The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 120: Warmaster
Chapter 120: Chapter 120: Warmaster
The throne room of the Empire was not built for warmth.
The ceilings soared above like judgmental gods, cold marble columns stretching endlessly into a void of vaulted shadow. Statues of old monarchs—forgotten names carved in stone—stood like silent jurors along the sides. Their faces had long since been worn smooth by the slow grind of time, but their posture remained immaculate. Regal. Watching.
Elizabeth Orelous Augustus—Empress, Exile, Frostborn Flame—stood at the far end of that hall.
Step!
Step!
Step!
Each step was deliberate. Each motion coiled in control. The silver edge of her cloak, stitched from the flags of conquered cities, whispered as it swept the stone behind her.
No fanfare greeted her.
No trumpets sang.
But her presence stole the air from every throat.
A strange silence had fallen when she entered the capital gates, like the city itself recognized her—remembered her—and held its breath. Even now, every noble, mage, and commander that filled the chamber seemed held in stasis. She felt their stares: a tapestry of disbelief, suspicion, awe, and dread. They saw her mechanical arm, the lava-glow tracing cracks through obsidian God metal, and whispered to themselves without moving their lips.
She had returned.
But not as they remembered.
Elizabeth reached the center of the room and paused.
Before her stood the Imperial Throne—its seat a relic from the age before bloodlines mattered, forged from the bones of beasts that no longer existed. The sigil of the Empire, a half-sun set above a frozen field, gleamed behind it in gold and white.
She didn’t sit.
Not yet.
Instead, she turned.
Her gaze swept them.
The Seventeen Primes.
The Iron Foundation of the Empire.
Knights who had survived fifteen wars between them. Mages who could level cities with three words. Tacticians who had shattered uprisings with fewer troops than a merchant caravan.
The seven main houses of the empire, who ruled for her , not with her. And all of them bowed.
But she saw it.
The tension in their jaws. The careful stillness in their shoulders. The kind of stillness not born of respect—but uncertainty.
’They think how could I be alive?’
They weren’t entirely wrong.
The heart she returned with beat a little differently. Her blood ran colder now, not just because of the frost, but because of what she had to leave behind in the Dark Continent to crawl back here.
Elizabeth’s eyes settled on each Prime in turn, slowly, methodically.
General Vireus—his helmet removed, scalp scarred, eyes bloodshot from sleepless nights. Loyal. Brutal. Simple.
Prime Arcanist Theolis—the old woman with crystal growths along her temple, proof of overexposure to ether. Always smiling. Always hiding something beneath the smile.
Commander Serren of the Seventh Legion. Tall. Quiet. Built like a pillar of ash. Rumored to have killed his own brother to earn his title.
And at the end, standing farthest from the dais—her brother, Arthur.
He was watching her like she was a mirror he had not asked to look into.
His silver hair had grayed slightly since she vanished. His eyes were less cruel now. But older. Wearier. She could almost forgive him for how well he wore command.
Almost.
She stepped forward once more, and her voice—when it came—was low, sonorous, precise.
"Seventeen! When I fell into the Dark Continent, you began to ask yourselves: is she dead? Can we move on? Does the flame of Sol burn in someone else now?"
She moved closer to the throne, letting the sound of her boots echo into the chamber.
"And when I returned, you feared worse. That I was not dead. But changed. That what crawled out of the Continent was no longer Elizabeth Orelous."
Her mechanical fingers flexed, glowing softly. Steam hissed from her palm as heat built in the runes etched across the alloyed veins.
"I will not deny it. I did change. The darkness changes us all."
She looked each Prime in the eye.
"But so does war. So does betrayal. So does watching your own blood bleed for a throne you never truly sat in."
A pause. Deliberate.
Then she turned to Arthur.
"My brother."
His eyes narrowed slightly, but he nodded, stepping forward with hands clasped behind his back.
"Your Majesty."
"You ruled in my absence."
"I served the Empire."
"And do you still?"
Arthur hesitated.
The silence pressed harder now.
Even the statues seemed to lean in.
"Yes."
The word was quiet.
But real.
Elizabeth studied him. Her memory of him—fierce, proud, selfish—now collided with the man before her. Still proud. But tempered. Sharpened, not dulled.
Good.
" so....Why am I not welcomed..?"
All the nobels, warriors, the seven great family gasped. As all had forgotten the simplest of things. Forgotten from the dread her steps and her aura had brought.
One of the Prime proudly stepped forward. Accepting her error.
"All hail the empress."
And one by one they followed. Everyone followed.
"All Hail the Imperial Empress!"
The chant cracked through the throne room like thunder splitting stone.
"All Hail the Imperial Empress!"
The words rippled through marble columns and stained glass, washing across silver-plated armor and silk-robed nobles.
"All Hail the Imperial Empress!"
Knights slammed fists to their chests. Mages bowed low, staffs trembling in reverence or fear.
"All Hail the Imperial Empress!"
Even the Seventeen Primes bowed—not out of ceremony, but submission.
"All Hail the Imperial Empress!"
Elizabeth raised her hand, And silence followed.
Not peace. Not calm.
But the silence of a battlefield before steel meets flesh.
They were not simply hailing a monarch.
They were hailing a ghost.
A sovereign returned from the abyss.
A daughter of Sol’s ancient flame—Elizabeth Orelous Augustus—the Frost Empress, reborn in black and fire.
She said nothing.
She only looked.
And the weight of her gaze was heavier than a sword at the neck.
It fell upon the youngest prince first. A boy barely of age, cheeks still round, fingers still too soft for the weight of governance. But his eyes betrayed something darker—ambition tempered by dread. When her gaze touched him, he stiffened like a deer caught beneath a hawk’s shadow.
He looked away too late.
She had seen the panic.
Good.
"War General," Elizabeth said, her voice low but cutting.
A command.
But no one answered.
Not immediately.
The Imperial Captain of the Guard took half a step forward, his gold-threaded cape sweeping with intent. His chin rose in silent claim.
But so did another.
The Commander of the Knights, tall and broad like a walking fortress, stepped in tandem. His eyes locked forward. Unblinking. Waiting.
A standoff.
A throne-room challenge without words or swords.
Elizabeth sighed.
A sound like wind brushing ash.
Her expression didn’t shift, but the air did—heavier, more charged. Like the moment before lightning strikes.
"You started a war," she said evenly. "But forgot to decide who would lead it?"
The words hung like ice in the air.
Everyone froze.
No one dared answer. Because they all knew—War General was not a title to be handed lightly. In times of peace, it was sealed. Dormant. But once a war was declared, the bearer of that role became more than a commander.
They became the Empire’s sword.
Second only to the Empress herself.
Elizabeth turned her gaze to one man in the room who had not moved.
Arthur.
Her brother.
The one who had kept the Empire from devouring itself while she was gone. The one who had held its crown in his palm but had not dared to wear it.
She locked eyes with him, and the weight behind her stare made even the statues seem to lean away.
"Arthur," she said. "Arthur Orelous Augustus."
His name cracked through the hall like a verdict.
The eldest prince inhaled, once.
Then stepped forward.
His gait was steady, but sweat glistened at his temples. His jaw clenched tight. His eyes—so similar to hers—widened as he approached.
He remembered her.
He remembered why their father had chosen her.
Because she didn’t hesitate.
Because no one could predict her.
Because even now, no one knew if she’d call him forward to elevate him—
—or to end him.
Elizabeth rose.
Her throne behind her pulsed with magic as she stood, the obsidian blade at her side unfolding in her hand like a blooming flower of war. Forged from the same substance as her mechanical arm, it shimmered with heat. With death.
She pointed it forward.
"Come," she said.
He obeyed.
As he approached, he bowed.
Deeper than the others.
Slower.
Deliberate.
His neck bared.
His knees bent.
A brother before a queen.
She stepped toward him. The sound of her heels echoed like a funeral drum.
With one clean motion, she raised the blade high.
Every breath in the throne room vanished.
Time held itself still.
And then—
She struck.
Steel kissed skin.
Not at the neck.
But the shoulder.
And then the other.
Each touch of the blade left a red line—a mark not of death, but of ascension.
"Arthur," she said, her voice suddenly soft, the chill of snow before the avalanche. "I name you—Warmaster."
The silence cracked like glass.
"Serve the Empire," she continued, "and let the world know... the Empire does not cradle."
A pause.
Only fire and metal gleamed in her eyes now.
"It dominates."
The second strike came. Not with force, but weight. A declaration.
"Get used to death," she whispered, "and fall in love with Conquering."
She stepped back.
The silence was total.
Even the wind seemed afraid to enter.
Then the nobles began to breathe again. Murmurs stirred. Shock passed through them like a tremor before the quake.
She had given it to him.
She had given the title of Warmaster—the blade of the Empire—to Arthur.
The eldest prince.
The one with wealth, prestige, command... and now, power equal to hers.
In name, she remained Empress.
But in force?
The Empire had two heads now.
Arthur rose, not by his will, but because the ground seemed too small for him now. The weight of the new title settled onto his shoulders like a crown of iron.
He looked at her.
Eyes wide.
Flickering.
’What are you planning now... my cute sister?’
This content is taken from fr(e)ewebn(o)vel.𝓬𝓸𝓶
