Chapter 216: Leave Her With A Choice
Osric closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, the softness had hardened, not into cruelty, but into the tempered steel of a man who had lived long enough to know when love must yield to principle.
She had spilled so much blood over the years that violence had become second nature to her: an instinct, not a decision. The way her hand had so easily closed around that shard and turned on him proved it more than any confession ever could. To think that she could raise her hand against him—her uncle, the man who cradled her when she was young, who taught her how to read, who shielded her from courtly vultures when she was just a girl, without even pausing...
That was how deeply her soul had been darkened.
Osric understood then, with a bone-deep sorrow, that it wasn’t about the broken vase or the moment’s rage. It was about what she had become.
He didn’t fear death at her hands; in truth, he wouldn’t have minded dying that way. It would have been a bitter irony, but not the worst fate for an old man. What struck him, what shattered him, was that she could even want to.
That darkness... it ran too deep for a single apology or embrace to cleanse. She didn’t need his forgiveness. Forgiveness, if given now, would be a cheap salve over a festering wound.
She needed firm love; the kind that stands unwavering in the face of tears and pleas, that refuses to bend to sentiment when what’s required is strength.
And besides, this was no longer about just the two of them. Her choices had left a trail of shattered lives and broken vows. Families torn apart. Bloodlines extinguished. A dynasty warped by greed and fear. His love for her, real and enduring as it was, could not undo the pain she had inflicted upon countless others.
There was only one path left for her now.
Redemption.
And redemption was not a gift to be bestowed. It was a road that had to be walked, step by agonizing step, by her own will.
Osric wanted to show her that road. That was why he stayed this long, why he still looked at her with a mixture of sorrow and hope. Somewhere beneath all that bitterness and blood, he believed a trace of the girl he raised still lived.
But she had to choose it herself.
No power he held, no love he bore, could save her unless she was willing to face herself and the wreckage she had wrought.
"Deeds," he said quietly, each word carrying the weight of a lifetime, "not hollow speech, shall be your proof. Earn it... and you shall not find me gone."
She gasped as he gently but firmly pried her hands off his leg. Her nails scraped against the fabric, unwilling to let go. But he did not relent.
He turned, leaning on his cane, and began to walk away. Finnian followed at his side, throwing one last unreadable look at the dowager before the two disappeared through the open doors.
The dowager remained on the floor; alone, trembling, her hands empty and cold.
The marble beneath her knees felt suddenly vast and unforgiving, and her sobs echoed through the chamber like the ghost of a love she had finally driven away.
-----
"Do you think she’ll do the right thing, Granduncle?" Finnian asked softly, as the heavy palace gates closed behind them with a hollow thud.
Osric’s sigh escaped like the wind through autumn leaves: long, tired, and threaded with a weight that had settled over decades. "For her sake, and for the honor of our house, I pray she does," he murmured. "None may triumph over divine providence."
Finnian’s jaw tightened as his gaze flicked toward the dowager’s guards trailing behind them. Their eyes were sharp, hostile; they had let him pass only after a loud argument and the sight of his signet ring - the unmistakable seal of the Vaelith heir. Had he arrived a moment later... the image of his granduncle bleeding on the mosaic floor flashed before his mind, and his stomach churned.
He shook off the thought. "I saw her today too, Granduncle," he whispered, as though sharing a forbidden secret. His blue eyes glimmered with excitement. "She manipulated the wind. In the library. I saw it with my own eyes."
Osric’s head tilted slightly, and for the first time in hours, a spark lit his ancient gaze. "The promised one from House Thalyssar..." he breathed, almost reverently. "I want to see her, Finnian."
Finnian hesitated, glancing toward the distant looming silhouette of the Kaltharion Crown Prince’s mansion, in the hill far away. "With everything that happened today, at the audience hall, and now here... would it be wise for you to set foot inside that nest?" His voice was low but firm. "For now, stay with me. I’ll bring her to you myself."
Osric turned his head slowly toward the young man, one eyebrow arching. "And what power do you imagine you possess, little one, to keep me at bay?" His voice was calm, but the old authority in it made Finnian’s heart skip. "Who will rise to stop me if I choose to walk in?"
Finnian held his gaze, refusing to flinch, though his throat tightened. He knew the answer: no one.
But Osric eventually looked away, his breath leaving him in another weary sigh. He was old, but not reckless. He had given Isabella her chance. For the first time in years, her future lay not in his hands, but in her own choices.
Once she revealed which path she would walk, then he would act. And when that moment came, not kings nor armies would stand in his way. To do the right thing.
-----
Lorraine stirred as the carriage slowed, the soft jostle pulling her back from the tender haze of half-sleep. Warmth cradled her—Leroy’s warmth. Her head had found its resting place against his shoulder somewhere along the journey, lulled by the rhythm of hooves and the gentle sway of the coach.
She could still feel the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath her cheek, like a quiet lullaby meant only for her. She once thought she had to steal moments of warmth from him, and here she was... content in his warmth, which he gave her freely.
The wheels ground to a halt before their manor gates. Evening sunlight spilled through the window, brushing her face in a soft gold glow. She blinked her heavy lashes open, reluctant to leave that cocoon of comfort.
"We’re here..." she mumbled drowsily, lifting her head.
Leroy’s answer was wordless but decisive. The next thing she knew, strong arms slipped beneath her knees and back, and the world tilted as he lifted her effortlessly into his embrace.
"Leroy—" she started, a quiet protest dying into a breathless laugh as her arms instinctively looped around his neck.
"Anywhere you go," he murmured against her temple, his voice low and warm. "I carry you."
Lorraine blinked. She did want his warmth, but... wasn’t this a bit too much?