Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 382 - 376: A storm for Max (2)

The crowd was enjoying the ball.

Flutes filled with perfumed wine, laughter sharpened to the edge of civility, and silk shoes swept across polished floors to the rhythm of orchestrated diplomacy. The chandeliers cast soft gold over polished cheekbones and polished intent, and the music, pleasant and forgettable, drifted through the high arches like it had never carried anything so vulgar as tension.

Most of the guests weren’t required to attend the greeting ceremony. They hadn’t watched their heirs kneel, hadn’t measured the Emperor’s silence or the Consort’s gaze. No, tonight was for display. For expensive designs and legacy, the kind of smiles that promised little and meant less.

Only the families of those presented earlier in the day kept their attention fixed on the main dais, watching for any shift, any subtle nod of approval or disapproval. The rest were free to pretend that power didn’t have a name.

And then the air changed.

A ripple, barely visible, passed through the nobles near the eastern wing; fans slowed mid-flutter, conversation faltered by a fraction, and gossip, like all living things, shifted direction.

The side doors opened.

Gregoris Frasner stepped through.

He walked with the quiet, absolute confidence of a man used to being obeyed the first time.

His hair, ash-dark and wind-swept, had not been trimmed for court. His frame, broad, hard, and unmistakably shaped by war, filled the ceremonial regalia like it had never been made for anyone else. The coat was deep slate grey, fastened high at the collar, with silver embroidery catching the gold light of the ether chandeliers. The sigil of House Frasner, crossed blades and a northern star, glinted at his shoulder, matched only by the faint shimmer of the imperial Shadow crest stitched along the sleeve, subtle but there for those who knew what they were looking at.

Gregoris walked without pause through the central aisle, followed by two guards, without even glancing at the crowd watching his every move, weighing the importance of a connection to him.

And when he reached the imperial dais, he paused only long enough to bow his head to Gabriel and Damian in respect and courtly manner. Then, without awaiting permission or escort, he took the open seat to Damian’s right.

The seat to the Emperor’s right was rarely used. Reserved for generals during war, foreign royalty during blood-bound negotiations, and, on rare occasions, a Consort’s champion. It had been empty for the better part of a decade. Until now.

Gregoris sat like he’d always belonged there.

His coat shifted as he settled, steel rings along his gloves catching the low light. One leg crossed easily over the other, posture relaxed in the way only someone deeply dangerous could afford. He didn’t speak. He didn’t scan the room. He simply looked ahead, eyes half-lidded, like the political theater below was mildly interesting background noise.

To his left, Gabriel’s lips twitched, his expression shifting into something deeply amused. "You took your time."

"Had to kill the silence first," Gregoris replied calmly. "It was getting loud."

Damian gave a faint grunt of approval. "Status?"

Gregoris didn’t look at him. "Aslan’s reply is delayed. He and Hadeon still think they, somehow, believe they have the higher ground."

Damian hummed, ignoring the trembling heir of a baron house misstepping and almost landing on his nose. "That means Daniel Rhine is doing a good job in pretending to be their ally."

Gregoris’s mouth curved. "He always was the better actor."

Gabriel’s gaze remained trained on the ballroom, but his fingers curled slightly against the armrest, where the silver ring on his fourth finger caught the low light.

The music had shifted again, brighter now, flushed with strings and charm, but the attention of the hall was no longer on the dance floor.

The herald stepped forward with renewed clarity, striking his staff once against the obsidian tile.

"Lord Maximilian Claymore, Duke of House Claymore, accompanied by Lord Adam of Delronne."

That caught attention.

House Delronne hadn’t been mentioned in polite conversation for years, not since the southern inheritance dispute turned bloody, and the heir vanished from the capital without explanation.

But now the heir was here. And he wasn’t standing alone.

Max strode through the arch with his usual casual arrogance, the kind that masked the sharpness of his insight behind lazy smiles and long, elegant strides. His coat was black, of course, but lined with dusky blue silk and gold accents that confirmed his title. The Claymore crest shimmered faintly at his lapel, the embroidery so subtle it nearly vanished with every turn of his shoulder.

Beside him walked a man who didn’t need a title to draw eyes.

Adam of Delronne was dressed in quiet decadence: midnight velvet and silver trim, his blond hair brushed back with calculated ease. He was slightly shorter than Max, with a face that looked like it had been sculpted for confrontation but reined into something more dignified by sheer willpower. Where Max was all languid threat, Adam was lightning in a still sky, and the contrast made it impossible not to stare.

Adam inclined his head at the appropriate moments. His posture was impeccable, his expression neutral, his every movement shaped by court etiquette... and a quiet, unshakable confidence that said he wasn’t here to apologize for returning.

When they reached the dais, Max gave the imperial couple a half-bow, not disrespectful, but very much him. It was Adam who knelt, one hand over his chest as tradition required, his eyes lowered, his tone level and clear when he spoke:

"Your Majesty. Your Grace. I bring greetings from House Delronne and my personal respect."

Gabriel regarded him for a moment, the corner of his mouth twitching as if remembering something Max once said about keeping pretty things far away from court. Damian only nodded once, his voice low and strangely warm.

"Accepted."

Adam rose gracefully, then stepped back to Max’s side just as the next noble family was called, but neither of them moved immediately. Max lingered. Just long enough for Gabriel to notice.

Then, as if they hadn’t just reignited a dozen political debates, they turned and walked toward the left side of the dais, where Alexandra and the others were already seated.

Rumors were already blooming like rot in rainwater.

Gregoris chuckled under his breath, low and amused. "So that’s the mate."

Gabriel didn’t look at him, but the amusement in his voice was sharp enough to cut silk. "You sound disappointed."

Gregoris’s smirk deepened. "I’m impressed. He didn’t flinch."

"I doubt Max would allow you to recruit his mate."

Before either could say more, the herald struck the obsidian tile once, voice ringing through the hall with crisp authority:

"Lord Rafael Rosenroth, second son of House Rosenroth, accompanied by the delegation of Pais."

The ballroom shifted, like a tide pulling back.

Gregoris turned slowly, his gaze settling on the slender figure walking into the light. His silver eyes narrowed slightly, a slow smirk appearing on his rough face.

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