Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 266 - 260: The Crown’s Other Face

The palace doors closed behind him with a soft, echoing lock.

Damian didn’t look back.

Gabriel’s scent still clung to his collar—faint but grounding. A reminder of softness earned, not given. But as he crossed into the southern wing, the warmth of the Empress’s chambers gave way to marble, shadow, and the sharper rhythm of marching boots.

Halbrecht was already waiting at the main corridor junction, flanked by two aides and half a dozen palace guards. He bowed crisply.

"Your Majesty. Transport is ready. The Shadows confirmed their staging location for your arrival. General Merel has reviewed the terrain route and adjusted the outer perimeter accordingly."

Damian gave a single nod. "Casualties during rehearsal?"

"None reported," Halbrecht replied. "But the southern ridge team noted a delay in rune activation due to a weather distortion. They’ve recalibrated—expect full responsiveness within the hour."

"Good. I want visibility locked before I arrive."

Halbrecht handed over a thin tablet. "Blake updated the rotation schedules for Bastion units. He’ll meet us at the inspection line after the Shadow evaluation concludes."

Damian didn’t take the tablet. He didn’t need to. He’d already memorized every detail on it last night.

Instead, he looked toward the courtyard archway, where a long, black military transport waited—its matte exterior gleaming under the palace’s protective wards.

"Where’s Decker?"

"Already en route. He took point on the vanguard detail." Halbrecht hesitated. "He insisted no one else was qualified to manage the front buffer."

"That’s because no one is," Damian said simply.

Without another word, he moved forward, guards falling into line like clockwork. The outer gates shifted open, silent under ether tension, revealing the city sprawled in soft light—clean lines of frost against pale steel rooftops.

As Damian stepped into the vehicle, Halbrecht followed, then the rest.

Inside, the transport was dim and silent. Only the low thrum of stabilized ether pulsed beneath the floor.

He didn’t sit.

He stood at the center rail, one hand braced against the frame, watching the world slide past the view panels—capital blurring into the southern corridors, where ceremony ended and structure began.

The silence stretched. Tactical. Comfortable.

Then Halbrecht spoke again, more quietly this time. "Are you expecting resistance, sire? With Callahan’s arrival, and the... tension surrounding the Consort’s condition?"

Damian’s golden eyes didn’t shift.

"I’m not expecting it," he said. "I’m planning for it."

A pause.

Then: "Anyone who thinks this Empire’s strength is limited to Gabriel has forgotten who made the throne safe enough for him to sit in the first place."

The hum of the engine answered him.

Halbrecht didn’t.

—

The transport glided to a stop with a quiet hiss, air decompressing around the edge seals. The southern ridge wasn’t far from the capital—but it might as well have been a world away.

Here, the stone was darker. The silence deeper. The very air thickened with the residual weight of oaths made in blood and secrecy.

The Shadow base wasn’t marked on any official map. Its entrance was carved into the ridge face itself, a seamless curtain of ether-reinforced rock that shimmered once—just once—before dissolving at Damian’s approach.

Damian stepped out first.

Halbrecht followed without hesitation, his boots steady over the carved stone walkway that led into the command threshold.

They were met immediately.

Gregoris stood at the front of the receiving line, cloak half-pulled back and armor dark with muted rune etching. He inclined his head—not quite a bow, not quite a salute, but something older and more loyal than either.

"Your Majesty," Gregoris said. "The unit is at final formation. Stress trial perimeter is sealed. No external magic signatures."

"Good," Damian replied. "I want full opacity on the trial. No interference. No performance."

Beside Gregoris, Alexander stood with his arms folded, dark attire pressed sharp, cloak lined in tactical runes that still faintly shimmered from the last teleport. His gaze met Damian’s with quiet clarity—and, beneath it, something colder. Something personal.

He gave a nod. "We’re ready."

Charles von Jaunez was next—still adjusting the collar of his black ops jacket, one of the newer recruits but no longer inexperienced. He didn’t speak at first, but he held Damian’s gaze for just a second longer than the others.

Damian said nothing. Just nodded once.

Paul Blake emerged from the inner corridor, already reviewing a secondary briefing tablet, his movements clipped and exact.

"I reviewed the backup perimeter personally," he said, nodding to Halbrecht. "If someone wants to observe from outside, they’ll have to punch through three untraceable barriers and hope Gregoris doesn’t notice."

"He will," Halbrecht muttered.

Paul didn’t argue.

Damian’s gaze swept the gathering—prepared, trusted, lethal.

Then—

A figure stepped out from the side alcove—unhurried, familiar.

Maximilian Claymore.

His coat was open, his shirt casually undone at the collar, and yet somehow he still looked more prepared than half the generals Damian had seen in uniform. There was no mockery in his smile this time. Only purpose.

"Max," Damian said, the surprise in his voice minimal—but real.

"You were already halfway to war," Max replied. "I figured I’d walk the rest of the distance."

Gregoris stepped aside without resistance.

Damian studied him. "You’re cleared. But you usually avoid inspections."

"I’m not here to inspect," Max said. His voice, for once, lacked its usual bite. "I’m here to talk about George."

That changed the air.

Behind them, Halbrecht shifted but said nothing.

Alexander glanced toward Max, frowning. Even Charles turned his head slightly.

Damian’s expression didn’t move. "Go on."

Max’s tone remained even, measured. "He’s shifting. Not just political gestures anymore. He’s moved funding through two channels I’ve already traced, and one of them leads straight to one of Hadeon’s lesser satellites. He’s not being subtle."

Damian’s golden gaze sharpened—and then, unexpectedly, he chuckled.

A quiet, humorless sound.

"Alexander saved Callahan from death," Damian said, his voice like crushed velvet over steel. "And I gave him a second chance to prove himself."

His smile faded, slow and deliberate.

"And this is what he does? He could at least wait for the month to end. And here I thought that being Hadeon’s lapdog through Elliot was enough."

Max didn’t flinch. "He never stopped being a threat. He just learned how to dress like loyalty."

Damian’s eyes narrowed. "Well, good thing Callahan is on his way to meet us."

Max raised an eyebrow, suspicion lacing his voice. "He really wanted to meet you?"

"No," Damian said, his tone as flat as forged steel. "He thinks I let Gabriel meet him alone."

A long beat passed.

Max blinked. "...He’s suicidal, then."

"Worse," Damian replied. "He’s stupid enough to think I’m distracted."