Chapter 97: Chapter 97: Routine (1)

A few days passed the way the Empire always passed through aftermath, by pretending it had meant to survive all along.

The Capital still pulsed, still hummed with ether in the bones of the city, and still ran on quiet miracles no one paused to admire anymore: streetlines lit by blue-veined conduits beneath polished stone, public trams gliding soundlessly on ether rails, and towers that drank power from the grid like it was air. Even the manor’s windows carried the faint, almost imperceptible vibration of it, the steady thrum of a world that didn’t stop just because people had bled, lied, married, nearly died, and then gone back to work.

But the frantic edge was gone.

The year’s main events had already detonated. The scandals had already found their scapegoats. The council had already sat through the worst sessions, the ones where the air smelled like exhaustion and everyone spoke politely because screaming would’ve been easier.

Now, for the first time in a long while, the government seemed to be settling into a routine.

The imperial family, too, fell into something that almost resembled normal: scheduled appearances, controlled press, and carefully curated silence when silence was safer than statements. The palace security channels stopped pinging with red alerts every other hour. The Shadows’ field teams were pulled back from constant deployment into rotating readiness, their reports becoming logistics again instead of casualties.

And in that thin pocket of calm – so rare it felt like the city itself didn’t trust it – Gregoris was suddenly… home.

Not in the soft way of men who had never learned to measure time in briefing windows and exit routes. Not in the lazy way of husbands who had the luxury of “later.” But in increments that mattered. In mornings where his boots stayed in the wardrobe instead of on his feet.

In afternoons where the manor’s internal security system, coded to his biometrics, registered him inside for hours at a time. In evenings when the staff stopped laying out one dinner and started laying out two, as if acknowledging him too openly might jinx it.

The manor learned Rafael’s new rhythms with the efficiency of a place trained for danger.

The ether-powered house network adjusted lighting and temperature the moment Rafael’s vitals dipped – soft, warm amber, and the air shifting by a degree to keep nausea from becoming dizziness. The kitchen system flagged trigger foods after the second incident, like it was tracking a hostile pattern. Toast disappeared from breakfast entirely by day two, as if it had been formally exiled.

By day three, there were warm cloths stored in a heated drawer. There was ginger tea that appeared like a rumor. There were bland crackers in sealed packs, emergency rations for a body that had decided to wage war on its owner.

Rafael, who had spent most of his life weaponizing elegance, found himself forced to live inside a body that did not care about his opinion.

Morning sickness came like a petty tyrant. Some days it only stole an hour. Other days it stole the entire morning and left Rafael pale, furious, and offended at his own reflection, glaring at himself as if he could intimidate his stomach into compliance.

On the fourth day, he woke up, blinked at the ceiling, and said to no one in particular, “If I survive this, I’m publishing a guide.”

Beside him, Gregoris was already awake in that unnerving, soldier-still way, one arm behind his head, his other hand resting on Rafael’s back. He didn’t even open his eyes when he answered, “On pregnancy.”

“On betrayal,” Rafael corrected, voice dry with venom and weakness.

“Accurate,” Gregoris murmured.

Rafael turned his head slowly. “Do not agree with me. That makes it less satisfying.”

“I will argue if it improves your morale.”

“It won’t.” Rafael paused, then, because the last few days had taught him that Gregoris didn’t leave when things were ugly, he added, quieter, “But you being here does.”

That got Gregoris to open his eyes.

Rafael immediately regretted saying it out loud, because saying things out loud made them real, and real things could be taken away. He shifted as if he could tuck the admission back under the blanket with his body heat.

Gregoris didn’t tease him. That, in its own way, was worse.

He simply reached under the covers, found Rafael’s hand, and held it with the grip he used on a weapon to make sure it didn’t slip.

“I am here,” Gregoris said.

It wasn’t romantic. It was a statement with the weight of a vow.

Rafael swallowed around something sharp and unfamiliar. “Good,” he muttered, as if it was an order and not a need.

The day began.

They built a routine out of small negotiations with an invisible enemy.

Gregoris’s tablet – sleek, military-grade, and linked into Shadow channels and palace security – still chimed, still demanded attention, but less often with urgency. When it did, he read quickly, responded quicker, and then set it aside again like he was choosing, consciously, not to let the Empire steal all of him.

The staff stopped asking, “Are you alright?” in that tone that implied Rafael might die at any moment. They learned that Rafael preferred silence over pity, and that if they fussed, he would go cold enough to freeze the ether humming in the walls.

They also learned that Gregoris’s concern was not negotiable.

Meals became practical.

“Today,” Rafael announced on the fifth morning, sitting up with careful posture, “I believe I can tolerate…”

Gregoris lifted a brow, already skeptical.

“…plain chicken,” Rafael finished with the bravery of a man volunteering for an execution.

Gregoris didn’t react like it was a triumph. He reached for the tablet, typed a message to the kitchen, and said, “Plain chicken. Rice. Broth. No spice.”

Rafael stared at him. “Do you enjoy suffering?”

“I do not enjoy you fainting.”

“I have never fainted.”

“You swayed,” Gregoris corrected.

“I was admiring the tiles.”

“You were turning green.”

“Color is subjective.”

Gregoris leaned closer by a fraction, eyes steady. “If you keep arguing with me about food, I will have Marin come lecture you in person.”

Rafael went completely still.

Then, with slow horror, he whispered, “You would unleash that man in my home.”

“I would,” Gregoris confirmed, calm as a threat. “Do not test me.”

Rafael glared with all the fury he could muster with a stomach full of betrayal. “You’re cruel.”

Gregoris smiled. “Selective.”

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