The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 110: His Throne

The war room was a chamber steeped in history, its walls lined with banners from past battles and maps etched into the stone floor like scars of old wounds. The air was thick with tension, laced with the scent of sweat, ink, and the faint metallic tang of sharpened steel. Nobles stood shoulder to shoulder around the central table, their voices rising and falling like waves against a storm-battered shore.

King Henry sat at the head of the table, his frame smaller than it once was, his crown resting heavily upon his brow. His voice, though weakened by age and illness, carried enough authority to silence the murmurs that had begun to spiral into chaos.

"The soldiers have been dispatched," he announced, his cane tapping once for emphasis. "Vice Commander Denish leads them as our field general. We’ve assembled a force of ten thousand men, three hundred mages, and fifty healers. It is not what I would call ideal... but it will have to do."

A murmur rippled through the nobles. Some nodded solemnly. Others exchanged glances, calculating how this war might serve—or destroy—their own ambitions.

"Fifty healers?" one noble scoffed under his breath. "That’s barely enough to patch up a few dozen after the first charge."

Another whispered back, "And we’re sending Denish? He’s good, yes—but he’s no Atlas. No powerhouse."

Atlas, standing near the edge of the gathering, heard every word. He didn’t react. Not yet.

Claire noticed.

She felt his gaze settle on her like a blade held just beneath the skin. Quiet. Measured. But filled with something else—something heavier than mere suspicion.

Judgment.

She kept her expression neutral, folding her hands before her like a priestess waiting for the gods to speak. She knew what he was thinking. Knew what he was beginning to understand.

This wasn’t just about the Empire’s invasion at the moment.

It was about her.

Commander David took over the discussion, his voice sharp, precise, honed by years of battle. He unrolled a map across the table, pointing to the northern border where Berkimhum’s forces were expected to meet the Empire’s advance.

"They’ve gathered twelve thousand troops," David said, his gloved finger pressing down on the marked location. "We are outnumbered. But we hold terrain advantage. The valley narrows there—funnels their forces into choke points. If we position archers and Mages correctly, we can break their front lines before they reach open ground."

One of the dukes leaned forward, frowning. "But if we fail to stop them there?"

David didn’t hesitate. "Then we fall back to Ember Hollow. Fortify the ruins. Use the natural magic ley lines to amplify our defenses. Buy time. Wait for reinforcements."

"And if we get no reinforcements?" another noble asked, voice laced with doubt.

There was a pause. Then Lara spoke.

"....We fight until we die."

Her words cut through the room like a blade drawn from its sheath. She stood tall, armor still bearing the marks of her last battle, blood dried along the seams of her gauntlets. Her presence alone silenced any further questions.

Even the nobles who had doubted her before now hesitated to challenge her outright. They remembered what she had done. What she had survived. And more importantly—what she had lost.

Atlas watched her carefully.

He saw the way her shoulders tensed when Denish’s name was mentioned. Saw the flicker of pain behind her eyes when someone referred to the losses suffered in the jungle campaign.

He also saw the way Claire avoided looking at him directly.

As the meeting continued, strategies were laid out, debated, discarded, and reshaped. The nobles argued over supply chains, troop morale, and whether to deploy elite units or keep them in reserve. The weight of command pressed down on them all, but none bore it quite like Claire.

She spoke little, only interjecting when necessary. When her words came, they were measured, calculated. She did not seek the spotlight, nor did she push for control. But she never needed to.

Everyone knew who truly ran the kingdom in Atlas’s absence.

And now, with him back, the balance shifted.

Atlas could feel it. The way the nobles looked to Claire before they addressed him. The way decisions were made before he could even offer an opinion. The way Lara seemed to know what was coming before anyone else.

It wasn’t just politics.

It was choreography.

And Claire was the conductor.

She must have known. Known everything. Known about Sansa. Known about Lara. Known how far the pieces had fallen out of place.

She hadn’t just manipulated the court.

She had orchestrated the entire game.

Atlas clenched his jaw, watching her move through the room like a ghost—never drawing attention, always present.

His fingers twitched at his side.

He wanted to confront her now. Right here. Demand answers. Force her hand. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

But he held himself back.

He was still gathering evidence. Still piecing together the full picture.

Still deciding whether she was an ally...

Or the next enemy he had to defeat.

The meeting ended slowly, like a fire dying in the hearth. Nobles filtered out, some muttering among themselves, others casting wary glances toward Atlas. Some bowed. Others merely nodded. None lingered.

Only a few remained when the echoes of footsteps faded.

Lara left first, her posture rigid, her mind clearly elsewhere. Denish followed closely behind, exchanging quiet words with her that Atlas couldn’t catch.

Then, finally, the last of the nobles departed, leaving only Claire and the King.

Henry exhaled slowly, leaning on his cane. "You handled yourself well today, son," he said, voice weary but sincere. "I know you weren’t officially part of the council, but your presence was noted."

Atlas gave a polite nod, though his golden eyes never left Claire.

"I’ll leave you two to talk," Henry muttered, sensing the tension between them. With a heavy sigh, he turned and walked away, his shadow stretching long behind him.

Now, they were alone.

Claire turned to face him, arms folded, lips curved in that infuriating half-smile she always wore when she thought she was untouchable.

"You wanted to say something?" she asked, voice smooth as silk.

Atlas stepped closer, closing the distance between them. He reached out—suddenly—and took her wrist, pulling her toward him.

His grip was firm. Unyielding.

Claire didn’t flinch. But her pulse quickened.

"Why?" he asked, voice low, almost dangerous. "Why did you let it go that far? Why let Lara imprison Sansa? Why let me believe....? You knew."

Claire tilted her head slightly, studying him. "Do you want the truth, Atlas? Or do you want to be angry?"

His grip tightened. "Tell... me."

She sighed, finally allowing something close to vulnerability to slip through her mask. "Because I knew you’d come back stronger. Because I knew that if you saw Lara as a victim, you’d never see her as a threat. And because..." She paused, her voice softening. "Because sometimes, love needs a catalyst. Something to make people choose...."

Atlas narrowed his eyes. "You used Sansa."

"No....." Claire shook her head. "I let the situation unfold so you could see the truth for yourself. That you don’t need to forgive Lara. That you don’t need to hate her either. That the throne needs to be yours....at all cost."

Atlas stared at her for a long moment. Then, quietly, he released her wrist.

"I’m not a pawn in your game....," he said. "If you try to manipulate me again..."

Claire smiled, but there was something sad in it. "Then I suppose I’ll have to play fair."

Before Atlas could respond, the doors burst open.

A man entered—tall, broad-shouldered, with the unmistakable aura of a battlefield commander.

"Prince Atlas," he said, bowing slightly. "The VamnDung chief wishes to speak with you. As does King Henry. And Marquise Mael."

Claire stepped back, watching the exchange unfold with a knowing smirk.

Atlas exhaled sharply, glancing at her one last time.

"....We’re not finished yet, I will come by...not to talk but to finish..." he said, Leaving behind a room filled with ghosts of decisions made in shadows.

And a woman who had played the game better than anyone.

As Atlas disappeared down the corridor, Claire remained standing where he had left her. The candlelight flickered above, casting her silhouette against the wall like a specter of power unseen.

She closed her eyes briefly.

Then opened them again.

She had won this round.

But the war wasn’t just on the battlefield.

It was inside the palace, too.

And the final boss had returned.

Ready to take back his throne.

And ready to question every piece on the board.

Including her.

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