Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 393 - 387: Ashes in Donin

Chapter 393: Chapter 387: Ashes in Donin

The chamber stank of scorched stone and old blood. Ether lanterns burned low in their sconces, shadows stretching like claws across the cracked floor tiles. Outside the high, narrow windows, Donin’s capital was silent beneath its curfew, the sky painted in bruised violet and the distant haze of smoldering pyres.

Hadeon sat on the edge of the council dais, a throne only in name, carved from blackwood and silver inlay now darkened by soot from the fires he had ordered the night before. His black hair, streaked with silver, fell loose over one shoulder, catching the lantern light like a blade. His eyes, cold, metallic, and pitiless, never left the man kneeling before him.

Aslan was trembling. A man who once commanded Donin, now knelt in the wreckage of his own government, robes torn and smeared with ash. He had been proud when Hadeon first arrived with promises of stability, of new power. He had thought himself clever when he betrayed the previous council.

Now his forehead touched the fractured tiles as he begged.

"Mercy," Aslan choked out, voice cracking. "Your Grace... please... I served you... I..."

Hadeon’s lips curved in something far too sharp to be a smile. His voice was soft when he spoke, almost kind, and that made it worse.

"You served yourself," he said, leaning forward, elbows resting on his knees. "You thought bending the knee would keep you alive."

Aslan dared to lift his head. "I can fix it... I can make them follow..."

"You think Donin needs fixing?" Hadeon’s tone did not rise, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop. "Donin needs cleansing."

He shifted slightly, the movement smooth. His fingers curled once in the air, a signal so small most would miss it.

Steel flashed.

Aslan’s plea cut off with a strangled gasp as one of Hadeon’s personal guards stepped forward, blade drawn in a single clean motion. The sound of the strike was a whisper against the stone. A heartbeat later, Aslan’s body collapsed forward, blood soaking into the cracks of the tiles.

Hadeon didn’t even glance at the corpse. He only reached up, brushing one lock of hair back from his face, expression as calm as if he’d just dismissed a servant.

"Clean it," he murmured, and the guards moved immediately, dragging Aslan’s body out through a side door while another began to scrub the blood with saltwater and ether‑burned cloth. The scent of iron lingered, faint but sharp, as Hadeon rose from the dais.

He walked toward the far window, looking out over Donin’s sleeping city. Lanterns glimmered in the distance, thin golden threads weaving through dark streets. A city that had thought itself untouchable, safe behind treaties and distance, now bent under his hand. f(r)eew(e)bnovel.(c)o(m)

And still, it wasn’t enough.

"Pais," he said softly to himself, tasting the name like a challenge.

He had offered them a chance. A chance to aid him, to profit from his conquest. And they had refused. They had bowed to their new king, Daniel Rhine, and sent nothing but silence in return.

Hadeon’s hand tightened on the window frame, knuckles white.

Daniel Rhine. A weak man in his eyes, wearing a crown he didn’t deserve.

And now, because of that refusal, because of that insult, Hadeon could already see the lines of his next move.

He would burn Pais to ash before he allowed Daniel’s name to carry weight. He would ether poison their fields, take their ships, break their gates wide enough that the screams would echo in every noble court that had dared question his rise. Let the Empire in the west cower behind golden‑eyed infants and whispered threats, he would carve his answer into the world.

A guard approached cautiously from behind, voice low. "Orders, my lord?"

Hadeon didn’t turn. He kept his gaze on the distant horizon where Pais lay far beyond the mountains, beyond the border, already marked in his mind.

"Send word to the fleets," he said softly. "We move south within the month."

"Yes, my lord."

Hadeon’s reflection in the glass stared back at him, tall, unyielding, a shadow carved in the faint lantern light.

His words were not loud, but they carried the kind of venom that coiled and fed itself, a promise spoken into the night as if the distance between him and the Emperor were nothing at all.

"Damian," he murmured, lips twisting into something that might have been a smile if it weren’t so cold, "just wait and see."

Outside, Donin’s streets burned with the quiet hum of fear. Inside, the chamber held its breath as though it, too, understood that something irreversible had just taken root.

Hadeon turned from the window at last, coat brushing the stone floor as he moved back toward the darkened throne. The ether lanterns flickered once as he passed, shadows stretching long like claws behind him.

Pais would fall.

And when it did, the Empire would feel the tremor.

His patience was over; his war was only beginning.

—

Damian stood by the wide balcony doors of his private study, the night air heavy with the scent of rain on stone. Below, the palace grounds shimmered with ether‑lamps, their glow fractured by wet leaves and slick marble. He didn’t turn when the door opened, he had felt the shift in the wards a heartbeat before the knock.

Gregoris entered without an announcement, boots silent against the carpet, coat still damp from travel. He stopped just inside the room, his presence cutting through the warm hush like a blade.

"Say it," Damian said, his voice low, steady.

Gregoris didn’t waste time with courtesies. "Donin’s council is gone. Hadeon has taken full control."

A beat. "Aslan didn’t make it out."

For a long moment, Damian didn’t move. His hand rested lightly on the balcony railing, fingers curled as if holding onto something invisible. The quiet stretched thin between them, taut as a bowstring.

"Witnesses?" Damian asked finally, still not turning.

"Enough," Gregoris replied. "No survivors from the chamber. His men dragged the bodies into the square, made a point of it." A pause, softer now, but edged in steel. "He wants you to know."

Damian closed his eyes briefly, the weight of the words settling like a stone in his chest. When he spoke again, it was almost gentle.

"Of course he does."

Gregoris shifted, watching him carefully. "Orders?"

Damian opened his eyes, the gold in them catching the lamplight like liquid fire. He turned at last, slowly, and the room seemed smaller for it.

"Double the patrols along the eastern trade corridors," he said, voice smooth but edged. "Send aid to Daniel in Pais. I don’t think Hadeon will risk crossing the borders with what he has left, but..." Damian’s jaw tightened, his gaze distant for a heartbeat. "He doesn’t play fair. Rust his power another few days, just enough, until Gabriel is recovered enough to deal with the shard."

Gregoris’s brows lifted, faint but telling. "You’re counting days?"

"I’m counting everything," Damian murmured, moving around the table to rest one hand on the back of the nearest chair. "Hadeon believes taking Donin was enough to shake us. Let him think it. Let him believe he has time."