The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 87: Secret

Chapter 87: Chapter 87: Secret

To rule is to lead.

And to lead—is to sacrifice.

That was the mantra of monarchs, whispered between bloodied thrones and silent wars. In the Empire, they sang it with reverence, carved it into marble, etched it into swords gifted to children too young to understand their weight.

But true sacrifice was not dying for one’s people.

It was living for them.

Living with the shame. The burden. The decisions that stained the soul beyond redemption.

Only those whose hearts were vast as the holy mountain—so vast they could cradle an entire nation’s grief—had the right to be kind.

Only those with the strength to destroy the world... yet chose not to.

The world didn’t need rulers who healed the wounded.

It needed those who could bear the entire wound of the world—and still stand tall.

That... was the kindness only sovereigns understood.

That... was the kindness Eli had chosen.

She stood on a high ridge—armor half-buckled, hair tied in a soldier’s knot—as her one good hand held her cloak against the cold gusts. The Gates of the Dark Continent shimmered in the far distance, wreathed in mist, both menacing and mythic. Even from here, she could sense the void that lay beyond it—the place where she’d been broken, remade, and reborn.

Her bandaged shoulder ached. An arm she had severed herself, for a boy who didn’t look back.

And still... her eyes searched for him.

Each gust of wind burned against the bruises she hadn’t let heal. Her cloak snapped like a war-banner, the fabric torn in two corners where fire had kissed it. Blood crusted along her collar, and the buckles across her ribs dug deep from a battle she hadn’t finished yet.

But she refused to fall.

The horizon shimmered.

A vision, or a memory.

She thought she saw him—Atlas—there at the edge of the world, where dreams used to live. His back turned. His shoulders broader. His shadow too vast for a fourteen-year-old. A boy sculpted by gods and guided by monsters.

"...So long, Atlas," she whispered.

Her voice almost didn’t carry.

She hadn’t dared face him directly. Not after the Dreaming collapsed. Not after what she’d done. His men were already coming. His wrath, she feared, was not the kind that could be reasoned with. If she lingered—massacre. He would have painted the continent red before she could speak a word.

And perhaps he would have been right to.

Because her strength had never been in love.

Her strength was in ruling.

And ruling demanded coldness—a heart of stone cloaked in silks.

"Your Imperial Majesty."

The voice pulled her from her thoughts.

A knight bowed low, his crimson cloak fluttering behind him. "The Blip is ready."

She nodded, silent.

They walked together toward the clearing where the Empire’s secret weapon awaited.

There it hovered—silver, sleek, and oval like a sky-egg cracked open and stitched with spellsteel. Mana stones glowed faintly across its hull, connected to latticework channels pulsing with light. No birds circled above it. Even nature gave it distance.

It was more than a machine.

It was ambition incarnate.

And it was hers.

As they neared, the wind took on a metallic scent—like ozone and polished steel. The faint hum of magic resonated through her boots. Her breath crystallized on the air as she stepped into the shadow of the Blip, and for a heartbeat, she felt smaller than the war she’d inherited.

She stepped inside the floating craft. The interior hummed with mana. Soldiers saluted her entry. Velvet-lined seats. Polished arcanic glass. An embedded throne of silverwood waited for her like an invitation to judgment.

She sat.

And exhaled.

The first time in weeks she felt... not peace, but a sliver of comfort. Not lying beneath trees, not clutching a blade. Just this. A chair. A roof. And for once, no monsters screaming at her from the void.

"Majesty," a mage approached, staff buzzing with azure light. "The Blip’s trial phases all passed. Its shield repellents and stealth seals exceed expectations. None of the high lords have been told yet—it remains classified."

"Good," Eli said.

She glanced out the curved glass at the clouds below as the airship ascended.

"And threats? In the sky?"

"None, Empress," said a scout—an aged archer with three dragon scars across his neck. "No wyverns, no drake-signs. The repel spell is functioning at full range."

Her eyes closed for just a second longer.

She wanted to change. To wash. To feel clean.

But she couldn’t afford luxury—not yet.

The war would begin soon.

And her soul was not yet whole.

But rest, as always, was a lie.

"Your Majesty. Urgent news."

The voice belonged to Commander Rathen—one of the old loyalists, his armor etched with symbols of fallen legions. He bowed, and beside him stood a boy. No more than sixteen. Pale, sweating. A mage-apprentice. His face looking a bit similar to him.

Eli’s spine straightened.

Her voice dropped into frost.

"Speak."

The mage flinched but obeyed.

"Intercepted orders, Majesty. Classified magical frequencies... originating from the capital. Royal authority level."

Her eyes narrowed. "Who."

The boy swallowed. "The youngest Prince. Your brother."

The Blip’s interior chilled by degrees.

Eli didn’t flinch. Not at the title. Not at the betrayal. She had prepared herself for many things. This was just another flavor of poison.

"Assassins," the boy said. "Sent to Berkimhum."

She scoffed.

"Assassins?" Her laugh was hollow. "That’s the game they play now? Not siege? Not spellbombs? Assassins?"

Rathen did not smile.

"There’s more," he said quietly.

Eli looked up slowly.

He hesitated, then said:

"They didn’t just send assassins. They sent a Prime."

Everything stopped.

CRACK.

Her mana flared. Divine light burst from her shoulder. Arcanic fire veined across the ceiling, webbing like cracks in a stained glass window touched by heaven’s fury. The crew didn’t move. They knew better. Some fell to a knee.

Her heartbeat was loud enough to drown sound.

"You DARE tell me," she said, rising, "that a PRIME was deployed without my knowledge?"

The mage sank to his knees.

"I-It was after your death declaration, Majesty. Emergency protocols activated. The council passed authority to your brother. The Prime was authorized within the hour."

Eli’s lips curled.

Not in fury.

In disgust.

"A Prime is not a sword. She is a calamity. And they loosed her like a dog."

The silence agreed.

"Do we have contact?"

"No. She’s already crossed the border. She reaches Berkimhum before dawn."

Eli sat slowly. Her jaw tightened until her teeth creaked.

Then:

"Of all people," she whispered, voice colder than magic. "He sent her?"

Her throat tightened.

She remembered that name.

The Prime.

A girl raised in blood. Who didn’t sleep. Didn’t blink. A weapon given a name and then told to forget it. She was not born. She was built.

Eli had once seen her kneel in a corridor, meditating in a pool of her own blood after shattering a golem with her bare fists. The Prime didn’t feel fear. Or loyalty. She only obeyed the last voice she heard.

And now—that voice belonged to someone else.

"Send a recall," Eli said. "She won’t listen. But send it anyway."

Rathen nodded and left.

Eli leaned back in her throne.

The steel frame bit into her skin, but she welcomed it.

The pain kept her awake.

She lifted her hand—her only one. Light shimmered through the bandages where the seed of Yggdrasil pulsed faintly. Something ancient slept beneath her skin.

She had changed.

Tried to cast small spells once. But now mana moved through her like veins of gold in broken stone.

She looked at her left shoulder. Gone. The phantom ache still screamed.

But it was not a wound. It was a promise.

She would not regrow the arm.

She would reforge it.

"Send word to the forges," she said to the silence. "All of them. I want every ounce of tectonite smelted. I want a prosthetic—not a limb. A weapon. One that channels mana like blood."

Everyone answered.

And the Blip heard her.

And far beneath, the mountain forges stirred.

As the golden light danced around her—as her pulse beat like prophecy against her ribs—Eli closed her eyes one last time.

’Just wait for me, Atlas,’ she thought.

’I’ll take your kingdom.’

A pause.

’And then I’ll take you.’

Even if it meant burning the world to do it.

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