CHAPTER 239: HERS TO BEAR

She had tried to keep that promise. She had tried to follow the path laid before her. But the world had not allowed it. Duty, marriage, power...all had pulled her in different directions until her oath became nothing more than a whisper lost in the wind.

The fire that once burned bright in her heart now simmered beneath layers of resentment and regret.

And yet, standing before that painting again, seeing Eiralyth’s signature glimmer faintly against the ancient canvas, after hearing that she still had a chance with her uncle, she felt the old ache stir. A reminder of what she was meant to be. Of the destiny she once embraced with open arms.

Her face hardened. Her hands clenched as her eyes landed on the phrase "The Lion shall kneel"

She had lost a lot. She had lost her sons. Her blood. Should she loose her remaining son too? Should she lose his pride?

The dreamer was gone.

What remained was the calculating, burdened, and bound Dowager.

But still... the prophecy she had once cherished now loomed before her like a debt long overdue.

Every word burned into her memory, every line as familiar as the rhythm of her own heartbeat. Here it was, inscribed and hidden, waiting for the right time to reveal itself. Her calling. Her family’s oath. All laid bare before her.

She pressed her forehead to the floor, overwhelmed. The path was clear. The right thing was staring her in the face. Every step, every choice, suddenly aligned with a purpose she had never dared to voice.

But then... a cold, insidious thought struck her. This prophecy, the blessing written in fire and blood, was meant for someone of House Vaelith.

How could she follow it when she had married into the Dravenholt family? How could she fulfill a destiny that was, in truth, a curse for her own blood?

Her hands trembled as she traced the words in the painting, feeling both the weight and the inevitability of the prophecy pressing upon her. It was a burden she had inherited, a secret calling entwined with her own fate.

The room seemed to shrink around her, shadows thickening as the last rays of sunlight faded. Her heart pounded, equal parts fear and resolve. Every lesson, every whisper of her uncle’s voice, every sacrifice of her family... it all pointed to this moment.

And yet, the question that twisted in her chest remained: how could she serve a destiny that belonged not to her house, but to another? How could she honor her blood without betraying her vows, her family, her life?

The dowager’s lips pressed into a thin line. She had always been a woman of control, of command, but now control slipped through her fingers like sand. This was bigger than her schemes, bigger than the court, bigger than the life she had meticulously built.

And yet, beneath the fear, beneath the uncertainty, a spark ignited—a stubborn, flickering fire. Perhaps destiny had its own cunning, perhaps it had chosen her, in the guise of a curse, to carry the weight of what must be done.

She lifted her head slowly, her eyes lingering on the painting, absorbing every color, every word. The dragon, the swan, the river, the fire... all of it whispered a truth she could no longer deny.

Her path was set. Her family’s oath, her blood, the prophecy...they were all hers to bear.

But the cost... oh, the cost of walking it would be hers alone.

She stood up slowly, her knees aching, her head spinning with everything she had just realized. The air in the room felt heavy, almost sacred, and as she opened the door, her maids gasped in shock.

"Your Excellency—!"

Before she could respond, her vision blurred, her legs gave out beneath her, and the world tilted. Darkness swallowed her whole.

When she came to, the warmth of the morning sun was slipping through the curtains, painting soft golden stripes across the bed. Someone was blocking the light.

Her vision cleared gradually, and she saw him—her son.

"Mother," the Emperor leaned forward, clasping her hand tightly. His usually sharp eyes were softened with worry. "Mother, are you feeling better? Sit up. Eat something..."

He helped her sit, steadying her gently as if she were made of glass, then took the bowl of porridge from the maid and began feeding her himself.

"I heard you haven’t eaten for days," he scolded softly, a hint of frustration woven with genuine care. "Mother, shouldn’t you care for your health?"

The Dowager smiled faintly, watching his face—the same face the world called cold, merciless, tyrannical. But to her, he was none of that.

To her, he was her boy. Her precious son. The one who had clung to her robes as a child. The one who never let her walk alone. The one who, despite the crown and the weight of the empire, would still sit by her bedside with porridge in hand.

"You must be busy," she murmured, her voice tender. "You are the Emperor. You shouldn’t be here~"

"Mother," he interrupted gently, eyes unwavering on her. "You are more important."

Her throat tightened, and tears pricked her eyes. "How could they not see it..." she whispered under her breath, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

How could the world not see the boy she knew?

Her husband hadn’t. Even his own father had looked past him, seeing only flaws, never his quiet devotion. Her uncle had opposed him too. To them, he was dangerous, unfit, heartless.

But she saw him. She had always seen him.

The Dowager’s gaze grew distant as old memories resurfaced of the night her husband had died. He had been sick for some days, and despite all her buried resentments, how he had never looked at her the way she wanted, how he’d kept his heart locked away from her, she had called every physician she could find to save him.

She remembered the way his hand reached for hers that night, trembling but warm. She should have known what he wanted then, especially when her uncle entered the chamber.

But in that moment, when his fading eyes locked on hers, she wasn’t the queen. She wasn’t the wife burdened by politics.

She was that young girl again... the one who had fallen for him the first time she saw him.

"Isabella..."

Her name. Spoken by him.

His voice had been weak but carried something she had never quite heard from him before: pleading, tender, almost regretful.

That single moment had etched itself into her soul. Even now, the memory of it rang in her ears, haunting her like a ghost she couldn’t banish.

"Will you promise me something?"