CHAPTER 557: A KING’S DAMNATION 2

Her voice was small but unwavering. The second maid clasped her hands, trembling, yet stood beside her in silent solidarity.

"I saw it with my own eyes," the first maid said, her words carrying across the hushed chamber. "It was General Turik who entered the queen’s chamber that night. He—" her voice caught, then hardened—"he assaulted Queen Miranda. And when she fought back and after he was done, he drove his knife into her heart."

A horrified murmur rippled through the gathered court. Ministers looked away. Generals shifted uneasily.

The maid lifted her chin, eyes glistening but proud. "Even if I die today," she said, her voice rising, trembling between terror and defiance, "the world will know what kind of monster our new king truly is."

For a moment, the entire hall stopped breathing.

Turik’s face turned ashen, then crimson. "Lies!" he roared, his voice cracking. "Do you think anyone will believe the words of a servant? You were bribed—coerced! Alaric put those words in your mouths!"

But the damage was done. The nobles’ eyes no longer looked upon him with loyalty—but with horror.

Zamree, the youngest of the generals—idealistic, untainted, still clinging to the purity of his oath—staggered as the truth crashed down upon him. The man he had revered, the general who had taught him honor and strength, was a viper who had conspired to wipe out the royal bloodline.

His disbelief gave way to rage.

"I swore to protect the crown," he hissed, unsheathing his blade with trembling hands. "And whoever usurps it... will die by my hand."

He surged toward the throne, the edge of his sword glinting with righteous fury.

Turik’s gaze hardened. Even with a knife on his neck, unable to move freely, his calculating mind raced. He could feel Zamree’s killing intent like heat against his skin. There would be no reasoning, no mercy. Only blood.

When Zamree closed in, Turik made his choice. His only choice.

At the perfect moment, he seized Mira, pulling her before him as the sword came down.

There was a gasp. A flash of silver. A sound like silk tearing.

Mira’s eyes widened, the world freezing around her. For a fleeting instant, she could not comprehend what had happened—only the sudden, searing pain blooming in her chest. She looked down to see the blade jutting through her heart, scarlet spilling like petals of a red rose on her bosom.

Zamree staggered back, horror flooding his features as he withdrew the sword. Mira swayed with the motion, her fingers trembling as they pressed against the wound.

"You..." she rasped, turning toward Turik. "You used me as a shield."

Turik’s expression was cold, detached—almost cruelly amused. "Isn’t that what you said you wanted?" he murmured. "To be my shield? Don’t act so surprised."

Mira sank to her knees, the strength leaving her body as warmth drained from the wound. Her vision wavered, the world fading into a haze of gold and crimson. Behind Turik, the high priest’s mask slipped from his face.

"Father..." she whispered, a broken plea.

Memories flickered like shards of glass before her eyes—moments of warmth, laughter, the love of her adoptive parents and brothers. How cherished she had felt. The happiest moments in her life were the times she spent with her adoptive parents. They doted on her, and so did her brothers.

She was a child again, and playing in the Norse gardens, chasing fireflies beneath the amber dusk. Her uncle, Odin Norse, had stood at the edge of the garden, his cloak catching the breeze. He had smiled at her—gentle, proud.

"Here, I bought you some pastries. Go look for your cousin and share it with her," he had told her and out of the blue, he added: "One day, you will bring glory to the house of Norse."

Later came the grand hall of the Norse Manor—she was brought back not as a niece but as an adoptive daughter. She felt the warmth of her brothers, who treated her as one of their own.

Freya would braid her hair with gold ribbons and call her "my little sunbeam." Mira had never felt more loved, more certain that she belonged.

She had studied hard, served faithfully, obeyed every command that would bring honor to her family. But Lara returned, and she felt she was treated differently.

Perhaps, when one was at death’s door, one could see clearly the good and bad a person had done. And yet, as every one of her encounters with Lara appeared before her eyes, she could not find one where Lara hurt her first. It was always her provoking Lara.

And then Turik had noticed her—when he spoke of destiny, of empire, of a golden age—they had all looked upon her with pride. "You will be the bridge between crown and faith," her father had said.

A tear slid down her cheek, mingling with the crimson that stained her lips. Her heart no longer beat with anger or pain, only with the hollow ache of regret.

How blind I was, she thought. How eagerly I served their dream, never seeing the nightmare beneath it.

Her gaze drifted upward toward the throne—toward the place where she had once dreamed of ruling beside Turik as empress. That dream seemed distant now, childish, absurd.

"Please... for... forgive me..." she whispered—not to Turik, but to the royal bloodline she had helped destroy and to her adoptive father.

She felt a warm hand grasp her bloody ones and try to move it away from her wound. When Mira looked up, she met a pair of beautiful amber eyes. There was no coldness in them, no hatred, but only indifference.

"For... forgive me, Sister! I... I... wronged you." Mira breathed her last.

For a moment, the hall was utterly still. Only the soft sound of Mira’s body collapsing onto the marble broke the silence—a sound that seemed to echo endlessly, like the toll of a funeral bell.

Her final breath left her in a shudder, and she crumpled to the cold marble floor—lifeless, her golden dreams fading into silence.

Across the room, Alaric watched it all in silence. His gaze was steady, his expression composed—but in the flicker of the light, there was something cold in his eyes. Something like justice... or vengeance long delayed.

Zamree stood frozen, his sword slick with her blood. His mind refused to comprehend what his eyes had seen. He had meant to strike down a traitor, not slaughter an innocent woman. The metallic scent of blood mingled with the scent of incense and burnt oil, and nausea rose in his throat.

Turik’s laughter cut through the air—low, jagged, and utterly devoid of remorse.