Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 231 - 226: A Year to Drown (BONUS)

"You backed the wrong gods," Max said, his voice almost pitying now. "And now you’re praying to corpses."

"Just so you know," he added, his voice dropping lower, rougher, "Gabriel is a good man now. Strategic. Calculated."

He tilted his head slightly, studying Elliot like something broken beyond repair.

"But before? He was on equal footing with Damian. Before the contract shattered his memories".

Elliot’s mouth went dry.

"You should pray," Max continued, the edge of a smile cutting across his face, "that Damian never lifts the contract from Gabriel’s mind."

There was a moment of thick, unbearable silence. Then Max reached into his jacket and tossed a small sealed envelope onto the table, the wax stamped with the imperial crest.

"You have a year," he said, casual, like he was delivering an invitation to a ball. "That’s what Damian told me to deliver." ƒreewebηoveℓ.com

Elliot stared at the envelope as if it were a live thing.

A year.

"A year before what?" Elliot croaked, the words dragging out of him before he could stop them.

Max paused in the doorway, half-turning back.

The faintest smile touched his mouth—cruel, knowing.

"I will make sure to send you the footage of your mother’s execution," he said lightly, as if discussing a piece of mail. "Even if, at this point, death would be mercy."

Elliot’s chest tightened.

Max’s eyes gleamed, merciless.

"She was in the Shadows’ hands until now," he added, almost thoughtfully. "Damian gave her to them after unraveling her mind."

He stepped forward, voice dropping lower, almost conversational — which only made it worse.

"They don’t kill quickly. They don’t even break the body first. They break the mind.

Anya," Max said, tipping his chin slightly toward the dark corridor where the princess had been led, "is the best-case scenario after someone forces a mind to open."

Elliot stared at him, a hollow, ringing sound filling his ears.

Max smiled slowly, coldly, and unhurriedly, as if he were watching a predator tighten its grip on a carcass.

"Patricia held on longer than Anya ever could. Stronger bloodline. Stronger pride," Max murmured.

"But eventually, everyone breaks. Everyone talks."

He leaned in slightly, just enough for Elliot to feel the full weight of it.

"Your mother told them everything."

The words struck like a blade.

Max straightened again, brushing imaginary dust from his black jacket.

"I wonder if she screamed your name when it ended," he mused idly, like he truly didn’t care either way. "Would be fitting."

Elliot couldn’t speak. Could barely breathe.

Max gave a final, crisp nod, more executioner than messenger.

"You have a year," he repeated. "Enjoy it."

And then he turned, leaving Elliot suffocating in the heavy silence, the sealed imperial envelope still waiting like a tombstone on the table.

Outside the window, snow spiraled against the glass.

Inside, Elliot was already drowning.

—

Max closed the door behind him with deliberate care, the soft click sounding louder than a gunshot in the frozen hall.

He paused for a moment, breathing in the old, stale air of the diplomatic manor, a place designed for masks and polite decay.

Then he pulled on his gloves and walked down the long, empty corridor, his steps silent against the worn stone.

Outside, the night had deepened.

Snow coated the ground in a heavy, untouched sheet, glittering under the muted lanterns. The convoy waited at the gates, their outlines black against the white landscape.

Max made his way to the sleek black car waiting for him, one of Damian’s personal units, its engines purring low like a resting predator.

The guard at the door saluted without a word. Max climbed into the back seat, the door shutting with a muffled thud.

As the car pulled away from the manor, Max leaned back into the leather seat, pulling off his gloves with slow, mechanical precision.

He stared out the window, but he wasn’t really seeing the snow or the endless frozen fields.

His mind was elsewhere — darker, heavier.

Damian Lyon.

The Emperor.

The monster the nobles thought they had tamed.

They had no idea.

Max had seen it — not the polished veneer Damian showed the world, not even the sharp, lethal brilliance he wielded in courtrooms and battlefields.

He had seen what Damian became when truly provoked.

And lately...

Nobles were idiots enough to touch the only thing that kept him diplomatic.

Max pulled his phone from his coat pocket, the sleek device glowing coldly against the darkness of the car.

He tapped the screen once, twice, then pressed the call button without hesitation.

The line barely rang before it connected.

"Max," Damian’s voice came through, low and controlled—but there was an undercurrent beneath it. A barely restrained edge that made the fine hairs on Max’s neck stand on end.

"I’ve delivered the message," Max said dryly, shifting slightly in his seat. "Can you stop using me as a bloody messenger?"

A beat of silence.

Then Damian exhaled, a sound that could have been mistaken for amusement if it wasn’t so predatory.

"You’re the only one he wouldn’t try to stab on sight," Damian said simply. "Be grateful."

Max rolled his eyes and leaned his head back against the seat.

"I’d prefer being left out of your psychological warfare," he muttered. "But sure. Next time, I’ll deliver flowers with the death threats."

Another pause, and Max could almost feel Damian’s smirk, cold and amused, even from the distance. He respected Damian, but the rumors about Gabriel being Elliot’s lover or Anya’s former first love had changed something in him. Max could only hope that the nobles would stop being idiots before his first nephew was born.

"You did well," Damian said at last, and the faint flicker of rare approval in his tone made Max’s fingers tighten around the phone.

Praise from Damian was rarer than peace in the Empire.

Max sat up straighter despite himself.

Duty over pride, always.

"They’re escalating," Max added, letting the sarcasm drain from his voice. "You were right. Again."

Damian’s amusement vanished instantly.

"Care to explain?" he ordered, his voice shifting into the tone that meant someone’s life was about to end.