The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 91: King’s Hand

The king, old and sickly, sat beneath the chandelier of Berkimhum’s throne room like a shadow trying to remember its own weight.

Henry Von Roxweld.

The last hammer of the throne. The spider that wove the web of a kingdom now crumbling beneath its own gold. He had ruled not by sword or faith—but by cold brilliance, scheming across decades like a man who never needed to blink.

But now—his body betrayed him.

Sleep no longer obeyed. Dreams, once his secret council, had withered in the drought of the Dreaming’s fall. His skin sagged with the exhaustion of fifty sleepless hours, and the voices that once whispered clever plots to him had turned to ’murmurs of madness’.

Was it guilt?

Or was it magic?

He didn’t know. And part of him—a part that once laughed beside firelight with a little boy who loved books more than blades—no longer cared.

He sat in silence, draped in his fur-trimmed robes, staring out at the flickering torches of the throne hall. Each flame swayed too slowly. The air was too cold. Something was wrong.

The first bell rang.

Muffled.

Then the second.

His eyes narrowed. "...Not palace guards..."

There was no commotion. No footsteps of alert. Just an eerie, deadening hush that settled over the castle like fog made of fear.

He reached for Aurora, the high court mage. No reply.

He summoned Kury, commander of the royal guard.

Gone.

Had they fled?

No. Not them. Never them.

Someone else was cutting the lines.

He exhaled, bitter and dry. The weight of inevitability sank into his chest like lead.

"So this is the turn, then..."

Step.

His head turned.

A single footstep echoed through the vast hall, sharp and cold as a dagger dropped on marble.

And then—she emerged.

A silhouette formed from moonlight and blood: armor glinting under the stained glass, her walk more a glide than a march, and at her chest—the half-sun crest of the Empire.

She wasn’t hiding.

She wanted him to see.

He saw the sword first. Then her eyes.

Grey.

Unblinking.

Not cruel. Not kind.

Just...

Final.

"...You weren’t meant to enter this place," Henry rasped.

The woman didn’t reply. She simply kept coming, her silence more eloquent than a sermon.

His smile curled, sharp with spite. "Trying to end the war before it begins? You Empire dogs... so small in the mind. Just like your golden empress."

That stopped her.

Her jaw tensed.

The insult hit.

And with surgical poise, Irene, Prime of the Empire, drew her sword.

"You think you’re buying time," she said coldly, her voice like frost spreading across glass. "Thinking someone will come. But the only one who could was your daughter—and she’s too busy cleaning the blood I spilled."

In a blink, she stood before him—the sword already pressed to his chest.

Steel against linen.

A whisper of death.

"Your eyes," she said, searching his gaze. "They show no fear."

Henry didn’t move. His expression remained as it always had.

Steady.

Measured.

Unapologetically tired.

"Fear is a younger man’s burden," he murmured.

Something flickered in Irene’s eyes. Not respect. Not hate. Something colder.

"You should’ve been a weapon, not a throne," she said. "You would’ve served her well. A shame."

She leaned closer.

"We even had the cure for your illness, you know. You could’ve lived."

That broke something behind his eyes. Surprise? Maybe a flicker of regret?

He opened his mouth to respond—

But she didn’t let him.

The blade sank into his chest.

Not quickly. Not savagely.

Slowly.

Like a key turning in a locked history.

He groaned. Blood soaked through his royal silks. It came thick and dark, bubbling between his lips as he gasped.

He tried to speak.

She knelt, tightening the grip.

"I’ll give your corpse your last silence," Irene whispered.

The blade pushed deeper.

Then—

A ’sound’.

Above.

Lazy. Sardonic. Dangerous.

"Ugh. Nasty smile, lady."

Irene vanished.

Reflex.

A blur of sword-light.

She landed on the far edge of the throne dais, blade drawn, ten skills aligned, defense matrix at maximum.

And then she saw her.

Floating midair, next to the chandelier like a witch reborn.

Aurora.

She looked fifteen. Maybe younger.

Silver hair braided messily.

Wooden staff in hand.

A white cloak with golden leaves. Barefoot.

But the magic around her?

Colossal.

The air bent. The torches flickered backward. A soft pressure kissed the walls like gravity learning new laws.

Aurora tilted her head.

"Seriously," she muttered. "I leave for one week—one week—to visit my master, and this whole place turns into a murder mystery party."

She glanced at the king.

At the blade.

Her eyes narrowed.

"That conniving bastard should’ve just summoned me outright. Was this his plan all along?"

Irene adjusted her grip.

That name... It scratched old warnings across her memory.

"You’re..."

"Don’t strain your brain," Aurora said with a smirk. "Grey hair. Blue eyes. Magic thicker than royal lineage. You know who I am."

Then, softer:

"Guardian of Berkimhum. Disciple of Merlin."

’Aurora the Wise.’

Irene exhaled slowly.

Her grey lashes framed eyes too old for her face.

She wasn’t looking at Irene.

She was looking at the throne.

At the corpse that slumped across it like a rag wrapped in velvet and blood.

"...Huh," Aurora said, tilting her head. "You actually went through with it."

Irene blinked. "What?"

"That little speech. The sword plunge. All very dramatic."

Aurora’s voice was light, almost playful.

But something below the words was sharp.

She floated down—soft as paper—until her boots touched the blood-slick floor. She approached the corpse slowly, expression unreadable.

"Good posture," she murmured. "Convincing coloring. The illusionist really outdid themselves this time."

Irene narrowed her eyes. "Are you mocking me?"

Aurora didn’t look at her.

She reached out—fingers brushing the king’s cheek.

Cold. Soft. Still.

Then she leaned down and sniffed.

"...Mm. Ginger root. Preservation herbs. Old stage trick."

"What are you talking about?" Irene demanded.

Aurora smiled—but didn’t answer. Instead, she turned to the chandelier above.

"Henry always said he wanted to die in his throne. Thought it’d be poetic."

She tapped her staff once—gently—against the stone step.

The corpse didn’t move.

Didn’t vanish.

Didn’t bleed more.

It just... sat there.

Peaceful. Preserved. Too perfect.

"...But Henry was never poetic. He was precise."

She looked at Irene, expression shifting from calm to curious.

"Tell me, Prime. Did he say anything before you stuck the blade in? Any last words?"

Irene tensed. "He tried. I shut him up."

"Mm." Aurora smiled again, softer this time. "Of course he did."

She turned her back and started walking away.

"And if you think that’s really him," she added, "then I suppose your job here is done."

She walked past the broken tile, past the rune-scars, past the blood trail leading to the chair.

"Unless you’re interested in killing the real one," she said under her breath. "In which case..."

She raised her staff.

"I’m afraid you’re a few moves behind."

"Hmmmm.....Should’ve known. The kill was too easyToo easy."

She blinked.

Reappeared within sword’s reach.

"Then be proud," Irene whispered, blade already descending. "You’ll die by the hand of a Prime."

The strike came from above.

A flash of white.

Aurora met it with a casual flick of her staff.

CRACK.

The blade chipped the staff.

Irene’s eyes widened.

"You damaged it?"

"Whoa," Aurora grinned. "You’re good....."

Then, suddenly, her smile dropped. Her mana flared, immense and ancient.

"...ohhh...she’s already here...I will let her take the stage...."

Irene steadied herself. "What?"

Aurora turned, staff slowly lowering.

"You’re not alone."

The air changed.

A pulse.

Low, quiet, but undeniable—as if the castle itself had drawn breath.

Irene pivoted. Her instincts screamed.

A second figure stepped from the shadows at the base of the throne.

Clothed in silver-threaded robes, a black circlet on her brow. Her blue eyes held aggression. Her presence, gravity.

Aurora’s breath caught. Even she hadn’t sensed her until now.

"Impossible," she murmured. "...I still had time.."

"So. You are the knife they chose. The last echo of a dying Empire."

Irene didn’t speak.

She readied her blade.

Lara didn’t move.

"If you lift that sword again," she said, "I will show you what it means to be erased not from the world—but from memory."

The torches dimmed.

The moonlight withdrew.

And for a moment, everything in the hall bowed to presence.

Aurora floated closer. ƒree𝑤ebnσvel-com

"Knight," she said, voice more human now. "Your war crimes are now over...."

The Prime didn’t respond.

But she did not strike.

And behind her, the king’s body bled.

Unmoving.

Unwept.

Lara saw it, her rage overwhelming herself.

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