CHAPTER 131: THE ONE SHE WAS SUPPOSED TO BE

Elyse jumped off the stool.

And then...

The rope gave. Elyse crashed onto the stone floor, gasping, wide-eyed. Hadrian sagged in relief, tears streaking his filthy face.

Lorraine’s laugh rang out, cold and delighted as she looked at Elyse, who was stunned. "Did you truly think you’d be allowed to leave so easily?"

Elyse’s voice tore itself raw again in a scream of pure despair. Death had denied her. There was no escape. Only pain was left for her. She screamed, unable to handle it.

The man in black raised his whip. The crack resounded, followed by Elyse’s ragged shriek.

Hadrian fainted once more.

Lorraine left the dungeon when boredom crept in, her ears ringing with Elyse’s screams as she instructed her men to continue. The next chamber, a long-abandoned drawing room stripped of cushions, held only old wooden couches. She stretched her legs across one, her men in black following silently. They spoke to her only in gestures. One asked with a tilt of his head if she needed anything.

For the first time in days—was it days? she had lost count—Lorraine ate, drank water, and let herself lean back. Weariness tugged at her bones. She wasn’t sure when she had last slept. Her eyelids fluttered shut, and her head fell against the wooden backrest. One of the men approached quietly and draped a blanket over her shoulders with surprising gentleness. Then both returned to stand guard by the door, shadows beneath the wavering torchlight.

Time vanished. She didn’t know if it was night or morning beyond these stone walls.

Lorraine fell asleep. Deeply.

And she dreamed.

She stood again upon that lake, the same still waters she had seen before, its surface gleaming like a flawless mirror. The sky was lit with serene moonlight, and she heard a soft tune of a harp in the distance. The entire place smelled sweet, like flowers, magnolias to be precise. The reflection shimmered beneath her feet, tempting her to look down, to glimpse the future hidden in the depths. But before her eyes could lower, they were drawn elsewhere.

The waters stirred.

From their glasslike surface rose a woman draped in flowing white robes. Silver hair cascaded down her shoulders like moonlight made tangible, and her eyes glowed softly, as though she carried the pale orb of the moon within them. Though she rose from the lake, no drop of water clung to her. Her silken hair lifted in an unseen breeze.

Lorraine stared, unable to think, unable to move. The woman’s presence silenced every fragment of thought in her mind. Stillness. The same stillness as the water beneath her feet.

The woman approached with slow, deliberate grace. Lorraine did not retreat; she was spellbound, as if something greater than herself willed her feet to remain.

A hand extended toward her. Lorraine did not hesitate—her own hand rose and pressed against the stranger’s palm. The touch was cool, weightless, like mist. Then, before she could recoil, the woman’s hand dissolved into hers.

Lorraine gasped, looking up. The figure stepped closer, closer still... until her silver-lit body merged with Lorraine’s own.

-----

The other man turned to his companion. Both were cloaked, faceless shadows. They held no crest and no mark. That was their strength.

"Isn’t she too cruel?" he signed, his fingers tense. Never had he met a woman who carried such vengeance.

The other shrugged. It is required.

"But still..."

Their hands moved faster, a silent argument sparking between them. By their world’s measure, her cruelty was nothing. But for her, the one she was meant to be, it was too much darkness.

"I don’t think it’s her. The one who—"

He never finished.

The sleeping figure stirred. The air quivered. Torches flickered as if brushed by an unseen breath. The temperature fell sharply as frost, and the men froze as they looked at her. Her skin glowed faintly, like she was woven from moondust.

The blanket slid away. She rose, but her feet did not touch the ground.

Trembling, they stumbled back. But then... there was warmth. A breeze swept through, carrying peace, telling them they need not fear.

Her eyes snapped open. The moon itself seemed to shine from her irises. Her lips parted, and the room filled with the soft perfume of magnolia.

The men gaped at the sight: a woman draped in shadow, glowing like the goddess of the moon.

The doubtful one turned to his comrade. His eyes blazed with silent triumph. See. It is her.

Then Lazira spoke.

No venom. No wrath. Her voice flowed like water, divine and gentle, yet edged with motherly rebuke.

"I bent the beast and bade him kneel, and made his fire grow gentle.

But she will bid the heir stand tall, and vengeance shall be her mantle.

Her grace is for the faithful few, her wrath for all who betray."

The words rang in High Veyrani, the ancient tongue none had spoken with this clarity for centuries.

The men dropped to their knees, shaking. "Your Grace, please, be merciful!"

"Lift your heads," she answered, her feet lowering softly to the stone.

Then prophecy poured from her lips. Line after line, secret upon secret. She spoke their hidden names, their hidden sins, even the thoughts they had dared only in silence.

The men knelt and trembled.

-----

Leroy sat on the roof of his mansion, staring at the stars. He had searched everywhere, yet she was nowhere to be found. A dull ache gnawed at his chest, sharper now than ever.

Was she in danger?

He rose to his feet, scanning the grounds below as though she might suddenly appear. But the night answered only with silence.

Then came a breeze. Warm. Strange. As if it carried a voice without words, tugging at something deep inside him.

Before he could think, he was moving. Down from the roof, into the mansion’s hidden passages, his feet finding their way to the underground tunnels.

He ran through the winding stone corridors, his heart pounding louder with each turn. He stopped. Listened. That pull again, that subtle, invisible, but undeniable pull. It felt like a call, one meant for him alone.

The tunnels ended in a dead wall. Leroy stood before it, breathless, his chest heaving.

Had he gone mad?

Still, that feeling would not leave. He pressed his hand to the rough stone, tracing every crack and curve with stubborn persistence. Memory surfaced of Sylvia’s hesitant voice from long ago when he asked if she knew everything about Lorraine.

"Maybe not... At times, the princess would disappear for hours in these tunnels."

He froze. His fingers brushed over something out of place.

*Click*

A hidden mechanism gave way.

The wall shifted, revealing a secret door.

And beyond it...