Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 229 - 224: Inheritance of Rot (BONUS)

The von Jaunez estate stood heavy against the misted evening, its dark stone walls and sweeping gardens lit by the subtle pulse of Ether lanterns lining the perimeter. It wasn’t a welcoming sight tonight.

It was a fortress.

Charles von Jaunez stood on the front steps, his coat half unbuttoned, one gloved hand tightening at his side. He didn’t bother admiring the house he had grown up in. He had no fondness left for it—not anymore. He had returned to the manor only for Gabriel, only to make sure that he was safe from Lucius and Eloween.

The heavy oaken doors opened under the weight of his knock, a senior servant bowing stiffly.

"Lord Charles," the man greeted, stepping aside.

Charles didn’t waste time. His boots echoed sharply against the polished floors as he crossed the threshold.

He was not here for a family reunion.

He was here for Linnea.

The palace had made the request weeks ago—demanded, in fact—that House von Jaunez transfer custody of Linnea Mayers, the former maid and aspiring actress who had embedded herself into Gabriel’s household under false pretenses. It should have been simple. Routine. Signed, sealed, delivered.

"Where is Joseph?" he barked, his voice cutting across the quiet like a whip.

The senior steward—an old man who had survived three heads of the family by keeping his mouth shut—bowed stiffly.

"In the west gardens with His Excellency, my lord," he answered, not meeting Charles’s eyes. "In the office."

Joseph was waiting just outside the east wing, pale and sweating despite the cool ether breeze that snaked through the corridors.

"My lord," Joseph said stiffly, bowing low.

"Where is he?" Charles asked, already knowing the answer.

"The office," Joseph murmured. His eyes flickered once—nervous, guilty—but he said nothing else.

Charles didn’t break stride.

He found Lucius von Jaunez precisely where he expected—seated behind the sprawling carved desk in the west garden office, a glass of dark liquor in his hand, his robe perfectly arranged across his shoulders, the very picture of a man who still believed appearances could save him.

Joseph stood just behind him, silent and still.

Lucius looked up as Charles entered but didn’t rise.

"Charles," he said smoothly, as if they were meeting over family matters rather than treason. "I trust the palace sent you?"

"You know why I’m here," Charles said coldly, shutting the door behind him.

Lucius took a slow sip of his drink before answering.

"I’m afraid your trip was wasted," he said lightly. "Linnea Mayers is dead."

The words dropped into the office like stones in deep water.

For a moment, there was only the faint ticking of the old wall clock and the cold scent of the ether lantern burning overhead.

Charles didn’t move.

Lucius continued with that same maddening, polished tone:

"She bit through her own tongue in the dungeon four days after she was in the dungeon. Despite our best efforts to intervene, she succumbed to blood loss before the palace’s soldiers arrived. We reported it properly. Joseph will provide you with the full documentation—her behavior, her refusal to eat, her violent outbursts. We have nothing to hide."

He gestured lazily toward a slim folder resting on the desk.

Joseph didn’t move to hand it over. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

His mouth was pinched tight. His hands folded a little too neatly behind his back.

Charles’s gaze flicked from Lucius to Joseph.

"Nothing to hide?" Charles said, his voice like a blade sheathed in velvet. "A prisoner under imperial request, dead in your care. How convenient."

Lucius set his glass down with a soft click, leaning back in his chair, posture impeccable.

"I’m aware," Lucius said evenly, "that my complicated relationship with Gabriel has... diminished me in your eyes, Charles. But I have no reason to kill a maid. I would never stain my hands with her blood."

Charles’s mouth curled into something that wasn’t a smile.

"Do you know what she did?"

Lucius tilted his head slightly, like a teacher indulging an overeager student. "She sold information to Elliot Claymore," he said, voice smooth. "From what we gathered... it was nothing important. Trivial observations. Gossip. Some schedules."

"Nothing important," Charles repeated softly, almost thoughtfully. His fingers brushed over the folder tucked under his arm, tapping once.

He took two steps forward, closing the distance to the desk until only the gleam of the polished wood separated them.

"Maybe," Charles said, his voice quieter now, dangerous in its precision, "you should look at this."

He dropped a slim, second folder onto the desk.

It landed with a sharp snap against the lacquered surface.

Lucius’s gaze flicked downward.

The cover was plain. Imperial seal embossed in silver.

An image slid free from between the pages—a photograph, captured in faint ether-glow.

It fluttered lightly onto the polished desk.

Lucius stared.

Gabriel.

And Elliot Claymore.

Standing too close in a blurred alcove, the angle distorted, the light low—but the implication unmistakable.

Lucius’s face darkened, a terrible stillness locking across his features.

He hadn’t known about this.

His fingers twitched once against the edge of the desk, a barely controlled reflex.

"Who did this?" Lucius said quietly.

Charles’s gaze didn’t soften.

"Patricia Duarte," he answered, his tone cold and absolute. "Damian entered her mind personally. She knew about the image from Elliot. And Elliot," Charles’s mouth curved slightly in disdain, "got it from Linnea."

Lucius stalled.

The world behind his eyes moved faster than he could speak—calculating the damage, the timelines, and the political slaughter that would have followed if that image had reached the public.

If they had seen Gabriel—standing too close to a traitor—twisted and spun into scandal.

Lucius’s brows drew together, a deep frown carving itself into the lines of his face.

For once, the calculation cracked.

"I would never do something like this," he said, voice low but certain. "Gabriel is where he’s supposed to be."

The words came too fast, too raw to be anything but real.

"No," Charles said, his voice a blade sliding between ribs, "you didn’t."

He took a step closer to the desk, his shadow cutting sharply across the gleaming wood.

"But you permitted it."

Lucius’s mouth tightened, the flicker of guilt too quick to disguise.

"You allowed your people to be careless. You let rot fester under your own roof while you were too busy guarding your pride."

Charles’s gaze hardened, like frost setting into steel.

"And Damian won’t take this lightly."

He let that sink in, watching as Lucius stiffened, the realization digging into him inch by painful inch.

"Sure," Charles continued softly, almost conversational, "he has Patricia Duarte and her entire cursed clan to unleash his anger on first. He has bigger enemies to bleed dry."

He paused deliberately.

"But make another mistake like this," Charles said, his voice dropping into something darker, something cold enough to crack stone, "and you are the next."

Silence.

The kind that filled the lungs with cold water instead of air.

Lucius didn’t answer.

He didn’t need to.

His silence was admission enough.

Charles turned without another word, gathering the folder under his arm, the faint brush of paper the only farewell he offered.

The door closed behind him with a final, ruthless snap.