Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 230 - 225: Exile (BONUS)

The diplomatic convoy moved like a silver snake across the countryside, cutting through the Empire’s late afternoon haze. Armored vehicles and glittering black cars glided across the winding roads, protected by imperial banners and a discreet, heavily armed escort.

Elliot Claymore lounged in the back seat of his personal car, a glass of chilled wine in hand. The interior was fitted with the finest—deep violet leather, polished wood trim, small enchanted fans humming quietly in the corners. He had demanded luxury, and luxury had been granted.

Across from him sat Princess Anya, or what remained of her.

She stared out the window, unblinking, her posture rigid, her fingers knotted in her lap. Her hair was still styled, her dress pristine, and her face painted to the standards expected of a future Countess—but her spirit had hollowed out.

At the engagement ceremony, she had smiled, bowed, laughed at the appropriate moments. She had played her role. Now, barely a few days later, she seemed less a woman and more a crumbling statue, her mind already halfway across the border into madness.

Elliot sipped the wine, eyeing her over the rim of his glass.

Pathetic.

He had never wanted this marriage. Even now, tethered to Anya like a sinking stone, he couldn’t summon pity. Only irritation. She had gambled and lost. Now she was his burden to carry into exile—a necessary pawn in a losing game.

The convoy rolled to a slow stop just before dusk at a sprawling diplomatic manor. Gilded gates opened for them. Guards in paisian blue lined the drive, faces blank. They were still on imperial soil for the night, but the border loomed only hours ahead.

The cold of the stone seeped through the soles of his polished shoes, and the heavy, humid air clung to his tailored jacket like a second skin—too warm, too close, as if the palace itself disapproved of his presence.

Behind him, the door creaked again.

Anya stumbled through it.

Her heel snagged on the threshold, and for a moment she lurched forward, catching herself gracelessly on the gilded doorframe. A maid rushed forward, hands outstretched, barely managing to steady her before she fell.

The scent of expensive perfume mixed with sweat and something sour clung to the air.

Elliot didn’t turn. Didn’t glance. Didn’t offer a hand.

He kept walking, the ghost of a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—not amusement, but contempt barely veiled in civility.

The maid helped Anya regain her footing. Her cheeks flushed, not with embarrassment, but frustration—the kind that simmered behind jeweled eyes and curled fingers.

Elliot didn’t slow. Let her follow, or don’t. He no longer cared. Not truly. Not after what had just transpired behind those doors.

And the palace, in all its suffocating grandeur, seemed to press closer around them—listening.

—

The manor was built in the old Paisian style—high arches, wide balconies, and walls painted in pastel shades dulled by time. Inside, it was warm, the halls echoing with their arrival. Anya was guided away to her rooms by silent servants. Elliot was shown to a guest wing, where a decanter of wine and a spread of fruits and meats awaited him.

He dismissed the servants.

As he leaned against the window overlooking the frozen fountain court, night falling fast, a knock came.

Elliot turned with a scowl. "Enter."

The door swung open, and Maximilian Claymore stepped in, without announcement, without hesitation. His black jacket was wet from the snow, but he carried himself with the same irritating ease Elliot had always hated.

"Still alive, I see," Max said dryly, surveying the room.

"You came to gloat?" Elliot asked, setting down his glass harder than necessary. "Save it."

Max leaned against the frame casually, arms crossed.

"I didn’t come to gloat," he said. "I came to see how fast you’re sinking."

Elliot sneered. "I’m doing just fine."

"Sure." Max’s gaze shifted to the window, to the guarded courtyard where Anya had been led like a ghost. "She isn’t."

Silence thickened between them.

Elliot finally broke it, his voice low and sharp. "What do you want, Max? To see if I’ll crack? To report back to your precious Emperor?"

Max smiled, slow and sharp. "No. Damian already knows you’re broken. I’m here because..."

He pushed off the doorframe and came closer, his voice lowering.

"...because soon enough, you’ll realize exile isn’t your worst punishment. Your mother, Patricia Duarte, will be executed for treason in a matter of days."

Elliot froze.

For a moment, the words didn’t register, hanging heavy in the warm air between them. Then he felt the glass slip from his fingers, the wine spilling across the polished floor in a widening crimson pool.

"You’re lying," Elliot rasped, though the denial rang hollow even to his own ears.

Max only shrugged, unbothered. "She chose her side. She bet against Damian. Against the Empire. She lost."

"You can’t—" Elliot cut himself off, teeth grinding together. His hands clenched at his sides. "You can’t just kill her."

Max’s golden-green eyes flickered with something—pity, maybe—but it passed too quickly to catch.

"She used information you and a deceased maid, Linnea, knew about Gabriel. Damian is a motherfucker whenever someone touches anything that belongs to him. Gabriel... is a special case."

Elliot opened his mouth, ready with a biting retort, but Max’s words hit him harder than he expected.

Gabriel.

Of course it was Gabriel.

Elliot remembered the whispered warnings, the veiled threats that surrounded the imperial court ever since Gabriel had been pulled into the center of it.

A consort. A mate.

A symbol—and something infinitely more dangerous.

"You think he’s worth all this?" Elliot asked, the bitterness burning in his throat. "Damian throwing entire families into the fire for a whore?"

"Funny for someone whose family orchestrated an image of you fucking him in the palace. Do you even know what a dominant alpha can do when his mate is involved?" Max’s voice was calm, almost mocking, but his eyes burned with real violence beneath the surface.

Elliot flinched.

A small, involuntary thing, but Max caught it.

"You’re lucky Damian didn’t rip your throat out the moment he saw it," Max went on, stepping closer. "You think this is politics. You think it’s just posturing. But you don’t know anything about him. About them."

Max leaned in, close enough that Elliot could see the cold fury in his golden-green eyes.

"You touched what belongs to him. You let your mother touch it. You unleashed something you were never meant to survive."

"Hadeon will save her," Elliot spat, desperation bleeding through his voice before he could stop it.

Max laughed—low, dark, and vicious.

A sound without a trace of humor.

"Hadeon?" Max said, as if tasting the name and finding it rotten.

"Hadeon will throw her under the disaster." He took a slow step forward until his shadow loomed over Elliot. "He fears Damian more than anyone in this empire."

The words slammed into Elliot harder than he cared to show.

Max’s voice turned colder still, every syllable a death sentence.

"He won’t lift a finger. He’ll stand there and watch your mother burn if it means keeping himself alive a little longer."

Elliot’s chest heaved, the walls of the room pressing inward.

It couldn’t be true. It couldn’t.

But deep down, in the hollow pit left behind by ambition and arrogance, he knew.

He knew Hadeon was a coward at heart. Ruthless, calculating — and always willing to sacrifice his own if it meant surviving the purge.