Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL) Chapter 325 - 320: Glowing

Gabriel didn’t have a chance to argue. Alexandra already had him by the arm, dragging him down the corridor with the sa energy she’d once used to pull him out of a fencing match because his shirt collar was "offensively starched."

"Where are we—"

"Your chamber," she said. "Shut up and cooperate."

Behind them, Gloria followed with the garnt bag, her heels clicking like war drums against the marble floor.

Edward didn’t ask if they had clearance. He simply rerouted the guards and made sure no one else ca near.

Inside the Empress’s chamber, the air still held the quiet weight of early morning—the bed untouched, the fireplace banked low, the curtains drawn halfway against the sun. Gabriel had barely turned to close the door before Alexandra snapped her fingers.

"Off."

He arched a brow. "Excuse ?"

"The robe, Gabriel. You’re getting fitted." She pulled the chair aside and made space. "Unless you want Gloria to do it with scissors."

"I’d rather not be stabbed today."

"Good. Neither would we. Now move."

He stripped with the slow resignation of soone accustod to losing battles in his own ho, tossing the original robe over the back of a chair. Gloria didn’t wait for him to finish—she was already unzipping the garnt bag and pulling the new piece free, breathless with vengeance.

It was white. Lined in crimson. Silver shimr along the collar and sleeves. Masculine but elegant, the structure deliberate—refined enough for court, imposing enough for history. It sat flawlessly on Gabriel’s lean fra, accentuating the height and presence he wore like a second skin.

Gloria stepped back, arms crossed, gaze narrowing with the cool, practiced precision of soone who hadn’t needed asurents in years.

"You’ve lost weight since the coming-of-age ceremony," she said, eyes lingering. "And before you bite, that’s not a complint."

Gabriel arched a brow. "Is this going to be about nutrition or about my collar?"

"It’s going to be about the fact that you look like you’ve been fed political agendas and anxiety for breakfast. Which, considering who you’re bonded to, tracks."

Her voice was light, but her eyes were sharp—tracking him the way she had during every debate match and design competition back in school. Six years hadn’t dulled the edge. If anything, power had honed it.

"I thought palace food was the best," she added, casually adjusting the fall of his sleeve. "Either the Emperor’s starving you... or you’re pregnant."

Alexandra, halfway through pouring tea, froze.

Gabriel didn’t move. His expression stayed composed, but sothing—so flicker of breath or stillness—gave just enough away.

And Gloria, of course, caught it.

She let out a breathless laugh. "Gods. You are, aren’t you?"

"Inner court matter," Gabriel said flatly, not turning.

"Obviously," Gloria replied, already resuming the fitting. "Do I look like I have a death wish?"

"You used to."

"Please. I survived four years of your sabotage and six years of pretending I didn’t want to set your thesis on fire. This is child’s play."

Alexandra looked between them with a mixture of horror and reluctant amusent. "Wait, you two were at war?"

"Civilized war," Gloria replied airily, tightening the hem with a flick of her fingers. "At the academy. Four years of cold sabotage, stolen fabric, and shared trophies neither of us ever displayed."

Gabriel didn’t even look at her. "You threatened to set my final project on fire."

"You nad yours after a failed dynastic war just to insult my color palette."

Alexandra blinked. "And where did all that fight get you?"

Gloria smiled without turning. "A world-renowned designer and an Empress."

Gabriel exhaled through his nose. "That doesn’t have anything to do with being the future Empress."

Before Gloria could answer, and before Alexandra could demand further clarification about her little brother’s scandalous academy days, the door opened.

Edward stepped in first, quiet as ever, posture composed and gaze flicking to the hemline with the efficiency of a man who had already scheduled three backup robes and their ceremonial contingencies.

And then Damian followed.

The air shifted.

Damian’s eyes fell on the back of his mate—on the robe, tailored to reveal the mark he’d left, frad in silver thread and purpose. His expression didn’t change. He didn’t speak. But the weight of him was imdiate, golden gaze fixed, breath quiet and deliberate like a man forcibly restraining sothing more primal.

Gabriel, still facing the mirror, didn’t move.

Neither did anyone else.

Gloria was the first to breathe again. "At least pretend to blink," she muttered, stepping back. "The robe’s already fitted."

Damian didn’t blink.

He took one step forward, then another, slow and quiet across the floor.

Gabriel finally turned with the sa poised calm he wore in court, chin lifted, spine straight, and eyes holding the exact sa fire as his mate.

But just before he could et Damian’s gaze, his eyes caught sothing in the mirror.

Sothing glowing.

Specifically, his back.

The cut of the robe revealed the bond mark, yes. But also a halo of glimring embroidery, drawn in silver and fine thread, encircling it like a rune, or worse—a spell.

Gabriel stared.

Then blinked.

Then narrowed his eyes.

"Gloria," he said slowly, "what the fuck is on my back?"

Gloria didn’t even flinch. She flicked a small bit of lint off his sleeve with surgical calm. "Emphasis."

"It’s glowing."

"Only in ether-reactive light."

"It’s glowing, Gloria."

She finally looked up, utterly unrepentant. "Do you want that mark to look like a last-minute accident, or do you want it to look like a deliberate imperial claim backed by power, ether, and six levels of warding tradition?"

"It looks like I joined a cult," Gabriel said flatly.

"You did," Alexandra muttered, sipping tea behind him. "It’s called ’being engaged to the Emperor.’ There are no exits."

Gabriel’s glare did nothing to stop Gloria’s hands. She was already adjusting the robe again, tugging it slightly at the shoulders.

"I’ll tone the glow down," she offered. "But the framing stays. You’re going to need the visual equivalent of a sword before that engagent ceremony."

"It’s in two weeks," Gabriel reminded her.

"Exactly," Gloria said. "Which ans there’s still ti to scandalize the court, but not enough for them to retaliate. You should look like a storm warning."

He glanced at the mirror again, at the robe, the weight, the glint of silver, the sharp line of his own posture—and the mark, no longer vulnerable, but frad like a seal no one dared question.

He exhaled through his nose. "Fine."

Damian was silent behind him, gold eyes watching every shift.

Gabriel glanced back. "Don’t say it."

"I wasn’t going to," Damian said smoothly. Then, after a beat, "But I will be requesting portraits."

Gabriel turned away before he could smile. "You’re insufferable."

"And you’re radiant."

"Stop."

Edward, waiting by the door, cleared his throat with the exhausted dignity of a man who had absolutely no ti for romance.

"If you’re both finished flirting," he said, "I need the final robe asurents to update the formal announcent schedule. The press is already harassing the palace team for confirmation of the engagent date."

"It’s in two weeks," Gabriel muttered again.

"Yes," Edward said without blinking. "Which gives us thirteen days, four hours, and a roster of nobility in full ltdown."

Gloria stepped back, tying off the thread. "Well. He’s ready."

Gabriel adjusted the collar himself. "For war?"

"For scrutiny," Gloria replied. "War’s next."