The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 124: Intention.

Atlas wanted to say yes.

Gods, he wanted to say yes. The request had been so small, so soft. Daisy’s voice barely carried through the corridor, but the weight behind it was unmistakable—hope, naïve and trembling, the kind that hadn’t yet learned how cruel time could be. For a heartbeat, he almost let himself imagine it: an evening walk, her arm brushing his, quiet laughter under emerald-tinted lanterns.

But he couldn’t.

Not now.

Not when Isabella’s shadow stretched longer by the hour. Not when the queen’s every glance had begun to feel like a test he didn’t fully understand. And especially not when her eyes—those eyes that had once devoured entire rooms with confidence—were now lined with something brittle.

He turned slightly, forcing a polite smile as he gently stepped back from Daisy’s hopeful closeness.

"...It would be an honor, my lady," he said, his voice measured and apologetic. "But the queen demands my attention."

Daisy’s expression didn’t change.

Not at first.

But her eyes flashed—just for a second. Like steel glinting beneath satin.

She gritted her teeth behind a tight-lipped smile, one polished from years of court training. ’The Emerald Bitch’ she whispered to herself. Always watching. Always interfering. Daisy had tried to dismiss it as court gossip, but no. It was always the queen. Always Isabella. Always interrupting. Like she had marked him from the start. Like nothing beautiful could exist in this court unless Isabella owned it.

"...It’s okay," Daisy finally said, her voice a note too high. "Later, then. Her Highness has called me to the lab as well. We can... meet there, perhaps."

She hesitated, then lifted the scroll she had been holding.

"Oh—and here are the documents. She said it’s a gift."

Atlas raised an eyebrow, but took the scroll without pause. His fingers brushed against hers as he received it—warm, trembling. He looked down as he opened the clasp, skimming quickly through the pages: personnel records, mage classifications, security layers in the lower labs.

A photograph slipped out from between the parchments.

A grainy, enchanted image of the inner sanctum. A pass.

His pulse quickened. ’There it is.’

’Yessss,’ he thought, screaming inwardly, the expression never touching his face. If he had lips, he would’ve kissed the ink.

He closed the scroll slowly, tucking it into the satchel at his hip, and gave Daisy a short, gracious nod.

"Thank you. We shall meet later, then," he said, already turning toward Isabella’s office.

Daisy remained standing where he left her. Her fingers still curled inward as if the warmth of his hand lingered. She didn’t watch him walk away.

Instead, her eyes fell to the floor. She let out a slow breath, steadying herself, then whispered under her breath so quietly even she wasn’t sure if she meant him or the queen.

"...She always wins."

.

.

.

Atlas arrived at the threshold of Isabella’s office—the inner sanctum of the Emerald Hall, the very heart of her domain. It wasn’t just a room. It was legend. Power hummed in the walls like a waiting breath. Rumor said it was the first place Isabella claimed after killing the last traitor who dared doubt her. Others said she built it from scratch, rune by rune, sealing secrets into the very stone.

But before he could knock, the door creaked open.

She was already there.

She didn’t say a word. Her silhouette glowed under the emerald-tinted sconces behind her. Eyes like molten jade met his gaze, and for a moment—just a moment—he felt like prey.

Her hand moved—not a gesture of command, but something colder. Expectation.

An order wrapped in silk.

She had seen the scroll tucked beneath his arm. Her lips curved, not in warmth, but in triumph. The trap had closed, and he had walked in willingly.

Atlas followed.

Not because he trusted her.

But because he had to see what she was hiding.

They moved together through winding halls beneath the Emrald palace proper. The air thickened with magic and dust, the torches burning with green-blue flame, untouched by wind or time. Every step echoed slightly behind them, but never ahead—like the walls themselves knew better than to speak before she allowed it.

Down. Then deeper still.

The floors turned from marble to black stone. Familiar doors and familiar guards vanished behind them. Now it was just her—Isabella—and the sound of his own heartbeat, ticking in his ears like war drums muffled beneath velvet.

He hadn’t known this part of the palace existed.

The ground sloped downward unnaturally, as though carved into the bedrock itself. Pipes hissed softly through the walls, etched with glowing glyphs—heat, containment, restriction. He recognized some of the runes. Others were older. Forbidden.

Isabella said nothing.

She didn’t need to.

All he could do was keep walking... and not stare too long.

Her dress clung to her with the artistry of silk made flesh—cut high in the back, dragging low at the hips. A tight sash traced her waist like a hand in constant caress. Every step she took was purposeful, fluid, her hips swaying with cruel precision. She didn’t flaunt herself.

She simply was.

He glanced once. Only once.

But she noticed.

She always noticed.

She looked back over her shoulder, smiling—not coy, but knowing.

Like she’d seen this scene before.

Like she’d written it.

Atlas straightened his spine, letting his gaze drift instead to the walls, the floor, anything to anchor himself. Claire warned him, he reminded himself. ’Don’t let her dig in. Don’t let her crawl inside your ribs.’

But no—he wasn’t weak. Not anymore. There were only two people in this kingdom who could hold him down. Lara. Aurora.

Isabella?

No.

She was seductive, yes. Dangerous, absolutely. But he was ready. He had to be.

The corridor narrowed until they reached a massive door carved from obsidian, veins of violet mana pulsing faintly across its surface. Sealing wards layered over one another like skins on a serpent. Atlas could feel the heat radiating from the center—it wasn’t natural. It was artificial.

Fused mana. Alchemy. Divination.

It felt... wrong.

Isabella stopped.

Without looking at him, she raised her hand and began tracing patterns in the air—slow, deliberate gestures that shimmered gold then bled into silver. One by one, the runes flared, then dimmed. With each flick of her finger, a lock released. A barrier fell. The ground rumbled softly, like the hallway itself exhaled.

And then—silence.

She placed her hand on the final glyph and turned.

"...So this, lab" Atlas murmured, "is where the mad mage works. The one you spoke of."

Her smile curved, thin and dangerous.

"Yes," she whispered. "Though... he’s on leave now."

Atlas blinked. His mind scrambled.

’Leave?’ He barely stopped the confusion from showing on his face. ’No. Don’t react. Don’t reveal what matters to you.’

"I see," he replied, voice smooth. "Then... why are we here, Your Highness?"

The hallway hummed again.

Isabella turned to face him fully now, and her gaze was unlike before. Not just seductive. Not just cunning.

’Hungry.’

"You," she said, her voice low and intimate, "are ready."

His brow twitched. "Ready for what?"

She stepped toward him, closing the gap. Her perfume struck first—jasmine and ash, like a garden scorched into elegance. Then the warmth of her body, too close for formality. Her voice became a breath against his collarbone.

"To see the result of my creation."

Atlas didn’t move.

But his heart did.

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