CHAPTER 171: CHAPTER 166: SCHEDULE OF SUFFERING (2)

Gabriel stood like a reluctant statue, while three attendants surrounded him with the reverence of priests preparing a noble for execution.

The jacket was stiff, high-collared, and strongly opposed to movement. One attendant’s hands trembled slightly as she adjusted the clasp near his throat, her gaze flickering to the mark on his neck before quickly moving away. The second struggled with a cufflink. The third worked in near silence, focused on every angle and fold.

Gabriel kept his cool. He didn’t glare.

They weren’t the ones who deserved it.

Instead, he exhaled—long, slow, just shy of a sigh—and said, dry but kind, "You can breathe. I don’t bite."

A pause. Then the second attendant smiled nervously and nodded.

"I do bruise, though," Gabriel added. "So go easy on the spine. It’s on strike."

Edward, standing nearby, folded his arms. "You’re doing this for the Empire."

"I am doing this because someone ordered it," Gabriel muttered, his eyes half-lidded from sleep deprivation. "I’d rather be in bed. Dying in peace."

Edward didn’t blink. "Dying doesn’t excuse you from public appearances. Only pregnancy does. And barely."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes as one attendant finished smoothing the collar. "I’m not the Empress yet. Why are you so focused on the pregnancy?"

"Because the palace is," Edward replied flatly. "And if you think I enjoy asking about your reproductive viability every two weeks, you’re giving me too much credit."

Gabriel snorted. "I think you enjoy watching me squirm."

"I enjoy watching you survive," Edward corrected, tone sharp and quiet. "The squirming is just a fringe benefit."

Gabriel rolled his shoulders experimentally, grimacing at the stiffness in the jacket. "If someone tries to hug me today, I’ll bite them. Why is every piece of clothing so difficult to wear? I thought being the Empress would have some perks."

Edward arched a brow without lifting his eyes from the tablet. "You get personalized assassination threats and three layers of silk. What more do you want?"

"Now?" Gabriel sighed, tugging at the hem of the jacket like it might loosen its grip on his soul. "To die. Let’s begin with the bloodsucking."

"Poetic," Edward said, flipping the page on the schedule. "The physician is in the next room. Try not to threaten him unless you absolutely must."

Gabriel rolled his eyes and pushed himself off the dressing bench. "If you say so."

—

The walk to the far southern end of the Emperor’s wing was long enough for Gabriel to consider collapsing into a potted plant to avoid the appointment.

Edward paused at the examination room’s threshold, hands folded behind his back. "I’ll wait outside. Unless screaming starts."

Gabriel gave him a deathly stare. "If I scream, it means the universe has finally caught up with me."

Edward gave a faint bow and closed the door behind him.

Inside, the chamber was clean and quiet. Clinical, but not cold. The faint hum of magical sterilization wards echoed beneath the air, like a second heartbeat. A tall window let in filtered sunlight, illuminating a white table, a spell board, and two glass vials that gleamed like something out of place in his morning routine.

The physician was already waiting.

He was middle-aged, with soft gray curls and a quiet demeanor. His uniform coat was precise, but not stiff, marked with the seal of the Imperial Medical Office. He was an omega—Gabriel could tell instantly from the way the room subtly adapted to his presence, calm radiating from him like a grounded spell.

"Your Grace," the man said, giving a respectful nod. "Welcome to your temporary wellness purgatory."

Gabriel blinked. "You’re cheerful. I don’t trust it."

The physician smiled faintly as he prepared the rune disc and vial. "I’ve drawn blood from four consorts and three crowned heads. You’re the first one who’s come in looking like someone stole your soul."

"That’s because he did," Gabriel muttered. "All night."

The physician gave a sage nod. "Yes, I saw the Emperor’s training logs. Quite the cardio session."

Gabriel gave him a deadpan stare.

The man blinked once. "Efficient."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "You enjoy this far too much."

"On the contrary," the man said mildly, placing the disc against Gabriel’s wrist and watching the ether runes flicker to life. "I enjoy watching patients survive. Humor just makes the paperwork bearable."

A moment passed in relative silence, save for the hum of magic as Gabriel’s pulse synced with the disc. The soft glow it emitted was a calm amber—a good sign. The physician’s expression relaxed.

"No signs of instability," he said. "The bond is more stable from the last checkup, and your hormones haven’t spiked beyond expected levels... and you’re not pregnant yet."

Gabriel stilled.

The words hung in the air like a flicked knife, sharp, casual, and aimed nowhere in particular. And yet they hit.

Something cold twisted in his stomach. Not fear, exactly. Not shock. Just... that bone-deep certainty that the floor had tilted ever so slightly, and the world might never sit quite right again.

Pregnant.

He kept his face neutral. Or neutral enough. Eyes half-lidded, chin tilted.

Gabriel’s mind had already moved six steps ahead—flashes of expectation, whispered assumptions in the court halls, and the recent shift in Edward’s tone when discussing "health." Damian’s hand had lingered against his stomach just a little too long last night, as if he was claiming something that was not yet real.

The physician tapped the rune plate, flipping it to a new configuration. "You are, however, severely sleep-deprived and... sore."

Gabriel gave him the same dead stare. "Thank you. I hadn’t noticed."

The physician handed him a tonic with the kind of grace only a long-suffering man could manage. "Drink this. It’s not a miracle, but it’ll dull the pain and keep you standing through whatever new horrors the court throws at you."

Gabriel sniffed it. "It smells like regret."

"That’s how you know it works." The physician smiled. "And Your Grace?"

Gabriel, mid-sip, raised a brow.

"If this is what you look like after one night with His Majesty... Pace yourself. I’m not qualified to resuscitate burned-out consorts."

Gabriel redressed with a practiced grimace, tugging the jacket back over sore shoulders and straightening the collar with the quiet dignity of a man who knew better than to hope for mercy. Then he opened the door and stepped back into the hallway, finding Edward still waiting with all the patience of a well-fed vulture.

"You didn’t scream," Edward observed.

"No promises for the rest of the day,"