CHAPTER 254: SURROUNDING DANGER

"This is your birthright," Damian said quietly, his voice steady but threaded with conviction. "Your destiny. Your duty. Say the word, and I will kneel before you for the rest of my life. All I ask in return is peace, the true kind, born of justice."

For a heartbeat, Leroy simply stared at him. Damian, the proudest man he knew, too arrogant and filled with hatred, to bow even to kings, was offering his fealty. The thought unsettled him. Was it admiration? Desperation? Or something deeper? Was it his faith in a prophecy that Leroy had long refused to claim?

Something stirred within him. A pulse of fire, old and fierce, coiled in his blood. It whispered of crowns and birthrights, of thrones carved from the bones of history. His heart beat faster, and for one reckless moment, he could see his people free, the dragon standard flying high once more.

But then he closed his eyes. Drew in a breath. When he exhaled, the flame died, swallowed by the cold, unyielding truth.

"Find someone else," he said softly.

The words cut through the air like a blade.

Damian stiffened. "Someone else?" His tone trembled with restrained fury. He was willing to cross kingdoms, had endured years of silent rebellion, and was waiting for the one they were all told to follow — the son of two traitors, the blood that could unite them again. And now, that man was turning away.

Leroy met his gaze, calm but burning. "You seem to know a lot, Damian. Then you must know the fate of the Oracle."

The question turned the air heavy. Damian’s jaw tightened. He tried to speak, but Leroy’s next words came sharper, his grief breaking through the surface.

"Tell me," Leroy pressed. "What of the others? The forgotten Oracles who served your so-called fate? Used when convenient, discarded when spent, as pawns who didn’t even desrve to be mentioned by their names, women without names, without graves." His voice cracked. "And this time, it’s her. My wife."

The last word was a tremor. The sound of a man barely holding himself together.

Damian’s gaze faltered. He looked away, the light catching on the crimson streak drying on his hand. "She is not the Swan Oracle," he began, but stopped. He wanted to tell him that Lorraine’s fate could be different. But he couldn’t say that with surety. The pain in Leroy’s face said enough.

"Running will not save you," Damian said finally, his tone quieter now, not warning, but pleading.

"I will run," Leroy said, his voice low, raw. "I’ll run until fate loses my scent, until the world ends, if I must. But I will not let it take her."

Damian said nothing more. But as he watched the Prince of Kaltharion turn away, he knew the truth in his bones... no one ever outran destiny.

And the woman Leroy swore to protect... her path was already written in blood and prophecy.

The air hung heavy between them, steeped in the amber hue of the waning sun. Dust motes drifted lazily in its light, glinting like gold on the edge of silence.

"Why are you still here?" Leroy asked Damian. His tone was cool, his gaze steady, the question carrying the weight of a man who had long ceased to expect honesty from others.

"He’s sending an army for you and your wife," Damian answered.

Leroy smirked, the corner of his mouth twitching with wry amusement. "Nothing I can’t handle."

Damian rolled his eyes, though his exasperation felt more like concern than jest. The mask of the Lystherian heir, the one draped in lighthearted mischief, slipped back into place. It was uncanny, the way he could shed gravity so easily, as if sorrow were something to be worn only when absolutely necessary.

Then curiosity glimmered in Damian’s eyes. "What are you going to do to your former squire? You predicted everything right. The Emperor made him a knight. Lazira would lose everything. Must you go that far?" he asked.

Leroy’s gaze drifted to the horizon, where the faintest plume of dust marked a caravan’s passage far away. Dust rose in pillars from the distance. The emperor’s men were approaching.

He did not answer Damian immediately. A faint smile, cold, knowing, played on his lips.

His smart wife had set up decoys for situations like this. Ever since he saw that decoy room she had built in the middle of the red-light district, he had known how far she could weave her plans. And now, he was doing the same. He knew for certain that Lorraine wouldn’t lose anything. That much was unshakable.

Her people would keep her empire breathing, even in her absence. She had prepared for this long before he ever arrived. He was sure because, she had told him herself that she was planning to leave. And if there was one thing he knew about his wife’s plans, it was that they had a one-hundred percent success rate.

He had promised her once that he would not destroy anything she had built. And he intended to keep that promise, no matter what flames came their way.

The sound of hooves echoed faintly across the valley, first like a tremor, then like thunder. Dust rose on the horizon, black armor glinting in the dying afternoon light.

The Emperor’s guards had arrived.

Leroy stood at the center of the narrow road, sword drawn, his cloak whipping in the wind. Behind him, at the far end of the slope, the towers of his mansion gleamed—where laughter, music, and the sweet scent of wine still danced through the open windows. His wife was there, radiant, unaware of what shadows had begun to crawl toward her.

"Surrender now, Prince Leroy and escape His Majesty’s wrath!" shouted the general.

Leroy only smirked.

The first clash rang like the toll of a bell. Sparks flew as steel met steel, the rhythmic chaos of blades and shouts filling the air. The Emperor’s soldiers came in waves—organized, relentless, their discipline a mirror of the tyranny they served.

Then a sharp whistle cut through the clamor. Damian, astride a chestnut horse, leapt into the fray beside him. "You didn’t think I’d let you have all the fun, did you?" he shouted over the noise.

Leroy didn’t answer, only met his grin with a silent smirk before turning back to the fight.

But just as Damian raised his sword, the forest behind them stirred. Shadows shifted and from between the trees, figures emerged, cloaked and armed. For a heartbeat, Damian’s hand tightened on his blade. Then he saw the familiar crest, the dragon emblem of Leroy, etched onto their armor.

Leroy’s loyal soldiers.

They joined the fight with silent precision, their coordination flawless. For every imperial guard that fell, two more replaced him, yet still the tide bent toward Leroy’s side. The earth ran slick with blood, and the Emperor’s disciplined formation began to crumble.

But the battle was not what it seemed.

As the sun slanted toward evening, a different force moved: unseen, unheard. A squad of the Emperor’s covert soldiers slipped through the shadowed woods and reached the mansion’s rear walls. Daggers gleamed in their hands. One by one, they silenced the guards at the gates, leaving only the faint gurgle of dying breath in their wake.

They advanced, swift and ghostlike, toward the ballroom’s golden light.

Inside, music still played. Laughter still rang. Lorraine was smiling, unaware that death had already crossed the threshold.

And outside, as another imperial soldier fell at his feet, Leroy’s gaze flicked toward the mansion, his instincts whispering that something was terribly, terribly wrong.

The music swelled.

The wind howled.

And the shadows drew closer.