NOVEL NEXT Chapter 399: The Wife's Strength (1)
Mikhailis barely managed to remain on his feet, the searing pain in his chest feeling like molten iron coursing through his veins. The brand pulsed violently, each heartbeat hammering painfully, and his body swayed as exhaustion tugged at every muscle. But stubbornly, defiantly, he refused to collapse. Not now. Not when she had arrived.
Elowen strode forward, the rhythmic click of her boots against the shattered stone floor echoing sharply through the ruined chamber. Her presence radiated effortless authority, filling the broken space around her like sunlight slicing through storm clouds. The golden glow of her eyes, sharp yet composed, swept carefully across the battlefield—calculating, assessing, deciding. She took in the Technomancer troopers frozen in place, the web-entangled figure of Auron, and the defeated form of the Enforcer with barely a flicker of emotion. Her silver-white hair gleamed softly, illuminated by the fading flames that clung to scattered rubble. It lent her an almost divine glow, as though the battlefield itself paid homage to her arrival.
Mikhailis felt his heart lurch oddly in his chest, a tangled blend of relief and anxiety knotting his throat. She had come. She was here—safe, unhurt, as commanding as ever. And yet, guilt tightened around his chest, cold and heavy, alongside the hot agony of the brand. She shouldn't be here. She should've remained distant, safe behind castle walls, untouched by the consequences of his reckless decisions. But she never was the type to stand idle.
"I knew you'd do something reckless," she spoke evenly, her voice gentle yet carrying a subtle undertone of exasperation. She halted briefly to glance at him, her golden eyes capturing his for a heartbeat. Within that brief gaze, a world of silent scolding passed—a quiet admonishment softened only by the faint warmth shimmering behind it. "Fortunately," she continued, turning her attention back toward the scattered enemies, "Rodion has been updating me on everything."
A shaky, breathless laugh escaped Mikhailis's lips before he could suppress it, sharp pain radiating from his chest even as he did. Of course, Rodion had. It was entirely predictable—so predictable, in fact, that he'd somehow managed to overlook it entirely. He barely found the strength to glance downward, eyes catching the faint glint of the glasses perched precariously upon his nose. As if sensing his gaze, Rodion's voice echoed softly in his ears, tinged with digital amusement.
<Obviously. Did you genuinely think I would neglect to inform the Queen? Your predictability makes my job far too easy.>
Mikhailis felt a twitch of dry amusement despite the pain, his gaze drifting toward Elowen's own pair of glasses. He exhaled sharply, forcing a smirk through the ache gripping him. "Seems like you've fallen in love with my gift," he teased weakly.
Rodion let out a simulated snort of disdainful amusement, unmistakably smug even without a physical form. <Correction: she has fallen in love with my efficiency.>
Elowen inclined her head ever-so-slightly, the faintest shadow of a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. It was subtle enough that most would miss it, yet unmistakable to Mikhailis's trained eyes—a quiet acknowledgment of the AI's efficiency, perhaps, but also amusement at his persistent charm, even battered as he was.
He allowed himself another shaky breath, the throbbing pain ebbing momentarily, dulled by the reassuring weight of Elowen's presence. The battlefield had gone eerily silent, every conscious Technomancer trooper standing frozen like living statues, their morale utterly shattered by the arrival of Silvarion Thalor's formidable queen. The menacing aura that had once filled the chamber now drained away completely, leaving only an oppressive tension in its place.
Auron, tangled and bound by the remnants of webbing, stared at Elowen in open disbelief, his mouth gaping slightly, his eyes wide and filled with an uncontrollable mixture of humiliation, rage, and a dawning terror. The smug arrogance he'd worn like armor for so long had vanished entirely, replaced by the raw, fragile uncertainty of a man whose carefully crafted facade had been torn apart at the seams.
Beside him, the Enforcer knelt silently, breathing heavily through gritted teeth, the stumps of his arms still seeping blood. His sharp, intelligent eyes held a grim recognition, understanding fully what Mikhailis had grasped moments earlier: the fight was decisively lost, and there would be no turning this tide back in their favor.
But even as relief flooded through Mikhailis at this undeniable victory, an icy, sickening dread crept alongside it, clinging stubbornly to the edges of his consciousness. He was not naive enough to overlook the dangerous political ramifications of this moment—of her presence. If it had been him alone, he could have explained it away, distanced himself from Silvarion Thalor's official stance. As a foreign prince consort, his role was peripheral, little more than decorative in the grand tapestry of political schemes. He could easily have played it off as a personal vendetta, entirely unrelated to royal authority.
But Elowen was different. She represented the throne itself—her very presence here was a statement of aggression, a declaration of war, whether intended or not. And now, standing in this ruined chamber, surrounded by defeated foes, she embodied Silvarion Thalor's direct involvement, an undeniable claim of responsibility that couldn't easily be undone or diplomatically spun. Mikhailis swallowed, feeling bile rise in his throat. He knew exactly how perilous this situation had become—and exactly how blind Auron was to that fact, consumed as he was by his own wounded pride and impotent fury.
Mikhailis's gaze flicked sharply toward Auron, watching closely as realization slowly dawned on the fallen prince's face. His eyes widened even further, as if truly comprehending the severity of his defeat for the first time. His jaw trembled, teeth gritted in helpless frustration. The carefully crafted illusion of calm confidence he'd maintained for so long was rapidly unraveling before their eyes, replaced by something far more primal, dangerous, and uncontrolled.
Elowen seemed unaffected, yet Mikhailis recognized the slight tightening at the corners of her eyes—a subtle signal of her growing disgust toward the fallen prince. It was a quiet judgment, rendered without words but as heavy as any spoken verdict.
Auron's breathing grew ragged, his rage bubbling dangerously to the surface, the tension vibrating visibly through his tangled limbs. His gaze flicked frantically between Elowen and Mikhailis, resentment and disbelief burning hotly in his eyes. Mikhailis felt the danger building, his muscles instinctively tensing despite his injuries, preparing for any desperate, reckless action Auron might attempt.
The defeated prince finally snapped. The last shreds of his noble facade crumbled completely, dissolving into raw, seething hatred. His voice tore from his throat in a jagged, guttural snarl, echoing painfully through the ruined chamber.
"You betrayed me." His tone dripped venom, eyes blazing wildly, every syllable quivering with rage and humiliation. "You chose this pathetic foreigner over a prince, a royal blood like—"
Elowen's gaze flicked toward him, a look utterly composed yet powerful enough to make the air feel charged. Mikhailis noted it keenly—the subtle tightening of her eyes, the slight downturn of her lips. Her calm exterior betrayed almost nothing, yet those small, controlled gestures were louder than any shouted reprimand. He felt the disappointment and disdain radiating from her as sharply as if she'd spoken them aloud. It cut through him like a silent blade, reminding him once again of the gap between her meticulous caution and his reckless instincts.
She moved past him without a word, her stride steady and deliberate, her presence commanding in every graceful step. It wasn't hurried—no, a queen never needed to hurry. Mikhailis watched her pass, feeling as though every step she took was a quiet reprimand aimed directly at him, a stern yet graceful rebuke for the chaos he'd left in his wake. His eyes lingered briefly on her silver-white hair, catching the torchlight and reflecting it like strands of polished moonlight, enhancing the regal aura she always wore effortlessly.
Elowen stopped directly before Auron, towering over him despite their similar heights. Her expression remained utterly serene, an elegant mask that revealed neither hatred nor pity—only the quiet authority of someone long accustomed to power. For a heartbeat, she simply stared at the fallen prince, her golden eyes shining coolly as they studied his tangled, pathetic state. Auron was bound by torn remnants of webbing, his body struggling weakly, pathetically. His face, once proud and arrogant, was contorted into an ugly blend of panic and fury, eyes darting desperately between her and the remnants of his shattered plans.
Then, with the slow, deliberate certainty of someone accustomed to absolute obedience, Elowen raised her hand. Her fingers traced through the air gently, moving with the smooth elegance of a conductor directing a symphony. At her gesture, golden runes blazed to life, bright symbols forming intricate patterns suspended in midair. They flared and shimmered, bathing the battlefield in a glow that seemed almost sacred in its intensity. Mikhailis felt the ancient power in that circle, a hum of magic that resonated deep in his bones. It was older than kingdoms, older perhaps than history itself—raw nature bound to Elowen's bloodline and command.
Realizing the danger, Auron's movements grew frantic, desperate. "No—no, Elowen, stop—!" His voice cracked under the strain, his eyes widening further, losing all semblance of princely dignity. Now, in this final moment, he looked exactly as he was: a frightened, cornered animal. "You can't do this!" he screeched, thrashing uselessly against the webbing. "You wouldn't dare!"
"You were never a rightful prince."