Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 258 - 252: Until He Breaks

The ballroom had been remodeled—again.

Hadeon didn’t comment on it, but the message was clear. The floors were Calanthi marble now, temperature-calibrated to match the room’s ether signature so the heat from bodies wouldn’t linger. The walls bore no portraits, only paneled screens flickering with slow, ambient ether flow, programmed to show light storms from foreign skies. Not real storms, of course. Filtered. Curated. The kind of storm only the powerful could afford to frame.

He didn’t sit, but leaned casually against the edge of the host’s table, his coat draped over one arm like a silent declaration that no one would dare ask him to hang it. His hair, darker than silver and just shy of steel, was brushed back in perfect lines, not a strand out of place. The cuff of his shirt bore an old military insignia—burned directly into the cloth with ether—but the rest of his outfit was civilian, expensive, and just disheveled enough to make nobles think he’d been too busy deciding fates to button both sleeves.

Rosaline was perched at his side like a reward. Like a replacement.

She wore Paisian blue—not a replica, not a tribute. The original bolt of silk had belonged to Patricia herself, discreetly "donated" during her exit. The neckline plunged. The sleeves didn’t exist. And every seam had been restitched with thin strands of gold-imbued etherwire, glinting when she moved.

A walking insult.

A fashionable threat.

Hadeon had chosen her on purpose.

"The wallpaper’s changed," he remarked, tipping his head toward the screens with vague disinterest. "Didn’t it used to be a family portrait?"

"Removed after the third divorce," Rosaline replied, not missing a beat.

"Ah." Hadeon smirked. "Progress."

The nobles gathered in the inner circle laughed—soft and honeyed, the way people do when they don’t want to show teeth. A glass was lifted. A toast whispered behind another veil of wine and silk.

Rosaline leaned toward him, feigning intimacy. "They’re still whispering about Patricia."

"They can whisper louder," Hadeon said, amused. "It won’t change the execution date."

"She begged for clemency."

"Most people would beg under Damian’s Shadows interrogation." He paused, eyes scanning the crowd as if he could already see Patricia’s fate in the reflection of their polished shoes. "I’d be impressed if she didn’t."

He set his untouched glass on the tray of a waiter who wisely avoided eye contact, the stemware vanishing into silence.

"I don’t think we’ll see anything more than a corpse walking to the execution site," Hadeon went on, his voice lighter than the weight of his words. "That boy likes to fry minds."

There was a beat of silence.

Not from shock, but satisfaction.

The nobles near him smiled with that careful stillness, that refined delight reserved for the powerful watching their rivals be peeled apart.

"Too bad about Patricia," Rosaline said, falsely sweet. "She always held her chin high."

"And look where it got her," Hadeon replied. "Right under my boot."

More laughter. Sharper now. Someone nearby coughed to cover their grin.

Rosaline let her eyes scan the room like a predator sampling prey. "Her son isn’t here, is he?"

"Elliot?" Hadeon sipped his drink, a spiced liqueur poured over ether-cooled stones, the glass frosting faintly at the rim. "No. He’s in Pais now. Married off to that little noble girl who thought she could play with Damian’s toy."

Rosaline tilted her head, intrigued. "Princess Anya?"

"She’s silent now," Hadeon said mildly. "Mad, or close enough. Fitting, really. The loud ones break the fastest."

He set the glass down with a click that sounded final.

"Useful there," Hadeon said, swirling the glass. "Here, he failed. Couldn’t keep George on my leash, couldn’t even hold a seat at court without drooling after the Consort like a pet denied treats. Patricia’s son." He took another sip. "I don’t know why I expected better. She never produced anything but noise."

It was small—barely a shift at the corner of her mouth—but Hadeon noticed. He always did.

"They failed," she said, voice soft, like silk folded into a blade. "Of course they did."

He arched a brow, not out of surprise, but indulgence. "You sound pleased."

"I’m always pleased when amateurs try to dethrone a favorite." She lifted her glass, swirling it once. The liquid shimmered faintly—ether-infused for clarity, not comfort.

"You speak like someone who’s found a better option."

"I have." She didn’t blink. "They all focus on the mark. The bond. The alpha." Her gaze narrowed slightly. "But I’m not trying to ruin a bond. I’m trying to wear down an omega."

Hadeon turned slightly. Interested now. "You believe that’s enough?"

"He’s dominant, yes. But he’s still an omega. Still has the body for it." She set her glass down without drinking. "He hasn’t been bonded long enough to adapt. And he’s only one person. One—exhausted—person."

She leaned closer, lowering her voice just enough that even the velvet-smooth ether sensors built into the alcove paneling would struggle to catch it.

"There’s a compound," she said. "Peaceleaf."

Hadeon’s expression didn’t shift, but his stillness sharpened.

"It’s sold as a study aid," she continued. "Ether-neutral. Gentle. Mildly sedating for alphas. Calming for betas. But in male omegas..." She smiled again. "It becomes a slow erosion."

"Symptoms?" he asked, already curious.

"Fatigue. Loss of appetite. Short-term cognitive dissonance. Hormonal irregularity. Nothing alarming. Not at first. Just a slow decline. Enough to dull his wit, scatter his focus, and chip at his pride. And no one—no one—will question it. Not in a man."

The nobles closest to them had grown very quiet.

Rosaline continued, basking in it. "By the time they realize he’s unwell, he’ll be halfway undone. The palace won’t kill him. It won’t even blame anyone. They’ll just... keep him out of sight. Until he breaks."

"And if he doesn’t?" Hadeon asked softly.

Rosaline’s smile didn’t fade. "Then we serve the next cup."

A breath passed.

Then Hadeon laughed—quietly, darkly, like someone enjoying the game far more than the result.

"Let me know," he said, swirling his drink, "when it’s served."

He paused, eyes flicking to the skyline—where the palace loomed, cold and bright against the night.

"Because if he cracks... Damian will follow."