Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 251 - 246: Tradition Ends in Blood

Gregoris did not belong at parties.

He had stood in the ashes of rebellion and the shadows of palaces older than most bloodlines in the Empire. He had slit throats in silence and ended traitors before they could speak a word. He was a commander of the Shadows—the commander, in truth, though ranks among them were more practical than symbolic—and he had long since outgrown the need for ballroom assignments.

And yet, here he was. Escorting the imperial couple.

But because tonight mattered.

Tonight was not just another diplomatic dance. It was the first public appearance of the Emperor’s mate.

Gabriel von Jaunez—clever, poised, and far too dangerous to be underestimated.

Gregoris had known of him before all of this, of course. He had read the dossiers. He had seen the files from Ashmont and the carefully redacted sections others weren’t trusted to see. He had known the von Jaunez name, the political storm it had once been tethered to, and the fire it had walked through.

But even knowing all that, he had not expected this.

He had not expected him.

Not this sharp, cold-blooded strategist with a crown’s weight in his voice and a blade’s smile. Not this calm cruelty wrapped in wit. And certainly not the quiet storm that now walked beside the Emperor like a perfect equal.

No one had expected Damian Lyon to take another mate.

Everyone in the Shadows had spoken about it in hushed certainty—that the Emperor would rule alone until the day his enemies died out, that no one could ever reach that broken, brutal heart again.

That Prince Christian was the heir to the throne.

But fate, apparently, had other plans.

Not only had Damian found a mate.

He had found Gabriel.

And Gabriel... was carrying his child.

Gregoris knew. Of course he did. The signs were subtle but clear. The way the Emperor had doubled the ward coverage in their wing. The way Edward had begun tracking meals, scents, and stress levels. The fact that three of the palace’s best physicians had been reassigned with no explanation.

That wasn’t court management and soon the official confirmation for the inner court had been released.

That was bloodline protection.

And it made what happened next inevitable.

Gregoris felt it before the first word was even spoken.

He had positioned himself beside the marble arch leading to the terrace, far enough from the center of the room not to be noticed, close enough to act. His body was still, hands behind his back, breath even. But his senses were tuned like blades.

And then—he heard the shift.

Gabriel’s voice, calm and deliberate, weaving through the music like silk threaded with venom. And opposite him—Hemsworth.

Of course it was Hemsworth.

The man was a festering remnant of the old nobility. One of those who had survived the reforms by burrowing into the cracks of power, waiting, watching. A man whose voice still carried the stink of entitlement and the rot of tradition.

Gregoris turned his head slightly. Not enough to draw attention. Just enough to focus.

And then he heard it—all of it.

Hemsworth’s arrogance. His remarks about bloodlines and court girls. His veiled insults. The casual dismissal of Gabriel’s station and worth.

And Gabriel’s response—measured, merciless, and devastating.

It was not rage that filled Gregoris in that moment.

It was respect. freewёbn૦νeɭ.com

He had admired Gabriel from the start—long before titles or bonding ceremonies. Not because he was beautiful, or clever, or politically valuable.

But because he had survived.

Because even with a past that should have crushed him, with chains built from power and betrayal, Gabriel had still carved a path to the very center of the Empire and stood there now, unmoved, unbent.

And yet—

Hemsworth had looked at him and seen only a body.

A placeholder.

A toy.

Gregoris’s jaw locked.

He turned to the Shadow beside him. "Hold the post," he said quietly, voice barely above breath. "You’ll be cleaning marble before this is over."

Then he shifted his stance and waited.

The Emperor was still across the ballroom. Speaking, formally. Seemingly unaware.

But Gregoris knew better.

He saw it in the stillness of his frame.

Damian had stopped listening to the councilor beside him. He had tilted his head ever so slightly toward Gabriel’s side of the room.

And in that moment, Gregoris knew.

He wasn’t hearing a report.

He was listening to Gabriel.

He always had.

And tonight—he had heard enough.

The Emperor turned.

Walked across the ballroom with silent, unhurried steps.

He didn’t look toward Gabriel.

He didn’t glance at the crowd.

He walked with the certainty of someone not headed toward confrontation—but toward execution.

Gregoris followed.

The air beyond the arch was crisp, etched with mountain frost and the scent of magic woven into snow-washed wards. Two Shadows stood near the edge of the balcony, already adjusting formation.

Damian stepped past them.

Gregoris did not wait for instruction, he knew better than anyone that in the last months nobles had been testing Damian’s patience. Patricia was just one of them, she will be executed soon, publicly to remind every soul what happens when you touch the Emperor’s mate.

He turned back toward the ballroom and approached Hemsworth, who had returned to his wine, clearly pleased with himself.

"The Emperor requests your presence," Gregoris said.

The man straightened with a smug sort of dignity and followed, still believing he had been summoned for consultation.

Gregoris entered the balcony just behind him.

And stayed. He wanted to see it.

He had earned the right to witness it.

"Your Majesty," Hemsworth said, giving a shallow nod, "I suspected you might want a word. These matters, after all, can be delicate. The Consort is... spirited, certainly, but tradition must be preserved. You know that as well as I. It isn’t too late to offer the court a more stable—more proper—match."

He smiled.

And then added, as if it were divine wisdom,

"Omegas, in truth, are at their best when silent in court and vocal in bed. Especially in heat. No empire was built by letting them bare their teeth."

Gregoris didn’t move.

Because the Emperor already had.

Damian didn’t reply. Didn’t posture. Didn’t raise his voice.

He simply stepped forward, seized the man by the collar with one hand and the back of his skull with the other, and slammed his head against the marble column with surgical precision.

The sound was sharp and short. The kind of sound that echoed more in memory than in air.

The body dropped like dead weight. Because that’s what it was now.

Dead.

Gregoris watched without flinching.

"Clean it," Damian said, voice quiet, controlled. "Quietly. Inform House Varel that Hemsworth suffered a medical episode."

Gregoris gave a short nod.

"And send my regrets to Lady Serathine," Damian added, peeling his gloves off with perfect precision. "Her marble is exquisite."

Gregoris offered the new gloves without a word.

"And Gregoris—Gabriel doesn’t hear about this."

"Not tonight," he replied.

And with that, Damian walked back into the ballroom, composed and calm.

Untouched.

Because for the court, nothing had happened.

But Gregoris remained by the pillar, watching as blood slipped down white marble in thin, lazy trails.

He exhaled slowly.

Hemsworth had been wrong.

Empires were built by omegas who bared their teeth.

And this one?

This Empire belonged to two monsters in love.

And now the court had been reminded what it would cost to forget it.