Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 353 - 347: Should’ve Been Mine

The hall in Pais was decadent in the way only borrowed power could be, lined in expensive brocade, dusted in gold, everything too polished, too ornamental, like a child dressing in a king’s robes. The midday sun streamed in through narrow windows, casting sharp angles across the long banquet table where Elliot sat, his expression unreadable as the message from Donin burned against his palm.

Across from him sat his wife.

Princess Anya looked radiant in pale lilac silk, her hair arranged in an intricate style that likely took hours, her makeup flawless, and her posture upright. And yet, she wasn’t really there. Her gaze drifted past him, unfocused, mouth parted slightly as a server gently raised a spoon to her lips. She swallowed, more out of reflex than awareness, and the attendant moved on to the next dish.

Elliot didn’t look away, not after reaching the Capital City of Pais. Watching her like this grounded him in something dark and ugly.

She had once been beautiful. Sharp. Arrogant. A mirror to his own ambition. Now she was a cautionary tale wrapped in brocade.

He unfolded the thin letter in his hand, coated in Hadeon’s encryption, of course, sealed twice for paranoia and bloodlined once for assurance. Its contents weren’t long.

’Destabilize Pais. Remind the Grand Duke who controls his alliances. And when the Emperor responds, I want his attention split.

You owe me, Elliot. Time to repay it.’

His thumb dragged along the edge of the paper, catching slightly on the wax seal of Donin. The message said what he already knew: it was time to choose.

Across the room, resting inside the inner pocket of his embroidered waistcoat, was a folded purple letter, a diplomatic missive written in Damian’s hand, delivered months ago through Maximilian, sealed with the crest of the imperial family.

He thought about the bond mark hidden beneath Gabriel’s collar. The last time they spoke, he didn’t feel it there; there was no scent.

About how Gabriel had never looked at him like he looked at the Emperor, not once, not even when they worked together at Claymore Company.

Not even when Elliot still had a chance.

His knuckles whitened.

"Shall I inform the court, my lord?" a servant asked, eyes lowered respectfully.

Elliot folded the Donin letter, slid it into the pocket over his heart, and stood. "Yes," he said. "Tell the Duke I’m ready to speak."

"And the Emperor’s response, should it arrive?"

He didn’t hesitate. "Burn it."

As he passed by Anya’s chair, he didn’t spare her a glance. The scent of her perfume clung to the air like stale regret, floral, faintly medicinal, like something preserved too long in a glass box.

Elliot’s steps didn’t slow as he left the hall, the hem of his tailored coat catching the sunlight. He didn’t need to look back. He already knew what he would see: a kingdom that played at dignity, a wife who breathed but did not live, and a legacy he was denied in favor of Maximilian.

But how could he forget the only person who had ever made him feel something real?

Not admiration, not the polished affection of court girls curtsying too low, not the mechanical loyalty of men who bowed because they were bred to, and certainly not the cold ache of his mother’s ambition pretending to be love. No, Gabriel had made him feel, in a way that was never safe, never planned, never part of the script that Elliot had written for himself as the heir of a noble house destined to rise.

It was in the way Gabriel used to look at him, not with awe, not with hunger, but with annoyance, with sharp, intelligent disdain, like he knew exactly who Elliot was and still bothered to hand him the right tool without needing to be asked. Like he saw through every title and every inch of borrowed arrogance and still stood beside him, blue ether humming low between them, his hands stained with graphite and calibration dust, his mouth biting back something smarter than what Elliot could ever say.

And one night, just once, Gabriel had laughed. Really laughed. Soft and sudden, teeth flashing, eyes narrowed with dry amusement, like something had finally broken through. Elliot hadn’t remembered what triggered it, only that sound, the fragile, impossible lightness of it. It had etched itself behind his ribs and stayed there, like a prayer he never meant to say aloud.

He told himself he’d forget.

That after the execution of his mother, after the glittering engagement sealed in gold rings and headlines, after the Empire dragged his mother’s legacy into the mud and buried it, Gabriel would rot into memory. That the pain would become a bruise. Dull. Livable.

But Gabriel didn’t rot.

He thrived.

And that was what Elliot couldn’t forgive.

He still wore pale shirts and darker vests, but now there was silk in the lining and steel in his gaze. Now there were guards who bowed at his command. Now there were whispers of "Empress" trailing behind him like perfume. Now he belonged to someone else, and that someone was the one man Elliot couldn’t outmatch.

Damian Orion Lyon.

A name soaked in fear and war and golden supremacy. A name that curled around Gabriel’s throat like a collar.

And Elliot, Elliot wanted to tear it off.

Not for the throne. Not for power. For the look in Gabriel’s eyes. For the way he used to glance at Elliot like he might argue, like he might choose. He wanted to steal that back. Twist it into something that belonged to him again.

He would make Gabriel watch.

Watch as the world tilted in Elliot’s favor, one fracture at a time.

He would split Pais from the inside. Let Damian scramble between wars. Let the Emperor bleed his forces dry across two fronts.

And when the Empire was forced to look away, just for a second, Elliot would take what should’ve been his.

Gabriel didn’t need a crown. He needed a room. One with no doors. One where no golden-eyed tyrant could ever touch him again.

He would be safe.

And Elliot would finally have what he never stopped dreaming of.

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