Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 335 - 329: Engagement

The robe settled across his shoulders like a second spine.

It wasn’t heavy, not exactly, but it held weight in all the places that mattered. Gabriel stood still, trying not to shift under the last-minute flurry of adjustments, as Gloria circled him like a force of nature armed with pins and divine indignation.

The embroidery traced along the back of the robe in delicate, silver-threaded curves—cool in tone, intricate without being gaudy. It started at the hem and climbed upward, winding like ethereal calligraphy over his spine, before framing the mark on his neck with deliberate care.

Gloria’s voice was a sharp whisper as she adjusted the fall of the sleeves for the fourth time. "Do not wrinkle this robe before you even walk out there."

"I’m breathing," Gabriel muttered. "That’s the best I can offer right now."

The silk caught the light in subtle flashes of cool metal, almost like moonlight etched into fabric. It wasn’t ceremonial white; it was war paint wrapped in tradition. The kind of robe you wore was not to be seen but to shift seasonal fashion and noble minds.

It was also, in his private opinion, slightly cursed.

One of the attendants tried to brush something off his shoulder that wasn’t there.

Gabriel arched a brow. "Touch me again and I swear I’ll rearrange your future."

The attendant blinked. Stepped back. Wisely.

Gloria ignored them both. She was focused on the embroidery framing the bond mark like it was sacred script. "Perfect," she said, stepping back. "Silver was the right choice. Gold would’ve been too loud. This, this makes people stare without knowing why."

Gabriel exhaled. "They’ll stare anyway."

"They’re going to look at that mark," she said, not unkindly. "Let them see it on your terms."

Irina peeked through the door just then, eyes wide, voice hushed. "They’re almost ready."

"I’m not," Gabriel replied, too honestly.

Gloria handed him the finishing piece, a thin silver cuff, meant to rest just above the elbow, lined in the same delicate pattern that climbed like frostbite down the back of his robe.

Gabriel slipped it on without a word.

He didn’t need to look at the mirror again. He already knew. The robe fell perfectly. The embroidery caught the light like a whispered threat. The mark was framed with such quiet precision it felt staged, and it was. Every inch of him had been designed for this moment. The consort of an Emperor. The future Empress of a country that ate its weak and crowned its survivors.

He was regretting all of it.

They should’ve eloped.

Gone somewhere without banners or choir cues or elderly court officials trying to confirm whether his vow phrasing would include "unto empire."

He could have spared himself the fittings. The fittings for the fittings. The last-minute request to "stand still while we realign the ceremonial weight of your spine." Gloria had said that with a straight face.

Instead, he stood here, dressed like a weapon wrapped in state linen, held together by twenty-seven silver-threaded fastenings and a promise he hadn’t said out loud.

Gloria circled him one last time. Her heels echoed sharply on the marble. She reached forward and adjusted the collar for the fifth time.

"You’re thinking something awful," she said flatly.

Gabriel arched a brow. "I’m thinking we should’ve come back married. Quietly. With the child already born and the empire too stunned to complain."

"You’re very dramatic when you haven’t eaten."

"And yet no one’s bleeding. Yet."

She stepped back, gave him one last full appraisal, and for once, once, she didn’t say anything.

Just nodded.

Irina appeared at the door again, breathless. "They’re ready."

Of course they were.

The Empire was always ready for a spectacle.

Gabriel turned toward the double doors, letting the full weight of the robe settle behind him, the silver embroidery shifting like language too old to translate.

And he walked—one step forward, back straight, expression carved from something colder than doubt.

The ceremonial hall opened at the second it was decided they would open it. Gabriel took a deep breath, forcing himself to look forward and not disappear somewhere reclusive. He almost laughed at that thought. Damian and his Shadows, his hunting dogs, would find him the moment he would step out of the place he should be. Plus, he really enjoyed Damian’s presence; too bad he was coming with an empire.

The air shifted when the doors closed behind him. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just final in the way all quiet decisions are, the kind you don’t walk back from.

He stepped forward, each movement measured, unhurried, spine straight, shoulders held like someone used to wearing expectations instead of armor. The robe followed, the silver-threaded embroidery trailing down his back like it had something to say if you looked long enough. Gabriel didn’t care for the attention. He cared that it worked.

The mark was visible. Framed deliberately. Whispered about, no doubt.

Let them.

At the center, beneath the gilded arc of ethersteel and ceremony, stood Damian.

Waiting.

Edward had changed the order in which they arrived at their respective locations at the last minute, causing havoc in the cathedral, but Damian accepted it.

Already in his robe, black with deep crimson accents and imperial gold spun through the collar and cuffs. No crown. Just Damian, standing still like the idea of movement had to ask permission first. Gabriel could see the lines of power carved into the robe, sharp and severe. It was ceremonial, yes, but there was a kind of threat stitched into every hem. Regal didn’t begin to cover it. The man made silk look like a weapon.

And his eyes, his eyes were fixed on him.

Gabriel didn’t stop walking.

The distance wasn’t far, but it held weight. The kind of weight that gathered on palace balconies and in whispered council rooms. The kind that followed vows long after they were spoken. Each step forward wasn’t just his; it was shared, public, traced by a thousand stares and centuries of politics.

He reached the dais and paused just before the steps.

The choir didn’t breathe. Neither did the court.

Gabriel climbed.

At the top, he met Damian’s gaze, close now, gold catching the filtered light like something molten. His scent, faint and restrained, still curled around the edges of Gabriel’s focus like it had every right to be there.

"You’re early," Gabriel said, voice low.

Damian’s mouth curved slightly, too faint for anyone but him to notice. "I wanted to watch you walk."

Gabriel didn’t smile. But something in his chest eased, quietly.

"And?" he asked.

"You wear it better than I imagined."

He didn’t answer. Just let the silence speak for him as he turned to face the audience. The robe settled around his ankles like smoke. His hands stayed loose at his sides. The embroidery on his back, silver and elegant, caught the light just enough to remind everyone what was marked there.

And next to him stood the Emperor, dangerous, sharp, and silent.

Together, they looked like a promise.

Or a warning.

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