Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 250 - 245: Not a Placeholder

The Winter Ball of House Varel was, by every outward measure, a triumph.

The orchestra swelled, chandeliers shimmered, and the ballroom flowed with color and etherlight. Conversation rose in low waves between glasses of imperial wine and seasonal delicacies passed on silver trays. It was effortless, curated—a picture of high society at ease.

Which, of course, was a lie.

At the center of it all stood the two people no one could ignore.

Damian moved through the room like the gravity he was—formal, composed, speaking only when necessary, and always with the kind of quiet authority that made even the most powerful duke straighten his collar. He didn’t smile often. He didn’t need to.

Gabriel, on the other hand, was smiling.

But that made it worse.

Because he didn’t smile like he was pleased. He smiled like he was collecting names.

He had taken to the floor with grace and precision, one arm resting lightly against the crook of Damian’s elbow, then slipping free as they divided to work the room. Together when it mattered. Separate when it made a statement.

And Gabriel’s Spite Department had fallen in around him like well-trained shadows with flair.

Julian stood at his right during introductions, offering credentials and dry commentary in equal measure. Irina remained polished and sweet but never quiet—her presence commanding just enough attention to distract from Gabriel when needed. Alexandra moved through the crowd like elegance in weapon form, taking down gossip and weak arguments with surgical charm. Even Rafael, wide-eyed but steadily improving, had found his stride beside the group, carefully echoing Gabriel’s tone and posture with impressive speed.

The nobles noticed.

Especially the ones who didn’t frequent court.

Those who had heard the whispers—about the Consort’s scandal, about the rebellion ties, about the von Jaunez name—but had never seen the man up close.

Now they watched as he laughed at a duke’s joke, then destroyed his argument two sentences later with a single raised brow and a softly spoken correction.

They watched as he listened attentively, took notes on someone’s project, and then named the flaws in their funding model without blinking.

They watched the way others orbited him—Edward never far, Damian’s gaze following him across the ballroom, even House Varel’s guards subtly adjusting their positions when he paused to speak with anyone too eager.

And they began to understand.

This was not a placeholder. freēwēbηovel.c૦m

This was not an omega lifted for beauty or peace.

This was a force, clever, sharp, and controlled, built for more than appearances.

"I thought he’d be colder," one minor marquis whispered, too close to Irina.

"He is," she said brightly, without looking at him. "You’re just not important enough to notice."

—

The music swelled again, but the corners of the ballroom were beginning to splinter into smaller conversations—deals, flattery, positioning. It was the part of the evening where alliances began to test their weight and the desperate mistook proximity for power.

Gabriel was speaking with a minor baroness about agricultural grant expansions when a man—mid-fifties, well-fed, and draped in the arrogance of old nobility—stepped into the circle without being invited.

Lord Hemsworth of House Vanne, if memory served. A name Gabriel hadn’t seen much of in court since the rebellion, which made sense. His kind had thrived in the old regime, where omegas were traded like heirlooms and daughters were currency.

"My Lord Consort," Hemsworth said, his voice oily with forced charm. "I must say, you’ve exceeded all expectations. No one imagined you’d... adapt so well to public duties."

Gabriel turned to face him fully, noting how the man didn’t bow. Not quite. He tilted his head, as if Gabriel were a performer rather than a sovereign figure.

"I’m sure you’ll understand, of course," Hemsworth went on, waving a hand, "that in some circles, the idea of an Empress Consort—truly official, I mean—has caused some confusion. Many assumed His Majesty would choose from the Court’s eligible Ladies once the dust had settled."

Julian’s posture shifted.

Irina froze mid-step.

Alexandra, two feet behind, smiled without warmth.

Hemsworth didn’t notice. Or worse—didn’t care.

"My daughter, for instance," he continued, "has been preparing since she was ten for court presentation. She just turned fourteen—refined, well-educated, and pure-blooded from both sides. An excellent match for the throne in time, if tradition is to be honored. It’s only natural that a proper Empress—"

"I see," Gabriel said softly, cutting him off without raising his voice.

The man blinked. "Pardon?"

Gabriel stepped forward, hands still calmly folded in front of him, the light catching on the silver-threaded wardwork in his coat sleeve.

"You believe that my presence beside the Emperor is decorative. Temporary. A placeholder until the true function of an omega is reinstated. Preferably young. Preferably mute."

Hemsworth’s lips parted in the faintest confusion, not yet aware he’d crossed into open flame.

"You came here tonight to watch the spectacle," Gabriel continued, "and expected to see a consort draped in silk and obedience. But what you see now—what the Empire sees—is a title not granted by blood, but earned through war, reform, and loyalty. You see a throne that doesn’t care about your lineage or your well-bred daughter."

He smiled, slow and thin.

"You see the end of your time."

The surrounding nobles had gone quiet. Even the orchestra seemed to pause between movements.

Hemsworth swallowed, color rising in his neck. "With respect, Your Grace, I meant no offense—"

"No," Gabriel said calmly, "you meant to remind me of my place. But I’ve already claimed it."

Lord Hemsworth gave a thin, oily smile. "I’m sure you did. I, as a pure-blood alpha, can see why the Emperor was attracted to you."

The air around them stilled. Not in outrage. In calculation.

Because no one in that circle believed Hemsworth had simply complimented the Consort. The emphasis on attraction, the framing of pure-blood alpha—it wasn’t flattery. It was dismissal. An insinuation that Gabriel had been chosen for his body, not his mind. For heat, not strategy.

Gabriel didn’t flinch.

He tilted his head slightly, lips parting in a slow, dangerous smile. "That’s very generous of you, Lord Hemsworth."

The man straightened slightly, mistaking civility for submission.

Gabriel’s voice softened—dangerously so. "I didn’t know that pure-blood alpha is the new— or should I say, the old—term for inbreeding."

The words landed like a pin dropped into a ballroom made of glass.

Several nobles blinked. One visibly choked on his wine.

Hemsworth froze. His jaw tightened, but the shock in his eyes betrayed him—he hadn’t expected a response. Not one so clean. Not one so direct. And certainly not one delivered with a smile and perfect posture.

Gabriel leaned in half a step, his tone still light. "If you’re going to insult the Consort of the Empire, Lord Hemsworth, I suggest you do so with vocabulary that doesn’t imply you’d marry your cousin to preserve your estate."

Julian let out a single, incredulous breath that was almost—but not quite—a laugh.

Across the ballroom, Damian had stopped moving.

Gabriel didn’t bother to look at him.

He turned with the grace of someone who didn’t need a crowd’s permission to leave it behind and offered the surrounding nobles a crisp nod.

"Now, if you’ll excuse me. Some of us are expected to build the future—not breed in circles."

And with that, he walked away—shoulders square, silk trailing behind him like smoke, the court parting instinctively to make room.