CHAPTER 46: DUKEDOM INHERITANCE

The book’s pages shimmered once more, and light spilled from every line, swelling until the entire hut blazed like dawn breaking through eternity. The ancient wood groaned under the weight of that radiance, and even the air itself seemed to bend in reverence. Time quivered. The veil between past and future thinned until both existed in a single breath.

Ahce stood at the center of it all, her body trembling, not from fear, but from the overwhelming surge of energy coursing through her veins. Each heartbeat resonated with something vast, something older than the world itself.

Then came the voice. The same voice that had whispered to her in dreams, now clear as thought, deep as eternity.

"You have inherited the Sight, the eyes that walk through the threads of time. What was lost can be seen. What is fated can be changed."

Her breath caught as the world around her dissolved into light. But this time, she did not fall into memory.

She walked through it.

The ground beneath her shimmered like rippling glass. Reality folded inward, revealing echoes of different lifetimes stacked upon one another like pages of a living book. She saw herself and Richard beneath a quiet night sky, their first meeting, laughter soft as candlelight, the warmth of something real and fragile. Then, like a drop of ink spreading through water, the scene darkened.

Flames.

Blood.

Screams.

The sky fractured as the Tainted Blood swept across continents. She saw the rise of the hybrids, men twisted by science and hunger, their ambition turning to madness. Cities burned. Oceans turned red. Humanity devoured itself in its pursuit of godhood.

But this time... Ahce was no longer helpless.

She felt the pulse of time beneath her fingertips, a rhythm like a living heart. She reached out, and for a moment, the vision bent, shifting ever so slightly. The flames dimmed. The screams quieted.

Destiny, she realized, was not absolute.

The revelation struck her like thunder. She fell to her knees, the gravity of that truth pressing down until her lungs trembled for air. The Sight was not a blessing, it was a burden. To see beginnings and ends, to know every failure and still choose to act, that was the test of those who bore the Archmage’s inheritance.

Her trembling hands glowed faintly, etched with veins of gold. The ancient book pulsed before her like a living heart. She whispered, her voice steady despite the pain clawing at her chest.

"Then I’ll rewrite it."

Outside, the forest stirred. The trees rustled as though the world itself had heard her vow.

"I won’t let the world burn again. I won’t let his sacrifice become another tragedy written in blood."

Light spiraled around her, rising higher with each breath she drew. Power gathered like a storm, luminous and unrelenting.

"If fate insists on tearing us apart," she whispered, her voice now carrying through the air like a vow carved in fire, "then I’ll tear fate apart instead."

Somewhere beyond that space between moments, she could feel him, Richard. His soul, distant yet alive, tethered to hers by a bond that no age could break. And this time, she was not the same woman who had once waited in vain for his return.

She was the heir of the Pentecase bloodline.

The inheritor of the Archmage’s legacy.

The Seer of Time itself.

She would find him.

She would uncover the truth behind the Division, the hybrids, and the curse that chained their souls.

No prophecy, no god, no destiny would take him from her again.

This time, she swore...

I’ll be the one saving you, Richard Jing.

Then the world broke apart.

The scent of the forest vanished. The luminous trees faded into mist, and the old hut dissolved like breath on glass. When Ahce’s eyes opened again, she was lying in a grand, familiar chamber bathed in the soft glow of lanterns.

The faint scent of sandalwood lingered in the air, mingled with parchment and old tomes. The Duke’s sigil shimmered above her on the wall, the crescent sun of the Pentecase crest.

She was back. The test had ended. And she had survived.

Or perhaps, she had been chosen.

When Ahce stepped out of the chamber, silence rippled through the manor. Servants, knights, and scholars turned as one, their faces pale with disbelief. The portal of inheritance had claimed many, but none had returned, not in twenty years.

At the far end of the hall, her great-grandfather, Duke Piel Pentecase, stood waiting. The weight of centuries sat upon his shoulders, his silver cane tapping faintly against the marble floor. His eyes, cold and unyielding, softened for the briefest heartbeat as they met hers.

"You came back alive," he murmured, his voice more breath than sound.

Ahce bowed, her exhaustion hidden beneath composure.

"You said the test was meant for survival," she replied evenly. "I intend to do more than just survive."

The old Duke studied her for a long, silent moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled, a rare, almost fragile curve of lips that seemed foreign to his weathered face.

"Then from this day forward," he said solemnly, "you are the sole heir of the Pentecase Duchy."

Applause erupted from the gathered court. But beneath the celebration, Ahce felt the familiar chill of power, the unspoken truth that every title carried a price.

Later that evening, when the last advisor had departed and the candles burned low, the Duke beckoned her closer. His expression hardened once more, the warmth replaced by the steel of a ruler.

"Ahce," he said, "as the next Duchess, you will inherit more than a title. You will bear the obligations of our lineage. You’ve proven yourself worthy, but before you ascend, there is one condition."

Her pulse quickened. "A condition?"

He nodded. "A marriage."

The word struck like a bell.

"A... marriage?"

"The balance between the three Ducal Houses and the royal family is fragile," he said. "A duchess without a consort invites unrest. You will marry, not for affection, but for stability. For peace."

Her throat tightened. "So I must marry to prove my worth?"

"No," he said quietly. "You must marry to protect your throne."

The words settled like iron. Politics. Alliances. Duty. A future decided not by love, but by strategy.

"Do I have a choice?" she asked after a long silence.

The Duke’s eyes dimmed with something close to sorrow.

"The blood of Pentecase does not bend to choice, only to duty," he said. Then, softer, "But perhaps... fate will grant you a miracle, child. Just as it granted you your life back."

Fate.

The word lingered like a blade between them.

That night, Ahce stood before her window, the moonlight spilling across the marble floor like liquid silver. She could still feel the Archmage’s power pulsing within her chest, a heartbeat not entirely her own.

A political marriage. A cage with gilded bars. Another chain disguised as duty.

But she had seen the threads of time, and she knew. Nothing was unchangeable. If she must marry, she would choose the battlefield herself. If she must play their games, she would make sure she won. And somewhere, beyond this world’s edge, Richard Jing still existed, alive, waiting, remembering.

She raised her chin, her reflection glimmering in the glass.

"I may be the Duchess they need," she whispered to the moon, her voice soft yet defiant, "but I’ll also be the woman destiny fears."

Outside, the wind stirred through the trees, soft, reverent, almost like applause. And far beyond the stars, something, someone, stirred in answer.