The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 115: Queen’s Gambit

The gates of the Emerald Palace loomed ahead, tall enough to blot out the sun. They shimmered under the noonday light—an opulent blend of green marble and sunlit bronze, inscribed with a thousand names of ancient bloodlines now long forgotten. Atlas stood just beyond the threshold, the wind teasing strands of his golden-blond illusion hair, the glamour spell Claire’s assistant had cast settling like a second skin. He could feel its weight—not physical, but psychological—like a lie worn over his real self.

His hand curled tighter around the Council Membership Card. The gold-inlaid sigil of the Emerald Council glinted in the sunlight, catching in the corner of his vision like a challenge. A green lion with broken chains around its neck—Isabella’s crest.

The irony wasn’t lost on him.

’This isn’t about politics,’ he thought . ’This is about survival. About control.’

The guards stationed at the gate stiffened at his approach. They wore the sigil on their cloaks, the green thread woven over jet-black fabric like vines choking a corpse. Neither of them spoke as he presented the token. It was enough. Wordlessly, the gates opened inward with a slow mechanical groan, and Atlas stepped across the boundary.

Immediately, the air changed.

The scent of roses hit him first—faint but calculated, like perfume sprayed at just the right frequency to distract. Beneath it lay something older, mustier. Dust, maybe. Power. Fear.

The entry hall was lavish to the point of absurdity: gold-veined tiles, towering emerald pillars, and chandeliers shaped like blooming nightshade. It was meant to awe, to intimidate, to make every visitor feel small.

But Atlas had walked through darker places.

Still, it pressed on his chest.

’This place reeks of ambition....Why is Henry even allowing this,’

Each of his footsteps echoed too clearly, a subtle reminder that he was being watched. The corridors curved inward slightly, like a mouth swallowing him whole. He imagined the walls whispering secrets—secrets soaked into the stone by Isabella’s betrayal and whispered promises.

A servant appeared from a hidden panel, bowing low with mechanical grace. She didn’t ask for his name—she already knew.

"Viscount Aiden," she said, using his cover identity. "Lady Isabella will receive you shortly. Please, follow me."

Her voice was polite. Practiced. Utterly devoid of warmth.

Atlas said nothing, only nodded, and followed.

As they walked deeper into the palace, he noticed the subtle signs of decay. Beneath the glamor, the grandeur was eroding. A crack in the tile here. A threadbare edge on a once-luxurious carpet. An empty alcove where a statue had likely been sold or stolen.

This place was built to look eternal. But it was bleeding. Slowly.

Like its mistress.

And Atlas was walking straight into the wound.

The servant stopped before a pair of double doors carved from dark ironwood, inlaid with veins of greenstone. The symbol of the Emerald Council was carved in high relief—an eye with thorned vines sprouting outward, coiling around unseen prey. It wasn’t a sigil; it was a warning.

She knocked twice, then opened the doors without waiting for a response.

Atlas stepped inside.

The chamber was smaller than expected—intimate, almost suffocating. The walls were lined with bookshelves, not for reading but for display. Titles on philosophy, statecraft, alchemy. Some were fakes. He could tell by the dust.

A long table dominated the center, green crystal at its core, lit from beneath by a soft, otherworldly glow. Figures stood around it—advisors, nobles, scattered lords of the lesser courts—but only one mattered.

Isabella. The Queen.

She sat at the far end of the table, arms folded in her lap, her face half-lit by the crystal light. Her beauty, once sharp and cruel, had dulled slightly—not from age, but from wear. Lines carved beneath her eyes betrayed sleepless nights. Her lips were painted a muted crimson, and her hair, once deep -green, was now braided back with a serpent’s emerald pin.

But her eyes—those eyes—were just as dangerous as he remembered.

They flicked to him. And smiled.

"Viscount Aiden," she greeted, her voice like silk pulled taut. "From the southern marshes, if I recall correctly."

Atlas bowed. "At your service, your highness Isabella."

A few of the councilmen exchanged glances. One chuckled under his breath, but was quickly silenced by a single look from her.

"Come. Sit."

He did, taking a seat at the edge of the table.

The moment he did, the room shifted. Not physically—but in energy. The council members who had been speaking moments before now fell into silence. Every breath, every glance, was calibrated. Even the candle flames seemed to dim in anticipation.

"Your letter said you were interested in funding one of our projects," Isabella said. "A military venture?"

"Yes." Atlas rested his hands atop the table. "But not just funding. I want to be involved."

One of the old lords leaned forward. "With respect, Viscount, we have our own military command. We are not in the habit of letting new blood into sensitive matters. These are times of war.

"I’m not asking," Atlas replied, his tone even. "I’m offering. You need soldiers. I have them. You need gold. I have that too. What I ask in return is only access."

A slow hush fell across the room.

Isabella tilted her head. "Access to what?"

"The Emerald Rumble," Atlas said.

The words landed like thunder.

A few advisors muttered, but Isabella simply raised a brow. "You speak boldly."

"I speak plainly."

She studied him then—not his face, not his disguise, but his posture, his rhythm, the way he avoided fidgeting even as tension built. A test. Every second was a test.

"You remind me of someone," she said softly.

Atlas didn’t blink. "I get that a lot."

She leaned forward. "Tell me. Why would a noble from the marshes—one with no history in this council—know about a private military project, buried under five layers of classified clearance?"

"I make it a habit," he replied, "to know more than I should...."

The silence stretched.

Then Isabella laughed.

It wasn’t pleasant.

It wasn’t unkind either.

It was something in between—something sharp and slow and serrated.

"You’re clever," she said, standing. "And brave. That combination gets people killed.ll. Or promoted. Depending on how well they play the game."

She stepped around the table and circled him, much like Claire had done just a day before. But unlike Claire, her presence wasn’t warm or seductive. It was cold, measuring. Like a blade being run along the edge of his spine.

Atlas sat still. Not out of fear—but defiance.

She stopped behind him.

"I want to know who you really are," she said, low. "Your eyes. Your voice. The way you hold still like a predator, not a politician. You’re.... hiding something."

He smiled. "Everyone here is."

That earned a second, softer laugh.

"Fine," she said. "...You want access? I’ll give you access."

The council gasped. One of the nobles stood. "My lady—"

She silenced him with a hand.

"But only if he passes my test."

Atlas finally turned to face her fully. "What test?"

Isabella’s smile returned. But this time, it reached her eyes.

"You’ll know when it begins...."

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