Two days passed.
Ophelia was lost to the world, her body barely alive, her breath weak, and her soul… trapped somewhere between life and the point of no return.
When she finally opened her eyes, there was no confusion. Only emptiness.
She stared at the ceiling, then at the window; the ray of light brought no warmth.
Everything inside her was cold.
Oliver sat quietly beside her, calm but tense.
When he saw her move, he whispered softly,
"You're awake…"
She slowly turned her head toward him and murmured,
"I thought you'd leave... after what you saw."
He replied seriously,
"You've seen hell… and you survived it. I won't run from someone who made it through what no one else did."
She looked at him in long silence, then said with a strange coldness,
"He's gone... Damian."
Oliver lowered his eyes, speechless.
But Ophelia continued,
"He said... 'I'll come back'… but what if he doesn't?"
Her voice rose, filled with anger, betrayal, and nameless grief:
"I thought I'd fight, win, and we'd survive together. But no one survived. No one."
Suddenly, Adelia entered, her face pale, her breath ragged as if she'd been running nonstop.
"Ophelia!" Adelia called out, her voice heavy with worry.
She rushed to her side, knelt beside the bed, and grasped her hand without hesitation.
"Are you okay? Do you feel anything?"
Ophelia looked at her silently for a moment. She didn't pull her hand away—but didn't squeeze it either.
Her eyes were empty, as if she no longer understood the meaning of words.
Finally, she whispered in a hoarse voice,
"I'm alive…"
Adelia felt a lump in her throat but said nothing more.
She knew her sister had changed, that what she'd been through couldn't be easily spoken or understood.
All she could do was stay by her side, silently holding her hand.
After a long pause, sensing Ophelia needed space, Adelia gently patted her hand, stood up, and whispered,
"I'll be outside… if you need me."
Then she left without waiting for a reply.
Oliver remained seated, quietly watching Ophelia.
She stared out the window, her face expressionless—though not lifeless, more like someone beyond death.
Suddenly, without looking at him, she said,
"When I was nearly dead… I wasn't afraid."
He stopped, caught by her words.
She continued:
"Fear was here—when I woke up. When I realized everything was over… and that I was still here."
Oliver moved closer, sitting on the edge of the bed.
"And what will you do now?"
She looked at him with cold eyes, but behind them flickered a new, quiet, deep spark.
"People fear me… and I don't blame them anymore."
"Is that what you want? To be feared?"
She answered:
"I don't want anything. I just can't afford to be kind, innocent, or hesitant anymore."
She paused, then added:
"I'm leaving this place… I'll join the mercenaries."
He raised an eyebrow, surprised by her certainty.
"You'll fight? For whom?"
"Not for them, but against those like them… against those who created this hell."
Oliver fell silent, then said:
"I'll ascend the throne soon, but I can't protect this empire alone. If you choose to stay in the shadows… I won't stop you."
She looked at him for a long moment, then whispered:
"I'm no longer the Ophelia you knew…"
Slowly, she rose from the bed. Her first steps were hesitant, but her eyes never wavered.
These weren't the eyes of a broken girl—they belonged to someone who had returned from a point of no return, finally understanding who she truly was.
She was tired, yes, but exhaustion was no longer a barrier.
Inside her, something new was born—from pain, loss, and everything buried deep in her heart.
She no longer walked as a victim of what happened, but as someone who decided to shape her own fate, no matter how much she might burn along the way...
The Imperial Palace had never been quieter on any day before, yet today it pulsed with life—not from lavish celebrations, but from the silent beating of hearts waiting for a pivotal moment, a moment that would write a new history.
Everyone awaited the new emperor, and with every breath echoing through the grand hall, hope crept in... hope that the era of darkness had passed, and that the true dawn of the empire had begun.
This beginning came at a price. Its first lines were written with Damian's sacrifice, Ophelia's courage, and Oliver's resilience. Together, they revived the heart of an empire built upon silent wounds and rotten roots.
Suddenly… the doors widened, and Oliver appeared in his royal attire, standing tall despite the losses etched on his face. His steps were confident, and his silence spoke louder than any speech.
He stood before the throne, placed his hand on his heart, and said with steady voice:
"I swear to be the sword and shield of this nation, and never allow darkness to come near it again."
The hall erupted in applause, eyes filled with tears. Here stood the rightful heir—who survived massacres, fought the darkness, and returned to save what remained of his family's legacy—finally ascending the throne. Not just as a symbol, but as a leader carrying the pains of the past and the promises of the future.
Far from the echoes of celebration in the Imperial Palace, Ophelia's steps silently carved a path through the mountains. The wind wrapped her cloak around her, and clouds shaded the sky above. She was not running away… but searching. Searching for a new beginning—not as a princess or a witch, but as a warrior rewriting her own destiny.
The Storm Mercenaries... a name whispered across villages, a band loyal only to their conscience, defending the weak, guarding the roads, and wiping away the stains of betrayal and corruption.
When Ophelia finally reached the stone fortress gate, she paused, studying the cracked walls, knowing well that weakness had no place beyond them. She pushed the heavy door open with a deep creak, revealing a bustling courtyard within.
In its center stood a tall man, his build telling tales of long years in battle. His hair, touched with gray, added to his presence the gravitas of a warrior who never falls.
Ophelia stepped forward steadily and said in a low, clear voice,
"Are you the leader? I want to join the Storm Mercenaries."
The man stopped his training, turned to her, eyes examining without hesitation. Folding his arms, he said with a hint of surprise,
"Ophelia Carter? The girl who overthrew the emperor?"
She met his gaze firmly and answered without pride,
"Yes... that's me."
Rin smiled faintly—not mockingly, but like a man who had seen much, knowing that behind every great name lies a story too heavy for a single line.
Stepping closer, he asked,
"What drives a girl like you, after all you've achieved, to walk the mercenary's path?"
Ophelia studied the faces of the fighters around her… none bore the features of nobles or politicians. Just people wielding swords to protect villages, not thrones.
"Because I don't want to be just a symbol… I want to fight for something that matters. Something real."
Then, with deep sincerity in her eyes, she added,
"The aristocratic world isn't my place. But the happiness of simple families, the child returning from the well without fear, the farmer who doesn't dread thieves… those are my battles now."
Silence fell for a few seconds, then Rin let out a short laugh, shaking his head.
"I expected you to be just a name. But you're much more than that."
He raised his hand, gesturing to the fortress behind him:
"Welcome to the Storm, Ophelia. We have strict rules—no one here is treated like a princess."
She finally smiled—a light smile like a breeze after a storm.
"That's exactly what I need."