Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 234 - 229: Latency (Bonus)

Gabriel gave a weak, crooked smile, teeth barely showing. "Hah, you knew who I was. No returns."

Damian’s eyes flicked down to him, golden and unreadable. "You think I’d want a return policy?"

Gabriel’s breath hitched, the corner of his mouth twitching again. "Would explain the excessive paperwork."

"No." Damian leaned in slightly, brushing his thumb along the curve of Gabriel’s cheekbone. "I knew exactly what I was signing up for. Acid tongue. Bad habits. The tendency to nearly die just to prove a point."

"Fair point." Gabriel murmured.

The door opened with Edward and a physician Gabriel never met after him.

Gabriel’s eyes flicked toward the sound, too exhausted to lift his head. "Don’t like him," he muttered instantly, his voice thin but audible. "Too tall. Suspicious shoes."

The physician blinked, surprised but not flustered. He was indeed tall—angular, with slate-gray robes and an air of clinical detachment that made him look like he’d just walked out of a dissection rather than a patient’s room. His shoes were, admittedly, pointy.

Edward ignored the comment, gliding past them to place a small lacquered case beside the bed. "This is Master Tarel. He’s been called in for your safety."

Gabriel squinted at the tall man with slanted features and ink-dark robes, his expression unreadable. "So not my executioner, then?"

Tarel didn’t blink. "That depends on how cooperative you are."

Damian uttered a low sound in his throat, equal parts warning and dark amusement. "He’s here on my orders."

Gabriel sighed. "Fine. But if he stabs me, I’m suing."

"I’m not a common physician," Tarel said, stepping forward. "I specialize in ether anomalies and curse traces. I don’t stab; I observe and occasionally lecture."

"Worse," Gabriel muttered, already regretting staying conscious.

Tarel set down his case and opened it with precise, fluid motions. Inside were polished instruments, rune-etched vials, and a softly humming silver wand suspended in a stasis field. He plucked it free and knelt beside the bed without asking permission.

Damian remained where he was, one hand on Gabriel’s shoulder, his gaze never straying from the procedure.

"You’ll feel a hum," Tarel said calmly. "It won’t hurt."

"I’m already in pain; go ahead," Gabriel said dryly, closing his eyes.

The wand activated with a gentle vibration, and Tarel moved it slowly over Gabriel’s chest and abdomen. The runes came to life, first in gold, then green, and finally in a startling flash of red. Tarel’s hand paused.

He adjusted the wand, tracing a second path. The same red pulse bloomed again, fainter but still present.

Damian’s voice dropped. "What is it?"

Tarel didn’t answer immediately. He moved the wand once more—diagonally, then vertically. The readings flared again in red, then settled into a deep violet just above Gabriel’s navel.

"There’s foreign ether here," he said at last. "Laced with binding residues and latency magic. It’s subtle—whoever placed it knew how to mask it under hormonal shifts. In a pregnant host, it would trigger symptoms slowly. A build-up. Like... rot behind a painted wall."

Gabriel opened his eyes. "That’s disturbingly poetic. So I’ve been poisoned."

Tarel inclined his head once, clinical and unbothered. "Yes. But artfully."

Gabriel exhaled, the sound equal parts resignation and irritation. He had no more power or will to retaliate.

Damian felt the change in him immediately—not just the physical exhaustion, but something subtler, heavier. A weight settled behind Gabriel’s eyes that had nothing to do with fever or fatigue.

He reached for his hand without ceremony, threading their fingers together with quiet certainty.

"You don’t need to retaliate," Damian said, low and even. "I will."

Gabriel didn’t look at him. His gaze was fixed on the ceiling, unfocused, dull. "They got close. Too close."

"I don’t think this is the court." Said Tarel, preparing for the next step. "The symptoms are for something that was in you for at least six months. It flared because of your pregnancy."

Gabriel’s breath caught.

Six months.

His lips parted, but no sound came out at first. Slowly, his gaze shifted from the ceiling to Tarel, then to Damian, sharpness returning—but not the kind he wore like armor. This was the sharpness of betrayal carving itself through memory.

"...Six months?" he asked, his voice rough and disbelieving.

Tarel didn’t flinch. He was already preparing the second vial, the rune etchings flickering in his gloved palm. "The latency spell was embedded long before the symptoms surfaced. That kind of subtlety takes planning. Access. Patience."

Gabriel’s throat moved as he swallowed hard. "Ashmont," he muttered. "Or before. Before the capital. Before... any of this."

Damian’s entire body stilled. "You’re certain?" he asked Tarel.

"I’m never certain," Tarel replied calmly, adjusting the focus of the wand. "But this matches the ether drift of spells laid dormant and calibrated to bloom during significant hormonal or emotional shifts. A pregnancy, a bond, even a political awakening could’ve done it. This one chose all three."

Gabriel closed his eyes.

"Great," Gabriel muttered, the word dry and brittle at the edges. "So I’m a walking curse magnet with excellent timing."

Tarel didn’t respond. He was already angling the wand again, the rune-light skimming over Gabriel’s skin in soft pulses—more careful now, almost respectful.

Damian’s expression didn’t shift, but his hand hadn’t moved from Gabriel’s chest, fingers spread wide like a barrier he meant to keep in place with willpower alone.

Edward broke the silence next, his voice cool and methodical. "We’ll check Ashmont’s records. Every attendant. Every shared drink, every bath drawn. If this was planted then, someone close to House von Jaunez had access."

Gabriel let out a breath through his nose. "Should’ve known. They never give you knives unless the hilt’s poisoned first."

Damian glanced down, golden eyes narrowing. "You think this was your family?"

"I think," Gabriel said slowly, eyes still closed, "that Lucius had too many secrets, and Theo didn’t ask the right questions. But none of them wanted me dead; Lucius wanted me with you."

A heavy silence followed his words, the kind that settled between bones rather than in the air. Damian’s fingers stilled against Gabriel’s chest, the heat of his palm steady but suddenly colder in intention.

"He wanted you with me," Damian repeated, the edge of a sneer in his voice, "and poisoned you to get there?"

Gabriel’s lashes fluttered open, eyes dull but focused now. "I don’t think he planted it. Lucius isn’t subtle—he uses people like swords, not needles."

Damian’s jaw twitched. "Then who?"

Gabriel exhaled slowly, tired and calculating all at once. "Someone who had access to me in Ashmont. Someone who knew I’d end up here but didn’t want me strong when I arrived. Someone that conveniently disappeared."

He paused, his brows furrowing.

"Callahan and George."