Chương 442: Chapter 431: Once Upon a Time, a Princess Wanted Her Freedom, Part I

Esmée woke with a splitting headache and a sharp pain along her ribs. Blinking, she realized the ground was moving beneath her. Someone's carrying me?

"Awake, princess?" growled a voice she recognized as belonging to an Aelbe huntress. The Tier 3 dumped her unceremoniously from her shoulder, and Esmée nearly fell as she landed on her feet.

"Where am I?" If the palace on Proxima resembled her childhood home, the similarities ended there. The wide corridors and gilded ornaments screamed royal suite, but that wasn't enough to place her on a map.

"No idea, and I don't care," grunted the Tier 3, jerking her chin toward a door before them.

"After you." Esmée stepped inside, holding her throbbing head. It felt like an orchestra was playing a particularly bad symphony inside her skull.

"What happened?"

"You confessed to dear Daddy you wanted to kill him," the clanswoman replied, tossing her a bundle of fabric.

"Put that on." The princess unfolded the garment mechanically as her memories returned. Only minutes ago, her father had explained to Rohan the Empyrean history of oppression in a few curt phrases. The reason behind centuries of misogyny proved depressingly mundane: greed. To preserve their comfort and wealth, thirty generations of kings had enslaved half their population and shackled their daughters. All these years I thought he avoided my gaze out of disdain. Turns out, it was fear.

The veil that had long cloaked her childhood mysteries lifted, revealing a portrait of banal selfishness. Esmée wanted to laugh like a madwoman. She wanted to cry like the heroine of a tragedy. She wanted to scream like a fury. Twenty years of fearing for her life helped her keep a perfect mask. Beneath that poker face, her emotions boiled in a cauldron of wrath as she slipped into a gold-embroidered wedding gown.

"I'm ready." The journey was silent. Yesterday, Esmée might have found it amusing to see twenty Empyrean guards and two Aelbe Tier 3s escorting her to the vault as though she were some dangerous prisoner. Today, she understood that was exactly what she was. Her title of Champion eclipsed her status as a woman. Did they not realize her specialty was arranging the board before the game began? Any of these fools could strike her down with a single sword blow. The Author knew none would.

The group halted before an elevator where her father and fiancé awaited. At a gesture from the king, the doors slid open, and they stepped inside. Unlike a conventional lift, this one bore no buttons, only a spiritual scanner attuned to the monarch and a failsafe. Tracing the ritual's structure, Esmée discerned a microwave formation, fully capable of turning an intruder into steaming puree in seconds.

The cabin began its descent, stopping at intervals so her royal father could enter a sequence of magical passwords to disable layer after layer of protection. The multi-authentication system didn't impress Esmée as much as the elegance of the aetheric locks themselves. For future reference, she memorized the fruit of thirty generations of paranoid kings' research. Five minutes and fifty meters later, the cage touched down in the palace's depths.

The shaft opened into a security airlock, fifteen paces long, its walls enchanted to withstand even bombardment. At the far end, a three-Empyreans-tall reinforced door loomed.

"Wait." One of the Tier 3s stepped in front of Rohan, eyes narrowing.

"That door's trap."

"A finely tuned sixth sense," praised Maxime. His eyes, however, did not smile.

"Your instinct surely gave you a false positive due to the layer of radioactive metals lining the interior. Forcing it open with an explosion would release a deadly powder capable of putting down even a Transcendent. A final safeguard completing an otherwise inviolable security system." Esmée pressed her lips together. With radiation distorting enchantments, all it would take to bypass such 'inviolable' security was someone capable of teleportation. She knew at least one thief who fit that description.

Of course, one still had to reach this far to make that easy leap, but the Shadow wasn't her rival for nothing. When the vault finally opened, the group found not a hangar but the intersection of three corridors—four, counting the airlock.

"A bunker?" asked Rohan.

"A laboratory," replied Maxime, turning left. A few meters later, a flight of rough concrete steps descended into the earth. At their base, new intersections branched off again, forming a labyrinth of stone and metal. How the Empyreans had mined, refined, and forged so much iron was anyone's guess. Every five meters, closed doors tempted curiosity, as did the cables running across the ceiling.

The king walked through the area with familiarity, offering no comment, though the marks on the floor showed that the place was far from abandoned. People worked here, perhaps trying to recover the knowledge lost during the Tutorial. A week wasn't enough to transcribe entire libraries onto portable supports. Esmée was beginning to suspect they had entered some liminal space when a statue at the end of a cul-de-sac broke the monotony. Not a statue. A golem.

The crown on its head and the arrogant cast of its face betrayed its identity: the first King Lóthandorim. The stone figure shifted aside before its descendant, revealing an illusory wall. As she passed beneath her ancestor's gaze, Esmée felt her geas vibrate. She flinched, closing her eyes on instinct. The sharp intake of breath from a nearby guard made her reopen them. Holy— A ten-meter cube chamber lay before her, its six walls adorned with colossal frescoes, each depicting a woman of majestic bearing.

Their eyes shone gold like their hair, halos glimmered above their heads, and every one of them was pregnant. The room radiated pride and maternal strength, and Esmée found herself smiling.

"The reconstruction doesn't do justice to the original," said the king, drawing his daughter's attention.

"After overthrowing his mother and sisters, the first king destroyed every trace of them—except their throne room, which he buried beneath his own. Behind the throne, he carved: falter once, and be buried by history. My father thought the message was a warning meant for his heirs. I believe it was a taunt to the women he defeated. He was an Empyrean with a grudge." Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site.

The king advanced to the marble throne, upon which rested a crown.

"The diadem of the last queen. Since re-enchanted to create a geas of astounding intricacy. A fusion of curse, soul contract, self-imposed constraint, karmic oath, and split personality induced by deep hypnosis. The true genius lies in the fact that it's only a mold to be filled by the victim's own aether. This ensures perfect compatibility, preventing all natural spiritual resistance or immune rejection." Rohan's eyes narrowed.

"That's foul magic. The apocalyptic threat alone makes tampering with souls reckless."

"Don't worry," waved Maxime.

"The geas dispenses only two punishments: pain akin to the worst migraine imaginable, and death. No in-between. I wouldn't ruin a talent like my daughter with lingering damage."

"And if the second personality develops a soul?" pressed Rohan, his jaw tight at the thought of his crush's suffering.

"The odds are slim, not nonexistent."

"The secondary personality isn't deep. It has no ego—simply there to judge Esmée's actions… or rewrite her temperament." He stepped closer, holding the crown. One of its sapphires caught a beam of light, and the spark danced in the princess's eye.

"You love my daughter, Rohan. She could love you in return." The vile suggestion twisted the young Aelbe's face into a grimace.

"I can court Esmée myself."

"Don't let pride blind you. Before you can fill a woman's heart, you must first empty it." A flash of jealousy flickered in Rohan's gaze.

"Priam will die before dawn."

"Martyrs are long remembered." Esmée felt her mouth go dry. The love potion Rohan had drunk tampered with his hormones. Seeing or even thinking of her triggered the same neural fireworks as a narcotic high. But once affection tipped into dependence, certain reactions grew grotesquely disproportionate. Maxime was exploiting Rohan's obsessive possessiveness to make his moral compass collapse. The Aelbe looked at his future wife.

"... No." He had hesitated. Esmée felt a chasm open inside her. Violating someone's mind like that carried the same consequences as a lobotomy. Her ego was the only thing that belonged to her, and they wanted to dispossess her of that too? Then she understood. All these years, her father had considered her negligible. Unworthy of his attention. Yet, now that she was an asset, he was looking at her. He was hearing her. She had said she wanted to kill him. For that, Maxime wasn't planning on punishing her.

He was planning on brainwashing her. Only Rohan's love protected her, but he would eventually yield to the sirens. Not now. Not today. Not this close to the finish line. I must buy some time. She tried to speak, but her lips would not obey. With one hand upon the artifact that anchored the geas, her father didn't even need to command her verbally to control her like a puppet. It was too late. Please. Esmée would rather die than endure this kind of psychic violation.

"We shall address that matter later. Marriage first." Please! No one listened. All had turned away. PLEASE! Even her tears refused to fall. Her body no longer belonged to her. Hidden in the shadow of the throne, Jasmine watched the king place himself before the marble seat and crown himself with the relic.

"Let us begin." At his words, the princess advanced like an automaton and knelt before her father.

"Rohan Aelbe, it is time to formalize our alliance." After a brief hesitation, the young master stepped up to his fiancée.

"Today, through this marriage contract, we seal the union of two peoples. Rohan, future lord of the Aelbes, I offer you my nubile daughter, Esméralda Lóthandorim, for a wife. As dowry, she brings the southern continent of Proxima. Do you accept this woman, this gift, and the oaths that come with it?" Under her aether sight, Jasmine saw a filament stretch between the two men. A karmic contract?

"I accept." The thread sank into reality, binding both factions.

"Then the bride is yours," smiled Maxime.

"Enjoy yourself." Esmée turned toward her husband and moved to kiss him with the stiffness of a wooden doll. On a personal level, Jasmine had her disagreements with the princess, but watching her reduced to a marionette twisted her stomach. Her dagger itched in her hand, yet she forced herself to endure the charade. Her time would come soon. After a kiss as cold as the Valarythian Deluge, Rohan cleared his throat. From his pocket, he drew a ring and slipped it onto Esmée's finger.

"A token of my love for you. Don't pay attention to the name engraved on it; it's from the past. Today, I only think of you." The gemstone gleamed brighter than Esmée's hollow eyes, but the young master didn't seem to notice as he leaned in again. When he tired of hugging a flesh puppet, he turned toward his new father-in-law.

"I'd rather kiss a willing woman," he grunted. Maxime raised an eyebrow.

"Have you changed your mind about restructuring her mind?"

"No. But I have an idea on how to gain her favor."

"You would free her? Must I remind you that she declared her intent to kill you less than an hour ago?"

"A fiery woman keeps a home warm," quoted the young master.

"Our start is poor, but I don't despair of changing that. If I fail, then I'll accept the consequences."

"Can you? As a young lord, you have a duty to your clan." Rohan clenched his jaw.

"Freedom is the nature of felines. Esmée will never be one of us if she's your prisoner. By freeing her, I take a step toward her… and I'd like to think she'll take one toward me."

"The folly of youth… Let's agree to disagree, then. You are her husband, but I retain veto rights as her father. At the very least, allow me to register you as a moderator of her geas," said Maxime, offering the crown.

"You'll be able to cancel any command but mine, and you're not obliged to give orders yourself." After a moment's hesitation, the Aelbe stepped forward. Jasmine almost growled seeing Rohan fall into the trap. Didn't he understand that by accepting absolute power over Esmée, he doomed any chance of a genuine bond? He understands nothing about women… and Maxime is a master psychologist to play him like that. Rohan grasped the diadem and frowned when the Empyrean refused to let go.

"This circle of metal has crowned Empyrean royalty for four thousand years," said Maxime.

"Breaking it wouldn't save Esmée; it would only destroy the legacy of your future children." Rohan arched an eyebrow.

"I don't see you abdicating."

"My arrogance has limits," the king said with a joyless smile.

"To rule an empire spanning two worlds is beyond me. I'll settle for Proxima; Elysium will be your responsibility." Jasmine's lips curled. Maxime Lóthandorim was the kind of male who was never sated. In time, he would want more. Well, if I have my say, he won't want anything ever again.

"So," continued the king, "ready to receive control of the geas?" Rohan opened his mouth when a crimson spray splashed across his face. The twilight dew of a life, geysering from the sword that had just flowered in the king's solar plexus. Everyone froze as one of the two guards behind the monarch released the bloodstained blade and removed his helmet. Blond hair spilled free. Aydan's.

"I pay my respects, Father," he said, extending his hand. With a sharp tug, he tore a pendant from his sire's neck.

"Let's not waste a Resurrection Token." Seeing the sovereign's heart destroyed by a magical blade, Jasmine focused on Esmée. It was time to see whether the Author would be the second Champion to fall… or would finally take flight. Next arc already complete on Patreon (50+ chaps ahead) if you want to find out what happens next! https: //www. patreon. com/ANovelConcept