Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 307 - 302: Still a menace

Gabriel moved first this time—wrist flicking upward, light streaming along his palm like smoke caught in wind. He spun low, trying to catch Damian’s balance with a sharp ether snap to the knees, but the Emperor had already read it.

Damian stepped through the spell with bone-deep confidence, absorbed it, and caught Gabriel by the waist before his opponent could reset. In one fluid motion, he twisted them both—one arm circling Gabriel’s front, pinning his arms gently but unshakably, the other flattening against his chest as they stopped at the edge of the ring.

The wards shimmered. Cracked. Then went silent.

Gabriel stilled—tense at first, before Damian leaned in, nose brushing deliberately against the curve of his neck, just above the bond mark.

"That is enough," Damian murmured, voice low, breath warm. Inhaling Gabriel’s scent with slow, deliberate hunger.

Gabriel didn’t move. His breath irregular as the training took a toll on him, but didn’t want to show it.

"You were showing off," he said finally, the words a shade too even. The twitch of a smile at his mouth gave him away.

"This is what you think?" Damian asked, still smiling—but there was something sharper in it now. Something that pressed. "Then we should make this a routine after you give birth. You have to see how I look when I’m really showing off."

Gabriel’s answering huff was soft, almost amused, except for the way he tilted his head, giving Damian’s mouth just a little more access to his throat.

"Oh?" he murmured. "And here I thought you preferred to show off in private."

"I do," Damian said, his voice darker now. "But sometimes... I like when they watch."

Gregoris turned away sharply with a muttered curse.

Max groaned audibly. "Okay. We get it. You win. You’re terrifying. And disturbingly synchronized in your foreplay."

Alexandra, unbothered, crossed her legs. "At least there is no blood."

Gabriel reached up and unhooked Damian’s hand from his front with careful fingers, voice dry and clipped as he said, "Let go before I kiss you in front of your generals."

Damian stepped back with reluctant grace.

The last flicker of ether faded beneath their feet, the hum of the warded ring dying down like the final breath of a storm.

Gabriel stepped out of the ring first, retrieving his coat from the low wall and shaking it once before slinging it over his shoulder. His hair was damp at the temple, and there was a faint flush at his throat from exertion—but otherwise, he looked infuriatingly composed.

Damian followed a beat later, slower, reaching for the towel Gregoris wordlessly offered. The general didn’t speak—not after that display—but his eyes lingered on Gabriel with the faint calculation of a man who had just lost an exceptional recruit to the throne.

"Get your arm checked," Gregoris muttered to Damian, as if it were just an afterthought. It wasn’t.

"I will," Damian replied.

Gabriel glanced toward the others—Alexandra, still perched elegantly like the perfect audience member; Irina, looking somewhere between admiration and shellshock; and Max, muttering something obscene under his breath and rubbing the bruise already forming on his collarbone.

"I’ll see you all later," Gabriel said mildly. "Try not to start a revolution while I’m gone."

Damian didn’t wait for farewells. He was already crossing the polished floor, coat in one hand, the other brushing against the small of Gabriel’s back—barely a touch, but firm enough to guide.

The doors shut behind them with a soft hiss.

They walked in silence for a few halls, the quiet hum of palace wards vibrating faintly beneath the tiles, until they turned down the southern corridor—the one leading to the physician’s private wing.

"I was serious," Gabriel said, voice low now. "If you pull a muscle or tear another ether channel, I’m going to sedate you myself."

Damian arched a brow, but his tone stayed even. "I’d like to see you try."

"I wouldn’t like to try," Gabriel said. "I’d rather not have you unconscious for days again."

Damian glanced down at his right hand—the one he’d used more heavily during the spar. He flexed his fingers once. The skin was pink where the channels had burned out before. Still tender. But it held.

"Do you think Marin will clear me?" he asked, more to himself than to Gabriel.

"If he doesn’t," Gabriel said, "you’re not arguing. I’ll knock you out and carry you back."

"Pregnant and threatening. My favorite version of you."

They reached the door. Gabriel didn’t knock. He pushed it open with his palm, stepping into the stark, clinical chill of the imperial medical wing where Marin worked. The lights here were soft but cold. Clean. Honest.

Dr. Marin glanced up from his notes, one brow already raised like he’d heard everything from the hall.

"I just need to check your channels," he said, setting the file aside and standing with the quiet efficiency of someone who’d seen too many noble limbs mangled for sport. "The wards from sparring already sent the readings through. Impressive."

Damian arched an eyebrow, already unfastening the top buttons of his shirt. "Impressive as in within safe margins, or impressive as in you shouldn’t be standing?"

Marin pulled on a pair of gloves with a snap. "Impressive as in: you forced a full-spectrum ether response from burned-out channels and didn’t pass out." He stepped closer, nodding for Damian to sit on the padded table. "Your pain tolerance is monstrous, but it seems like you are on your way to being normal. Which, if you weren’t the Emperor, would have given me a nice paper in an international medical journal."

Gabriel, still standing just to the side, gave a soft scoff—half amusement, half exasperation. "You say that like you’re not still planning to write it."

"I will write it," Marin replied without shame, adjusting the small ether scanner in his hand. "But unfortunately, I can’t publish it without violating about six different imperial protocols and the seventh circle of Edward’s wrath."

Damian raised an eyebrow as Marin pressed the scanner to his forearm. "I thought you didn’t care about rules."

"I don’t," Marin said dryly, "but I do care about keeping my job. And my spleen."

Gabriel sat down on the edge of the adjacent bench, scarf now loosened at his neck, watching the glowing light pass beneath the surface of Damian’s skin. Pale threads of light pulsed faintly down his arm—still scarred, still healing—but whole. Functioning.

"Your pain tolerance is monstrous," Marin muttered, more to the screen than to either of them. "But you’re rebuilding. The channels are knitting themselves back faster than projected. Not cleanly, mind you—your left forearm looks like a rat’s nest—but they’re flowing."

Gabriel’s gaze sharpened. "Any feedback or resistance?"

"Minor. Nothing disruptive," Marin said. Then gave Damian a look over the edge of the scanner. "Though if you overload yourself again in the next forty-eight hours, you’ll set them back two weeks minimum."

"I was checking what the damage was."

Marin snorted. "You say that now. But next time someone insults Gabriel or breathes near him in court, you’ll light up like a cathedral at solstice."

Gabriel, who had perched neatly back on the side bench, lifted a brow. "I’m flattered by the comparison, but you know I can defend myself."

"I know that," Marin said. "He doesn’t. Or rather, he does—and still thinks no one should be allowed to try."

Damian’s expression didn’t shift, but the air around him went still for just a beat too long.

"I’m not planning to use ether for the next few weeks," he repeated, quieter now. "But I never said anything about my ceremonial sword."