Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 224 - 219: A Throne Without Kneeling

Lady Serathine retook her seat with impeccable grace, her expression composed, but the gleam in her eyes had sharpened. She wasn’t just riding the wave of Gabriel’s influence—she had timed it.

Her estate, though discreetly described as just outside the city, was in fact one of the oldest and most secure properties within the capital walls, surrounded by garden courtyards, ether-lit gates, and old blood secrets. Her wealth alone ensured her relevance, but now? With Gabriel’s approval spoken in full view of the court?

It would be a diplomatic avalanche.

She didn’t need to speak again. Her silence was enough—like a queen laying down her hand and watching the room scramble to catch up.

Across the table, Countess Myrenne’s smile had faltered. The younger nobles were whispering now, veiled behind fans and polite coughs, already recalculating guest lists, rivalries, and favors owed.

What most of them didn’t know—couldn’t know—was that Serathine wasn’t maneuvering alone.

Her husband, Lord Carvell, a quiet strategist and one of the Emperor’s earliest allies, had supported Damian long before the crown. He had recognized Gabriel not merely as a consort but as Dominie. The rebel tactician. The man who once turned entire provinces by voice alone.

Serathine’s invitation had not been a bold guess.

It had been a message.

And Gabriel, of course, understood that.

He met her gaze for just a moment across the rim of his glass. A flicker of something passed between them—cool, distant, but mutual.

An agreement made without words.

He would attend. And more than that, he would remember who gave him the stage first.

Then, softly, with a tone only just above a breath, he said:

"I hear the Emperor and his group. Let’s greet them."

The effect was immediate.

Chairs shifted. Fans stilled. Someone coughed behind a glove, as if caught mid-thought. A few of the younger nobles straightened their posture like students hearing a master’s footsteps.

Gabriel rose with fluid precision, his robe catching the light in soft shades of cream and green as he adjusted the fall of the sleeve at his wrist. His fingers moved with care, unhurried, as though he hadn’t just redrawn the line between power and proximity.

Alexandra stood next, her fan flicking shut with a quiet snap. Julian was already in motion behind them, a silent shadow. Irina glanced toward the door, pale but composed, while Lady Serathine simply took a final sip of her tea, the faintest smile curling at the corners of her mouth.

Rafael watched everything.

He didn’t move, didn’t speak—but his gaze followed the subtle shifts, the weight of Gabriel’s words lingering like perfume in the air. He had been raised in courtrooms, schooled in etiquette, and taught the power of presence—but nothing had prepared him for this.

Gabriel von Jaunez was not what he expected.

He wasn’t an omega in the Emperor’s shadow. He wasn’t playing consort. He wasn’t even reaching for power.

He was power.

Wrapped in pale silk, speaking softly, smiling rarely, and commanding the room without lifting a single voice. Rafael watched the way nobles adjusted themselves around him, how alliances rearranged in silence, and how every gesture—even the sip of water, the fold of a napkin—became something measured.

He didn’t stand a chance in front of him.

Not unless... there was help.

Rafael’s gaze flicked, just once, toward his mother.

Delphine hadn’t moved. She hadn’t spoken. But she was watching Gabriel with that unreadable expression she wore when calculating outcomes two steps past the present. The kind of stillness that meant decisions were already being made behind her eyes.

If anyone could shape a contender out of him, it would be her.

Rafael had never been naive—he knew why he was brought here. What he was being groomed to test, or rival, or mirror. But he hadn’t expected to be standing at the edge of something that felt already won.

But Rafael also knew the truth of these circles.

There was no clean fight.

He shifted his posture slightly, just enough to remind himself that stillness could be dangerous if mistaken for surrender. His mother’s plan wasn’t complicated—just ruthless.

Either he caught the Emperor’s eye...

Or Prince Christian’s.

One bond, one moment of favor, and the entire balance of power could shift again. Gabriel’s victory wasn’t carved in stone yet.

And he was ready to fight for his place.

The Emperor entered.

Damian Lyon wore crimson today. A military-cut coat over his tall frame with sharp lines and tailored authority, and beneath it, a black turtleneck clung close to his throat like a second skin, his gloves held loose in one hand.

And behind him came the gravity.

Prince Christian, silver-eyed and smiling faintly, the most dangerous mask in the Empire.

Maximilian Claymore, silent and unreadable, green eyes tracking the room like a man used to seeing through walls.

Caelan Lancaster, sharp as ever, dressed to the edge of military fashion, scanning for his wife with the determination of a man wanting to go home with her tonight.

And Theodore von Jaunez, barely containing his irritation from the meetings earlier in the day, was looking for Gabriel and Julian.

The nobles stood.

Some bowed immediately, instinct overriding thought. Others hesitated, casting furtive glances at Gabriel—at the way he hadn’t moved yet, hadn’t bent or broken or even shifted his weight in response to the Emperor’s arrival.

Gabriel simply stood.

A figure cut from winter sunlight and silk, his hands resting lightly at his sides, the ring on his finger catching the faintest gleam from the chandelier overhead.

Damian saw him instantly. freewёbnoνel.com

"It seems like you had a nice party," Damian said, his voice low and conversational, as he crossed the final steps toward Gabriel without breaking eye contact.

He simply reached him—then, without waiting for ceremony or invitation, took the hand of Gabriel, landing a soft kiss on his knuckles.

The room froze.

Just a silence so sharp it felt like a thread drawn taut between every pair of eyes now fixed on them.

And when he released Gabriel’s hand, it was with a lingering drag of fingertips, slow and deliberate, before he sat down in the chair beside him—settling in as if there were nowhere else he would ever belong.

Only then did Gabriel turn slightly, offering Damian the ghost of a smile.

"A pity you missed the best part," Gabriel said lightly.

Damian’s golden eyes gleamed with something between amusement and a warning.

"I’m sure you’ll tell me about it later," he said, voice pitched low enough that only Gabriel could truly hear the weight behind it.