Chapter 125 The Guest in the Penthouse

Chapter 125 The Guest in the Penthouse
The decision to leave Atheria was not easy for Lyla.
But her body was at its breaking point. Two days after the night of that unsettling question, she collapsed while healing a young silver dragon whose wing wound had been infected by shadow poison. Lysander caught her before her head hit the stone, and for the first time, he was immovable.
"We’re going home."
"I can’t—"
"You can. You will rest. This is non-negotiable."
And though Lyla wanted to argue, her heavy eyes and throbbing head told a different story. So, she surrendered.
The flight to Arthoria felt longer than usual. Lysander carried her with meticulous care, his golden wings flapping steadily to ensure she didn't fall or catch a chill. Below them, the city came into view—the lights of Arthoria flickering like fireflies in the night.
The Luminous Tower penthouse felt like a foreign place after being gone for so long. A thin layer of dust settled on the tables, and the air inside was slightly stale. Lyla sat on the sofa, surrounded by soft cushions Lysander had arranged for her.
"I’ll fix some warm tea," he said, walking toward the kitchen.
Lyla watched her husband’s back, then turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. From this height, Arthoria looked peaceful. No black mist, no shadows, no terror. Just calm, glowing lights.
But that peace didn't reach her heart.
"Lysander," she called out, her voice soft.
Lysander turned from the kitchen, kettle in hand. "Yeah?"
Lyla took a deep breath. These words were hard, but she had to say them. "You need to go back to Atheria."
Lysander’s brow furrowed. "What?"
"You’re a king, Lysander. Your people need you there. Kronos is wounded, Elara is still learning, and those eggs need protection." Lyla looked at him with pleading eyes. "I’m not going anywhere. I’m just going to rest here. But you... you have to lead."
Lysander set the kettle on the counter. His face was tense, his eyes restless. "I’m not leaving you alone. Not with the threat of—"
"I’m not alone. Arthoria has security. Hansen and his team are downstairs. And..." Lyla gave a thin smile, "...I can take care of myself, remember? I’m not the Lyla I used to be."
Lysander was silent. A battle raged in his eyes—between his duty as a king and his heart as a husband. Finally, he let out a long sigh, approached, and knelt before her.
"Are you sure?"
"I'm sure."
He stared at her for a long moment, then kissed her forehead tenderly. "Two days. Two days max. If you aren't recovered by then, I’m coming to get you by force."
Lyla let out a small laugh. "Deal, Your Majesty."
Reluctantly, Lysander stood and walked to the balcony. His golden wings unfurled, and in an instant, he shot into the night sky, leaving a trail of light that slowly faded away.
Lyla leaned her head back against the sofa, staring at the ceiling. The silence was strange—after so long being together, she was finally alone in the sprawling penthouse.
The night breeze drifted in through a slightly open window. Lyla closed her eyes, trying to quiet her chaotic thoughts. But suddenly, the room's temperature plummeted. An unnatural chill crept over her skin, making the hair on her arms stand up.
She opened her eyes.
And in the chair across from her, a man sat casually, as if he had been waiting for a long time.
His black cloak almost merged with the shadows in the corner of the room. His long black hair draped over his shoulders, and his skin was as pale as porcelain that had never touched the sun. His lips were thin, curled into a smile that never reached his eyes. And his eyes—pale blue, cold, devoid of life—watched Lyla like a collector examining a rare item he had long pursued.
Mordred.
Lyla stood up instantly, the Blazing Tides igniting in her hands. The blue fire was dim—far too dim—but it was enough to light the darkness around her. "You..."
"Don't waste your energy, Princess of Light," Mordred said, his voice smooth as silk but cold as ice. "I didn't come to fight. If I wanted that, I would have done it while you were unconscious in the mountains. But I didn't. Because I want you fully aware when I take you."
Lyla didn't lower her guard. "Take me?"
Mordred laughed. A short, joyless sound. "You think I want those eggs? Those cute little dragon babies?" He shook his head slowly. "They are useless to me. There is no power I can harvest from an unhatched creature. But you..." his eyes narrowed, savoring every word, "...you are different. Your blood, Lyla. The blood of the last golden dragon. The blood of a healer that can mend any wound. Even the wounds that time cannot heal."
Lyla felt a cold shiver run down her spine. "What do you want?"
"I want to live." Mordred stood, his steps slow as he approached her. Lyla backed away, keeping her distance. "For thousands of years, I slept in the heart of a mountain, my body petrified, my soul torn apart by a civil war that should never have happened. But your voice... that first roar that night... it woke me. The roar of a soul-unification between the last Golden Dragon and his Princess of Light."
He stopped, raising his hand. In his palm, a small orb of black light pulsed—resembling the Shadow Heart, but darker, hungrier.
"This is the remnant of my soul, Lyla. What is left after millennia of being fractured. With your blood, I can knit it back together. Not to become whole—I no longer believe in wholeness. But to become stronger. Strong enough to take back the world that was once mine."
Lyla clenched her fists. "You're insane."
"Perhaps." Mordred smiled. That same smile—cold, arrogant, and full of certainty. "But you cannot stop me, Lyla. Not in your weakened state. Your husband is gone. The dragons protecting you are wounded or busy with those eggs. And you..." he took another step forward, "...you are alone."
Lyla’s Blazing Tides flared brighter, almost blindingly so. But Mordred was unimpressed. He just stood there, watching the flames with curiosity, like a scientist observing a chemical reaction in a lab.
"Beautiful fire," he murmured. "But fire cannot burn a shadow, Lyla. A shadow is the absence of fire. And I... I am the oldest shadow, the darkest, the hungriest."
Lyla didn't answer. She focused all her energy on the Blazing Tides, trying to gather enough strength for a single strike. But her body was too exhausted. Her hands began to shake, and the blue fire flickered unstably.
Mordred saw it. And he smiled.
"You can't do it, can you? You’ve given too much. Now you are empty." He drew closer, until he was only a few steps away. "But don't worry. I won't take you tonight. Not because I’m kind—I am not a good man. But because I want you at your best when I take your blood. I want you fully conscious, feeling every second as my life becomes whole again through your sacrifice."
He reached out, touching Lyla’s chin with a finger as cold as a corpse. Lyla tried to pull away, but her body froze—not out of fear, but because of something else. It was as if Mordred’s shadow was creeping around her, paralyzing her from the outside.
"Tell your husband," Mordred whispered, his face only centimeters from hers. "Tell him that Mordred is awake. And that I will soon take what is mine."
He released his grip and stepped back. Lyla could move again, but she didn't attack. It was pointless.
"We will meet again, Princess of Light. And next time, you won't be able to run."
Mordred turned, walking toward the door. But as he reached the threshold, he stopped and looked back one last time.
"Oh, one more thing. Don’t bother telling anyone about my visit tonight. Not because I’m afraid—but because I want to see how you wrestle with this secret alone. Will you be honest with your husband, or will you keep it to yourself to protect those you love?" He smiled. "I'm curious."
And then he was gone. Like mist blown by the wind, like a nightmare fading upon waking.
Lyla fell to her knees on the floor, gasping for breath. Her Blazing Tides went out. Her body was cold. Her mind was a mess.
She was alone in the penthouse. But she didn't feel alone. She felt watched. As if from every shadow in the room, Mordred was still staring at her, smiling, waiting.
Lyla shivered. Not from the cold, but because for the first time, she realized what it meant to face an enemy she couldn't defeat. Not with strength. Not with magic. But in a way that was subtler and far more dangerous: by manipulating her fear, by stripping away her sense of safety, and by making her doubt herself.
She hugged her knees, leaning against the wall, and stared at the door where Mordred had exited. Lysander wouldn't be back for two days. She was alone with this secret.
And the secret felt heavy. Terribly heavy.