The council chamber was suffocating. Not because of the room itself, no. It was grand, regal—lined with banners of the three ruling races, the polished floor reflecting the light of chandeliers above. No, the suffocation came from the weight of the decision looming over us, from the hypocrisy thick in the air, from the very presence of the person walking toward us now.
Lucas Wykes.
His slow, unhurried steps echoed in the hall, each one grating against my patience. My hands clenched into fists, nails digging into my palms as I fought to keep my expression neutral. I could feel the blood rushing to my head, the heat of barely restrained fury crawling up my spine.
King Alduin's voice barely registered in my ears.
"But before we begin, I would like to thank you—not just as a leader, but as a father—"
Dawsid Greysunder scoffed, cutting in with his usual bluntness.
"We are here as the leaders of this goddamn continent, not as fathers."
The Dwarven King turned away from Alduin and grinned as the approaching figure came into view. "Lucas Wykes, the victim, has arrived. Let's begin."
Victim?
I felt my breath hitch for a second, my nails digging deeper into my skin.
Victim.
Was this some kind of joke?
Lucas walked forward, his expression unreadable, though I wasn't sure if it was deliberate or if he was just too exhausted to put on an act.
His usual aristocratic air was dampened, his skin pale and dull, his once well-kept blonde hair now unkempt. But what stood out the most was his arm—a cold, metallic prosthetic in place of the one he'd lost.
So he wasn't able to fix it.
Somehow, that should have made me feel better. Should have felt like justice. But it didn't.
Because he was still standing.
Still here.
Still breathing the same air as the people he had tormented, still being called a 'victim' when he was anything but.
My lips parted slightly as my thoughts solidified into a single, biting word.
Cockroach.
No matter what happened to him, no matter how much he lost, he would always crawl back.
I forced myself to exhale through my nose, trying to steady the storm within me. My eyes met his for the briefest moment, and I saw something flicker behind them—was it calculation? Resignation? Or was he simply waiting? Waiting for the verdict he knew he would escape from, just like he always did?
The injustice of it all pressed against my ribs like a vice.
How many times had I suffered for things outside of my control? For things I had no hand in? And yet, here he was, still walking free, still breathing, still existing in a world that refused to hold him accountable.
My jaw tightened, and I turned my gaze toward the council members. I already knew how this would go. It didn't matter what he had done. It didn't matter who he had hurt. He would walk away again, because that was how this world worked. The powerful protected their own.
And Lucas Wykes?
Lucas Wykes was born with everything.
Even now, after all he had lost, he still had more than he deserved.
I swallowed the bitter taste in my mouth and forced my voice to remain steady. Because if no one else would hold him accountable, then I would. If this council failed, then one day, I would make sure Lucas Wykes faced the justice he deserved.
One way or another.
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Just as I expected, everything unfolded exactly the way I had predicted. A little slap on the back for Lucas, and that was it. No real punishment. No true justice.
I clenched my fists, feeling the weight of my own restraints as Lance Varay twisted the chains binding me in her hand. My mind was a storm, my thoughts swirling in a rage I barely managed to suppress. How? How does he always get away with everything?
Lucas Wykes, the so-called victim, stood there, his dull skin stretched over his smug face, his disheveled pale blond hair giving him an almost ghostly look.
Not after everything he'd done.
And yet… something about him didn't sit right. His demeanor, the way he carried himself, the way he spoke during the proceedings—it was too composed, too calculated.
I didn't know if he was telling the truth or weaving another elaborate lie, but if he was lying, then he wasn't just an arrogant third-generation noble. He was a masterful actor, an Oscar-worthy manipulator who had just played everyone in this room.
I had been watching him the entire time, my eyes never leaving him, waiting for a crack in his facade, for any sign of guilt or fear. And then—
He looked at me.
For a second, his expression was unreadable, an empty slate. But then, something shifted.
A smile.
Not a smirk, not a grin—a wide, twisted smile that sent something hot and violent surging through my veins.
My vision tinted red, my jaw clenched so tightly it ached, and my hands trembled from the sheer force of the anger building within me.
How dare he?
How dare he smile at me like that?
Was he mocking me? Taunting me? Did he really want to die?
The air in the room felt heavier, suffocating. Lance Varay jerked slightly, as if sensing the change in my emotions. I turned my head, and she met my gaze with a reassuring nod, a silent warning to hold back. It was a small comfort, but it did little to quell the storm raging inside me.
I forced myself to breathe, to steady my shaking hands as I followed behind her. Every step away from that room felt like another chain tightening around my chest, restricting my movements, my thoughts.
This wasn't over.
This was far from over.
Next time, I wouldn't let him walk away.
Next time, I would kill him with my own hands.
Just wait, Lucas Wykes. Just wait.
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"About damn time."
The words left my lips as I sensed a presence breaking through the suffocating stillness of my prison. The black stone walls, damp with the weight of time, bore silent witness to my confinement. Three months… three long, agonizing months trapped in this abyss, cut off from mana, left to rot. Just enough time for me to barely forget the sensation of power coursing through my veins. Barely.
I turned my head as the presence stepped into view. Pale blonde hair, skin so white it nearly glowed in the dim torchlight, royal robes draped over his frame, and those deep, starlit eyes that seemed to hold galaxies within them.
Winsom.
In his arms, a small figure stirred, then bolted awake. Before I could react, Slyvie leaped from his grasp and into mine, her small body warm against my chest. I caught her effortlessly, feeling the faint tremors in her form as she buried herself against me. My fingers ran over her scales instinctively, a quiet reassurance that I was still here—that we were still here.
Winsom, however, didn't seem pleased by her reaction. His expression remained impassive, but his eyes flickered with a hint of disapproval. His voice, when he finally spoke, was steady and absolute.
"We need to take both of you to Epheotus."
I exhaled, my grip on Slyvie tightening for a fraction of a second before I nodded. This was expected. From the moment I felt my mana being sealed away, I knew this would be my fate. But before I left, there was one thing I had to do. A loose end I needed to tie.
Lucas Wykes.
The name alone sent a pulse of rage through me. That bastard. The reason I was locked in this damned prison for three months, while he walked free with nothing more than a slap on the wrist.
"I need to pay someone back," I muttered, my voice laced with quiet fury.
Winsom sighed, as if he had expected this. "Lucas Wykes," he said plainly. It wasn't a question.
I nodded, jaw tight. I wasn't about to let this go. Not after everything.
Winsom studied me for a moment before speaking again. "Why don't you take care of him after we return?"
The way he said it wasn't dismissive. He wasn't denying me my vengeance—only delaying it. It was enough for now. I had waited three months. What was a little longer?
I gave him another nod, my mind already replaying every moment, every smirk, every ounce of arrogance on Lucas's face. Soon.
I glanced down at Slyvie, who had already relaxed against me, exhausted. My fingers idly brushed against her small form before I turned back to Winsom.
"How long will it take?" I asked.
Winsom didn't answer.
Instead, he turned and began walking.....
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