Empire is theirs to inherit, and with it, its ghosts."

Damian’s gaze lingered on him for a long moment, then softened, barely, molten edges smoothing as he looked back to the bed. Arik’s arm had slipped fully around Cecil now; the younger curled into him like a shadow.

"Then we make sure," Damian said quietly, the edge of a vow in his tone, "that when the day comes, they’re strong enough to carry it. And if they’re not..." His hand shifted across the table, settling over Gabriel’s, warm and unyielding. "...then I’ll carry it for them."

Gabriel’s lips curved, fond and sharp all at once. "Overbearing as always, Emperor."

"Consort," Damian returned dryly, the faintest huff of a laugh in his chest.