Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 381 - 375: A storm for Max (1)

The first night of the Coming-of-Age Ceremony began with the same power and ceremony as last year.

Inside the ceremonial hall, everything gleamed. Obsidian pillars lined the main aisle, their bases laced with lightward runes that shimmered gold and deep crimson with each passing hour. The ceiling arched into a dome of star-etched glass, casting the illusion of constellations overhead, hand-selected by Gabriel to match those visible on the night of the first Empire’s founding.

At the far end of the hall, the double doors opened.

Damian and Gabriel entered together.

The effect was immediate. Every head turned, every breath stilled, every intention shifted as if the room had inhaled all at once and forgotten how to exhale.

Damian walked in full imperial regalia, crimson layered over black and gold, lines clean but brutal, tailored like armor. His crown was simple and sharp, a dark arc of power resting just above his brow. But it was his hair that drew whispers: longer now, swept into a low tie, strands falling in soft defiance around his face. It should have softened him. It didn’t.

He looked like a war dressed for court.

Gabriel walked beside him, robes trailing behind in molten red, so dark they bordered on imperial black. Silver embroidery traced the edges like quiet fire, echoing the markings of the Empire’s founding contract. The robe was tailored long in the sleeves, draping just enough to obscure the growing curve of his stomach, just enough to hide it from the ever-praying eyes of the greedy nobles.

Behind them, the procession followed with deliberate grace.

Alexandra von Jaunez walked on Damian’s left, regal in an emerald-trimmed gown over the signature deep blue of House Lancaster. Beside her, Caelan moved like carved stone, tall, golden-haired, and with the unbothered elegance of old nobility sharpened by a soldier’s precision. They matched stride for stride, the perfect portrait of a marital alliance that no one could quite believe worked, and yet feared all the same.

Irina trailed just behind, a dream in pale rose and sheer gauze, her golden hair pinned in soft waves that made her look younger than her title allowed. She walked lightly, like she wasn’t carrying the full weight of half the Capital’s curiosity on her shoulders. Her eyes flicked across the nobles with the calm, deadly interest of someone raised in the inner rooms of power.

But it was the last pair that silenced the whispering galleries.

Astana Blake, the Emperor’s secretary, ever the ghost in well-cut coats, now walked in plain sight, by Prince Christian’s side.

The Crown’s only prince, for now, wore deep navy layered over silver-threaded silk, his long dark hair pulled back into a loose tie, the lion crest of the Empire resting boldly at his collar. Christian radiated ease, like a man who already knew every secret in the room and simply hadn’t decided yet whose ruin would come first.

Astana, beside him, wore no House colors. Just a high-collared black ensemble, sleek and severe, with a silver pin at his shoulder that bore no crest, only a mirrored sigil: the personal mark of the Emperor’s inner circle.

Gasps rippled through the rows. A beta. A commoner. Walking beside a prince.

Holding his gaze.

Christian leaned slightly toward him and said something under his breath that made Astana’s mouth twitch, half-smile, half-warning.

Gabriel caught it, of course. He caught everything.

His lips barely curved, his voice low enough for only Damian to hear:

"I told you they’d break something before the procession was over."

Damian didn’t look away from the throne. "If they haven’t fainted by the time Astana sits next to Christian, I’ll consider it a diplomatic victory."

Gabriel hummed, quiet and pleased. "Or a mass stroke."

Together, they reached the dais.

Gabriel didn’t pause. He ascended at Damian’s side with the same calm fury he used to sign death warrants and rearrange entire ministries. One hand brushed briefly over the smooth stone armrest as he sat.

When Damian sat beside him, their robes overlapped ever so slightly, red bleeding into black, gold edging into silver. A crown and a blade.

And below them, eight hundred nobles remembered exactly who ruled them now.

—

Three hours into the ceremony, Gabriel wanted to kill someone.

Not metaphorically. Not diplomatically.

Actually. Kill. Someone.

He had survived wars, court coups, attempted poisoning, and being bonded to an Emperor with a martyr complex. But this... this... was its own form of sanctioned torture: nobles parading their twenty-one-year-olds like auctioned jewelry, each one trying to outdo the last in flair, subservience, or theatrical lineage recitals.

And there was still one more day of it.

Gabriel’s back ached, his ankles were swelling beneath layers of ceremonial silk, and the baby had decided to use his lungs as a drum set again. The latest heir, an oily little toad wrapped in diamonds and desperation, was reciting a poem written in his family’s honor that, by the sound of it, had been composed by a drunk courtier with a grudge against rhyming.

Gabriel’s eye twitched.

"How much longer until Rafael has to present his greetings?" he asked Alexandra without looking at her, purely to avoid making eye contact with the sweating heir currently reciting his fourth stanza.

Alexandra didn’t miss a beat. "Five more candidates, and then he’s up. He’s paired with the delegation from Pais, as per your adjustment."

Gabriel hummed in satisfaction, shifting just enough to relieve the pressure on his spine. "Good. At least one noble I actually want to see. And Max?"

"He’s on the other side of the palace," Alexandra replied, dabbing the corner of her mouth with a silk handkerchief more for effect than necessity. "Apparently there’s been a diplomatic misunderstanding between two minor republics."

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed. "What kind of misunderstanding?"

"They brought the same gift for your son. Identical, down to the wrapping." Alexandra smiled thinly. "They’re now accusing each other of espionage and cultural plagiarism."

Gabriel stared ahead, unimpressed. "It’s a rattle. With a dragon on it."

"A hand-carved rattle with regional etchings," she corrected, drawing out the words with theatrical solemnity. "And apparently, both claim it was blessed by their high priest."

Gabriel closed his eyes briefly. "Of course."

Alexandra continued, tone casual. "His mate, Adam, is with him. At last, we get to meet him."

That drew Gabriel’s attention. He turned slightly, one brow arching. "He showed up?"

"He did. Max looked smug about it. Which, for Max, means he only insulted one ambassador instead of three."

Gabriel allowed himself the smallest smirk. "Progress."

"Adam’s polite," Alexandra added. "But not quiet. Very pretty. No patience for nonsense. Max looked like he’d been tamed by a storm."

Gabriel made a low sound of amusement. "Fitting. He always did chase disasters."

"Now he’s marrying one."

Gabriel lifted his cup but didn’t drink. "Let’s hope it’s mutual."

"Oh, it is," Alexandra murmured, gaze following the next stiff-backed candidate approaching the throne. "He threatened to rearrange the chair placements in Max’s wing and didn’t die for it. That’s practically a wedding vow."

Gabriel glanced toward Damian, who hadn’t looked away from the procession once. "We should invite them both to sit with us on the third night."

"I already did," Alexandra said smoothly. "You just haven’t seen the new seating chart yet."

Gabriel sighed. "You rearranged protocol again, didn’t you?"

"Only the parts that didn’t suit your mood."

Gabriel smiled faintly, eyes still fixed forward. "Thank you."

Alexandra’s voice softened. "Always."

The procession continued. Four more heirs. Then Rafael. Then, finally, the night could end. Or at least shift into the kind of political theater that allowed Gabriel to sit down with honey and not pretend to care.

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