Bound by the Mark of Lies

The sun sank low over the gardens, casting warm light through the massive arched windows of a manor in the capital. The manor, while grand and historic, had a more intimate atmosphere than the emperor's palace. Damian Orion Lyon, the current Emperor, had taken refuge in this secluded space—a place where he could escape the formalities of the palace and relax. At least, that was the intention.

Damian appeared out of place in the opulent surroundings, dressed in a loose linen shirt and trousers, his dark hair slightly disheveled. Despite the casual attire, there was an undeniable air of authority about him, as though he carried the weight of the empire even in his rare moments of leisure. He leaned back in a carved armchair, sipping from a delicate porcelain teacup in a languid, relaxed manner. He had always known how to appear relaxed, even when his mind was anything but. His dark gold eyes were fixed on the man across from him.

Maximilian, his half brother, was seated at a massive desk, partially obscured by two oversized monitors. Behind them, a stack of documents awaited his signature. Occasionally, his gaze would drift toward the window, inspecting the immaculate rows of hedges below. Maximilian's tailored navy suit clung perfectly to his broad frame, in stark contrast to Damian's laid-back demeanor. While their facial structures were similar, Damian's dark gold eyes set him apart from Max, whose piercing green eyes marked him as a Claymore through and through.

"You've mastered the art of doing absolutely nothing while making it look like you're deep in thought," Max remarked, his smirk sharp as his green eyes met Damian's. There was a dry humor to his tone, but his posture remained stiff, his shoulders squared with the weight of the work before him. It was as though Max's words sought to bridge their dynamic—a teasing jab laced with an undertone of familiarity. He leaned back slightly, tapping his pen against the desk, as though waiting for his brother's inevitable retort.

Damian chuckled softly, setting his cup down. "A skill honed through years of court appearances and ceremonial speeches. You should try it sometime."

Max's lips twitched with amusement as he returned to his papers. "I'll pass. Unlike some people, I actually have work to do."

"This is my free day for the month," Damian snorted, leaning forward in his chair. "Give me a break. I've earned this."

Max's eyes flicked up again, a teasing glint in his gaze. "Have you, though? The court's abuzz with rumors about your next move."

"Let me guess. My marriage prospects?" Damian's tone was light, but a trace of irritation underpinned his words.

Max's smirk faded as he finished signing the last document. He pushed his chair back, the soft creak of the wood filling the air. "You're not wrong. Some nobles are advocating for the reintroduction of the coming-of-age ceremony, claiming it will strengthen traditional ties. What they really want is to parade their idea of the ideal match in front of you."

Damian's expression darkened, his lips curving downward in a frown as his thoughts churned. He could already hear the whispered schemes of the court in his mind, every murmur laced with veiled threats and feigned concern. 'Widowed or not, they won't stop until they can manipulate me,' he thought bitterly. Yet, a wry amusement flickered within him—an ember of defiance. If they wanted a match, he'd make them wait forever, if only to enjoy their frustration. A faint smile, edged with sardonic humor, played on his lips. 'Let them gnash their teeth,' he mused, even as his outward expression remained heavy with irritation. "Ah, the never-ending topic since the coronation. I'm a widowed man. Can they not let me mourn in peace?"

Max's eyes flickered with subtle concern. "Leora died before your coronation, and people want stability. You're not exactly young, Damian. They're restless."

Damian scoffed, running a hand through his disheveled hair. "You're two years younger than me. Both of us are dominant alphas. Don't give me that crap."

Max shrugged. "Fair, but it's not just about age. They're trying to corner you, to push you into making an alliance they can control."

The room fell silent, tension thickening the air. Max's expression softened as he leaned back in his chair, studying his half-brother.

Damian leaned forward, his fingers drumming lightly on the armrest. "Let them try. It's my life, Max. I'll choose who I want by my side, not who they want." His voice, though calm, carried a sharp edge. "Besides, they've yet to offer a match who's even remotely interesting."

"The old nobles are clinging to outdated traditions," Max replied. "The new factions, though, are pushing for change. Socializing through palace-organized events, for example. It's a subtle way to bridge the divide and keep them distracted."

Damian's lips curled into a faint smile. "You've always been better at navigating these things than I have. Maybe you should take the throne."

Max raised an eyebrow. "Tempting, but no. I'll settle for being the one keeping you from completely alienating the court."

Damian laughed; the sound was warm but fleeting. "You do that well, I'll admit. If only you didn't insist on hiding behind your company. If you spent less time here, you'd be in a better position to manage things at the palace."

Max's expression shifted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing his face before his lips curled into a smile. "You know I wouldn't work for you. Not a chance."

Damian's eyebrow arched. "Why? Afraid I'd work you to the bone?"

"Absolutely." Max's reply was immediate, and his tone carried a note of finality that made Damian chuckle.

Their shared laughter was interrupted by the abrupt opening of the office door. Elliot strode in, his steps confident, measured, and deliberately loud, as if each strike of his heel announced his superiority. His emerald tie pin caught the light, gleaming like his piercing eyes, which scanned the room with thinly veiled disdain. The sharp angles of his tailored coat and the calculated perfection of his appearance hinted at his obsession with status. He carried a folder bearing the Blue Ether Project's seal, holding it like a trophy, as though its importance magnified his own. 

"Maximilian," Elliot said smoothly, ignoring Damian entirely. "I've brought the final report on the Blue Ether Project. I thought I'd deliver it personally, given its importance."

Max's eyes narrowed. "Elliot, I don't recall inviting you here. Gabriel told me he would send it directly to the court."

Elliot smirked, clearly unfazed. "Well, I'm being considerate. I know how busy you are. And who's this?" He gestured dismissively toward Damian. "One of your errand boys?"

Damian's eyebrow twitched, but he said nothing, choosing to observe.

Max's patience frayed. "He's none of your concern. And as for the project, you can leave it with Gabriel as planned."

Elliot stepped closer, dropping the folder onto the desk with a thud. "I don't think you understand the gravity of this initiative. Maybe if you paid more attention—"

"Enough!" Max's voice cut through the room, sharp and commanding. He slammed his hands on the desk, making the items on it jump. The tension spiked, and even Elliot's confidence faltered for a moment.

Damian's expression darkened as he stood, his relaxed air vanishing. He crossed his arms and fixed Elliot with an icy gaze, though he remained silent, content to let Max handle the situation.

Max straightened, his voice dangerously calm. "Elliot, I suggest you leave. Now."

Elliot's smirk wavered, but he recovered quickly. He gathered the folder and proceeded to leave. Before stepping out of the room, he changed his mind. With a wide smirk, he turned on his heels and looked at Damian.

"Why don't you make yourself useful by delivering this, errand boy?" Elliot threw the folder at Damian with a flick of his hand.

The room fell into a heavy silence as the folder hit the floor. Damian's golden eyes glinted dangerously, but he simply bent down, picked up the folder, and placed it neatly on the desk. His calmness seemed more threatening than any outburst could have been.

Elliot hesitated, then stormed out, his footsteps echoing in the hall.

Once the door clicked shut, Damian turned to Max, his tone light again. "You really should screen your visitors better."

Max groaned, running a hand through his hair. "And you should dress more like an emperor. Might save us both some trouble."

Only a few people knew Damian and Max's secret. They were half-brothers by father; Max's mother was duped by the Marquis of Lyon and abandoned while pregnant with him. George Claymore did everything he could to conceal the pregnancy and was successful. 

Damian's grin widened as he approached Max, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Why don't we organize the coming-of-age ball together? Think of the possibilities. I'll handle the charm and the grand speeches; you can take care of the grueling details, like guest lists and seating charts. A perfect partnership." His golden eyes glimmered with a mix of mischief and amusement. "And don't forget to put your sweet cousin on that list."

Max stared at him, deadpan. "For fuck's sake."