Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 287 - 282: Stop Romanticizing Arson

By the time the smoke had cleared, literally, and the ward stabilizers finally stopped flashing red on every palace ether panel, it was universally agreed that the Emperor’s quarters were no longer livable.

Between the melted furnishings, cracked ward stones, and one very traumatized goldfish from the ornamental fountain, the damage had surpassed even Edward’s ability to spin with dignity.

Which was how, two hours later, Gabriel found himself standing in the pristine, far-too-scented Empress Quarters, arms crossed, expression grim.

"This room smells like powdered treason."

Damian, who was gingerly lowering himself onto a tufted sofa that didn’t actively smell like fire and retribution, tilted his head. "It’s lavender."

"It’s oppression," Gabriel muttered, glaring at the pale cream walls, the soft pastel cushions, and the delicate crystal chandeliers. The curtains had lace. There were flowers embroidered into the ceiling.

"This was supposed to be mine; why does it look like it was designed by Irina and Sofia?" Said Gabriel, glaring at the flowers.

"Because it was designed by Irina and Sofia," he said, shifting slightly like the sofa might absorb his guilt. "Crista gave them full authority while the original renovations were being discussed."

Gabriel blinked at him. "They’re seventeen."

"And disturbingly opinionated," Damian said flatly. "Irina made a mood board. Sofia brought fabric samples. There were diagrams. Diagrams with glitter."

Gabriel gave him a look.

Damian, arms stretched along the back of the sofa with all the confidence of a man who had just survived divine ether backlash and public scolding, sighed contentedly. "At least it’s quiet."

"You are here by court order," Gabriel said. "Because you set your own wing on fire and tried to martyr yourself in my direction."

"Yes," Damian replied serenely. "Which makes this a medical relocation. And technically your fault."

Gabriel blinked slowly. "Explain."

"You made me care about surviving."

There was a brief pause. Then—

Gabriel threw a decorative pillow at his head.

Damian caught it easily, scarred hands closing around the silk with infuriating grace.

"Feels like home already," he murmured.

Gabriel looked ready to commit homicide with a doily.

"Do not romanticize arson."

"I romanticized you," Damian said, entirely too fast and far too smug for a man still reeking faintly of scorched wards. "Everything after that is just collateral."

Gabriel opened his mouth. Closed it. Rubbed a hand down his face like it might erase the past ten minutes.

—

The curtains had been replaced. The warding stones recalibrated. The last of the melted furniture had been discreetly taken out under heavy cloth and even heavier silence.

The lavender-scented doom was gone.

And Gabriel had finally, finally, stopped threatening to have Damian’s signature revoked from his own royal documents.

For ten whole minutes, there was peace.

Which was, of course, when Gabriel turned from his new desk, arms folded, expression calm in a way that meant nothing good.

"You’re getting a medical checkup."

Damian, who had just begun to enjoy a rare moment of pain-free sitting, raised a brow. "No."

Gabriel blinked. "Yes."

"I said I’m fine."

"You have literal scorch marks running up your arms."

"They’re healing."

"You glowed like a cursed chandelier."

"Romantic," Damian said, unhelpfully.

Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "You rerouted ancient ether through your spinal cord and burned through three layers of shielding. You’re not ’fine.’ You’re functioning out of spite and that is my job."

Damian didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink. Just reclined slightly—like a man who had already lost a war and decided to take up permanent residence in the battlefield

"I’m the Emperor. I decide what qualifies as medically concerning."

Gabriel stepped forward, slow and deliberate, like a storm cloud with a doctorate in anatomy and revenge.

"You coughed up ether," he said flatly.

Gabriel didn’t argue anymore. He just stepped calmly to the side, picked up the palace comm crystal, and spoke one word into it:

"Marin."

Damian sat up straighter. "You wouldn’t."

"You burned through your soul," Gabriel said sweetly. "You don’t get to have opinions."

Damian opened his mouth—probably to deliver some devastatingly smug retort involving martyrdom, duty, or the resilience of imperial bloodlines—but whatever it was died a quick, justified death at the look Gabriel gave him.

The crystal glowed once. Twice.

"Already on my way," came Marin’s dry voice, far too calm for someone about to square off with an emperor. "And I brought gloves."

Damian closed his eyes like the world had wronged him personally.

Gabriel hung up and turned back, arms crossed, perfectly composed. "You’ll sit. You’ll answer questions. You won’t intimidate the physician; I do it weekly, you can do it once."

Damian gave him a long, suffering look—the kind reserved for treasonous nobles, failed coffee deliveries, and now, apparently, mandatory checkups.

"You are pregnant and malnourished by spite," he muttered. "I can heal in a few days."

Gabriel arched one brow. "That wasn’t an argument; that was a confession."

Damian didn’t flinch. "I’m just stating priorities. You’re carrying the heir to the Empire. I’m just the idiot who lit his own wing on fire."

"You are the Emperor," Gabriel said flatly.

"And yet somehow I’m still banned from my own quarters and being monitored like a volatile lantern."

Gabriel gestured broadly around them. "You are volatile. And this room is laced with exactly six monitoring wards and a passive ether stabilizer. Edward installed them."

The door creaked open then—no knock, just inevitability in doctor’s form of a former Shadow. Marin stepped inside, coat still buttoned, gloves already on, and expression as unimpressed as ever.

"Which one of you is dying today?" he asked, dry as parchment.

Gabriel gestured helpfully. "The scorched one."

Marin sighed like he regretted every life decision that had led him here, then dropped his bag on the nearest surface with the precision of a man who knew it was antique and didn’t care.

He turned to Damian. "Shirt off, please."

Damian raised his brow but said nothing before yanking his shirt over his head, wincing.

Marin made a noise that sounded suspiciously like judgment wrapped in medical professionalism. He crossed the room, already tugging on a pair of gloves with the quiet menace of someone who had seen too many powerful men try to downplay near-death experiences.

Marin didn’t speak as he ran the first diagnostic pass, but the soft, pulsing glow from the ether monitor lit the underside of Damian’s scars in flickering gold.

The silence dragged.

Gabriel waited exactly ten seconds before speaking.

"Well?"

Marin glanced up at Damian, asking silently if he had permission to talk.

Marin let out a low whistle. "Well. Someone had a religious experience with a leyline."

"I survived it," Damian muttered.

"Congratulations," Marin said dryly. "Did you want a sticker? Maybe a commendation for catastrophic self-sabotage?"

Gabriel choked slightly on his tea.

"I want you to check if he fractured anything internally," he said, recovering fast. "I don’t trust his definition of ’fine.’"

"Nor should you." Marin adjusted the scanner. "His pain tolerance is legendary. That usually means he’s bleeding somewhere and pretending it’s performance art."

"Standing right here," Damian said flatly.

"And yet I continue," Marin replied, clinically sliding cold fingers across Damian’s side. "Pulse rate elevated. Ether baseline is—"

He paused.