Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 377 - 371: Party preparations

A month later, the palace gleamed like something born from myth, gold polished to the point of arrogance, banners refreshed in thread so fine it made old generals squint, and the outer gardens trimmed into brutal symmetry. Every archway was dressed in crimson and imperial white, woven with the sigils of the Great Houses and the swirling seal of the Aragon Empire, as if daring anyone to forget who ruled.

The coming-of-age ceremony was, by law and tradition, a celebration of promise. Of bloodlines, legacy, youth stepping into adulthood, and the veiled dance of alliances soon to bloom.

To Gabriel von Jaunez, it was hell.

A hormonal, bloated, social-political trap of a hell, crafted lovingly by the Emperor himself before he vanished to go play war tag with Hadeon.

"Gabriel will handle it," Damian had said. Sweet. Soft. Over breakfast. While rubbing his back and pretending he wasn’t fleeing the Capital to conquer a continent.

And so Gabriel was handling it.

Which, in practice, meant that at seven months pregnant, he was currently dictating guest logistics with one hand braced on his lower back, the other stabbing a red pen into a seating chart like it owed him an apology.

Crista Lyon was seated nearby, sipping her tea with the unnerving calm of a dowager Empress who had once raised the very menace now ruling the Empire, and who had, without question, enabled that same menace to vanish for three days on a military campaign while leaving his bonded mate alone with full nesting instincts and a ceremonial guest list longer than a peace treaty.

"I should exile him," Gabriel muttered, circling another name on the chart hard enough to rip the paper. "Or ban him from this wing until the carpets are cleaned and the banners are rehung. Or until the baby arrives. Whichever takes longer."

Crista didn’t look up from her cup. "He said you’d say that."

"Did he also say I’d find his cloak folded in my wardrobe again like a scent-marked peace offering?"

"Yes," she said, delicately placing the cup down. "He also said you’d pretend to be furious for another hour before asking if he brought honeycomb."

Gabriel glared at the chart. "He didn’t, though."

"He will," Crista replied serenely. "He always does. It’s part of his training."

"Your doing, no doubt."

Crista smiled like a woman who had once taught Damian Lyon to disarm spies with compliments and knives and only regretted the compliments.

Across the room, Alexandra and Irina were locked in a silent war over place card calligraphy, Rafael was holding two different flower arrangements like they were volatile chemicals, and somewhere under the noise, Gabriel’s son kicked him directly beneath the ribs.

"Fine," Gabriel said, setting the pen down with all the elegance of a man accepting defeat while planning vengeance. "He can live."

"For now," Crista agreed.

Gabriel exhaled through his nose and pressed a palm to the side of his stomach, where a second, more defiant kick made him wince. His spine ached, his ankles were threatening mutiny, and the fact that Damian was currently inspecting the troops with a smirk and a war strategy for Donin while he had to deal with a rogue florist and three noble houses that wouldn’t sit near each other unless sedated was, frankly, insulting.

"Why," he asked the ceiling, "do I have to suffer every time my mate decides to play Empire?"

"Because exactly one year ago, he met you again, after the rebellion, at the Coming of Age Ball and decided to never let go. You see, there is a good part in this..." Alexandra said smugly.

Gabriel raised his right brow unimpressed.

"Last year the ball was for seven days; now you only have three. Progress."

Alexandra smiled like she hadn’t just stabbed him with the memory of the longest political theater ever staged in velvet and perfume.

"Three days," Gabriel echoed, voice flat. "Three days, eight hundred guests, five Houses currently at war through invitation font size, and I’m seven months pregnant with an heir who thinks my lungs are a drum set."

"You’re glowing," Alexandra added helpfully.

"I should ban that word." Gabriel leaned back into the cushions, shifting to accommodate the sharp kick from his miniature tyrant. "Glowing. Like it’s not sweat and fury and whatever emotion comes just before murder."

Alexandra tilted her head, unfazed. "You forgot radiant."

Rafael, who had been quietly arranging flowers like they were diplomatic grenades, spoke up. "You really are radiant, though."

Gabriel turned his head just enough to glare at him.

"I retract," Rafael said immediately. "I retract everything." fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

"Good," Gabriel muttered. "Go find the florist and remind her we don’t allow glitter in state arrangements. And if she uses the term "whimsical cascade" again, I want her reassigned to the north border."

"She’s eighty-three," Rafael said, already inching away. "She’ll love it."

As Rafael made his escape, Gabriel’s gaze drifted back to the chart. Then to the long corridor leading to the main hall. The scent of polished wood and lavender oil from the cleaned bannisters tickled his senses, a calculated assault from housekeeping, and somewhere deep in the palace, someone struck a bell in preparation.

Crista, ever the picture of serene competence, spoke softly. "It’s only three days."

"That’s what they say about plagues too," Gabriel replied. "Just three days. Until your skin peels off and your soul leaves through your ears."

Irina perked up from her calligraphy war. "Oh, by the way, your brother Charles sent an envoy asking if he could sit near the Shadows delegation."

Gabriel blinked. "Is he suicidal?"

Alexandra, eyes gleaming, hummed. "Maybe just nostalgic. He did spend three months training with them."

"Yes. And then spent another three recovering from it."

"I’m just saying, it might be cute," Irina added with too much innocence to be trusted.

"Nothing about this ceremony is cute," Gabriel declared. "It’s a calculated diplomatic minefield disguised as a birthday party. I’m pregnant. I’m swollen. My back hurts. I’ve threatened three ambassadors. And I swear, if one more person suggests a touch of green for the heir’s future House colors, I will unleash something you will all regret."

There was a beat of silence.

Then Alexandra said brightly, "I think emerald would pair beautifully with imperial red—"

Gabriel picked up the pen again. Slowly.

Alexandra grinned. "Oh, don’t look at me like that. You love this. You live for the power plays."

Gabriel twirled the pen between his fingers like a dagger. "I live to survive them. Barely."

Crista reached for another sip of tea. "And yet," she said, "you’ll walk into that hall in three days like a crowned deity, every noble bowing at your feet."

Gabriel sighed, already exhausted by the prophecy. "Only because Damian will walk in beside me looking like a god of war, and they’ll all forget I’m the one who handled the logistics."

Alexandra smiled too sweetly. "That’s your real power. Let him play Empire. You are the Empire."

Gabriel glanced at the chart again.

Three more days.

He muttered something that might’ve been a curse or... a prayer. Possibly both.

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