Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 216 - 211: Then Let Them Burn

The saloon smelled of spice and smokewood, the air heavy with velvet drapes and the slow crackle of the hearth. It was late—too late for courtiers, too early for whispers. The room had been cleared of all but the essential, and the ones who remained sat in silence, the weight of truth settling like dust around them.

Gabriel sat curled into one of the high-backed armchairs, Damian’s robe thrown over his shoulders like a mantle he hadn’t meant to claim. His legs were crossed, expression unreadable. Tired, but not defeated. He hadn’t said much since the reception.

Max lounged on the couch like he owned the place—booted feet on the edge of the low table, wine in hand, eyes flicking between the rest of them with the kind of smugness that came only when one was right about everything. Alexandra perched on the arm of his chair, chin resting in her palm, watching Gabriel.

Julian stood behind Gabriel’s chair with quiet dignity, a hand on the backrest. Irina had curled into the corner nearest the fire, wide-eyed, the flush in her cheeks still visible from the arrest of Patricia Duarte.

And Astana—cool, composed, cruel when needed—was pacing slowly across the patterned rug with a small lacquered box in hand. He didn’t sit. He never did during stories like this.

"She was planning it for weeks," Astana began, voice calm, precise. "Patricia commissioned a false portrait from an illusion-imbued artist. An ether-fused image: crude in concept but refined in execution. The kind that doesn’t trigger imperial wards unless you know exactly what to search for."

He opened the box. Inside, wrapped in protective cloth, lay a slim ether tablet, crackling faintly and glowing like breath.

Astana didn’t look at Gabriel when he spoke next. "They crafted a narrative meant to break the Emperor’s trust in you. To question your chastity. Your loyalty. Even your secondary gender. Patricia was going to release it as part of a smear campaign through noble gossip chains."

The image unfolded like smoke: Gabriel pinned against a palace door, the imperial insignia visible, his body half-dressed and flush with ether-light. Elliot’s hand on his hip. Their faces close. Gabriel’s mouth parted, expression caught in something between pain and ecstasy.

Gabriel didn’t move.

Damian didn’t blink.

Irina gasped softly again, this time pressing her hand to her mouth.

Max looked away, his jaw tightening for the first time. Even Alexandra’s usual sarcasm dulled as she reached out, placing her hand over Gabriel’s wrist, grounding him.

Julian studied the image clinically, as if identifying a battlefield. "The lighting is wrong," he said quietly. "The angle makes Gabriel look shorter. He’s not."

Gabriel still hadn’t spoken.

Astana was the one to break the silence. "The artist layered in micro-spells to enhance expression. The ether light amplifies sweat and shadows, making the skin seem fevered. It’s forged—but it feels real. That was the goal."

Gabriel’s voice, when it came, was molten steel wrapped in velvet. "Who has seen this?"

"No one besides us and the Shadows. I’ve burned the original." Said Damian calmly.

"You burned the original," he repeated, each word smooth and deliberate.

Damian didn’t look away. "Yes."

"Now I see why Edward didn’t crack." A pause. "Can I burn Elliot?"

Max choked on his wine.

Alexandra sat up straighter with an audible gasp-laugh, pressing a hand to her chest as if she’d just been handed a priceless gem.

Irina blinked rapidly, then whispered to Julian, "Did he just—?"

"He did," Julian said calmly, not even surprised.

Gabriel didn’t smile. Not really. His expression was neutral, except for the gleam in his eyes, that unmistakable glint of restrained violence wrapped in velvet. The same tone he’d used at the tribunal. The one that made aristocrats sweat beneath their powdered collars.

"Can I?" he asked again, looking at Damian like a man who meant it.

Damian, unflinching, studied him.

"You’re already pregnant," the Emperor said, his tone low and cool as obsidian. "The physician strongly advised no spellworks."

Gabriel tilted his head slightly, a predatory motion disguised as elegance. "So you’re saying I should wait until after the birth." ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Damian met his gaze, unflinching. "I’m saying the physician doesn’t want you summoning firestorms in the middle of a hormonal spike."

Alexandra choked on her laughter. "Gods, please don’t cast anything while you’re in labor. We’ll all end up as smoldering debris."

"I’ll be very tasteful about it," Gabriel replied smoothly. "Just a mild combustion. Maybe one decorative explosion. Enough to singe Elliot’s eyebrows."

"I’m begging you," Max added, lazily raising his hand, "if it happens, aim away from my side of the ballroom."

Julian, who had taken up a spot behind Gabriel once again, murmured, "If it comes to that, we’ll be ready. But I’d prefer you not incinerate the healer’s ward. It’s very difficult to sterilize ash."

Damian sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose with practiced restraint. "This is why Edward won’t take a single day off."

Gabriel’s hand rested over his stomach again, this time protectively—though the gesture was so subtle, it felt more like a reflex than a choice. His voice, however, was far from gentle.

"Then make sure that both Elliot and Patricia suffer. I don’t care if Elliot didn’t know about this."

The words dropped into the room like a stone into still water, with no splash, just weight.

Max raised an eyebrow but said nothing, for once not interrupting with a quip. Alexandra didn’t blink, though her smile faded. Irina shrank back just slightly, as if she’d glimpsed something new behind Gabriel’s eyes.

Julian stood still as ever, his gaze flicking briefly to Damian. He didn’t need to speak. He agreed.

Damian didn’t respond right away. He simply watched Gabriel—studied him in that quiet, intense way only he could manage. His expression didn’t soften. If anything, it sharpened.

"You’re not usually the one to demand suffering," Damian said at last.

Gabriel’s lips curved into something too cold to be called a smile. "I’m not usually pregnant."

Astana let out a slow breath. "Noted," he said, almost respectfully.