The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 90: Irene

The wind howled past Lara’s ears as she vaulted off the palace stairs, cape fluttering like a banner of war. Her boots struck cobblestone, quick and heavy—each step a hammerbeat against fate.

The bell echoed still. Distant. Wrong. As if it were ringing underwater, buried beneath something thick and enchanted. A distortion spell, perhaps. Or worse.

Her heart pounded.

Not from the sprint—but from the certainty that she was already too late.

As she darted past courtyards and shuttered homes, the people of the capital peeked out behind curtains and rooftops. Their princess—blue-haired and blazing—was moving like a comet toward danger.

Some whispered prayers.

Some simply watched.

All felt it—the tension that bloomed through the bones of Berkimhum like a second pulse.

Something unnatural had crept into the city.

And it had come through the gates.

She reached the first checkpoint—rows of guards stationed at the outer barricades. They turned to her, startled, quickly saluting with rigid discipline.

"Princess!"

"What’s happening?!" she demanded, eyes darting across their pale faces.

The captain stepped forward, sweat running down his temple.

"The bell rang, but—something’s wrong, Your Highness. Our mana channels—our soundlines—they’re being dampened. We can’t amplify the alarms to reach the palace!"

"By who?" she growled.

"We don’t know! No direct contact! We tried dispatching runners but they—"

A scream interrupted.

From the north wall.

All heads turned.

Then a second scream—cut off mid-sound, like a blade through breath.

"GATEWATCH, WITH ME!" Lara roared, voice breaking the night like thunder.

She dashed ahead, not waiting for orders, sword unsheathed and trailing mana-light like a comet’s tail.

The soldiers followed, boots thudding in fear-wrapped formation.

They reached the outer gate within seconds.

The scene was carnage.

Bodies lay still against the granite walls—men who’d been posted to defend the perimeter, their armor cleaved from the inside. Throats cut. Blood painted symbols on stone—foreign, ancient. Hexes from the southern Empire, designed to silence spells and block resurrection.

Lara slowed.

Her eyes narrowed.

Assassins.

Empire-trained.

And whoever sent them... wanted her to suffer.

A whisper of movement to her left.

She twisted—blade arcing.

Steel clanged against steel as a shadow detached from the wall, lunging with twin daggers. The assassin was nearly invisible, dressed in dark cloth layered with reflective charms that shimmered like water. Their mask bore no insignia—only silence.

But Lara had been trained in war by men who did not flinch in the face of gods.

She parried the first dagger, pivoted, and drove her knee into the assassin’s stomach.

They stumbled—only for her to leap, sword reversing in her grip as she punctured their throat from behind.

No hesitation.

No mercy.

Blood sprayed across her sleeve.

She yanked the sword out.

More shadows moved in the distance.

"CONTACT!" one of the guards shouted.

A second wave of assassins began to descend—some from the rooftops, some from spell portals flickering like oily smoke.

A full covert strike team.

"Protect the walls!" Lara shouted. "Lock the gates! If even one of them reaches the inner circle—"

An explosion interrupted.

Far to the east, a blast lit the sky—brief, silent, magical. Not fire. Not light. Something else.

A decoy.

They weren’t attacking to take the gates.

They were stalling.

Lara’s blood ran cold.

"The palace..." she whispered, eyes wide.

"THEY’RE INSIDE!"

She turned without a word—kicked off the nearest wall, scaled the ramparts like a beast. Her sword glowed white-blue in the night as she launched from the tower, landing hard on a stable roof and sprinting across tiles toward the royal district.

Every heartbeat screamed Mother.

Every footstep pounded father into her memory.

Her family. Her kingdom.

All under siege while the capital slept under glamoured silence.

Back at the palace...

Isabella strode through the corridor with her knife drawn and her rage hidden behind her eyes.

Guards followed. Some unsure. Some hardened. All alert.

They reached the main hall just as the message came.

"An explosion was sighted eastward—unknown spell type. Princess Lara is en route."

"Is it a distraction?" Isabella asked.

No answer came.

That was the answer.

She heard the screaming before she saw the blood.

They found Claire slumped against a pillar, barely breathing. Her tunic soaked in red, her hands trembling as if holding on to more than just her gut.

"Claire!" Isabella dropped to her knees.

The knight beside her moved to apply pressure, but Claire pushed his hands away.

"...Inside," she choked. "Inside the walls..."

Her eyes rolled back.

"She’s alive!" the knight confirmed, lifting her carefully. "We must get her to the healers!"

But Isabella had already turned.

Her hand clenched the knife so tightly her knuckles bled white.

She had failed once.

She would not fail again.

Claire’s attack had not been clean.

It had been cruel.

The assassin didn’t aim for the heart.

He aimed for the lungs.

For the stomach.

A slow bleed.

A panic wound.

She had screamed in silence—her throat burned, her lungs collapsed around pain, and her limbs refused to listen.

The face of the man who stabbed her—calm, unbothered, dispassionate—would live in her dreams if she ever saw them again.

She knew what that meant.

She wasn’t supposed to die fast.

She was supposed to die afraid.

And yet even then—through the blur of blood and the coldness crawling up her limbs—she tried to lift her hand.

To call someone.

To call him.

But her body betrayed her.

And her vision faded into red.

Lara burst into the palace gates just as the first warning horn—belated and broken—finally sounded.

Her hair stuck to her face. Blood streaked her cheek from earlier.

Guards turned, startled.

"Where is my mother?" she demanded.

"She just left the inner wing!" a scribe shouted.

"And the King?!"

The pause told her everything.

She didn’t wait.

She raced into the hall, blade still out, cape dragging smoke behind her.

The carpets were soaked.

The walls were marked with scorch spells and anti-light wards.

Everything told her what she needed to know.

The enemy was already inside.

In the throne hall, the last assassin stepped forward—hood lowered. A woman with pale gray eyes and a sword that shimmered with runes older than the Empire itself.

She held a dagger in one hand, a rune-crystal in the other.

She moved toward the doors—

Only to be tackled through them by a whirlwind of blue steel and fury.

Lara didn’t even speak.

She drove her sword at the woman’s heart.

The blade missed as the assassin twisted, but Lara followed—shoulder-slamming her through a marble pillar.

Crack.

Dust rained down.

They fought hand-to-hand now.

Blades forgotten. Only fists. Elbows. Knees.

Royal training against shadow-crafted slaughter.

And Lara won.

Because rage had always been the better weapon.

She pinned the woman against the ground, blood dripping from her jaw, sword now returned to hand.

"You made a mistake," she said coldly.

"Did I?" the assassin asked, smiling through broken teeth.

She held up a rune stone. freewebnøvel.coɱ

It flared—

Then shattered.

And across the palace, a signal echoed.

A warning.

Not for Berkimhum.

But for something still coming.

At that same moment—beneath the east wing’s ancient pillars—a shadow passed through the throne corridor.

The King stood alone.

No guards.

No throne.

Just silence.

And from the far end of the hall, she came.

Irene.

The Prime.

White robes stained in silence. Feet not touching the floor. Eyes unblinking, hollow, ageless.

She did not draw a blade.

Nor did he.

They stared at one another.

A weapon.

A king.

One designed to follow.

The other too tired to lead.

"You were not meant to enter this place," Henry said softly.

Irene tilted her head.

She said nothing.

The light flickered.

The mana in the walls shuddered.

They stood there.

Two eras.

Two fates.

And the war hadn’t truly begun but...She wanted it to end, before it ever started.

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