Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 248 - 243: Walk In Like We Planned the Rebellion

The imperial convoy pulled to a stop at the foot of House Varel’s marble arch.

The Winter Ball of Lady Serathine was never quiet—but tonight, it was electric. Guests lined the lantern-lit exterior, the cold air sharp with ether pulses as journalists jockeyed behind a gleaming cordon line, their ether-cameras hovering like watchful insects. Gold-trimmed drones zipped above the crowd, feeding live feeds to the political channels.

"The Emperor and his Consort are expected any moment," a polished reporter whispered into a mic just meters from the barrier. "We’ve already seen Lady Serathine herself take position at the main staircase—her gown and hair clearly a nod to imperial loyalty. The court is watching."

"It’s the first joint appearance since the Consort’s appointment," another added from a slightly more ruthless feed. "If tonight goes poorly, House Varel’s risk could become House Varel’s legacy."

Inside the primary sedan, Gabriel adjusted his gloves with sharp, clean movements. The fabric whispered softly against his skin, runes glinting beneath the light from the interior ether-strips.

He glanced toward the windows—just enough to glimpse the glow of camera drones pacing the perimeter like curious insects, flashing every few seconds through the tinted glass.

"How come I didn’t see any media until now?" he asked.

Damian didn’t look up from the silent comm display on his wrist. "Usually the palace handles transmission feeds directly—live broadcasts filtered through the internal relay. That keeps security clean and prevents tampering."

Gabriel frowned. "So what changed?"

Damian’s tone was mild, but his gaze flicked toward the slowly nearing Varel estate gates. "We’re outside imperial jurisdiction. This isn’t palace ground—it’s Varel’s territory, and just beyond the protective ring. Which means their permissions apply."

"Lovely," Gabriel muttered. "So we’re being live-fed to a noble-curated network that isn’t technically under our control."

"Yes," Damian said. "But they’d never dare cut the signal. Not with the Shadows watching their tower. Not with Serathine betting half her social capital on this."

Gabriel exhaled through his nose, then leaned back against the seat. "I should’ve added a privacy ward to the gloves."

"They’ll speculate either way."

"They always do."

He looked out again—this time at the cameras tracking their car from multiple angles. He could already imagine the headlines, the body language dissections, and the fashion reviews pretending not to be veiled status assessments.

"And here I thought the worst part of tonight would be smiling at war criminals."

Damian’s hand reached for his. "We’ll be done before midnight."

Gabriel said nothing at first.

His fingers closed around Damian’s automatically, the grip steady. But his gaze drifted—not to the windows, not to the cameras—but inward.

A sudden chill ran along the inside of his spine, thin as a thread pulled too tight.

It wasn’t fear. Not exactly.

It was familiarity.

The silence in the car. The weight of expectation outside. The taste of polished power and political precision just before a storm. He’d felt it before—years ago, when the court had been bloodless and bloated, when he had worn borrowed silk and carried too much certainty in too small a frame.

Just before the rebellion.

The sensation passed like a ghost brushing his shoulder—intangible but present.

He blinked it away.

But the air still felt too rehearsed. Too much like an overture before someone decided the Empire needed another lesson in humility.

Damian’s thumb brushed across the side of his hand, grounding him again.

"You’re quiet," Damian said softly, his voice a balm against the rising static.

"I’m remembering something," Gabriel murmured. "Something from before. I don’t know if it’s real or just instinct."

Damian didn’t push.

He never did—not when it mattered.

Instead, he said, "You don’t have to pretend anything with me."

Gabriel turned to look at him—really look. The golden eyes. The calm. The unshakable loyalty that wasn’t spoken often, but lived in gestures like this.

"I’m fine," Gabriel said finally. "Just a strange feeling. I’ll burn through it."

Damian turned his head slightly, his gaze steady and golden.

"You don’t have clearance for spellwork," he said simply. "But I do. Signal me when you need to burn someone."

Gabriel let out a soft exhale—half amusement, half appreciation. "And here I thought I was the dramatic one."

"You are," Damian replied. "But I’m the one with fewer restrictions."

They sat in silence a beat longer, the car humming softly around them as it rolled past the last private gate and into the circular drive of House Varel’s estate.

Gabriel’s grip on Damian’s hand tightened once. Not fear. Not hesitation.

Just preparation.

"Let’s walk in like we planned the rebellion," he murmured.

Damian gave a faint smile, already watching the door handle unlock. "We did."

—

The sedan came to a smooth halt beneath the vaulted arrival arch of House Varel’s estate. Light spilled from the high arched windows in waves of gold and white, glittering against the etched columns and rune-smooth stone.

The main doors were open—not wide, but precisely enough for ceremony.

Cameras flashed wildly beyond the perimeter.

Already, a handful of media drones had veered too close, zipping past the red demarcation line of the Varel estate, trying to catch an unbroken shot of the Emperor and his Consort as they emerged.

They didn’t get far.

The Varel house guard moved fast and without warning—uniforms a sharp dark silver, armor woven with family spells that pulsed at their collars. One of them lifted a gloved hand, runes glowing, and released a low-field burst that sent the drones scattering like startled crows. One crashed outright, smoking as it tumbled over the flowered edge of the northern terrace.

Reporters shouted from behind the line, emboldened by desperation.

But not one foot crossed the threshold.

The Empire could be watched. It could be recorded.

It could not be touched.

Inside, Lady Serathine of House Varel waited at the top of the arrival steps, flanked by her husband, Lord Carvell. She looked precisely as intended—gowned in silver over midnight mesh, her hair coiled and tipped with imperial blue, her expression a blade behind a smile.

She watched the display at the gate with a faint hum of satisfaction, then turned as the doors to the primary car opened.

Damian stepped out first, back straight, expression unreadable.

Gabriel followed—elegance sharpened into threat, his coat catching the wind just enough to reveal the glint of silver wards stitched into the lining. He didn’t flinch at the cameras. He didn’t even glance toward them.

He looked only at Serathine.

She descended three steps and offered a deep, precise bow.

"Your Majesty. Your Grace. You honor us with your presence."

Damian inclined his head. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Serathine."

Gabriel’s voice followed a heartbeat later—smoother, cooler.

"Your invitation was impossible to ignore. I do admire confidence."

Her smile sharpened. "In politics or tailoring?"

Gabriel’s eyes flicked once to her imperial-tinted braid. "Both."

Lord Carvell stepped forward then—measured, stately, ever the balance to Serathine’s flash.

"Your Grace," he said with a respectful nod. "Welcome to Varel."

Gabriel accepted the gesture with a dip of his chin, then let his hand settle over Damian’s forearm again, just beneath the fold of the sleeve.

"I trust your household knows how to keep its borders intact," he murmured, low enough for only Serathine to hear. frёewebηovel.cѳm

She glanced back toward the outer wall, where the media drones still hovered helplessly, one operator gesturing in frustration at the guards refusing to let him in.

"Varel territory is not a stage," she said lightly. "They’ll watch from the edge and interpret badly, as always."

Damian smiled faintly. "Good. Then let them interpret this."

The great foyer doors opened wider behind them—silent and expectant.

And the steward cleared his throat to announce what no guest could possibly ignore.