Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 162 - 157: Lingering scent (3)

Chapter 162: Chapter 157: Lingering scent (3)

The corridor outside was silent, save for the low murmur of guards shifting at their posts. The imperial wing never slept, not really. It only breathed slower at night.

Astana Blake stood waiting by the main hall, exactly where Damian expected him.

His posture was immaculate, hands clasped behind his back, dark robes bearing the understated sigil of the Imperial House seal. No aide ever looked more like a shadow carved from marble.

Astana turned to follow without missing a beat, his steps quiet against the marble.

"Max is waiting for you... and Prince Christian," he continued after a breath. "They’re in the imperial office. Max is here for the appointment with the Claymore Guild. The Prince..." A pause, light as silk. "Well. Because of Anya."

Damian didn’t respond right away. There was nothing more to say.

The hall stretched before them in clean lines that defined Damian’s style, with enchanted tapestries flowing windingly in small movements, similar to breathing. The effect was subtle, imperial artistry, restrained but alive. Like the palace itself exhaled between decisions.

Their footsteps echoed softly, muted by wards and silence spells meant to preserve the dignity of midnight meetings.

Astana kept pace half a step behind, his posture effortless, his expression unreadable.

The scent of old ink and cooling ether drifted from the council wing as they passed. Somewhere, aides were still redrafting proposals under ether light, seeking a version of truth that could survive the morning.

At last, Damian spoke, his voice as low and sharp."How long has he been waiting?"

"Max arrived an hour ago," Astana replied. "He tried to intimidate the guards into offering him a drink. They gave him tea."

Damian’s lips curved faintly. "Unfortunate."

Astana allowed himself the smallest nod. "He made them regret it."

"And Christian?"

"Twenty minutes. He hasn’t moved from the window."

Of course he hadn’t. Christian never moved when he was angry. He rooted. Dug in like frost in stone and waited for everything around him to crack first.

A breath passed, deliberate.

Damian adjusted the gloves on his hands with mechanical precision, then removed them one by one. Each motion was quiet, restrained, like shedding armor.

The hallway had narrowed toward the imperial office, tall doors marked by the wolf crest and bound with old enchantments that only opened by loyal hand or imperial command. The guards at either side stood poised in ceremonial stillness, their eyes fixed on nothing at all.

Damian paused just outside the threshold, gold gaze lingering on the grain of the wood, the way the light caught in the etching of the imperial sigil.

Inside, Max’s voice floated out, casual and smooth as silk slipping off a blade.

"I’ve won the bet, Christian."

The imperial office welcomed him like an old secret, walls lined with map-scrolls and arcane records, the hearth low but steady, casting flickers of light over the polished floor. It was a room designed for precision, for power.

Max sat draped across one of the deep chairs near the hearth like a cat that owned the estate, one boot kicked off and resting on the edge of a carved table. The teacup in his hand was delicate, absurdly so in contrast to the smug glint in his green eyes.

"Oh, Damian," he drawled, "the man of the hour. We made a bet to see if you’d show up before midnight. It seems like I won."

"I have never taken part in your bet," said Christian dryly. He was standing at the tall arched window, one arm folded across his chest while the other hung at his side, fingers tapping faintly against the fabric of his sleeve. His eyes didn’t leave the distant gates of the palace below.

"But you considered it," Max replied with a grin. "Which is practically consent in Claymore terms."

Damian closed the door behind him without a word, removing his gloves one finger at a time as if unbothered by their theatrics.

Astana walked in quietly, returned to his position near Damian’s desk, and sighed so softly that only the bookshelves might have heard it.

He was exhausted.

And now he had to deal with three of Hadeon’s sons.

Not that any of them would ever say it aloud. Not in this room. Not in these walls, where bloodlines were painted over with titles and politics until no one remembered where the cracks began.

Max was sprawled like a lord of chaos, sipping lukewarm tea and baiting everyone within breathing distance. Christian was fire beneath glass, always one breath from eruption, still pretending the name Lyon didn’t sit like a blade against his spine. And Damian, Damian was the storm itself, too powerful to resist and too precise to escape.

Three sons of the same man, and yet none of them would call him father.

Astana adjusted a silver cufflink that didn’t need adjusting. His thoughts were never written on his face, but if they were, they would have read: I should’ve stayed in foreign service.

Across the room, Christian spoke at last, his voice lower now, edged with something reluctant. "Anya met Hadeon after the ball. She met Mother, too, on the same day. But I think we all know where she got the idea."

The room shifted, subtly.

Max sat up just enough to frown. "You’re sure?"

Christian nodded once. "She didn’t come up with that on her own. Not with that timing. She made her move the moment I wasn’t here to escort her to the event."

Christian exhaled and ran a hand through his hair, suddenly looking his age for the first time that evening. "I don’t want to be in this, Damian. I have three hearings tomorrow, a delegation from the west in two days, and I still haven’t briefed the investigators on the ether collapse. This isn’t my fire to put out."

"You’re involved," Damian said simply, "because she was tied to you."

Christian gave a slow, bitter laugh. "She was because of political moves. Not affection. Not a choice."

He leaned back in the chair, one arm draped over the side, silver eyes locked on his brother. "You made that match, Damian. You, Mother, and half the Council. Don’t look at me like I handed her a crown."

"I don’t recall blaming you for the crown," Damian said, unbothered. "Just for not noticing when she started sharpening it into a knife."

Christian exhaled through his nose. "I was dealing with the Ministry’s failures. I didn’t think she’d be stupid enough to provoke you in your own palace."

"She’s not stupid," Max said, almost thoughtfully. "She’s desperate. And no one taught her what happens to desperate people who forget they’re in Damian’s house."

Astana didn’t move, didn’t speak, but something in the set of his shoulders sharpened, an unspoken agreement.

Christian shook his head slowly. "So what now? We ruin her?"