Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)

From the balcony above, the banquet glittered with chandeliers pulsing blue-white with ether, polished marble reflecting light as nobles clustered in shock. At the center of it all, Arik, warm black hair mussed, golden eyes alight, held a count by the collar as though he were no heavier than a coat.

Damian leaned forward against the railing, the sharp lines of his face unchanged by time. His black hair was cropped short now and swept back, making him look as though he hadn't aged a day past thirty-five despite being fifty-two. Golden eyes gleamed, mischief sparking beneath their burnished steel. He didn't bother hiding his pride.

Beside him, Gabriel stood elegant and unbothered, one hand curved loosely around a glass of red wine. His frame was lithe, his posture unshakably composed, and cool black hair fell neatly against his brow. Pale skin and brown eyes gave him the ageless air of a portrait come to life; at forty, he looked untouched by the years, though the knowing curve of his lips gave away his amusement.

"He's enjoying himself," Damian remarked, voice low with indulgence as Arik shook the man lightly, to the audible gasps of the crowd below.

Gabriel sipped his wine, unhurried. "Of course he is. You gave him your temper."

"That is not my temper." Damian's mouth quirked. "That is performance art."

Gabriel chuckled, warm and sharp all at once. "And Cecil, sitting there with that expression that says none of this is my problem? That's me."

Below, Cecil remained seated, silver eyes cool, every inch composed even as Arik made a spectacle of himself.

"Mm," Damian agreed, watching their younger son with a fond sharpness. "The count should be grateful. If I'd been the one down there…"

"He'd already be dead," Gabriel finished smoothly, flashing teeth over the rim of his glass.

They both watched in silence for a moment longer, nobles whispering nervously, ladies fanning themselves as if the very sight of the Crown Prince with golden eyes and warm black hair was too much to bear. Half the omegas looked ready to faint into the marble at his feet.

Gabriel tilted his head, amused. "They're falling in love with him on the spot. Like another golden-eyed alpha I know."

Damian's mouth curved as he turned his gaze from the chaos below to his mate beside him. "I don't remember you swooning."

"I didn't," Gabriel said lightly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. "I let you work for it."

"That's one word for it." Damian's golden eyes glinted, sharp and fond all at once. "You made me bleed for it."

"And yet," Gabriel murmured, brushing an invisible fleck of dust from his sleeve, "you still think you won."

Damian leaned a little closer, his voice dropping low enough that only Gabriel could hear. "Every time."

Gabriel laughed under his breath, brown eyes gleaming as he picked his wine glass back up. "Keep telling yourself that. The court may swoon for Arik, but it's me they'd never dare underestimate."

"Good," Damian said simply, turning his gaze back to their sons below, his expression settling back into quiet pride. "Let them fear you. Let them love him. Either way, they'll remember whose blood runs in their veins."

—

Arik stood unbothered in the center of it all, golden eyes still gleaming with mischief, his collar neat despite having just hauled a man half his age and twice his arrogance off the ground. He ignored the way noble ladies fanned themselves and omegas sighed as though they'd witnessed some courtly tragedy turned romance. To him, their stares meant nothing.

Cecil, meanwhile, sat with his hands folded neatly in his lap, silver gaze cool as he watched his brother bask. The Count was still on the floor, wheezing, humiliated, and too slow to scramble away. Cecil weighed his options in silence. Kill the Count for his insolence, or kill Arik for using it as another excuse to bare his temper in front of half the court.

Before he could decide which would be more satisfying, another figure slipped through the press of nobles.

Noah.

Fair hair glinted under the chandeliers, a shade too soft to be called gold, inherited straight from Adam. His eyes, bright, amused green, the Claymore mark stamped clear as a seal, flicked from Arik to Cecil with sharp assessment. He carried himself with the same careless ease as Uncle Max, but beneath it Cecil could see Adam's cynicism in the tilt of his mouth, the faint curl of amusement that never quite reached his eyes.

"You've caused a scene again," Noah said, voice dry, hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored jacket as if this were an ordinary evening stroll.

Arik only smirked, tilting his chin toward the crumpled Count. "He deserved it."

"I didn't say he didn't." Noah's lips curved, green eyes flicking to Cecil. "But I imagine you're deciding whether to strangle Arik for stealing the spotlight or the Count for being too stupid to breathe the same air as you."

Cecil's lashes lowered, his expression giving away nothing. "Why limit myself?"

Noah chuckled, easy and unbothered, sliding into the empty chair at Cecil's side. "That's the spirit. Always aim for efficiency."

Arik rolled his eyes, but the grin never left his mouth. "You two can debate murder later. Right now, I'm enjoying myself."

Cecil exhaled softly through his nose. Arik would enjoy himself even if the palace burned down around him. And Noah, of course, would stand in the ashes, smirking like it had all been inevitable.

The clatter of boots echoed against the marble as the palace guards finally moved in. The Count was hauled upright with little ceremony, his protests drowned beneath the silence of a hall that no longer cared to hear him. His collar was torn, his face blotched red, but the worst wound was humiliation, his name already reduced to whispers of folly that would cling to his bloodline for decades.

Cecil didn't look at him again. The matter was finished. Or it should have been.

Because then Frederick stepped into view.

Fourteen now, taller than most grown men, ash-blond hair falling loose over steel-grey eyes that cut like his father's. He moved without hurry, the black trim of his jacket glinting faintly under ether-light, hands shoved into his pockets as if the banquet were a training ground and the nobles nothing more than targets.

The crowd reacted before he even opened his mouth. A ripple of unease, spines straightening, a collective shiver at the sight of Gregoris Frasner's son. It wasn't just the resemblance; it was the presence, the quiet, predatory weight of someone who would never need to raise his voice to be obeyed.

The guards hesitated when Frederick stopped before them. The Count sagged between their grips, paling further under the boy's gaze.

Cecil watched, unreadable, though inside he felt that familiar flicker, the difference between Arik's fire and Frederick's ice.

Noah leaned back in his chair, green eyes gleaming with cynical amusement. "Well. This just turned interesting."

Arik smirked, golden gaze fixed on Frederick as if daring him to claim a piece of the spectacle. "Try not to break him before the trial."

Frederick's steel eyes flicked briefly to Arik, then to Cecil, before resting coldly on the Count. "Trial," he said at last, voice flat, young but edged like drawn steel. "If he makes it that far."

The Count whimpered. The guards tightened their grip.

And the hall, already shaken, went utterly still.