Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 145 - 140: Idle conversations (1)

Chapter 145: Chapter 140: Idle conversations (1)

The cold bit at his skin like truth.

Gabriel stepped onto the stone balcony; the hush of the meeting sealed behind polished doors. Out here, the city breathed beneath low clouds and flickering lamps, unconcerned about the empire’s power plays. The wind was brisk, clean, untouched by spellcraft or court perfume. It reminded him of the field, the bite of etherstorms, the hum of leyline interference, the ash-and-rune scent of the real world.

He reached for a cigarette he no longer carried.

Old habits. He hadn’t smoked since returning to the capital, but the phantom sensation persisted: burnt fingers, smudged reports, late nights full of arcane grit and genuine purpose. That life was gone. Replaced with silk chairs, gilded contracts, and noble smiles that bit like fangs.

He sighed. He had decided to walk away from the project and from Claymore. It was time.

He turned his back on the rail and closed his eyes, leaning against it and savoring the cold autumn wind, letting it wash over him, hoping it might strip away the day’s performance.

The wind shifted.

And, because fate had a sense of humor, so did the silence.

"Well," came a voice like oil over glass, "if it isn’t the empire’s newest centerpiece."

Gabriel did not open his eyes; his black hair was ruffled by the wind, and his hands were clasped around the balcony rail.

"Still collecting my titles, Elliot? I thought you were above petty commentary."

"You were above me once," Elliot said, stepping closer, his tone venom wrapped in velvet. "Figuratively, at least. I expected you to raise yourself properly. Strategically."

"Sorry to disappoint," Gabriel murmured. "I’ll be sure to plan my next scandal around your expectations."

Elliot ignored the jab and approached him at a predator’s pace, his pheromones slowly seeping into the air like spilled wine. "You could’ve chosen anyone. Align yourself with anyone. And yet here you are, paraded through meetings like a well-kept trophy."

Gabriel opened his eyes slowly, leaning casually against the stone railing. "That sounds awfully bitter for someone who tried to be the trophy shelf."

Elliot’s eyes narrowed. "You think bedding the Emperor makes you untouchable?"

Gabriel smiled thinly. "No. But it certainly filters out the noise."

"You made yourself his pet."

"Better than being your placeholder. Do you think your pheromones impress me?" Gabriel replied, crossing his arms over his chest. The wind tugged at his coat, but his tone remained razor-flat.

That hit.

Elliot’s composure faltered for a breath, a single twitch of his jaw. He recovered quickly, but Gabriel had already turned his back again, watching the clouds with the calm of someone who had already dissected the knife aimed at him and found it dull.

"You’ll see," Elliot hissed, low and close now. "He’ll use you until you’re inconvenient, then discard you like all the rest." This was the real Elliot speaking now, unfiltered, his mask cracking.

"I’ve been used before, Elliot. But only idiots think that’s the end of the story."

Elliot’s mouth twisted, and his handsome face contorted into something momentarily hideous. "You think you’re clever..."

"I am clever," Gabriel cut in smoothly, not even sparing him a glance. "Which is why you’re still standing two steps behind, spewing envy like it’s strategy."

The balcony doors creaked again.

This time, the footsteps were faster. Confident. Familiar.

"Elliot," came Max’s voice, flat and unimpressed. "Are you still here? George left an hour ago. You missed your chance to follow him around like a disappointed valet."

Gabriel’s mouth twitched, nearly smiling.

Elliot’s face went from fire to stone. Panic flashed in his eyes—George had left, and he hadn’t known. The leash was slipping.

Max appeared beside them, adjusting his silver cuffs with practiced ease, ensuring that the only jewelry he wore today was the ostentatious silver ring of Claymore’s heir. "Honestly, if I knew you’d keep circling the balcony like a rejected side character, I would’ve brought a leash."

Elliot stepped back, stiff with rage. "You always take his side."

"I always take the side that isn’t pathetic," Max replied, raising an eyebrow. It was a jab older than their childhood, older than the polished diplomacy that Max wore like a second skin.

Elliot turned sharply, coat flaring like wings, and stormed off without another word. The doors slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the windows.

Silence lingered.

Gabriel let out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold. The pungent odor of Elliot’s pheromones still clung to the air like oil. He missed his air freshener from Ashmont.

"Thanks," he said simply.

Max’s hand rested casually in his coat pocket, fingers brushing against a silver case tucked deep within the dark lining.

The faint scent of clove tobacco began to filter in, enhanced by ether—subtle, familiar, calming.

"I was going to offer you a smoke," Max said, pulling one out and holding it between two fingers, "but I figured you were trying to be imperial now."

Gabriel eyed it.

Then took it.

Max lit it for him, shielding the flame with his palm. Gabriel inhaled slowly, the smoke curling like silver ink into the cold air. For a moment, the city below seemed quieter.

"You really pissed him off," Max said, casually resting his elbows on the stone railing.

"He pisses himself off just fine," Gabriel replied, exhaling smoke into the wind. "I just give him a mirror."

"Still," Max murmured. "It’s nice to see you unbothered. You’re always composed in meetings, but I know the look you wear when you’re being polite to people you want to stab."

Gabriel didn’t deny it.

The smoke warmed his lungs in a way the wind couldn’t. He didn’t even like clove—he preferred the sharp burn of regular tobacco—but this felt... grounding. An offering. A reminder.

"He said I made myself a pet."

Max hummed. "That’s rich coming from someone who used to beg to be a lapdog."

Gabriel chuckled softly. "I don’t know what’s worse. That he still sees me as an object to envy—or that he can’t comprehend I chose this."

Max turned his head, really looking at him now. "Did you?"

Gabriel met his gaze. "I chose to stop being theirs."

That was answer enough.

Below, through the crystal-glass windows, three pairs of eyes followed them.

Damian stood inside, hands clasped behind his back, golden eyes fixed on the balcony. To his right, Lady Virenth whispered something to General Halbrecht, who made a grunt of vague acknowledgment, but neither of them looked away.

The Emperor did not blink.