The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 105: Sansa?

He paused mid-turn as Claire eyed him, something unreadable glinting in her gaze. "Okay...I will take care of it," he said, his tone steady, though a coil of unease coiled in his gut. "Just search for the other guys I named." He rose, the weight of the decision making his bones ache—not from battle, but from the sacrifice demanded of him.

Claire stood as well, dusting the folds of her skirt. She cocked her head, lips curling with a teasing light. "Hmmm...you actually grew taller...growth spurt?" she murmured, her eyes drifting upward as if measuring him against a mental ruler.

Atlas chuckled, a soft rasp after so many days of shouting and clashing steel. "Yeah...I’m a growing man." He brushed off the remark with a practiced grin, but inside, a storm flickered. ’Growing—into what?’

Claire crept closer then, closing the space until her breath brushed his cheek. Her tone shifted, low and velvety. "No...still a boy," she whispered, pressing her body against him. His pulse spiked. He smelled her—soft lavender and sandalwood—an intoxicating contrast to the damp stone corridors he’d left behind.

"....Fucking a maid doesn’t make you a man," she breathed, her warm lips grazing the shell of his ear. The words landed in his chest with unexpected weight.

Atlas blinked. His bluff, his defiance—they faltered. His shirt, an unfamiliar weight upon his body, felt foreign now. She stepped back, hands gentle but decisive as she straightened the collar. He sensed the recalibration not just of fabric, but of the space between them—her claim, her challenge.

"When you’re ready to be a real man...just wait for me...to take my payment," she said, voice smooth as silk. Her scent wrapped around him again. He closed his eyes, trying to steel himself. ’Payment?’ The idea grated with guilt—desire pulled taut against duty.

Claire caught herself, stepping back further. She realized he was no longer the boy she’d known. Weeks apart had changed him; his shoulders broader, his eyes sharper. A flicker of guilt passed over her—an echo of pride, fear, and something dangerously tender.

Atlas inhaled, the scent of her lingering in the air, making his pulse pound through his veins. He understood: this wasn’t just about ambition or war. It was about claiming power—and intimacy—in equal measure. And now, they stood at a precipice, both aware? Aware of each other’s desire. The hint of want claiming them both.

A moment’s silence followed. Only their breath filled the space—hers steady, his ragged. He bowed his head. ’Too much said. Too much revealed.’

"How much can I trust you, Claire?" he finally asked, voice quiet, but resolute.

She looked back, eyes glistening in the torchlight. "When you do...you’ll know exactly what you owe." Then she turned and swept from the room, leaving behind more than words—she left a promise, a debt, and a shadow where innocence used to be.

Atlas watched Claire depart, her final words echoing in his bones: ’For your maid....if I were you... I’d search the dungeons.’ The heavy click of the door lingered as if daring him to act. He paced, boots muffled on thick rugs, lungs burning with unsettled dread.

He knew the dungeons: damp, echoing, slick with more than just moss. And if Sansa—a maid he trusted more than life—had gone there, it changed everything.

He ran his fingers over the handle of the heavy iron door. Cold metal met warm skin, jolting him to the present. "She said lara was the last one seen with her..."?’ As his pulse throbbed in his throat, he recalled Lara’s unwavering determination—her voice so often a flicker of hope in the darkest hour. But hope, here, felt like a lie.

He slipped from his chamber, hushed by corridors lit by wavering torchlight. Each step was a statement: ’Shit.....I will not stand by while doubt destroys trust.’

The castle itself seemed to hold its breath.

Its great stone ribs stretched above Atlas like a cathedral of silence, the air between the vaulted arches thin with memory and judgment. The columns stood like titans, unbending and unmoved, and the chandeliers, once aglow with the fire of celebration, now hung like frozen relics of a forgotten warmth.

Every wall was draped in tapestries of past glory, but now they felt more like funeral shrouds. And standing between all of it—he felt smaller than he had in years.

He walked the central hallway of the west wing, his boots echoing with every step like a metronome for dread. His hand brushed lightly against the wall, the stone still cold despite the fire-lit corridors. Familiar, yes. But now... off. Like a home that no longer welcomed him.

He stopped before one of the statues—a king carved in solemn pose, robes of stone flaring around him, a sword in one hand and a lion at his feet. The plaque below read: ’King Rathion the Firm, Shield of the Inner Reaches.’ Atlas had always admired this statue as a child—strong, stern, unwavering. But now, beneath those chiseled brows and hollow eyes, he saw judgment. And worse—reminders.

Lara’s glare flashed behind his eyes.

He could still see her face from that day. No shouting. No confrontation. Just silence.

That look.

When he had mentioned Sansa—his voice, lighthearted, even fond—Lara had gone still. A beat too long. Her smile hadn’t returned. And her eyes—cold, flat, dismissive—burned more than any words could have.

And now, recalling it under the gaze of stone kings, he felt the pang more acutely. That simple moment had been easy to brush off at the time. He had laughed it away. ’Lara’s just tired. Maybe stressed.’ But now, replaying it under silence, it clawed into him.

The statues seemed to lean closer. Or perhaps that was just the guilt.

’That glare... was it hate?’ he asked himself again, like a child hoping for a different answer from the same mirror.

Not hate for him. No—Lara had always been loyal. Fervently so. But hate for Sansa?

’Why?’

He tried to remember more. The way her jaw had tightened. The barely concealed twitch of her fingers. The way her gaze dropped to the floor when he defended the maid’s presence in his quarters.

He had thought nothing of it. But now...

Now, with Sansa missing. Now, with Claire’s words—"If I were you... I’d search the dungeons."—it was as if the world tilted sideways, and that one moment stretched into a chasm beneath his feet.

He looked back up at the statue.

It didn’t blink. It didn’t speak. But Atlas could feel the weight of its eyes on him.

’You should’ve seen it,’ it seemed to say.

His throat tightened. His fingers curled into fists.

’What if she’s hurt her? What if Lara—No. He forced the thought down. That was impossible. That wasn’t his sister.

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The silence pressed harder. The air turned colder.

A draft moved through the corridor, and the torches flickered—briefly extinguishing the light in the king’s eyes.

Atlas stepped back from the statue.

Suddenly, he didn’t feel like a prince anymore.

He felt like a boy again—lost, out of place, and horribly unsure of the people he loved most.

And that fear—quiet, creeping, heavy—began to bloom inside his chest like a black flower reaching toward his heart.

Down the spiral stair, past empty guards’ posts, the scent of damp earth grew stronger. A faint drip echoed ahead—subject of nightmare, place of secrets. The dungeon.

Front doors swung open; he advanced. Guards flanked the entrance, faces pale as he had ordered them to search for her, his one and only maid.

"Your Highness, there’s blood—fresh." Their voices cracked with fear.

Blood. Fresh. The phrase slammed into him like a hammer.

He braced himself and descended. Chains rattled in the flash of torchlight as he ventured deeper. The walls wept moisture; skiffs of straw lay trampled. Around a corner, he froze: two guards huddled, heads bowed, handkerchiefs pressed to faces. Blood stained their collars.

One looked up, eyes hollow. "S-ser traces... leading further in."

’Leading to Sansa?’ The possibility churned in his gut.

Atlas swallowed, stepping forward. Each footstep echoed—his own heartbeat audible in the hush. The corridor branched. The left path led to cells. Faint light flickered up ahead.

He heard movement—metal scraping stone. Something alive. He gripped the hilt of his blade, heart pounding like a war drum.

Then a scream.

High-pitched. Female.

He sprinted forward. The corridor ended in a small anteroom. There, blood spattered a wooden table.

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