Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)

Arik straightened a little, running a hand back through his hair as though confidence alone could undo his mother's verdict. "Fine. But if you need work done, why not send me to the border inspections? Or oversee military drills? I'd be useful there."

Gabriel crossed the room with unhurried steps and sat in the armchair opposite him, pale hands resting lightly on the armrests. He looked perfectly at ease, as though this were nothing more than a quiet family evening. "Of course you'd be useful. But that's the problem."

Arik frowned. "How is that a problem?"

"Because you enjoy it." Gabriel's voice was calm, infuriatingly reasonable. "You'd treat the border like play. The paperwork, however…" His lips curved. "That will teach you discipline."

Damian chuckled low, golden eyes gleaming as he leaned his chin into his hand. "He's right. You can't charm ledgers into balancing."

Arik gestured helplessly between them. "So I'm punished for being competent?"

"You're trained for the crown," Gabriel corrected, tone flat. "And the crown is as much ink as it is blood."

Arik groaned, flopping back into the couch with all the theatricality of a condemned man. "This is unfair."

"Life rarely is," Gabriel said, utterly unbothered as he reached for the decanter Damian had set aside earlier. He poured himself half a glass, movements slow, as though his son weren't sulking across from him. "And you'll thank me in ten years when you can recite grain yields from memory."

"Grain yields," Arik repeated in horror.

"Grain yields," Gabriel confirmed, sipping his wine.

Damian laughed outright this time, golden eyes dancing as he watched his son glare hopelessly at his mother. "Stop fighting it, Arik. You've already lost."

Arik slumped further, muttering under his breath, though the reluctant curl at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. "Conquerors don't lose."

Gabriel arched a brow, brown eyes glinting as he set his glass down. "You're not conquering. You're reigning. Learn the difference."

Arik dragged a hand down his face, defeated. "Gods help me."

"Exactly," Gabriel murmured, elegantly unbothered.

Arik tipped his head back against the couch, groaning. "I'm already buried in reports. Trade data, troop deployments, and ether consumption audits. You started me on this when I was sixteen."

Gabriel set his wine glass on the side table, the light from the ether-channeling screen reflecting in his brown eyes. "And you're very competent. Which is precisely why you can handle more."

Arik sat up, incredulous. "More? I'm the Crown Prince, not your personal data-entry officer."

Gabriel arched a brow, sharp and elegant. "You're also the idiot who thought manipulating fate was clever enough to be reborn into my household. Consider this my revenge. You don't get stabbed or exiled, you get spreadsheets."

Damian, lounging on the arm of the couch, chuckled low. "You should be grateful. Paperwork is merciful."

Arik turned on him, scandalized. "Merciful? I already live in the Central Hub half the day. My neural interface logs more hours than half the cabinet. You're telling me the punishment for manipulating destiny is ether-fueled bureaucracy?"

Gabriel's lips curved faintly, wickedly. "Exactly. Endless procurement requests. Supply-chain revisions. And, if you're truly unlucky, the quarterly energy audits. All yours."

Arik groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Gods. Kill me now."

Damian's golden eyes gleamed, amused. "Look at him. He'd rather face assassins than energy metrics. Definitely mine."

Arik slanted him a look, muttering. "I'm both your son. Which means I shouldn't have to suffer."

Gabriel leaned back in his chair, pale fingers drumming idly against the armrest. "You're exactly my son, which is why you do." He picked up his wine again, voice maddeningly calm. "Edward will bring the files in the morning. The western rail expansion, the refinery upgrades, the ministry's latest obsession with standardizing ether storage caskets and the grain yields."

Arik buried his face in his hands. "I'm going to die in a pile of ledgers."

"Not just ledgers, but audits and forecasts," Gabriel corrected smoothly, enjoying himself far too much.

Damian laughed outright, clapping a hand on Arik's shoulder. "You'll live. Barely. That's character-building."

Arik groaned again, but the grin tugging at his mouth gave him away. He'd lost.

"I have enough character," he mumbled, tipping his head back against the couch, golden eyes sliding shut. He knew Gabriel was dead serious and wouldn't let him live it down.

"Not nearly enough," Gabriel replied smoothly, legs crossing as he settled deeper into the armchair. "You'll know you're ready when you can sit through a six-hour committee debate on ether tariffs without plotting mass murder."

Damian laughed low, his grin dangerous and fond all at once. "Your mother still hasn't mastered that. Don't let him fool you."

Gabriel shot him a flat look, though the corner of his mouth twitched. "I don't need to master it. That's what Arik is for."

Arik cracked an eye open, groaning. "So this is it. My great legacy: drowning in power-point slides and etherflow audits while you both sit here and gloat."

Gabriel swirled the wine in his glass, unbothered. "Exactly. And you'll do it beautifully. Because unlike Goliath, you can't just conquer a problem, you have to administrate it."

Arik muttered under his breath. "I hate administration."

Damian leaned down, clapping his son's shoulder with mock solemnity. "Congratulations. You're already Emperor material."

Arik shot them both a baleful look, then let out another groan, flopping dramatically into the cushions. "One day, I'll find revenge for this."

Gabriel's smile sharpened, brown eyes gleaming as he raised his glass in a toast. "Not today."

—

It was too early for any sane person to be awake. The palace's ether channels still hummed low with night-cycle power, the lightstrips dimmed to a soft blue.

Arik was face-down on his couch, warm black hair a mess across the pillow, when the quiet chime of the ward at his door sounded. He groaned, dragging the pillow over his head. "If that's assassins, come back after breakfast."

The door slid open anyway.

Edward entered with military precision, his uniform crisp, his steps silent. In his arms was a stack of slim holopads, their ether-cores pulsing faintly with active files. He looked entirely unbothered by the ungodly hour.

"Good morning, Your Highness; I see you prefer the couch to your bed," Edward said calmly, placing the pile on Arik's desk. The glass surface flickered awake at once, holo-screens blooming into towering columns of figures and glowing maps. "From His Imperial Majesty. Priority one. The western rail expansion budget is to be finalized before midday. Energy audits for the southern refineries by tonight. And…" Edward adjusted his glasses, voice calm as water, "the Ministry of Culture's eighty-page memorandum on ether storage casket aesthetics."

Arik peeked out from under the pillow, golden eyes bleary. "You're joking."

Edward blinked once, polite and merciless. "His Imperial Majesty does not joke."

Arik let out a groan that could have shaken the foundations of the palace. He dragged himself upright, hair sticking in every direction, while the holo-screens multiplied in front of him like a living, glowing monster. "Gods. I should've let that noble throw pheromones at Cecil. At least then I'd be in a dungeon instead of buried alive in paperwork."

Edward placed one last holopad on the stack. "There's also a note attached: 'This is only the beginning.' Signed, His Imperial Majesty."

Arik dropped his head into his hands. "I hate my life."

Edward clasped his hands neatly behind his back. "Shall I bring coffee, Your Highness?"

"Yes," Arik mumbled into his palms. "And bring a shovel. So you can dig me out when this pile collapses on me."

Edward inclined his head, utterly unbothered. "Very good."

And with that, the aide left Arik alone with his glowing mountain of ether-fueled bureaucracy, Gabriel's vengeance elegantly handwritten across every file.