The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 88: Dye It.

Chapter 88: Chapter 88: Dye It.

Silence lingered inside the Blip like fog refusing to clear. No one dared move. Even the wind brushing along the hull felt afraid.

Eli sat like a statue carved from dawn—glowing, unblinking, and wrapped in a presence far heavier than her frame could explain. Her one hand rested gently on the arm of her throne, but it might as well have held a kingdom’s throat.

Her breath came slow. Controlled. But the air around her shimmered faintly with tension. Like glass stretched thin just before a shatter.

The crew said nothing. They understood that divine silence was more dangerous than divine fury.

She kept thinking of Irene.

the Prime.

the myth.

The child.

There had been a time, years ago, when Irene followed Eli like a shadow that hadn’t learned to be separate. She never asked for affection. Never demanded praise. She only watched. And when the world threatened Eli—even in training—Irene would move.

Quiet.

Precise.

Once, a court mage raised his voice during a sparring evaluation. No curse was cast, no injury dealt—but his tone had snapped.

And Irene had stepped forward.

With a single movement, she snapped his staff and removed three fingers. She didn’t blink. She didn’t gloat. When asked why, she said:

"He disrupted balance."

Eli remembered the frost of that moment. The eerie peace on Irene’s face. Not cruelty. Not rage. Just... correction.

But now?

Now that same creature had been unshackled.

Sent toward Atlas.

Her own weapon.

Pointed at her own brother.

A kingdom could survive enemies.

But surviving its own sins—that was another matter.

Eli’s nails bit into her palm.

The seed of Yggdrasil pulsed.

She felt it again: the ache in her shoulder where her arm had once lived. It wasn’t just pain. It was reminder. Warning. Her body now was too saturated with godlight to remain stable. The longer she went without a proper conduit, the more the seed would take.

Not just mana.

But memory.

Her soul was at stake.

The door to the Blip’s strategy chamber opened with a hiss. General Halbrecht entered—his armor marked with battles past, his grey beard flecked with ash.

"Your Majesty," he bowed. "The Forge Guild has responded. They’ve accepted your request."

She looked up.

"They’ll need three days to prepare the Tectonite. And longer still to bind it with Yggdrasil fragments."

She nodded.

"Tell them they have two."

He grimaced. "That could destabilize—"

"Two."

"Yes, Majesty."

She stood again, cape trailing behind her like living shadow. The Blip tilted slightly as it descended through another cloud wall, the soft whine of arcane engines humming.

Soon, she would be within range of the empire’s skies.

Soon, she would see the banners.

Soon, she would confront her ghosts.

And behind her—somewhere already walking in daylight—walked her wrath.

Irene.

She wondered if the girl still remembered her voice. If the chain of loyalty had corroded. If the years in silence had bred independence.

No.

Not independence.

Hunger.

Primes were not trained like humans. They were carved.

Each one required a vow soaked in godsblood.

Each one had a secret phrase known only to their monarch.

And Eli...

Eli had never spoken hers aloud.

She wondered what would happen now—if Irene had outgrown obedience. If the girl still bore Eli’s name in the marrow of her bones—or if the Empire’s newest council had overwritten her programming.

Bastards.

"Send a signal," Eli said.

"To whom?"

"To the surviving command glyphs near the Berkimhum capital. I want eyes on every courtyard. Every cathedral. Every sewer line. I want to know if she’s ’already’ there."

The mages nodded. A flare of white light spiked from the ship’s side, sending beacon-script rippling toward the horizon.

Eli remained at the edge of the viewing window.

Outside, the spires of her empire were beginning to take shape—black against the blood-orange sunrise.

It had changed since she left.

It had aged.

Or perhaps she had.

There were new banners now. Civilian ones. Painted not with crests of old—but with symbols of her own.

A Sun.

A flame.

A serpent wrapped around a broken chain.

The people had already chosen. Chosen her.

They wanted the Empress who defied gods.

The Empress who came back from the Dead.

Elizabeth.

She felt something twist in her gut.

Not happiness.

Not hatred.

Something worse.

Grief.

A grief so quiet, it was almost holy.

"...You were supposed to die their, a sacrifice for your empire" she whispered to herself. "And instead, you became the empire’s symbol once more."

Her hand pressed to the glass.

The lights of the empire glimmered like stars fallen to earth.

And somewhere below—they waited, her people.

A knock tapped at her room. She turned slightly as the door eased open.

A boy stepped in.

Barely sixteen, narrow-framed and pale-skinned, with a head of soft brown curls and an arcane satchel slung across his shoulder.

The young mage.

He bowed so low his hair brushed the floor.

"Your Imperial Majesty," he said, voice trembling slightly. "We’ve received transmission from the landing bay officers. Final descent is underway. We’ll be touching down within minutes."

She nodded.

Didn’t speak.

The boy hesitated.

Then straightened, swallowing nervously, eyes flicking up to her silver form.

She watched him in silence.

There was something—

A shape in the cheekbones. A sharpness in the eyes. The nervous flicker of his fingers as he fumbled with his mana chalk.

It was faint.

But it was there.

A shadow.

A ghost.

Atlas.

He reminded her of Atlas.

Her Atlas—when he had still been a boy. Before the horns of fate crowned him. Before his back bent beneath the weight of dreams.

Her heart stirred.

Not with love.

Not with pain.

But with possession.

She pointed lazily at the boy’s hair.

"Dye it."

"...Majesty?"

"Black," she said softly. "I want it black."

The boy blinked. "I... um, I—of course. But may I ask—"

"You may not," she cut in, her voice quiet, unbothered.

He lowered his head quickly. "Yes, Empress."

She leaned back, eyes drifting again to the skyline approaching fast through the window.

"And from now on," she added, "you are mine...."

His eyes widened.

"...I—of course, Your Majesty. In what capacity?"

She tilted her head, her expression unreadable.

"You will serve as my personal assistant. Effective immediately."

He blinked twice, stunned into silence.

Then bowed so deeply he nearly dropped his staff.

"I—I won’t fail you."

"I know," she said.

Because if he did...

She wouldn’t let him live long enough to regret it.

But that wasn’t what she said aloud.

"Go," she murmured. "Be ready for the landing. And bring the dye."

He ran—nearly tripping on his robes as he left the chamber with frantic, eager energy.

Alone again, Eli turned back toward the glass.

The city approached.

Closer.

Closer.

Soon, the storm would begin.

And she would stand at the center of it—not just a general. Not just a survivor.

But something far more terrifying.

A ruler who had learned to miss someone so deeply... a ruler who was ready to do anything for her goal, a ruler reborn from heartening madness.