Bound by the Mark of Lies (BL)-Chapter 323 - 318: Alexandra’s war (1)

Snow clung to the manor’s windows in delicate lace patterns, the kind frost wove when it wanted to show off. Inside, the sitting room was warm and quiet, the fire crackling low in the hearth. Alexandra sat curled in a velvet armchair, one leg tucked beneath her, her silk robe the color of pine needles and early vengeance.

The air smelled faintly of cinnamon and roasted chestnuts; someone in the kitchen was trying too hard again, but she let it be. It was winter. She was home. And Caelan, thank the stars, was home again, even if he was working.

Technically, she was supposed to be reviewing the final logistics for the Civil Examination. But with Gabriel attending the morning hearing alongside Damian, there was no reason to rush to the palace. She preferred her manor. Or a good ball. Certainly not the administrative hell her lovely younger brother had so graciously dumped in her lap.

The tablet on the side table pinged.

She ignored it.

It pinged again.

Still sipping her coffee—hazelnut, black, no sugar—she reached over and tapped it lazily. Notifications scrolled across the screen in palace-grade formatting.

Interior Bulletin: Imperial Engagement Dissolution—Retracted. Event reinstated.

Alexandra’s brow arched. "About time," she muttered. "Took Damian long enough to stop pretending."

Her tablet chimed again.

Once. Then again.

Alexandra didn’t look up. If it were about seating arrangements for the oral evaluations, she would personally set the list on fire. If it was Irina, the girl was panicking about someone trying to bribe her again, either with money or marriage. And if it was Edward—well. He could leave a message like a civilized man.

The third chime had that particular imperial clearance tone she loathed—the one that meant someone with far too much embroidery in their soul had made a final decision.

She tapped the screen.

Attachment: ’Ceremonial Attire—Morning Ensemble A: Consort’

Status: Approved. Final.

Alexandra opened the file with the calm dread of someone who had once seen a grown man cry because his cravat was tied asymmetrically.

And then she stared.

It was not a robe.

It was a dress. A ceremonial nightmare masquerading as tradition, all flowing lavender and sheer organza with sleeves that fluttered like fallen dignity. The waistline was cinched like someone expected Gabriel to faint in public. There were gold embroidery flourishes—delicate, the notes said—depicting "emotive themes of fertility, devotion, and unity."

At the hem: his crest.

At the back: a cape.

At the neckline: nothing.

Alexandra zoomed in.

There was a keyhole cutout. And a drape.

"Oh no," she breathed. "Oh, absolutely not."

She stood so fast her coffee sloshed. The mug hit the table with a decisive thunk. From the study, Caelan’s voice drifted through the door, low and unbothered.

"They gave you the robe design, didn’t they?"

Alexandra didn’t answer immediately. She was too busy scrolling through the detailed annotations that someone, some traitor in the Imperial Wardrobe Division, had dared to sign with a flourish.

"They’re putting him in a ceremonial slip," she announced, eyes flashing. "A pastel slip. With layered symbolism and a waist sash that looks like emotional surrender."

A pause. Paper rustled.

"And Gabriel let them?"

"No," she said, already marching toward the cloak rack. "Gabriel is tired. Gabriel is outnumbered. Gabriel is currently trapped in a political theater of so much silk and betrayal that he probably didn’t even see the design. If he had, he would’ve set it on fire with a straight face and asked who brought marshmallows?"

She slipped into her coat—forest green wool, lined with fur, with enough dramatic sweep to carry diplomatic immunity if needed. "I have a powerful intuition that neither Damian nor Edward nor anyone who matters has seen that dress."

A pause.

She reached for her gloves. "Because if they had, I wouldn’t be the one going to war."

From the study, Caelan murmured, "You always go to war."

"Yes," she snapped, jamming her gloves on. "But this time I will bring allies."

She swept into the front hall, snapping her fingers once at the steward.

"Coat. Boots. Car. Now."

"And where shall I tell the driver you’re headed, my lady?"

"To Gloria’s atelier," she said without missing a step. "There’s been a design-related assassination attempt on Gabriel’s dignity, and I intend to strike first."

The doors flew open with a gust of winter wind and offended nobility. The car was already waiting, engine humming with resigned loyalty. Alexandra climbed in, coat flaring, and shut the door like a royal decree.

As the car rolled through the snow-dusted streets of the Capital, she pulled out her tablet and hit Edward’s private line. He answered on the third ring, which was slow for him—a clear sign that something chaotic was already happening.

"Lady Alexandra," Edward said smoothly. "To what do I owe the pleasure? Or is this a threat?"

"Both," she replied crisply. "Where are Damian and Gabriel?"

"Still in the Grand Hall. The hearing should be over in two hours if the gods are merciful today—"

"Then may they be particularly merciless, because I need them detained."

A pause. "Detained."

"Yes. Distracted. Delayed. Send in a council member with a thirty-page legal clause and a speech impediment if you have to. Just keep Gabriel out of the wardrobe room."

"...May I ask why?"

Alexandra didn’t answer right away. She flicked the tablet back on, swiped through the offensive robe images, and clenched her jaw like she was physically restraining herself from setting the car interior on fire through sheer indignation.

"Look at the mail about the Imperial design of Gabriel’s engagement robe," she said, her voice tight with barely contained rage. "Judge for yourself."

A pause.

Then, quietly, "Understood. Give me a moment."

She waited, barely ten seconds, before Edward’s silence on the other end became pregnant with regret.

"...Lady Alexandra," he said finally, his voice now a shade more strained, "I am going to pretend that I did not just see a translucent cape, symbolic fertility embroidery, and a hemline best described as emotionally manipulative."

"Oh good," she snapped. "We’re aligned."