The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss
Chapter 89: Prime

Chapter 89: Chapter 89: Prime

The Berkimhum Palace groaned beneath the weight of unrest.

High arches and glass-tiled domes shimmered in early dusk, but the council chambers stank of impatience. Perfumed nobles murmured behind lace-gloved hands. Generals beat fingers against the lacquered tables. Scribes scribbled false calm into scrolls that would never be read.

They were waiting for a ghost.

The Mad Prince.

The child who had supposedly died in the Dark Continent—a fate that swallowed legends and spat out bones. They scoffed behind closed doors. A miracle, they called it. An exaggeration. A fabricated tale cooked by grief and the desperation of war.

"No man returns from demon hands," one of the old lords hissed under breath. "Not unless they sold their soul to something darker."

They didn’t say it aloud, but many believed it.

Atlas Von Roxweld—if alive—was no longer a boy.

And perhaps no longer human.

But while the council bickered in marble shadows, Lara stood alone at the highest floor, at her room.

Her gown no longer stained with blood, her hair no longer wild with wind.

She looked every inch the princess of a dying kingdom—regal, poised, distant.

The crownlet fitted into her blue hair gleamed in the sun’s last light. Her blue eyes held the sea’s coldness and none of its mercy.

Wind curled around her ankles like a serpent of cold breath. The scent of ash lingered in the air—not from fire, but from memory.

Behind her, a voice wrapped in silk approached.

"Beautiful..."

Isabella.

Her mother.

She approached with a slow grace, hands carrying a silver hairbrush, like she had in Lara’s childhood—back when she believed her daughter could still be softened.

"Gorgeous ," she repeated, brushing back the strands of silk-blue hair. "Ethereal, even."

"You know I hate this," Lara replied.

Her voice was quiet but flint-edged, like a blade held just off the throat.

"This dress. This mirror . This... pretense."

Isabella’s smile faltered, but she did not stop brushing.

"I know."

A pause.

"I also know I made choices I cannot take back."

Lara’s jaw tightened. The brush glided again. There was something ceremonial about it—the way Isabella moved, as though brushing her daughter’s hair could still sweep away what they’d both become.

"...But I never stopped loving you, Lara. Everything I did—"

"Was for yourself," Lara interrupted coldly. "Let’s not dress up treason in velvet."

Isabella winced.

But it was the next words that stabbed deepest.

"I don’t care about the past," Lara said, her reflection hardening in the mirror before them. "I only care about now...."

Isabella’s hand stopped.

"...now?"

"For my marriage," Lara said without hesitation. "To my brother."

The silence that followed was violent.

The kind of silence that cracked kingdoms.

"No," Isabella whispered.

Her lips barely moved.

"No," she said again, louder. "Absolutely not. You know why—"

"I know he’s the only one I’ll ever trust," Lara replied, turning now. Her eyes were lit with something fierce. "You want me to rule? Let me rule with him. Not against him. I will not marry some minor duke. I will not lie in bed with traitors."

Isabella’s mouth opened. No sound came out.

"There are things," she said slowly, as if choosing each word from thorns, "in this world even a queen cannot allow."

"You let nobles burn towns for coin," Lara snapped. "You let them poison our courts, gut our treasury. But a marriage? Between two heirs with the blood of dragons and dreamers—that’s your line?"

"It’s not just about blood," Isabella snapped back. "It’s about ...."

"Silent.....silent once more."

Lara stepped away from the mirror.

"Because I’ve already been through hell. And if I must build a throne from fire, I’ll sit on it with him. Or no one."

Isabella said nothing more.

Her daughter left the room, fire trailing behind her.

And Isabella stood there, the silver brush trembling in her hand, staring into the mirror that now reflected only her own tired face.

She had tried—gods knew she had tried. But the brat, that cursed, stubborn prince had poisoned her little girl’s heart long ago. And now—

Now it was too late.

Lara moved like lightning through the palace corridors.

She wore none of the royal pomp. Only the truth of her stride—measured, ready.

Something was wrong.

It wasn’t just instinct.

It was something deeper.

The bell.

It echoed faintly in her blood—distant, off-pitch, muffled as though swallowed by fog. The city’s warning bell was ringing—but the sound didn’t reach the palace as it should have.

And that could only mean one thing.

She unsheathed her blade with a hiss of metal.

Isabella, catching up, called after her.

"Where are you going?!"

"To the gates," Lara said, already sprinting. "Something’s wrong."

"Wait—!"

"Lock yourself in! Arm the guards!"

And she was gone.

A flash of sapphire against the setting sun.

Inside, Isabella didn’t hesitate.

War was no longer coming.

It had arrived.

She grabbed a knife from the fruit tray beside her bed. She stormed into the corridor, voice sharp.

"Guards! Ready the palace! Send twenty to the gates. Now."

Her eyes—soft and green like spring—were now hard like emerald.

"Protect the princess with your lives."

She would not lose her again.

Not like this.

Elsewhere in the hallway...

Claire emerged, brushing her disheveled coat.

She didn’t answer the glare Isabella gave her as she appeared from a certain forbidden chamber.

"Forget that," Claire muttered. "What’s going on?"

"Your highness suspects an attack," Isabella replied curtly. "We’re fortifying the palace."

Claire raised an eyebrow.

"Based on what? A gut feeling?"

"She’s never been wrong before."

That was true.

Claire sighed and raised her arm, activating the bracelet on her wrist. Arcane circles shimmered into being, and mages from her familia began to teleport in, one by one.

She didn’t trust anyone else.

"Where is that damned Kury..." she muttered, stalking down the marble hallway.

Then the lights dimmed.

A gust of unnatural wind.

And a shape stepped from the shadow.

Dark. Fluid. Fast.

"Who the—"

Before she could scream, a knife plunged into her side.

A jagged blade.

Pain exploded through her stomach.

She collapsed into the assassin’s arms, mouth gagged by a black glove.

Blood spilled fast—hot and urgent.

And through the haze of agony, she saw the sigil—

The Empire’s mark burned into the chestplate of her attacker.

’The gates were... a distraction,’ she realized.

There was no alarm.

It had been silenced.

And now the kill was clean.

Efficient.

Another figure stepped from the shadows, clad in heavy imperial armor. Her voice was blunt.

"Is she a target?"

The assassin holding Claire nodded slightly.

"She’s nobility. And in our way."

The knife twisted.

She screamed—but only in her mind.

Her lips moved, blood bubbling between her teeth.

Atlas...

The name that echoed as her world turned red.

Somewhere deeper in the palace, the bells finally reached the ears of the old king.

Henry Von Roxweld lifted his head slowly from the war table. The maps trembled beneath his fingers. He hadn’t slept. He hadn’t dreamed. Not in days.

He could hear the blood in his ears louder than the bell.

Not a servant dared speak.

Not a knight dared move.

The silence of death had crept into the king’s chambers long before any assassin had. It lived in the marrow of these walls. It haunted the throne like a ghost too prideful to pass.

"Sire," one of his generals whispered, "should we evacuate you to the lower vaults?"

Henry didn’t look up.

"And leave all of you to face it alone?"

His voice was quiet. Almost brittle.

"No."

He stood.

It took effort.

Not because of his age. But because of the weight.

Of guilt.

Of mistakes.

He picked up the old sword from its stand—one forged before Atlas was born, before Lara was a soldier, before Berkimhum had started to rot from within.

The blade was dull.

But steady.

"Tell them to hold the gates," he said. "I’ll face whatever comes through."

Lara didn’t slow.

She reached the outer courtyard, where the wind carried the scent of sweat, steel, and the acrid taste of distant fire.

The city beyond the palace was not yet burning—but the tension in the air felt like a match scraping across the kingdom’s bones.

"Form ranks!"

Her voice rang out like thunder.

Palace guards snapped to attention. Archers took position atop the balconies. Mages lined the inner wall, spells glowing faintly beneath their palms.

Still, no army had breached.

Not yet.

But she could feel it.

Like breath down her spine.

Something was already inside.

She turned just as a courier sprinted toward her, robes bloodied, face white.

"Princess!" he gasped. "Assassins—inside the palace!"

She didn’t hesitate.

"Where?"

"North wing. East corridor. High Chamber...."

The sword in her hand ignited.

"Sound the horns. Lock the inner halls. And anyone not wearing our crest gets a blade to the throat."

Claire wasn’t dead.

Not yet.

She gasped in shallow breaths as the pain spread through her abdomen. Blood soaked her dress, seeping into the floorboards. The assassin above her had pulled her into a dark study, one of the royal archives, filled with books too old for relevance and secrets too dead to save.

She blinked through the haze. Tried to conjure light. To teleport. To anything.

But her spell circles flickered and died.

The knife had poisoned her.

Dreamless venom. It silenced magic. Froze mana. Killed light at the root.

The second assassin paced nearby.

"Why not kill her now?"

"Because the Prime said so...."

The first one—the one who had stabbed her—leaned down.

"And Irene prefers the final blow."

Claire’s blood ran colder than the steel.

Irene.

Even half-conscious, the name struck like a thunderclap.

She’d heard whispers. Of the Prime who walked on air. Who bled silence. Who could erase spells with a glance.

They weren’t waiting to kill her.

They were offering her to a god.

Above the palace, something shifted.

The clouds darkened unnaturally.

And from the edge of the southern spire, a figure descended.

Not fell.

Not landed.

Just drifted.

Like a curtain lowering over a stage.

Her boots didn’t touch the ground.

Her armor shimmered with iridescent runes, and her eyes glowed white, like someone had drained the color from the stars themselves and stuffed it into her gaze.

The Prime had arrived.

She didn’t run.

Didn’t speak.

Just walked.

Every guard who saw her felt their knees lock.

Every bird within miles fled the sky.

And her destination was clear.

The throne room.

She had come to finish the bloodline.

And only one heir now stood in her path.