Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 374 - 368: The delusion has vanished.

Pais was colder than he remembered.

Not in temperature, God knew the weather was mild, pristine even, but in the way doors didn’t open anymore. The kind of cold that came from delayed replies, narrowed eyes, and officials who smiled too tightly while not-so-subtly escorting you out.

Elliot Claymore adjusted his coat, smoothing the front with mechanical precision. The envelope in his glove had been folded and refolded too many times to pass as dignified anymore. Inside was a list of names, promises, and whispered offers of trade and allegiance. Useless things, if this didn’t work.

"Grand Duke Daniel Rhine will see you now," the aide said finally, barely glancing at him.

Of course he would.

Elliot had pushed every favor, every vestige of Claymore blood and title, just to get this one meeting. He stepped inside, expecting a tired man behind a desk.

What he got instead was a cathedral of silence and a monarch in everything but a crown.

Daniel Rhine stood tall near the hearth, dressed not in palace finery but in deep navy tailored with such clean, sharp lines it looked ceremonial. His bearing was straight-backed, one hand resting lightly on the carved head of his cane, though he didn’t need it.

His eyes were bright blue, piercing without malice, but with the kind of clarity that came from years of seeing through men. The kind that belonged to someone who had once walked a battlefield and memorized the shape of every betrayal he survived.

Elliot’s confidence faltered for just a second.

"Lord Claymore," Daniel said, his voice smooth and measured like polished stone. "Quite the distance to travel for a conversation."

"It’s a privilege to be granted one," Elliot replied, bowing slightly.

"It won’t be long," Daniel added and made no gesture for him to sit. "You came to sway me. But I’m here to save you the effort."

Elliot blinked, lips parting. "I think you may want to reconsider. This isn’t just a..."

"No." The word was soft. But final. "This is not a discussion. This is an end."

Daniel moved forward a step, the cane tapping once against the stone floor before resting beside him again. He didn’t loom. The air itself bowed to him.

"You came with messages from Hadeon," Daniel continued. "Which is almost funny, considering the man still hasn’t realized he’s already lost. But let me be very clear."

He met Elliot’s eyes, sharp enough to draw blood.

"Gabriel von Jaunez is six months pregnant."

The words landed like glass shattering on marble.

"With Damian Lyon’s child," Daniel added, mercilessly calm. "The heir to the Empire is nearly born. The bloodline has already extended. There is nothing Hadeon can offer now that outweighs what Damian already owns."

Elliot stared. His breath caught in the back of his throat.

Daniel continued as if delivering a weather report. "The child is healthy. Male alpha. Dominant. The Empire has already begun closing ranks. Edmund," he said, voice flattening into disdain, "has locked himself in the palace with whatever lapdog advisors Hadeon left him."

"And you..." Elliot began, voice unsteady, "You’re supporting the rebellion?"

"I am the rebellion," Daniel said. "And unlike my cursed brother, I am no one’s puppet."

The room was suddenly too quiet.

Daniel’s gaze cut through him again. "You’re here on borrowed time, Lord Claymore. And borrowed name. "Hadeon’s name is written in blood."

Elliot’s hands tightened around the envelope. "You don’t understand the position I’m in."

"I understand it perfectly," Daniel replied, cold and clean. "You gambled everything on the losing side, and now you’ve come looking for mercy in the house of the future."

Daniel let the silence stretch, examining the man before him like one might inspect a cracked antique, once valuable, still intricate, but no longer intact.

Elliot stood there, draped in the tailored weight of a name that no longer protected him, eyes ringed in exhaustion that no amount of coin or pride could smooth. There was desperation at the corners of his mouth, that soft tremor of a man who still believed, desperately believed, that he had a chance. That if he just said the right thing and moved the right piece, he could rewind time and place himself beside Gabriel again. Where he thought he belonged. Where he believed Gabriel should have chosen him.

Daniel watched him with something close to pity, the kind of pity one reserves for those who still cling to illusion while standing at the edge of ruin.

"You’re as broken as Anya," he said at last. "But at least she has an excuse. The Shadows shattered her mind after she tried to hurt their Empress. You? You did this to yourself."

Elliot’s jaw locked, but he didn’t answer.

"Gabriel is six months into his pregnancy," Daniel continued, voice razor-sharp. "Damian’s child. The future of the Empire. There is no room for you in that world. You never had a chance to touch Dominie."

He took a single step forward.

"Your only value now, Elliot Claymore, is silence. If you’re lucky, you’ll be allowed to keep that."

And with that, Daniel turned, posture still ruler-straight, shoulders unbent by the burden of kingship or betrayal. Because unlike Edmund, his cursed brother, Daniel had never played puppet. And unlike Hadeon, he had no illusions about how this story would end.

—

Elliot didn’t move.

The echo of Daniel’s footsteps had long since faded, swallowed by the cathedral-like chamber, and still he stood there, statue-still, jaw clenched, spine locked, as if holding posture could hold reality back a little longer.

It didn’t.

The words circled like birds above carrion. Gabriel is six months into his pregnancy. Damian’s child. You never had a chance to touch Dominie.

Dominie.

He’d heard the whispers. Had ignored the rumors. Had told himself that Gabriel, cold, brilliant Gabriel, was just acting the part Damian gave him. That somewhere, under the palace silk and imperial titles, the boy he once deemed worthy still existed. The boy, he believed, could be led, guided, and molded into the perfect consort.

But that boy had never existed.

And now, even the man was lost to him. Bonded. Claimed. Carrying the future of the Empire beneath his skin.

Elliot exhaled, sharp and ragged, the sound scraping his throat like gravel. His hands trembled around the envelope he no longer remembered holding. The paper had wilted under his grip, useless, like every name, every offer he’d carried with pride into this meeting.

He let it fall.

The parchment landed soundlessly, a quiet surrender at his feet. The guards would dispose of it before the hour was out.

Outside, the light of Pais remained soft, an early summer haze over polished marble and carefully planted courtyards, but Elliot felt none of it. The city wasn’t his anymore. It never had been. Doors were closing. Conversations stopped when he entered. His name once opened palaces. Now it didn’t even unlock couriers.

And Gabriel...

Gabriel was in the palace in Aragon, resting, radiant, swollen with the child of the only man Elliot had ever feared.

The thought made him dizzy.

He stumbled forward a step, catching himself against the doorframe with a grimace. The guards flanked him silently, with no intention of doing anything. They didn’t need orders. Elliot wasn’t a threat anymore.

He left the hall like a ghost in brocade.

The courtyard outside was too bright. The sun touched every surface as if mocking him with its clarity. Even the air felt heavy, thick with a future that had already moved on without him.

Gabriel was gone.

And Elliot...

Elliot had nothing.

Not even an enemy to cling to. Hadeon had stopped trusting him the moment the tides turned. Damian had never seen him as anything more than a laughable threat. And Gabriel, the center of it all, had walked past him without flinching.

His boots clicked softly on the polished stone path as he made his way down the outer stairwell of the estate. No guards followed him anymore. No aides waited. His presence wasn’t even worth surveillance.

He paused at the edge of the steps, glancing out across the manicured hill that dropped into the deeper district roads of the capital.

He could keep running, he supposed. Back to Aragon. Back to Donin. Back to Hadeon’s camp, like a dog with burnt fur and no name. But he knew what waited for him there. Cold tolerance. Fewer resources. More lies. And eventually, the execution block when his usefulness wore thin.

And if he stayed?

Damian wouldn’t need to lift a finger.

Gabriel wouldn’t need to speak a word.

The world would naturally erase him, like dust brushed off a silk collar.

His fingers curled at his sides.

He could end it before that. Choose the terms. Deny them the pleasure of watching him rot beneath their shadow.

The thought didn’t bring comfort.

But it did bring quiet.

And for the first time in weeks, that felt like a kind of mercy.

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