Chapter 88: Chapter 88: Check-up

Rafael did not want to go.

Not in the dramatic, rebellious sense. Not in the “I will barricade myself in a tower and start a constitutional crisis” sense. Simply in the very specific, deeply irritated way of someone who felt perfectly fine and resented being medically supervised like a rare, breakable artifact.

His body felt normal. Tired, yes. A little warm, a little slow. But that was the sea, the sun, the food, the ice cream Gregoris had very pointedly not stopped him from eating. Nothing alarming. Nothing that required an audience with Marin.

Which was precisely why he knew he was going to lose this.

Because Gregoris did not request things he considered optional. And when he said, “Marin is waiting,” what he meant was: the system is already moving, the physician has been notified, and there are Shadows quietly ensuring compliance.

Rafael was halfway down a side corridor when his comm vibrated.

Once.

Then again.

A direct, secure channel. Old encryption. Military-grade, not the new palace system Gabriel designed. He didn’t even need to open it to know who it was.

Marin.

He sighed and did it anyway.

The message was short, infuriatingly polite, and clearly a threat in disguise.

’I am in my office.’

’Your mate has already briefed me.’

’Do not make me come get you myself, Rafael.’

’I am less patient than he is.’

Rafael stopped walking and stared at the wall for a long second.

“…You are all traitors,” he muttered to no one.

There was, of course, no point in pretending he hadn’t seen it. The man had been a Shadow commander before he’d been a physician; he knew exactly how long it took for a message to be read, how long it took for someone to stall, and how long before that stall became avoidance.

And Gregoris would know because… Why did he indulge an intelligence commander?

Rafael let his head fall back lightly against the cool stone, eyes closing.

“I don’t even feel sick,” he complained quietly to the ceiling. “I am offended on principle.”

The palace did not care.

The system did not care.

Marin, waiting in his office with that calm, predatory patience of a man who had once commanded killers and now commanded emperors and consorts with a raised brow and a stethoscope, definitely did not care.

Rafael straightened, smoothed his sleeves, and started walking again, toward the medical wing this time, resignation settling in.

“…This is what I get for mating an intelligence commander,” he muttered.

His comm chimed softly once more.

A single line, this time unmistakably from Gregoris.

’He is already waiting. Do not make this difficult.’

Rafael closed his eyes.

“Too late,” he whispered, and went anyway.

The medical wing had shifted closer to the imperial suites after Gabriel’s last confinement.

Rafael felt it the moment he crossed the threshold – the subtle hum in the air, the layered wards, the low, disciplined pressure of ether running through the walls like an invisible circulatory system. This was no longer just a place for routine checkups and political fainting spells. This was where you put someone whose body carried power that could bend the Empire if it went wrong.

Gabriel had, of course, refused to be ordinary about any of it.

Giving birth to the son of a man who was almost a god in power in the usual sense had consequences. His ether reserves were still unstable, draining and refilling in erratic tides, monitored with the kind of attention normally reserved for volatile weapons or ancient artifacts. The physicians had moved closer to him, not the other way around.

Rafael passed the guarded doors with a nod, the familiar faces of healers and ward techs acknowledging him without question. He was part of this inner circle now, whether he liked it or not.

Ether, for him, was background noise. Everyone had it, a biological constant like heat or cold, but he couldn’t shape it, couldn’t push it, and couldn’t feel the currents the way alphas and arcanists did. It was there, yes… but silent.

Unlike Gregoris.

Gregoris, who claimed he was “adequate” at manipulation, as if Rafael didn’t know better. As if the man who commanded Shadows and folded space for teleportation and held wards like muscle memory was in any meaningful way average.

Rafael stopped in front of a door marked with layered sigils and a very old military seal.

Marin.

He went in.

The office was exactly as Rafael remembered: spare, precise, and unnervingly calm. No unnecessary decoration. Clean surfaces. Shelves lined with medical instruments and data-slates, all arranged with the same quiet authority as a war room.

Marin stood near the central diagnostic table, sleeves rolled, silver hair tied back, and glasses perched low on his nose as he reviewed a floating screen. He looked up the instant Rafael entered, sharp eyes missing nothing.

“You’re late,” Marin said.

“I am punctual in spirit,” Rafael replied. “Reluctant in practice.”

Marin snorted softly and gestured toward the table. “Up. Coat off.”

Rafael hesitated. “We’re really doing this?”

“Yes. Your mate requested a full evaluation. Which means I am not stopping at ’you look fine.’” His gaze flicked, clinical and assessing. “Turn around. I need to see the bond mark.”

Rafael complied, shrugging out of his coat and settling onto the edge of the table. The surface was cool through the fabric of his shirt.

Marin stepped closer, already activating the scanners, his tone dry but not unkind. “You don’t have to feel wrong for something to be wrong. And with a dominant alpha like yours, I am not indulging optimism.”

Rafael huffed quietly. “He’s paranoid.”

“He’s thorough,” Marin corrected. “There’s a difference.”

The light from the scanner washed briefly over Rafael’s nape, mapping the mark, reading its resonance, and tracing the fine ether-threads that connected him – whether he could feel them or not – to a man who could move armies.

“And,” Marin added, glancing at the data, “he was very explicit.”

Rafael glanced over his shoulder. “About what, exactly?”

Marin’s mouth curved faintly. “About wanting you checked as if you were the most valuable strategic asset in the building.”

Rafael closed his eyes.

“…Of course he did.”

Marin returned his attention to the display, fingers moving with practiced precision as layers of data unfolded with hormonal readouts, neural response curves, ether-adjacent activity, all cross-referenced against Rafael’s baseline.

“For the record,” he said calmly, “he did not use the word ’asset.’ He said ’non-negotiable.’”

Rafael winced. “That’s worse.”

“Yes,” Marin agreed. “It usually is.”

He stepped closer again, adjusting the scanner’s angle, the light briefly flaring warmer as it swept across Rafael’s upper spine and down, mapping internal rhythms.

“The bond is stable,” he said after a moment. “Strong. Resonant. A little… overenthusiastic, but that is to be expected when one half is a dominant alpha who has never done anything by halves in his life.”

Rafael opened one eye. “That’s your professional opinion?”

“That’s my charitable one.” Marin glanced at another set of readings. “Physiologically, you are well. Slightly elevated temperature, mild fatigue, sensory sensitivity, appetite shifts – nothing alarming in isolation.”

He paused.

“In combination, however, they form a pattern.”

Rafael’s spine went subtly still. “I don’t like the sound of that.”

Marin’s gaze softened by a fraction, the way it did when he was about to deliver news that would change someone’s internal map of the world.

“You are not ill,” he said. “You are adapting. And your body is not doing so for the bond alone.”

Silence settled, thick and anticipatory.

“…Marin,” Rafael said slowly, “if this is about stress, I assure you I have a long-standing, intimate relationship with it.”

“It is not stress,” Marin replied. He brought the main display around so Rafael could see the highlighted values, the subtle but distinct shifts. “These levels indicate early systemic prioritization. Your endocrine system has already begun reallocating resources. Your immune modulation is changing. Your metabolism is adjusting in very specific ways.”

Rafael stared at the screen, understanding creeping in with unwelcome clarity.

“You’re saying…”

“I am saying,” Marin interrupted gently, “that you are approximately six weeks pregnant.”

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