Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)
Chapter 401 - 395: The Shard’s World (4)

Chapter 401: Chapter 395: The Shard’s World (4)

The words struck like ice driven beneath Gabriel’s skin, sharp enough to make old instincts coil tight in his chest. That familiar shadow, being cornered, being caged, molded into someone else’s image, rose up like a tide, but it didn’t swallow him this time.

He wasn’t that boy anymore.

Even wrapped in this shard‑spun mockery of his past, even with Peter’s ether pressing into his bones like invisible clamps, there was something steadier, stronger, thrumming through him. The mark burned faintly beneath his collar, Damian’s claim seared into more than flesh, pulsing like a heartbeat that refused to break.

Peter’s smile widened, thin and cruel. "Good thing you’re using that pretty head of yours," he drawled, tone soft and venomous, "and only screwing others."

Gabriel’s jaw locked, his breath cutting sharp between his teeth. The disgust rose quick and hot, but his voice, when it came, was low and steady enough to cut.

"You are disgusting," he muttered, the words tasting like iron and fire in his mouth.

For a fraction of a second, the world around him seemed to hum louder, the paneled walls vibrating as if the shard itself didn’t like defiance spoken aloud. His stomach twisted as a sudden wave of dizziness rolled through him, the shard’s grip tightening, a warning.

Gabriel forced himself to breathe, to think past the pressure. This world had rules. He could feel them like hidden hooks in the air, the way each movement and word had consequence. And the pain, the raw, real ache under his skin, was a reminder that this wasn’t just a memory playing out.

Something told him, deep in his gut, that dying here wouldn’t mean waking with a start.

It would mean falling.

It would mean being dragged down with Olivier, trapped in whatever this ether‑rotted fragment had become.

Gabriel’s eyes narrowed, spine drawing taut as a bowstring even as the corridor seemed to lean closer, shadows stretching with the cadence of something alive.

He forced his breathing into measured rhythm, masking the sharp edge of fury that burned beneath his ribs. If this was the game the shard wanted, then he would play it, just as he had once before, years ago, in a world far crueler than this echo. He would play until the illusion broke, until the tether frayed and the Empire’s wards devoured this fragment whole.

Peter’s hand, large and calloused, came up in a mockery of affection, patting Gabriel’s cheek twice. The touch lingered just long enough to crawl beneath his skin, to remind him of every time that gesture had preceded punishment. Then Peter’s fingers dropped, and he flicked his hand in a sharp, dismissive wave, the motion as familiar as a command carved into bone.

"Get ready," Peter said smoothly, as if the conversation hadn’t happened, as if his hand hadn’t just been at Gabriel’s throat. "Tomorrow, you will visit the Palace."

The words rang in the air like a bell struck too hard, reverberating through Gabriel’s chest.

He didn’t flinch. He only inclined his head slightly, a gesture that could be mistaken for obedience.

Inside, his mind sharpened, turning over the shard’s rules and this false world’s edges.

A Palace visit... with Olivier waiting on the other side.

His pulse quickened, his mind racing with possible options to stretch the time, to stall Olivier’s shard until it would be consumed.

He had survived this once.

And this time, he wasn’t alone, no matter how far away Damian and the Empire felt in this moment.

Gabriel remained still until Peter’s footsteps faded, the old cadence of boots against marble pulling deeper into the house like a shadow retreating, for now.

Only then did he allow his shoulders to ease by a fraction, the breath he’d been holding slipping out through his teeth. His fingers brushed against his nape again, over the faint warmth of Damian’s mark, grounding himself with its pulse. It was steady. Untouched. A rhythm that belonged to the present, not this rotted fragment of memory.

The corridor exhaled silence, oppressive and close. The lantern light hummed faintly, the panels of wood and old portraits leaning inward, like the house itself was listening. Gabriel’s jaw ached from how hard he’d been clenching it. He forced himself to move, to walk, not too fast, not enough to draw attention from whatever laws this false world obeyed.

The manor unfolded around him as though it had been waiting, with hallways he knew by heart, stairs that creaked in the exact same spots they always had, and doors that once held laughter now breathing only stillness. He traced them like a map, eyes narrowed, searching for cracks, searching for proof this was only a construct and not some cruel trick of time.

Down the long western hall, servants moved like clockwork shadows. They passed him with nods of deference, faces familiar and impossibly young, untouched by years that had hardened them in truth. He let them go without a word, watching the way their eyes didn’t linger, the way no whisper followed him. Too perfect.

The house smelled of cedar and ink and old incense, a weight on his tongue. In the distant parlor, he heard faint laughter, but not hers. Alexandra’s room stood empty behind its carved doorframe, sunlight pooling coldly over the threshold. In this time, she was away with Caelan, just months into a marriage that saved her from Peter’s claws.

Gabriel lingered there for a moment, the sight of that stillness pressing against old memories, a phantom ache in his chest. Then he moved on, boots whispering against polished wood, deeper into a world that for now, kept him captive.

Past the side gallery where his mother’s paintings still lined the walls, bright and hopeful in ways the future never honored. Past the window that overlooked the orchard where Charles once sparred with Theo under their grandfather’s unyielding eye. In this shard-world, they would be far away, posted to the northern front, still young enough to believe in causes that weren’t theirs. His father and mother would be south, chasing victories that had already been buried in the soil.

Gabriel stopped at the top of the stairs, hand gripping the banister, knuckles white. The world held, perfect and relentless. No cracks, no flaws, no seams. It was memory and cage both, dressed in Olivier’s design.

But the shard was not eternal.

He felt it—faint, distant, like a heartbeat far below his own—the other shard in the Empire’s wards, slowly consuming this echo.

Time was on his side, if only just.

Gabriel drew a slow breath, letting it settle into his chest. ’Tomorrow, the Palace. Tomorrow, Olivier.’

His lips curled into a sardonic smile, sharp enough to make even Edward shudder.

"All right," he whispered to the empty hall, voice low and cold. "Let’s see how long your little world can hold."