The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 109: I’m Sorry

Rain had threatened earlier, but only a soft drizzle remained—light enough to kiss the windows, loud enough to echo the weight of everything Atlas didn’t say.

Inside, warmth lingered like a dying ember. A single oil lantern cast flickering gold against the interior wood, illuminating Sansa’s sleeping form with ghostlike gentleness. Her breaths were steady, though faint, rising and falling beneath a heavy woolen blanket. Her blonde hair, now unkempt, framed her face like overgrown vines reclaiming a forgotten ruin.

Atlas sat beside her, motionless, save for the subtle tension in his shoulders. Her hand remained wrapped around his fingers—light, delicate, and trembling even in sleep. The bandages on her wrists were fresh, soft white stained with the faintest touch of healing salve. Her pulse fluttered weakly beneath his thumb, a quiet echo of survival.

She had used drugs on him. That truth still lived somewhere behind his eyes, sharp as a shard of glass half-swallowed. He knew. He had known. And yet...

He hadn’t let go. He just accepted her, as it was. Taking her skin and flesh all to himself.

"You’re a fool," he whispered to himself, not as insult but as confession. His voice barely broke the air between them. "You’re a goddamn fool."

But even as the thought crossed his mind, his fingers tightened around hers.

She had done it out of desperation. Out of some twisted belief that love meant control, that fear was just another shade of care. And he—he had let it happen. Because her love, in all its imperfection, was real.

Atlas leaned back, exhaling slowly. His breath fogged in the cold air, forming a ghost on the windowpane.

Outside, the window moved steadily. Through the thin slit in the curtain, he could see supply wagons stretching across the road, like a spine of bones—soldiers on foot, mounted scouts galloping ahead, flags snapping in the wind. War was coming, or perhaps had never left. He could hear the clinking of armor, the dull rhythm of wheels, the occasional bark of command.

But inside this room, time held its breath.

He looked at Sansa again. Her lips were slightly parted, her forehead damp. He brushed a stray strand of hair away from her face, his touch barely a whisper.

"You idiot," he murmured softly, his voice cracking. "Why would you make me choose between trusting you or hating myself for doing it?"

His words dissolved into silence.

Then, almost mechanically, he reached into his cloak and uncorked the high-grade potion he’d hidden—kept reserved for battlefield emergencies. Emerald liquid shimmered inside, thick and luminescent.

He hesitated.

’She wouldn’t have used this for herself. She would’ve given it to me instead.’

The irony tasted bitter on his tongue.

He poured a portion carefully over the bandages, watching the fabric hiss faintly as the potion sank in. A faint glow spread beneath her skin as veins slowly pulsed with life.

She shifted slightly.

"...Atlas...?" she mumbled in her sleep, the word like a leaf drifting on still water.

His throat tightened. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to her forehead, slow and quiet.

"Rest," he whispered. "I’ll carry the next part."

He tucked the blanket tighter around her frame and turned toward the door, his boots scraping softly against the carriage floor. His hand hovered on the handle.

And then—

Creak.

He opened the door—and collided with a shadow.

A body tumbled to the ground with a soft grunt.

Long blue hair spilled around pale cheeks, and blue-rimmed eyes widened beneath the hood of a cloak.

"...Lara?"

The world narrowed into that moment. Her face—gaunt, drained, as if the moonlight had stolen half her strength. Her eyes were swollen from crying, and the look she gave him wasn’t defiance.

It was fear. Regret. Something deeper.

Something small.

Atlas blinked, unsure what emotion rose first—anger, pity, weariness.

He extended his hand without thinking. "Come on."

She hesitated. Then, silently, she took it.

Her fingers were cold.

He pulled her up, gently, and led her toward the another room, positioned at the edge of the hall room. No words passed between them as they walked. The air between them was thick with unfinished sentences, and every step seemed to widen the void they were trying to cross.

Inside another room, the light was dimmer still. Candles flickered on a polished oak table where maps of the region lay unfolded. The smell of wax and parchment clung to the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of dried blood from the equipment that had been hastily removed.

Atlas closed the door behind them and sat down slowly, one arm draped over the back of the chair like a king preparing to hear confession.

Lara stood before him. Her eyes never left the floor.

"Lara..." he began softly. "I understand that you wanted to keep me safe."

Her head twitched upward slightly at his voice, but he didn’t let her speak.

"But you know you went overboard. You didn’t just protect me. You controlled everything around me. You took someone I care about and treated her like a threat."

Lara’s lips parted, but only a breath escaped.

Atlas continued, his voice calm but taut. "You know what Sansa means to me. You knew. And you still threw her into a cell."

The memory alone made his fingers clench around the edge of the chair. The stone floors. The iron bars. The bruises.

"She wasn’t just a servant. She’s a person. And you...you caged her like an animal."

Lara finally lifted her gaze. Her voice was barely above a whisper. "I....I was trying to protect you."

"By hurting someone else!?" His voice cut clean, like frost against skin. "That’s not protection. That’s fear wearing armor."

Her shoulders hunched slightly, like she was shrinking into herself.

"I didn’t know what else to do...," she admitted. "I... I thought if I removed the danger, I could keep you safe.... I thought if I did what Claire would do..."

That name.

Atlas’s brow furrowed. "Wait... did someone tell you to come here? To come talk to me now?"

Lara blinked. The shift in her posture betrayed her guilt before her voice did.

"...Aunt Claire," she murmured.

Atlas leaned back, suddenly too tired to be angry. It wasn’t surprise. It was confirmation. The strings were still being pulled. The game was still being played.

"I thought so...." he muttered. "You’re smart, Lara. You don’t say things without precision. And this... it felt rehearsed.... Like a play."

She flinched. "....I’m not lying!!."

"I know."

He meant it. She wasn’t lying.

But she wasn’t speaking entirely for herself, either.

The truth was more dangerous.

It always was.

And beneath it all, Atlas felt the familiar pull of memory again—him and Lara racing barefoot through summer fields, her laughter caught on the wind, his promise to protect her whispered into the bark of the old birch tree behind the palace.

He had loved her without question, once.

But now... there were too many questions.

Too few answers.

Too many ghosts.

******

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