The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 113: Disguised

The noon pressed down on Berkimhum like a secret too heavy to bear. Wind whispered through the palace gardens, rustling the dew-drenched leaves, carrying the faint scent of damp soil and burned mana. In the private courtyard, Lara stood alone.

Her hands trembled, not from weakness—but restraint.

The training ground was soaked in red sunlight , her sword shimmering like a streak of frozen lightning as she drove it forward again, and again, and again. Each strike hissed through the air with desperate precision.

’You have to stay strong.’

Her muscles screamed. Her wrists burned. Sweat matted her blue hair to her temples and spine. The echo of Claire’s words haunted her, when she had asked for some extra advice, threading through her mind like smoke:

’If you want to be his mate in the future, you’ll need to accept concubines. He’s the future king. He will need heirs. Many, if possible.’

Lara’s blade halted mid-swing.

Her breath came ragged, fogging the chilled air. Her eyes—wide, raw—searched the darkness, looking for something that wasn’t there. Maybe never had been.

"...I could give him ten children if that’s all he wanted," she whispered. The words sounded hollow even to her own ears. Her voice was shaky. Small. A girl’s voice, trying to speak as a queen.

Somewhere behind her, inside the chamber she had just left, Sansa slept—bandaged, vulnerable, her chest rising and falling with the ease of someone unburdened.

’That should have been me.’

Lara leapt from the window, the impact silent as she landed barefoot on the dew-covered grass. The cold bit her toes, grounding her. She didn’t look back. If she did, she might falter. And she couldn’t afford to fall anymore. Her jealousy was a knife—and it had nearly cut her down with it.

"...Father tried to drive us apart. And for a moment... it worked," she muttered, lifting her blade again. "But Atlas... he’s kind. That kindness is mine too."

The blade cut the air, tracing arcs of fury and sorrow. It whistled with guilt. With longing. With shame. And with love so fierce it terrified her.

"I won’t fail him again."

She remembered her brother’s face in that moment of confrontation—not furious, but wounded. Not cruel, but distant.

She thought of Sansa’s pale wrists in those manacles. Her swollen eyes.

She had almost...

Lara swallowed, blade trembling.

’Almost.’

No more.

She would earn her place. Not by taking someone else’s. But by becoming irreplaceable.

Her blade lifted higher.

"Claire said he’s gone with her... some secret mission," she muttered, pausing. The wind stirred her sweat-soaked tunic, clinging to her curves. She looked down at herself. Her body had started to change—subtle but unmistakable. A curve here. A weight there.

She touched her chest lightly.

"...Does he like them bigger?" she muttered, instantly ashamed. "No. No, what the hell am I thinking?"

She gritted her teeth and slashed the sword in one clean motion, the sheer force splitting the branch of a nearby oak.

"Grow up...be more mature..."

Because if she didn’t, she would lose him. Not just to Sansa.

To the war.

To Claire.

To the future.

And she wouldn’t let that happen.

.

.

After a day,

Elsewhere, under the ornate golden chandelier of Phinixia’s mansion, Atlas stood before a mirror. The reflection that met his gaze was unfamiliar—and unsettlingly perfect.

His once-dark hair had been transformed into soft golden waves. His gold-flecked eyes now gleamed an unnatural, crystalline blue. Even his facial structure had shifted, softened to appear more "common," less princely.

He looked... disarmingly human.

Claire circled him, her violet eyes predatory in their precision.

"You look charming," she said, brushing imaginary dust from his shoulder. "Like someone people underestimate. Which is exactly what we need."

Atlas arched a brow at her in the mirror. "And this was all your idea?"

Claire tilted her head, smirking. "Of course. You’re infiltrating one of the most paranoid courts in the kingdom . Subtlety isn’t your strength. But it is mine."

She leaned in close—too close—the smell of her perfume rising: lavender, blood rose, and a hint of smoke. It filled his lungs like wine meant to be poison.

"You always did have a pretty face," she whispered. "Now? You look like danger wrapped in a noble smile. It suits you."

Claire smiled as she came near—too near, as always. The soft clack of her heels echoed like slow heartbeats against the polished floor, each step a deliberate invasion of space. She never stopped at a polite distance. She never had. Her body closed the gap until the press of her chest gently met his arm—subtle, unapologetic, unmistakably intentional.

It was normal now. Or at least, she acted like it was.

The pressure of her breasts against him wasn’t accidental. It was a message. A quiet claim. One she didn’t ask permission to make. She simply took what she wanted, moving as though his body were familiar territory, as though his hesitation—or discomfort—was irrelevant.

Whether Atlas liked it or not, Claire moved like a woman who belonged.

Her gaze flicked down his form, then swept behind him. Her eyes landed on his back, watching the slow rise and fall of his shoulders. The sharp lines had softened just enough—lean mass layering over what once was boyish litheness. His frame had matured. His body no longer whispered of youth; it spoke of command, control, conflict.

There was stubble now too—just a trace. A small patch beneath his lower lip, and a short, narrow mustache forming above his mouth. A prince’s scruff. Too polished to be rough, too rough to be polished. It suited him. Damn him.

But her gaze didn’t stop there.

No, no matter how hard she tried, no matter how many times she scolded herself or barked at her maids and mages to "stop tailoring it so tight," her eyes always slid downward.

To that.

To the curve of his ass.

Gods, it wasn’t even fair.

Despite the glamour spell, despite the disguise magic, despite the changes they layered over him like fresh skin—that part of him always betrayed the illusion.

Soft, sculpted, outrageously plump. As if fate had taken special care with that single feature, like a secret tucked into armor.

Claire felt her lips curl into a smirk.

"I’m afraid," she drawled, "with that ass, anyone could recognize you as the prince."

Atlas froze.

His eyes narrowed, his voice dripping with disdain as he turned his head slightly toward her. "Are you fucking joking?" he asked flatly. "Because that wasn’t funny. Not even a little. Are we done yet? I think it’s enough. That bitch won’t know it’s me."

Claire exhaled with a dramatic sigh, straightening her collar and tugging her sleeves in that way she did when both amused and exasperated. "Men..." she muttered under her breath. "Utterly blind."

She moved around him again, a slow, elegant orbit, like a lioness circling her prey—and he, to her eyes, was very much prey. Beautifully dangerous prey. She reached up and brushed imaginary lint from his shoulder, her fingers lingering longer than necessary.

"Women," she began, "are sensitive creatures, idiot. We notice the smallest detail. Posture. Blink rate. Breath. Stitching. Button choice." Her violet eyes glittered with warning. "And Isabella? She’s the most sensitive of them all."

Atlas didn’t move. But he caught her wrist as she reached for his collar. His grip was firm—not aggressive, but unignorable.

"Don’t get used to touching me like that."

Claire smiled. "Too late."

There was a beat of silence. Then:

"You sure Isabella won’t see through it?" he asked.

"She might. She’s perceptive. Especially about men she wants to own."

Atlas grunted. "I’ll play it dumb."

Claire chuckled. "Oh, you’ll be her favorite type."

"Flattering."

"She won’t recognize your aura if you keep it suppressed. But your mouth might give you away."

"Then maybe I’ll let you speak for me."

She rolled her eyes, stepping back. "You’d like that, wouldn’t you?"

He adjusted the cuffs on his new disguise—embroidered with emerald threads. A noble’s outfit from a minor merchant lord’s house. Forgettable. Clean. Perfect.

"I’ve chosen the alias ’Aiden Ravian.’ Son of a spice magnate."

Claire’s brow arched. "Spice? That’s poetic."

Atlas smirked. "Isn’t it?"

She eyed him, her smirk fading. "We’re walking into a lion’s den. You ready for that?"

"I’ve been hunted since birth, Claire. One more den doesn’t scare me."

Their gazes locked.

And something passed between them—not lust. Not strategy.

Grief.

Regret.

Desire, maybe.

But too buried in history to name.

Claire exhaled. "If this fails, I’ll take the blame."

"No. You won’t," Atlas said, stepping past her.

"You forget," she called after him, "I taught you."

He didn’t look back. "You forget I surpassed you."

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