CHAPTER 262: SHE WILL NOT DIE HELPLESS

The night sky burned.

Emma and Elias stood at the edge of the courtyard, frozen, watching the mansion collapse into a roaring inferno. The flames devoured everything—stone, silk, and memory alike. The air shimmered with heat, and the crackle of burning wood sounded almost like laughter—mocking, cruel.

"This... this can’t be happening," Emma whispered, her voice breaking as she stumbled forward a step. Her eyes stung, not only from the smoke but from the flood of tears she couldn’t stop. The mansion had been the princess’s dream. Emma had been there for every detail, every choice, every moment of joy that had shaped it. She could still remember Lorraine’s smile when they’d first hung the portrait this morning, the soft light on her face, her proud laughter echoing through the hall.

And now... that same portrait was getting destroyed.

"Don’t cry," Elias murmured beside her. His voice was gentle, almost pleading, though his hand trembled on the hilt of his sword.

Emma shook her head, wiping at her cheeks, but the tears kept falling. "She loved this house... it was her happiness. She built it piece by piece, Elias. Like she was trying to build herself a new life."

"Don’t cry," he said again, firmer this time. But his throat tightened at the sight of her. He had seen fire before, villages burned in war, banners turned to smoke, but this was different. This was someone’s home, someone’s heart.

And Emma...his Emma... was crying for it.

That made something snap inside him.

With a slow, deliberate motion, Elias drew his sword. The steel gleamed, reflecting the flickering flames. His eyes darkened, not with fear, but with fury. He didn’t know the full story behind this house, or the politics that brought fire upon it, but he knew enough.

They had made her cry.

"They’ll pay for this," he said, his voice low, dangerous.

Emma turned toward him, startled by the sudden change in his tone. "Elias—no—"

But he was already moving, stepping toward the glow of the burning mansion, where shadows of the emperor’s men still moved through the smoke.

"This is war," he muttered, almost to himself, gripping the sword tighter. "And they made my beloved cry."

Emma’s lips parted in disbelief as he strode into the orange haze. Around them, the night wailed, the house collapsing, the bells tolling, and somewhere deep in the fire, the echoes of a kingdom tearing itself apart.

-----

Meanwhile, in Lorraine’s bedchambers,

The man stepped back, momentarily distracted by the sound of collapsing wood. The inferno roared closer, licking at the windows, illuminating his face in hellish orange.

Lorraine’s fingers brushed against the edge of the drawer. Her pulse steadied. Slowly, she gripped the glass vial.

Was this the end? Perhaps.

But if she were to die tonight, she would not die helpless.

But she didn’t think she’d die tonight. She had prophesies on her side. She knew her life would be spared. Dying was not what she was worried about, for she cared for her dignity more than her life.

But before she could grab the vial, that man grabbed her hair and dragged her. The man’s laughter was cruel, echoing against the crackling fire.

Lorraine’s scalp burned where he gripped her hair, dragging her across the floor as the glass vial rolled out of reach. She clawed at his wrist, but he only tightened his hold, forcing her to meet his sneering face lit in molten gold.

"Let go!" she gasped, her voice hoarse but unyielding.

Gone was the quiet composure of the Crown Princess; gone was the woman who pretended she couldn’t hear while men decided her worth. What rose in her now was something older, fiercer.

She didn’t care that her gown hung in tatters, that her knees scraped against the cold floor, that her hair was wild. Dignity could be stripped, but not defiance.

"You trespass into the chambers of the Crown Princess," she hissed, her eyes blazing through tears and smoke. "And you dare insult her honor? Filth! Were you raised by beasts?"

The man froze for a moment, just a moment, as if the firelight had revealed something in her gaze that unsettled him. Then his smirk returned, slow and cruel.

"So," he drawled, tilting her chin up with his blade, "the infamous mute speaks at last." His eyes glittered with amusement. "Insult, is it? What respect should I spare for the madame of the courtesans?"

The words hit like a slap. For a heartbeat, the fire seemed to still.

Lorraine stared at him... and then she laughed. It was soft, broken, and bitter. The kind of laugh that did not seek to defend, but to condemn.

"Then you know nothing of women," she whispered, her voice low as the flames devoured the curtains behind them. "A courtesan learns how to survive men like you. But a queen..." her gaze sharpened, "...a queen learns how to end them."

And with that, her hand darted behind her, desperate, searching for anything...anything, that could become a weapon.

The room blazed around them, fire snarling up the walls, the air thick with smoke and heat. Shadows wavered like specters.

Her eyes landed on the iron fire prod leaning by the hearth.

Before she could reach it, the man seized her by the hair again, yanking her backward so hard her vision flashed white. A strangled cry tore from her throat, then instinct took over.

Lorraine grabbed his wrist, twisted sharply, and snapped his pinky against his palm. The man howled in agony, his grip faltering just long enough for her to wrench herself free.

She stumbled, gasping, half-crawling toward the fireplace. The prod burned her palm as she seized it, but she didn’t care. Not anymore.

When he turned toward her, his face twisted with fury, she lunged.

The sharp end struck his chest with a dull, wet thud. He staggered back, eyes wide, but his armor caught most of the blow. The iron tore through the leather but didn’t pierce deep enough.

He recovered faster than she expected.

Lorraine barely had time to react before his fist collided with her jaw. Pain exploded across her face as she hit the floor, the prod clattering away.

The world spun. Her vision blurred with tears and smoke. The ceiling was aflame now, collapsing in splinters of molten gold.

The man loomed above her, eyes burning with rage and humiliation. He raised his sword high, forgetting the emperor’s orders... forgetting everything but vengeance.

Lorraine’s heartbeat thundered in her ears.

This can’t be how it ends, she thought.

The sword came down...