Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 173 - 168: Full rights (1)

Gabriel didn’t look back.

The silence behind him was sharp enough to sting. He could feel Anya’s panic clinging to the air like perfume gone rancid—just as deliberate, just as unwanted.

Edward followed a step behind, his voice low with dry amusement. "Remind me never to get on your bad side."

"I don’t have a good one," Gabriel muttered.

Edward stopped two steps short.

"You have five minutes," he said with a clipped but kind tone. "Use them to read the names. Don’t improvise. Don’t engage. Look... competent."

Gabriel raised a brow. "What’s the Empire coming to when that’s the highest expectation?"

Edward didn’t smile. "Lower than it was yesterday."

The attendants moved to adjust his collar again, concealing Damian’s multiple bruises on his neck. Gabriel let them fuss, resisting the urge to swat their hands away like flies. He looked every inch the part today: a black suit with gold embroidery, a tailored high collar that stiffened his already upright posture, and gloves too tight around his wrists.

"You’re radiant today." Edward said while analyzing his appearance.

"I’m homicidal today."

"Same thing in this court."

—

The tribunal hall was already full.

Claymores to the right. Max sat with one leg crossed, elbow resting on the arm of his chair, looking thoroughly entertained. George, composed as always, tracked Gabriel’s movements without reacting. Elliot did not bother to hide his glare, sharp, constant, and aimed directly at Gabriel. He looked like someone already halfway through a sentence he wasn’t allowed to speak aloud.

She wore the most recent high court style in a cool, sophisticated shade of blue, tailored to highlight her pale hair and elegant frame. Every thread screamed wealth and power, but it was the way she held herself—regal, proud, untouched by the judgment around her—that reminded Gabriel why no one dared speak too loudly when she entered a room.

Everyone here knew. No one said it aloud. Patricia was Hadeon’s mistress now.

And somehow, that made her more dangerous than ever. But even so, she couldn’t shield her son from Damian’s orders.

To the left of the dais, the Lyon family had already taken their places. Gabriel’s gaze swept over them automatically, a reflex honed by necessity.

Hadeon sat like a carved monument, his posture impeccable. Hands gloved and folded neatly over his knee. He hadn’t moved since Gabriel entered. He didn’t need to. He radiated control, the kind that didn’t require voice or threat—just presence.

Gabriel’s chest tightened, just slightly.

He hadn’t seen him this close since the hearing months ago. Back then, Gabriel had been focused on the chaos—the betrayals, the projects, the layers of lies. He hadn’t known what to look for. He hadn’t known that Damian Lyon was his son, nor did he cared, but now he knew and it was impossible to miss.

Max and Christian both resembled Damian in obvious, scattered ways. The same black hair, the same angles of the jaw, that lean, predatory posture they carried even when still. But Damian—

Damian was a perfect younger version of Hadeon, refined like obsidian, all the way down to the line of his shoulders and the stillness in his spine.

Only the golden eyes were different. Singular. Distinctive.

And now Gabriel understood why that difference mattered so much.

Crista, seated beside her husband, didn’t shift. Her expression didn’t crack. Her hands didn’t even twitch. She was dressed in ceremonial black and silver and carried herself with the air of someone who had already seen every scheme in the room before breakfast.

Christian didn’t say anything.

That alone was strange enough.

He leaned back in his chair, as if he were watching the setup for a slow-burning fire, one hand lazily turning the stylus between his fingers. His silver eyes flickered to Gabriel once, a faint smile spreading across his face, but it did not last long. He looked away again, back to the center.

The Paisian delegates sat in silence, dressed in deep navy. A single chair beside them remained empty. Anya’s chair. It drew more attention now that Gabriel had taken his seat at the front.

A court official stood. His voice rang out across the hall: "All rise for His Imperial Majesty, Emperor Damian Lyon of the Eternal Throne."

The Paisian delegates rose first, swiftly and rehearsed, almost relieved to have something to do. The imperials then followed, some with fluid grace, others stiffly, as if trying to remember how to breathe in the presence of power.

Gabriel stood last.

He rose with practiced elegance, spine straight, fingers lightly resting on the carved arm of his seat. He didn’t look toward the door.

He was too busy swearing under his breath in a muttered string of Old Imperial curses, lips barely moving. The soreness persisted, coiled in his limbs and low in his back, aching just enough to make every movement feel like vengeance dressed in silk.

’Three hours of sleep and Anya is not here yet. Perfect.’

He resisted the urge to roll his neck. Barely.

His spine was stiff, his shoulders tense beneath layers of silk and embroidery, and the regret tonic was already wearing off. If one more person bowed in his direction today, he might bite them.

Damian entered the hall.

He came first, as always. Power didn’t wait.

Flanked by Astana and the Palace Guards Captain, Leslie Decker, he walked with the calm precision of someone whose presence alone could end conversations or lives.

He was wearing black with burnished gold, every inch of him tailored and deliberate. The high collar framed his throat like armor, and his imperial crest shone in the center of his chest.

He didn’t glance at the crowd, or the diplomats, or the nobles holding their breath like fragile porcelain.

His gaze locked on Gabriel the moment he stepped through the arch.

And held.

It was intense. Controlled. Possessive. The kind of look that promised a reckoning—and not the political kind.

Gabriel didn’t blink.

Didn’t smile.

He stared right back with a face that screamed, I will get my revenge for last night.

It wasn’t a threat. Not entirely. It was a promise laced in exhaustion, bruised pride, and a bone-deep ache he wasn’t ready to forgive.

The corner of Damian’s mouth twitched.

Then the Emperor sat.

A hush spread through the room, thick and expectant.

Without a cue, Astana stepped forward.

There was no scroll. No trumpet. Just a small, leather-bound case in one hand and a calm expression that could cut glass. Dressed in muted black with only the imperial seal at his collar, he was the embodiment of discretion—Damian’s personal secretary, and therefore, more dangerous than any noble in the room.

He took his place just beneath the dais and began to speak.

"By imperial decree," Astana said, voice low and crisp, the kind that didn’t need to be loud to command attention, "the Eternal Throne recognizes a change in court designation." novelbuddy.cσ๓

Gabriel didn’t move. He kept his posture still, gaze forward, and expression carefully blank.

Astana continued.

"Gabriel von Jaunez, of House von Jaunez, is hereby acknowledged as Consort-Designate to His Imperial Majesty. This designation includes all rights, responsibilities, and protections afforded by law and will be upheld without contest by this court."