CHAPTER 252: FATE CANNOT BE CHANGED

The Dowager sat alone in the garden, the afternoon sun painting long shadows across the stone paths. The tea in front of her had gone cold, forgotten, its fragrance drifting faintly into the warm air. Her eyes were fixed somewhere between the flowerbeds and the horizon, blank, distant, as if she were lost in thought. But she was thinking of nothing at all.

"You’ve chosen your wickedness again, Isabella."

The voice, heavy with grief and reproach, pierced her reverie like a shard of glass.

The Dowager looked up, startled. Standing by the edge of the garden, partially obscured by the sunlight filtering through the bushes, was her uncle, Osric Vaelith. She could not read the lines of his face in the brightness, but the weight of his disapproval pressed down on her like a physical thing.

"Uncle!" Her voice trembled. "You’re wrong."

She rose, hands trembling at her sides. She had made the right decision, even if it had meant hurting her own son in the process. How could he claim otherwise?

"I am doing the right thing. My son... he just needs time to—"

"Your son is sending an army to kill the heir and his wife," Osric interrupted, his silver cane thudding against the stone path with deliberate finality.

"No... no, that can’t be!" The Dowager’s knees weakened slightly, and she steadied herself against the stone bench. "He said he trusted me, and—" Her eyes widened, hands shaking. "Uncle... I told him we ought to do the right thing, and he agreed. He agreed! What is happening?"

Osric studied her panic, the helplessness etched into her posture. She had always been fierce, decisive, and unflinching when pursuing her own desires. When the young prince was born, it had taken mere moments for her to dispatch men to ensure her will was done. But to act for justice... to place the rightful heir upon the throne... she faltered. Her son had made the plans last night itself, and it was out of her character that she didn’t know what he was planning. She lingered in the garden, delegating the work to the one man she scarcely trusted.

He did not scold her. He did not condemn. Instead, he placed his hand gently on her shoulder. The touch was measured, kind, and it hurt him to see the woman he had raised, the girl who had once run laughing through the halls of his house, now so undone by guilt that it seemed she had not slept in days.

"In love’s cruel design," he murmured, his voice low and weighted, "the heart is ever slain by the hand it would die to protect."

The Dowager leaned into his shoulder, surrendering to the grief that had been coiling in her chest for hours, maybe days. She let herself cry, small, unrestrained sobs spilling out into the quiet garden.

"What can I do?" she muttered, voice broken and trembling. "Uncle... it’s all so hard. What should I do?"

Osric held her gently, his own silence a quiet anchor amidst the storm of her fear, guilt, and love.

"Come, Isabella. Depart with me, and leave behind this cursed place," he said, voice steady but heavy with grief. "In vain I strove to alter the fate of House Dravenholt. Now, none who bear that name shall prosper. Come, let us abandon this wretchedness and find joy with our kin, serving the rightful heir."

"No!" The Dowager shook her head, her hair swinging with the force of her defiance. "I will not let that happen. My son... I must protect him. He..."

"He will not listen to you!" Osric interjected, sharp yet sorrowful.

But she shook her head again, determination burning in her eyes. "I’ll have to try. Once more... my son will listen to me!" With that, she broke into a run, her skirts billowing, and sprinted toward the audience hall.

From the cover of the garden bushes, Finnian Vaelith emerged, his gaze following her escape. "Granduncle... should I bring her with us?"

Osric watched Isabella, his brilliant, willful Isabella, running with every ounce of strength she could summon. Once, as a child, she had run toward him with abandon, laughing even when she could barely manage her steps. Now, she ran away, resolute, yet carrying the same fire.

His eyes misted. Fate, he realized again, could not be bent to will.

"No," he said softly, his aged form trembling with sorrow. Some things could not be changed.

Finnian, sensing the weight of grief pressing down on his granduncle, slipped an arm around Osric’s shoulders. Together, the two men shuffled slowly, leaning on each other for strength, Osric’s silver cane tapping against the stone with hesitant rhythm.

Their intertwined shadows stretched long across the palace walls, following Isabella’s fleeting figure as she disappeared into the deeper shadows of the palace grounds, a solitary figure running against the inexorable currents of fate.

-----

Leroy’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword, the leather warm beneath his touch. The forest seemed impossibly still, but his instincts hummed, alert to every whisper of movement. Leaves shivered in the light breeze, and the faint crack of a twig drew his gaze upward.

Nothing.

A shadow flickered between the trunks, a flash of motion too quick to follow. Leroy’s eyes narrowed. He rose silently, pressing his back against the rough bark of a pine, letting the sun and shadow work to his advantage.

The rustle came again, deliberate, almost teasing. Whoever this was, they had made a mistake. They had entered his domain.

A leaf dropped, and Leroy shifted, the motion slow, precise. He could feel the tension in the air, taste it like iron on the tongue. He moved along the edge of the trees, silent as smoke, each step measured.

Then... footsteps to his left, the faintest sound of fabric brushing against bark. He waited, breathing shallow, and the man darted again, trying to flank him. Leroy let him think he was unseen, letting the intruder’s confidence build, the hunter’s patience sharpening like a blade.

Another rustle, closer this time. Leroy stepped from the shadow, a whisper against the leaves. The man froze. Leroy advanced in silence, the blade drawn now, catching the sunlight in a glint of menace.

The intruder spun, desperate, hands rising in feigned surrender. But Leroy was already upon him, the tip of his sword pressing lightly against the man’s chest.

For a moment, neither moved. The forest held its breath. Leroy’s eyes, icy and unyielding, met the man’s, and in that frozen instant, the balance of power was absolute.

And then, with a soft exhale, Leroy finally let himself study the intruder’s face. Recognition, annoyance, and a touch of fury rippled across it.

"What?" he asked. "Speak before I kill you!"