CHAPTER 550: ASSASSINATED!

A figure clad in black stepped through the half-light, his hood lifted just enough to reveal a pair of obsidian eyes behind a mask. He closed the door and just stood there, his gaze assessing the scene before him.

Lara stood at the edge of the bed, the faint shimmer of her gauze gown turning her into something half divine, half spectral. The air itself seemed to hold its breath around her.

What the heck are you waiting for? Come behead this woman at this instant! King Roman’s muffled protests broke the stillness. His right wrist jerked against the bindings, his crown long since fallen to the marble with a muted chime — the sound of power losing its place. Lara regarded him quietly, her expression unreadable. "Is this the dominion you wanted, my king?" she asked, her voice low, almost affectionate. "To conquer what you never cared to understand?"

His glare burned with fury and disbelief — a man who had ruled armies yet found himself helpless before a single woman.

She leaned closer, her words a whisper meant for his ears alone. "You should have heeded your generals. They warned you the danger that I bring."

The king could only mumble. His eyes filled with hatred. "A wolf who comes cloaked in silk."

Roman thrashed again, desperate now, the coarse ropes biting into his wrists until he felt the skin split. His muffled cries shattered the suffocating silence, echoing through the chamber like waves breaking on a stone. Then, at last, a strand of the rope gave way with a sharp snap.

His freed hands shot forward, fingers curled like talons, reaching for her throat. But before he could touch her, a dagger hissed through the air, its gleaming arc catching the candlelight—then struck home.

The blade buried itself in the king’s chest with a dull, final sound.

Roman froze. His breath hitched as the burning pain bloomed beneath his ribs, spreading outward like fire beneath his skin. He looked down and saw the jeweled hilt rising and falling with each dying heartbeat. His gaze lifted to the figure at the doorway, a man lowering his hood with measured calm.

"You..." Roman’s voice was a rasp, the last embers of authority flickering out. "How could it be you?"

Then his strength left him. His body sagged, crown tilting, eyes wide and empty as he exhaled his final breath.

Lara didn’t turn. She knew that step—its rhythm steady and familiar. "You finally came," she whispered, her voice trembling between relief and longing.

Arms closed around her from behind, fierce and shaking. She felt the tremor in his body, the hammering of his heart against her spine like war drums in the distance.

"Lara," he breathed, the name raw on his lips. "I was so scared."

His grip tightened, desperate, as though he could fuse himself to her and erase the days of horror that had separated them.

"I... can’t breathe, Alaric."

"It wasn’t your fault," she said softly. "I was careless, too. I made everyone worry."

For a heartbeat, neither spoke. Then, without warning, he kissed her—deeply, fiercely—as if trying to pour all the anguish, fear, and longing of the past days into that single act. The world dissolved around them until breath itself became a luxury.

When they finally separated, their foreheads rested together, breaths mingling in the flickering candlelight.

"So this is the great King of Zura," Alaric murmured at last, his tone deep and hoarse.

"It is not your fault. I was also caught off-guard. I made everyone worry."

Without warning, he kissed her like he was pouring all the grievances of the past few days of the mental and spiritual torture her disappearance inflicted on her.

It was a perfect tableau of endings.

"Change your clothes. We leave immediately," Alaric said, handing her a small parcel.

Lara took it silently and disappeared into the dressing room. When she emerged, she wore black trousers, a fitted shirt, and a mask that swallowed the softness of her features. Only her eyes remained—cold, resolute.

One of the candles sputtered out, sending a thin coil of smoke spiraling toward the ceiling like a final prayer.

Without another word, they climbed through the window. Two shadows slipped into the night and vanished.

...

General Turik stormed down the torchlit corridor, his cape snapping behind him. The ministers and generals followed in uneasy silence, their robes rustling like whispers of guilt. The echoes of their footsteps were the only sound in the suffocating air.

"Open the door!" Turik’s command cracked through the hall like a whip.

One of the guards stiffened, his hand hovering uncertainly over the latch."But, General—the king said no one was to disturb him."

Turik’s glare could have flayed flesh. "We’ve received reports that His Majesty has been assassinated. Open the door, you fool, before I have you hanged for treason."

The guard blanched. He fumbled , screeching in protest before the doors swung open.

The stench of iron met them first.

Then the sight.

The king lay sprawled across the crimson-drenched sheets, eyes glassy, mouth half-open as though death had caught him mid-command.

The two guards dropped to their knees, choking on their own cries. "Your Majesty!"

Turik stepped forward slowly, his face an immaculate mask of horror. Only the faintest curve of his lips betrayed him—a ghost of a smirk. Mira was right.That woman was indeed terrifying.

At the foot of the bed, the crown had fallen. It gleamed faintly where the moonlight touched it, a broken halo of gold. Turik bent, brushing his fingers along its rim before setting it upright on the table, careful—almost reverent.

Then, from the eastern wing, came the screams.

A woman’s voice first. Then another. Then chaos.

"Assassins! The Queen—!" someone bellowed.

Turik spun, cloak flaring behind him. His voice carried perfectly—loud enough for the ministers, soft enough to sound genuine. "What are you waiting for? To arms! We must save the royal family!"

Boots thundered down the corridor. The sound of steel rang through the palace like a dirge.

Turik lingered for one last moment. His eyes drifted to the crown glinting on the table. The faintest smirk returned, cold as moonlight.

"Hurry, everyone. Protect the queen and the princes." Turik commanded.