Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 264 - 258: Five Names for the Fire (Win-Win bonus)

Gabriel slept.

Curled on his side, half-wrapped in the heavy down blanket and the rest draped over Damian’s chest, he breathed slowly—steadily—for the first time in days. His face, still faintly tear-marked, was relaxed now, unguarded in a way that few had ever seen. His fingers were curled loosely into Damian’s shirt, as if letting go completely still felt too dangerous.

Damian didn’t sleep.

He lay with one arm beneath Gabriel’s shoulders, the other resting lightly along his back, fingertips stroking slow, idle circles against the base of his spine. Not to soothe, Gabriel was already asleep, but to remind himself that he was here. Alive. Warm. Still his.

The room was dark, lit only by the quiet shimmer of the etherstone lamp by the fireplace. The air smelled of cedar, clean fabric, and the faint, rich scent of their bond—burned gold, ink, and storm-warm musk.

A knock, barely audible, meant for only one person in the room to hear.

Just a single tap against the inner wall panel. The one only a Shadow would use.

Damian didn’t move.

He looked down at Gabriel—still curled against his chest, breath slow, steady, safe—and lifted a hand. With two fingers and a single word, he cast a silence spell over the bed. A veil gentle enough not to wake him, absolute enough that even a scream wouldn’t disturb his rest.

"Enter," Damian said.

The wall panel slid open with the hiss of pressure locks releasing, the interior wards folding back to allow one person through.

Edward stepped inside in full black, the trim of his cuffs still dusted with residual ether. His gloves were off. His posture, perfect. His expression, unreadable—until the door sealed again.

Then his fury bled through.

His eyes went straight to the sleeping figure tucked against Damian’s chest. He took in the blanket half-slipped down Gabriel’s shoulders, the hand still curled in Damian’s shirt, the faint glow of the bond mark at his nape—and something settled behind Edward’s eyes.

"He finally fell asleep?" Edward asked, his voice barely louder than the knock.

Damian nodded once. "Yes. Don’t break the spell."

Edward raised an eyebrow. "I’m not careless."

"I assume you’ve read the full report," Damian said.

"Twice," Edward replied. "Then cross-checked the witness movements myself."

He turned just enough to stand at ease but still in full view of Gabriel’s resting form beneath the silence veil.

"You’re going to need more than a retaliation order," Edward said quietly. "Hadeon is trying his best to destroy him. But not kill."

Damian’s jaw tightened, golden eyes locked on the rise and fall of Gabriel’s chest beneath the silence veil.

"I know. They need him alive."

His voice was cold now. Clear. The way it only got when the decision had already been made, and nothing could stop it.

"Bring Callahan to the Shadow base," Damian said. "Silently. Without George knowing. Let him think Gabriel wants to meet him at last."

Edward’s eyes narrowed.

"That will bait half the council into watching," he said. "The rest will come sniffing by morning."

"Not yet," Damian murmured. "Let them think that we don’t know anything about their game. I will interrogate Callahan myself. I was patient enough. George has a heir so there is no need to keep him alive if he oversteps again."

"Max won’t be happy about it."

"No," Damian agreed. "But Max will understand."

He glanced back down at Gabriel, then added, quieter, "He already expects it."

Edward didn’t flinch. "Then George is done."

"He will be," Damian said. "The moment Callahan slips."

A long pause.

Then Damian exhaled, slow, deliberate, as if each breath was the blade he was about to unsheathe.

"As for the rest..." His voice shifted, still soft, but stripped of every trace of patience. "Choose five names from Hadeon’s guest list."

Edward’s eyes flicked up, sharp.

"The ones who laughed?"

"The ones who stayed," Damian replied. "The ones who didn’t speak. The ones who watched. I want them dead."

Edward didn’t blink. "Public or private?"

"Private," Damian said. "For now. Let the court wonder why their chairs are suddenly empty."

Edward nodded once. "And the message?"

Damian’s golden eyes didn’t waver. "That the Consort was never their sport."

He looked back at Gabriel—sleeping, calm, unaware of the silent war being written in his name.

"And if they forget," he added, "they can join the next list."

Edward bowed without a word, his silence the cleanest form of loyalty.

And then he was gone—back into the darkness, where execution orders lived quietly... until they didn’t.

—

Morning broke quietly over the Imperial Wing.

Outside, the city was wrapped in frost and filtered sunlight. Inside, the Empress’s chambers were warm with quiet magic and the low clink of polished silver.

Gabriel sat at the head of the private breakfast table in one of Damian’s shirts, draped in silk and silence. His hair was still damp from the bath. His posture was straight, regal. Controlled.

And his expression was on the edge of lethal.

"Edward," he said carefully, his voice as even as a scalpel’s edge, "if you touch that teacup again, I will throw it at your head."

Edward, entirely unbothered, adjusted the tea tray anyway and added one more cube of sugar to Gabriel’s cup with the clinical precision of someone who’d been preparing for this moment all his life.

"Caffeine without balance is not conducive to recovery," he said mildly. "Nor is glaring at your eggs like they personally offended you."

Gabriel exhaled through his nose.

Damian, seated near Gabriel in a robe and an expression of quiet amusement, said nothing.

Gabriel exhaled through his nose. Slowly. Dangerously.

"Edward," he said again, "I’m going to count to five. If by then your hands are still within arm’s reach of my tea, I will make you drink it with the sugar cube still in your mouth."

Edward didn’t blink. "That would be inefficient. It would dissolve unevenly."

Gabriel’s hand twitched.

Damian, still nursing his own cup, glanced between them and finally spoke.

"Let him win, love. He’s been rehearsing this moment since last night."

"I’m aware," Gabriel muttered, reaching for the fork like it was a weapon. "He nearly drowned me in lavender oil before I was even dry."

"It was calming," Edward said primly. "You were in a state."

"I was asleep."

Damian’s lips curved faintly. "A vulnerable state."

Gabriel shot him a look. "You’re not helping."

"I’m not trying to."

Gabriel took another sip of tea, then set the cup down with a soft clink. His gaze, which had been fixed on the perfectly symmetrical fruit Edward had sliced with surgical pride, shifted—cool, calculating.

"Edward," he said calmly, as if asking about the weather, "prepare one of the isolated wings for the heat."

Edward, mid-pour, froze.

The orange juice stream overshot the rim of the glass by a fraction before he adjusted.

Damian’s fingers, still resting on Gabriel’s knee beneath the table, tensed.

Edward turned—slowly, sharply. "The... heat?"