CHAPTER 258: FOR THE TRUTH TO LIVE

Aralyn’s hand shook as she pressed the dagger toward Isabella’s skin, but the steel would not find flesh. The blade hovered like a question between them; her fingers trembled, not from fear but from a sudden, dizzying ache that had nothing to do with the metal.

She looked at the Dowager, at the once-fearless Isabella, who had ruled with iron and commanded rooms into silence, and for the first time saw not a sovereign but a woman hollowed by years.

"So, you’d look this defeated facing death," Aralyn scoffed. "Why aren’t you shouting for your men? Why aren’t you doing anything? Have you given up on living?"

The words landed hard in the corridor, echoing off the stone. Isabella’s shoulders sagged as if the light itself weighed upon her; the afternoon light of the sun made the shadow under her eyes look like bruises. Once she had moved through halls crowned with obeisance; now she seemed like the falling sun, spent and slow.

Aralyn’s contempt flared. If the Dowager’s tiredness was an act, it was a dangerous one. She had survived worse deceptions, and she was not going to be softened by an aging woman’s tears. She tightened her grip on the dagger, about to drive it home, when something stopped her; some small, human mercy she had not expected to find in her own chest. She could not bring herself to pierce that spent, mournful face.

"Was it nice... To be in love and be loved? What was that like, to be loved by the one you loved?" the Dowager asked, not minding the dagger pressed on her neck.

The question cut through the anger like a blade. Both women had loved the same man; both had been betrayed in different ways. Aralyn’s hand quivered again. How did one answer such a thing when the answer itself could undo everything one had survived?

"Don’t..." Aralyn cleared her throat. "Do not try to change the subject. You tried to kill my son and I will not allow you to live to—"

"You’re not here to ask for your son’s rightful place on the throne?" the Dowager interrupted, her voice oddly steady.

Aralyn stared, stunned by the calm. "He’s owed that," she said.

The Dowager’s eyes narrowed, the mask of frailty falling away for a breath. "You’re here and my son has sent people to kill him and his wife."

Heat rushed into Aralyn then, hot and sharp. Her jaw set. She pressed the dagger to her own throat as if to steady herself; the tremor that had plagued her hand fell away. "Bring me to your son! Right now!"

For a moment the corridor held only the sound of their breathing, one woman driven by vengeance, the other unspooling a confession whose echoes would ripple far beyond the hollow of that hall. The light danced on the blade, and somewhere, distant and utterly indifferent, the music of the ball continued to play.

Aralyn pressed the blade to the Dowager’s neck. She had expected resistance: a scream, a struggle, a hissed order to the guards... but Isabella did neither. With chilling calm, the old woman turned and began to walk. And Aralyn followed.

The marble corridors echoed beneath their footsteps, every sound amplified by fear and disbelief. The guards moved to intervene, but Isabella’s single raised hand stilled them like statues. Not a soul dared defy her.

Aralyn couldn’t understand it. Why was she listening? Why wasn’t she fighting back? Along the way, the Dowager spoke softly, almost dreamily, not of her son, not of the present chaos that tore the empire apart, but of her late husband. His gentleness, his wit, his quiet cruelty. Aralyn said nothing. Every word from Isabella’s lips felt like a memory being buried.

When they reached the grand doors of the audience hall, the air shifted, the heavy scent of incense, the gleam of gold, the hushed court waiting for their emperor’s command.

Inside, the Emperor paced before his throne, the silk of his robes restless against the marble. He had been waiting for news all day, for word that Leroy and his wife had been captured. But no messenger had come, and the sun was already sliding toward evening.

Then the doors opened.

His mother stepped in.

He froze. He didn’t want her there. He didn’t trust her anymore. And walking behind her was...

A woman. Pale, wild-eyed, and holding a dagger.

"Mother?" His voice cut through the room, sharp with alarm. "What is happening?"

The guards rushed forward, but the Dowager’s sharp command halted them mid-step. Even her son hesitated, uncertain whether to listen or defy. The silence that followed was thick, trembling.

Then Aralyn spoke.

"Who here recognizes me?" Her voice echoed against the high ceilings, filled with restrained fury.

She turned slowly, eyes sweeping across the gathered lords. "Lord Morrathen," she said, a cruel half-smile forming. "You know me, don’t you? Why don’t you introduce me to the others?"

Her hand tightened in Isabella’s silver hair, pressing the dagger deeper against the older woman’s throat. A thin line of crimson appeared, beading along the skin like a warning.

The Emperor tensed, his gaze flicking to Morrathen. "Speak."

The lord stammered, his face draining of color. "You... you’re Aralyn... the previous..." He faltered, glancing helplessly at the Emperor.

"Say it," the Emperor hissed.

"The previous King’s Royal Mistress."

The words cracked the hall open.

Gasps. Murmurs. A wave of whispers rippled through the assembly, like a court of ghosts suddenly remembering a scandal they had buried too long ago.

The Emperor’s jaw hardened. Now, seeing his mother and that woman... that mistress... he understood the danger. If she spoke, if she told them what she came to say, his crown would not survive the hour.

"Seize her!" he shouted, voice ringing with false panic. "My mother is in danger! What are you waiting for?"

The guards surged forward, but it was too late.

Aralyn dragged Isabella closer, blade biting into her neck. A single thread of blood traced its way down the Dowager’s collarbone.

"Leroy is my son!" Aralyn cried, her voice breaking. "He is the true heir to this throne!"

Her breath came fast; her vision blurred. The air was heavy with the scent of incense and blood. She knew she wouldn’t leave this hall alive, but before she died, she wanted the truth to live.

"Shut your mouth!" the Emperor roared, his control fracturing as chaos erupted.

Courtiers screamed. Soldiers hesitated. The court was breaking apart in confusion, until one voice rose above it all.

A voice that silenced the storm.

"Listen."