The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 103:Jokes

There they were.

Atlas, finally clothed for once.

It had been weeks since he’d worn anything remotely appropriate. Just animal skin and torn fur that barely clung to his frame—more a crude covering than an outfit. And none of it helped with his "small brother," which in truth was neither small nor easy to conceal. The palace had better fabric, but his body—chiseled, broad, slightly taller than before—refused to make tailoring easy.

Now, wrapped in a fresh tunic and loose soft pants that hung low on his hips, he sat in the dim glow of the dungeon chamber. Stone walls oozed moisture. Torches flickered, casting amber light on the cell bars and making shadows dance along the floor like specters. The air was cold and thick with the scent of blood, old rust, and sweat.

Across from him, chained and half-naked, was the would-be assassin.

Irene.

Her once-polished armor lay in a twisted pile by the cell wall, useless now. Only a strip of reinforced undergarment clung to her chest and lower waist. Her neck were bound by enchanted titanium shackles that burned when tugged too hard. Limbs gone....Wounds crisscrossed her body—bruises, gashes, purple welts that hadn’t been there when she first arrived. Some were new, inflicted by Atlas himself. Others were Aurora’s doing.

Yet she smiled.

Even now. Even in chains.

Even with her dignity stripped away like her armor.

Atlas leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Sorry," he began, his voice carrying a flat tone that masked his frustration. "This is my first time interrogating someone like you. So... let me ask again. You’re saying those fucking red viper dragons weren’t related to the Empire?"

Irene’s lips cracked as she exhaled. Her throat was raw, her voice reduced to sandpaper. She hadn’t eaten in days. Hadn’t been given more than a few drops of water. Her cheek was swollen from the last strike—his or Aurora’s, he wasn’t sure anymore.

"...For the thousandth time..." she rasped. "In the of the holy Goddess and my nonexistent hands.....No."

A pause. frёewebnoѵel.ƈo๓

Her eyes gleamed with something new.

"But..."

Atlas’s body leaned in slightly.

"But...?" he asked, a hint of something reluctant and hopeful buried in his tone. Could it be? A lead? Anything?

Irene’s smile twitched wider.

"...But if you show me that nice ass," she said with a teasing squeak, "maybe I might recall something."

The tension snapped.

Atlas groaned aloud, rubbing his temples. "Gods... you’re the most exhausting prisoner I’ve ever dealt with."

"And I’m your first," she pointed out, smile unabated.

He stood, slowly, brushing invisible dust from his pants. "I need a massage from Sansa," he muttered under his breath, already turning toward the exit.

"Wait—wait!" Irene called after him, her voice lifting, almost playful.

He paused. Turned, just slightly, enough to glance over his shoulder. Maybe she had changed her mind.

"...Oh, that’s enough now," she said dreamily, eyes tracing his features. "I just can’t sit here much longer, remembering your pretty face."

Atlas’s golden eyes narrowed. His amusement evaporated. He stepped forward, each boot striking the stone with a harder echo than the last.

Without a word, his hand shot through the bars and gripped her throat.

Her back hit the wall with a clang.

She gasped as his fingers closed around her neck. Her body lifted slightly, her feet struggling for purchase. Her skin, hardened by spell-forged enhancements, resisted—but not entirely. Red pressure marks bloomed beneath his grip.

Her grin returned, breathless but mischievous.

"You don’t know it, but..." she wheezed, "...I’m getting turned on by this..."

Atlas dropped her.

She crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut, landing with a cough and a soft moan.

His lip curled in disgust. "Is it just you? Or are all Imperial soldiers perverts?"

"Ha..." She winced, voice rasping from the damage. "My captain? She’s worse. Don’t worry, darling. You haven’t even met true depravity yet."

He didn’t answer.

Didn’t look back again.

Just walked away as her laughter followed him down the corridor like the scent of rot clinging to the edges of sanity.

The torchlight dimmed behind him. His shoulders stayed stiff, his fists clenched tighter than he realized.

’She doesn’t fear....’

’She doesn’t fear anybody...’

He wandered the long halls of the palace dungeon, checking on the guards. His mind wasn’t on discipline or routine—it was on her. Irene. A woman who had come to kill his father, chained and tortured, and still smiling like she knew how this would end. Still amused. Still untamed.

’I’m not good at this,’he thought bitterly. ’Aurora was right.’

He searched for Sansa next.

Wound through the servant’s quarters, past the storage halls, and through the infirmary wing. But her room was empty. No trace of her. He stared at the door, then the bed she had once used, then moved on.

He missed her.

The soft pressure of her hands. The warmth of her gaze. The gentle rebukes she gave him when he overreached his limits.

The silence without her was louder than screams.

Eventually, he made it to his chamber.

It was quiet. Opulent. Hollow.

He moved to the desk, unrolling an old piece of parchment—a note he’d once written during a quiet night, scribbling his dreams, plans, ideas for peace and rebuilding. A world where The Dreaming still existed, where Eli still lived beside him. A world untouched by dragonfire and impossible gods.

But the Dreaming was gone. Slaughtered.

And now monsters he didn’t even know by name were coming to speak of Leviathans, and destinies, and sins he didn’t even remember committing.

He sat heavily into his chair.

The wood creaked.

And for a moment, he let himself feel the weight of it.

Then—

’Knock. Knock.’

A soft rap on the door. Familiar.

Atlas blinked. "...Who is it?"

"It’s me... Aunt Claire," the voice replied, gentle but precise.

Atlas opened the door, and there she stood—Claire.

The scent of her perfume drifted past him like velvet smoke: floral and heady, with something sharper beneath—jasmine, maybe, tinged with iron. It clung to the air of his room like it had claimed it before he did. And for some reason, Atlas found himself staring longer than he should have.

She looked... different.

Not unfamiliar, not exactly. But her beauty struck him harder than it used to. Her hair was curled up and pinned loosely, framing her face with calculated elegance. Her lips carried a faint smile—one that didn’t quite reach her eyes. But it was her gaze that struck him most. It wasn’t maternal, or sisterly, or familial at all.

She looked at him like a puzzle she was tired of pretending not to want to solve.

Or a toy she wanted to take apart and see how it ticked.

Atlas gulped, a pulse of warmth shooting through his chest, then lower.

"Aunt Clai—"

He didn’t even finish. Her finger was suddenly on his lips, silencing him with the gentleness of a command.

"Am I old?" she asked, tilting her head, one brow raised.

He didn’t answer.

"No, right?" she continued. "So stop calling me aunt. Claire is enough."

She moved past him without waiting for permission, dress fluttering at her ankles as she sat in the high-backed chair near the desk. A slit in the side of her gown slid open as she crossed her legs, revealing smooth, muscled thigh—taut and deliberate. Atlas’s gaze dipped for half a second too long before he caught himself.

She noticed. Of course she did.

"So," Claire said, adjusting her posture. "She said something?"

Atlas exhaled, letting his body sink into his own chair like the weight of the day had pulled him there. His limbs sagged, his fingers gesturing without meaning—just exhaustion, disappointment, futility. He felt like a war was happening in every direction but inside his own mind, and yet somehow, that was the battlefield that hurt the most.

"Irene didn’t crack," he muttered. "Not even after all that. Aurora broke ribs. I choked her. She still made jokes about my ass."

Claire chuckled softly, one leg bouncing slowly, rhythmically, like a clock counting down. "Sounds like you’re her type."

Atlas snorted but didn’t smile. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, eyes cast toward the floor.

"We’re already sending men to the front lines. I want to go too. But Father..."

"Wants to keep you hidden," Claire finished.

Atlas nodded. "He thinks I’m a symbol now. That if I fall, morale will collapse."

"Is he wrong?"

"I don’t know," he admitted. "But I’m not meant to sit still. Not while everything’s moving."

Claire shifted, uncrossing her legs. "Then tell me ...what you need." She voiced, prompting her chest. The valley of her bosoms visible to him, and only him.

"...Money," he said bluntly. "And investment."

Her lips curved with a bit of dissatisfaction but a bit amused, maybe even a little aroused. "....You’re getting bolder."

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦