Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL) Chapter 214: Chapter 209: Whispers Before the Burial (1)

The noise of the reception faded behind ornate glass doors. Roses blood unnaturally in the frost-drenched air beyond the windows—ether-imbued and cruelly perfect.

Rosaline moved like a shadow in silk, her gloved fingers brushing the edge of an antique credenza as if admiring the grain. Her hair was pinned, her perfu subtle—sweet and sharp, like crushed petals over venom. She stood just close enough to Delphina to whisper without being overheard.

"You did the right thing," Rosaline murmured, her voice warm and silk-smooth. "Lady Patricia was always too loud. Too quick to claim victory before the pieces were in place."ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

Lady Delphina Roseroth, a widow, socialite, and mother to a painfully beautiful oga with soft curls and a sweeter disposition, nodded, but her eyes remained sharp. Watchful. Her fingers clutched her fan a little too tightly.

"She’s not done," Delphina said. "Won like Lay Patricia never go quietly. If she falls, she drags others down with her."

Rosaline’s smile was feline, amused. "Let her drag. We’ll be far enough ahead that her flailing won’t reach us." She leaned in, lips near Delphina’s ear. "That is, if you still want what you said. A future for Rafael. A chance for your house to rise."

Delphina didn’t answer at first. Her eyes flicked toward the garden shadows beyond the window—the faint shape of guards passing, unaware of the quiet plot weaving in the dark.

"Lady Virenne is a witness," she said softly, her voice delicate but lined with steel. "She was the one that started the rumors at Lady Patricia’s orders. We have nothing to worry about."

Rosaline, standing close enough for her breath to mist the edge of the windowpane, didn’t look away from the reflection of the ballroom’s glow. Her expression remained calm, smooth as silk drawn over a blade.

"Are you sure?" Delphina added, her tone tightening like thread pulled taut. "Alphas are known to be possessive after they mark their mate. Even before, I had to constantly watch my son. Rafael couldn’t breathe near one without being scented."

Rosaline smiled—just enough to show teeth. "And yet you kept him close to court."

Delphina’s fan snapped shut with a quiet click. "Don’t mistake my protection for weakness. I raised Rafael to be valuable. To be wanted. If this... oga gets pregnant, there is nothing we can do without risking our necks. I’m not reckless. I would rather be a count, Duke, than be like Patricia."

"Well, then, if he is not pregnant yet, then we take that possibility from him. If he is, then we take it before it settles. You know what easy is when you drink the wrong blend of tea at a party."

Delphina’s breath stopped for half a second, barely more than a pause in the rhythm of her posture, but Rosaline noticed. She didn’t press. She didn’t need to.

"I’m not a murderer," Delphina said, carefully. But her voice had the forced calm of a woman who’d entertained the thought and was horrified only by its practicality.

"Neither am I," Rosaline replied, her voice a satin whisper. "But we are mothers. And that, my dear, ans we are already dangerous. We need him to be disposable; the Emperor must produce heirs as soon as possible; up until now, he has made excuses."

Delphina’s brows arched, delicate but sharp. "Excuses? Or choices?"

Rosaline’s lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile; it was sothing colder. "A man like Damian doesn’t make choices unless he’s compelled. And that oga—" her eyes flicked toward the distant sound of music "—has made him hesitate. It’s unnatural. An Empress should be fertile ground, not sacred territory."

Delphina tapped her fan against her gloved palm. "And yet he protects him like a secret. Like sothing claid."

"That can be undone," Rosaline said, eyes narrowing. "The court knows how to turn obsession into sha. If Gabriel is seen as barren—worse, as manipulative—Damian will have to correct it. The Empire expects lineage. Legacy. Obedience." She stepped close again, her breath threading like perfu into the air. "If the new Consort can’t give birth, what would be his purpose?"

Delphina didn’t flinch. But her jaw tightened, and her fan no longer moved.

Rosaline continued, her voice honey-laced and venom-tipped. "An oga who cannot bear children is a liability. One who refuses to—well. That becos treason of the womb, doesn’t it?" She tilted her head, eyes gleaming with quiet cruelty. "The Empire doesn’t crown lovers. It crowns mothers."

Delphina’s throat moved in a swallow; she hoped Rosaline didn’t notice. "You’re assuming he hasn’t conceived already."

"I’m hoping he hasn’t," Rosaline replied sharply, then softened the words with a smile. "But if he has... there are still ways. You know how dangerously fragile pregnancies are in the first few weeks..." She let the sentence hang, unfinished but unmistakable.

Delphina exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the muted clink of glass and distant laughter. Her gaze stayed fixed on the ice-laced roses beyond the window, but her voice lost none of its steel.

"I don’t want blood on my hands, Rosaline."

"You won’t touch him," Rosaline assured, stepping closer again—too close, the way only won with nothing to lose dared. "That’s the beauty of it. He’ll never know where the fault lies. A blend of herbs. A shift in tonic. An innocuous tea delivered by the wrong hands at the right ti. The palace is full of well-aning attendants, overworked physicians, eager servants..."

She trailed off, letting the suggestion settle.

Delphina turned then, sharply. "You’ve already selected soone."

Rosaline tilted her head, not denying it. "Soone who understands that loyalty is a currency. And fear is an effective motivator. No blade. No poison. Just... a correction. Nature takes its course. Who would bla the Emperor when his own consort didn’t take care of his pregnancy? A lot of tea blends can cause miscarriage or fertility issues in ogas, but not in won."

Delphina’s lips parted slightly, allowing the outrage to form before swallowing it back down. The fan in her hand stilled mid-motion, her fingers clamped around it like it was a lifeline.

"You would bla him," she said, low and cautious, "while he grieves."

"I wouldn’t need to," Rosaline replied, soft as ever. "The court will do it for us. Whispers will bloom before the child is even buried. That he was negligent. That he didn’t watch what Gabriel consud. That maybe he wanted the miscarriage—after all, an heir too soon binds him to a mate too fast. That’s not love, they’ll say. That’s political maneuvering gone wrong."

She smiled again, that sa calm, cruel expression—beautiful in its precision. "And Gabriel? He’ll be the one who bleeds in public. He’ll wear his failure like a crown. A barren consort. A spoiled favorite. The Empire will mourn what might’ve been, and Damian... Damian will have to choose between his people and his pride."

Delphina turned her face away, sha prickling at the edges of her thoughts. A barren consort. The phrase had the feel of a brand: too sharp, too real. She had lived long enough in this world to know what happened to those who failed to produce. No one rembered your silk or virtue, just your silence in the nursery halls.

Her voice trembled, just once. "You’re playing with grief."

"I’ve lost my child because of the Emperor’s moves. I know better than anyone what grief is."