Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 336 - 330: Ceremony

From the outside, the palace looked like something pulled from a myth, all polished stone and banners fluttering in impossible synchrony, the imperial crest catching the sunlight just so, refracting etherlight in gold halos above the outer gates.

Crowds had gathered early. Even the common square beyond the fourth district was packed elbow to elbow, eyes tilted toward the massive enchanted banners floating overhead, each one shimmering faintly with projected images from the grand hall.

And when the double doors opened and Gabriel stepped through, dressed in a robe that looked like moonlight woven into strategy, the silence broke in collective awe. Disbelief. A few tears, too.

"Is that the mark?" someone whispered.

"That embroidery... they said Gloria designed it herself."

"I didn’t think they’d actually show it."

"The press didn’t do him justice; he looks like an angel."

Lady Serathine, like the other important allies, stood in the front rows with an unreadable expression. Next to her, Duke Varel leaned forward slightly, murmuring something only she could hear. She didn’t respond. She was watching Gabriel. And maybe, just maybe, smiling.

On a balcony in the Grand Cathedral were seated the imperial family, Crista, Sofia, and Christian; on the opposite side was the von Jaunez House.

Across the Empire, the silence was no longer just silence; it was reverence, broadcast and binding. In cities as far north as the Donin Republic, merchants stopped mid-transaction to look at glowing windows charmed with Imperial signal scripts. The image sharpened as Gabriel crossed the dais, shoulders square, eyes calm, every step like punctuation in a sentence that would be read for generations.

—

In the Pais capital, exiled nobility watched with barely concealed envy. Elliot, dressed in clothes that didn’t belong to him and seated in a parlor too ornate for his current title, leaned forward until his nose almost touched the viewing glass. He said nothing for a while. Not when Gabriel turned his head and revealed the silver embroidery. Not when the mark glinted like an oath sealed in blood and silk.

When he did speak, it was quiet. Too quiet. "He should’ve been mine."

No one answered him.

—

Far in the south, in a manor flanked by sand and silence, Hadeon watched too. The ether broadcast wasn’t part of his routine, but he’d made an exception. Not out of curiosity. Out of calculation. His jaw tightened the moment Gabriel appeared. He saw the mark, the robe, and the posture. The strength.

He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "So that’s how you crown your little weapon," he murmured to no one. "Wrapped in tradition and dressed in silver so the Empire forgets he’s lethal."

Back in the palace, the final lines of the ceremonial blessing rang out. Damian stepped forward, not to claim, but to stand beside. His robe was darker, denser in gold, every stitch etched with weight, yet somehow it didn’t outshine the silver beside him. He looked at Gabriel once, only once, and the crowd understood the rest.

No declarations were needed.

Only the silence that followed.

And the Empire, watching from rooftops and merchant stalls and aristocratic boxes, knew one truth:

Their Future Empress had arrived.

—

The door clicked shut behind him with the kind of finality that didn’t need a lock. Gabriel didn’t move at first. He stood just inside the imperial chambers, bathed in the muted amber of the wall sconces, and let the silence settle over him like a second robe, this one heavier, real.

The engagement robe had been removed with care hours earlier, folded by Gloria’s own hand and returned to its box like something sacred. The silver cuff was gone too, replaced by the faint press of red where it had clung too tightly to his skin. His hair was still pinned too neatly for comfort. His smile had faded somewhere around the seventh congratulatory toast.

He sighed.

Not dramatically. Just deeply. Bone-deep.

His back ached from standing, his throat from smiling, and his temper from pretending that every foreign official wasn’t dissecting him with their eyes while the nobles whispered theories behind gold-tipped fans.

He didn’t even reach for the lights. The fireplace was still glowing faintly, and that was enough. More than enough. Damian’s robe hung over one of the chairs—tossed, not folded, the way he always left it when he changed in a hurry—and a half-empty glass of something expensive waited on the table beside the bed.

He finally moved, slow and quiet.

Gabriel shed his undershirt in one practiced motion and dropped it somewhere near the edge of the chaise. The trousers followed, with less grace and more frustration. The only thing he didn’t remove was the thin silver chain resting flat against the bond mark on his neck, designed to frame it without hiding it.

He hated that he liked how it looked.

He made it to the bed and didn’t even bother with the covers. He just flopped onto his stomach and groaned into the pillow.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—soft footsteps, deliberate, familiar.

Damian’s voice followed, roughened by exhaustion and the kind of fondness that didn’t need translating. "You survived."

Gabriel didn’t lift his head. "Barely."

He felt the bed dip beside him. A hand slid over his back, warm and slow, and pressed into the knot of tension between his shoulders.

"They called you radiant," Damian murmured. "Three different ambassadors asked if you were real."

Gabriel snorted into the pillow. "Did you tell them I bite?"

"No," Damian said. "But I thought it loudly."

Silence settled again, companionable this time.

Then Gabriel turned his head just enough to speak. "Next time we elope. I’ll throw you a ring in a rice field and call it tradition."

Damian leaned down, his mouth brushing against his temple. "You promised Edward the coronation and marriage, too."

Gabriel let out a sound that was somewhere between a groan and a laugh, muffled by the pillow, unrepentant. "Of course I did. Because apparently I’m a masochist with a penchant for national trauma."

Damian’s fingers curled lightly at his waist, tracing lazy shapes against the bare skin. "You said it with a straight face. I was there."

Gabriel turned his head just enough to glare at him, cheek still mashed into the pillow. "That was before today. Before the choir. Before the ceremonial braid nearly took out my eye. Before your mother kissed me on both cheeks and said I was brave."

"You are brave," Damian murmured.

"I’m tired."

"Also that."

A pause.

Gabriel rolled onto his side with a quiet sigh, one hand reaching out, catching Damian’s shirt, and tugging halfheartedly. "Tell Edward I died."

"No."

"Tell him the stress got to me. Tell him I ran into the woods. Tell him—"

"—you’re planning our next public appearance."

Gabriel groaned and flopped backward. "You used to be on my side."

"I am," Damian said, leaning closer. "Which is why I saved you the last piece of cake and made the ministers wait three hours while you were being paraded like a holy relic."

Gabriel blinked. "You did?"

Damian’s smile was slow, gold in the firelight. "Of course. I’m not unreasonable. Just married."

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "Engaged."

"For now."

They stayed there, quiet, warmth pooling between them and the echo of the empire kept just outside their chamber door.

After a long silence, Gabriel whispered, eyes already half-lidded, "If Edward knocks before sunrise, I’m jumping from the balcony."

Damian pulled him closer. "Then I’ll jump with you."

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