Chapter 126 The Secret Behind the Silence
Chapter 126 The Secret Behind the Silence
Two days passed like an unpleasant dream.
Lyla spent her time in the penthouse restlessly, alternating between fitful sleep and lying awake, staring at the shadows in the corners of the room. Every time the night wind gusted, every time the elevator chimed in the distance, her heart raced. Mordred did not return. But his presence was felt everywhere—like a thin mist that couldn't be chased away, like a whisper in the ear that couldn't be silenced.
As the twilight shadows began to lengthen, the sound of flapping wings on the balcony broke the silence.
Lysander landed softly, his cloak billowing in the wind. His face was drawn—dark circles under his golden eyes showed that he hadn't slept much in Atheria either. But seeing Lyla standing in the doorway, a small smile flickered on his lips.
"I’m home," he said, his voice raspy.
Lyla approached without a word. Her hands reached for the edge of Lysander’s cloak, helping him remove it slowly. Beneath the cloak, his shirt was damp with night dew, and the distinct scent of the mountains still clung to the fabric.
"You’re exhausted," Lyla whispered, her fingers touching Lysander’s cold cheek. "I’ve prepared warm water."
Lysander nodded, letting Lyla lead him to the bathroom. In the large marble tub, steam was already rising, infused with the scent of lavender and eucalyptus—aromas that usually calmed Lyla, and which she now hoped would calm Lysander too.
She helped her husband remove his shirt, then his trousers, with movements that were slow and filled with tenderness. Usually, moments like this were filled with warm whispers, occasional light laughter, or playful kisses. But tonight, Lyla was silent.
An unusual silence. A heavy silence.
Lysander noticed. His golden eyes followed Lyla’s every movement, every breath, every faint crease on her forehead. As his body submerged in the warm water, he reached for Lyla’s hand as she busied herself arranging towels on the edge.
"Something is bothering you," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement.
Lyla stopped. Her hands froze. For a few seconds, only the sound of water dripping from the faucet could be heard.
Then she sat on the edge of the tub, her back slightly hunched, her eyes fixed on the ripples circling Lysander’s body.
"While you were away... someone came," she whispered.
Lysander tensed. "What do you mean?"
Lyla took a long breath. And then she told him everything. Mordred appearing from the shadows. His words about the golden dragon’s blood. About his desire to "take what is mine." About that pale blue gaze—cold and devoid of life.
Lysander didn't move. He didn't blink. His face turned into a mask of stone—expressionless, devoid of emotion. But beneath the surface of the water, his hands clenched until his knuckles turned white.
"He... approached you?" His voice was low, barely audible.
"He was here. In the living room. While I was alone."
"What did he say? His exact words."
Lyla frowned, trying to remember. "He said he didn't want the eggs. He said he wanted... my blood. To reunite his fractured soul. So he could live again. To become stronger." She paused, swallowing hard. "He said he would take what belongs to him."
The silence that followed was so thick that Lyla could hear her own heartbeat. And within that silence, she felt something strange through their bond. It wasn't anger. It wasn't fear. It was something deeper—something Lysander might have been hiding all this time.
"Lysander?" she called out, hesitantly.
Lysander looked up. In his golden eyes, Lyla saw anxiety. Not ordinary worry—but a deep, buried anxiety that had been suppressed for years, only now rising to the surface.
"Lyla," he said, his voice trembling slightly. "You are... mine."
The words came out softly, almost like a whisper. But within them was something more than a mere declaration of love. There was a sense of possession. There was a fear of loss. There was a secret.
"Lysander, what aren't you telling me?" Lyla asked, turning her body to face her husband. "You know something about Mordred. About what he wants. About... me."
Lysander looked down. The warm water around him no longer felt warm. He let out a long sigh, then began to speak. His voice was heavy, like releasing a burden carried alone for far too long.
"Thousands of years ago, before the civil war, there was a prophecy. Not a prophecy about golden dragons or shadow dragons. But about a child born of two worlds—of dragon and human. A child who would possess blood that could heal... or kill."
Lyla went still. "Me?"
"Perhaps. Or perhaps your predecessor. But when I first felt your presence in Silverwood, when I saw that light erupting from your nearly drowning body..." Lysander looked up, his eyes meeting Lyla’s, "...I knew you were the child of that prophecy. And Mordred... he has been waiting for you for thousands of years. Before you were born. Before your parents were born. He knew you would come."
Lyla felt a cold shiver run down her spine. "Why didn't you tell me from the beginning?"
"Because I was afraid," Lysander admitted, his voice nearly breaking. "I was afraid that if you knew, you would run. Or you would try to protect everyone by sacrificing yourself—as you always do. I was afraid of losing you before I had the chance to... make you truly mine."
Lyla reached for his hand, gripping it tightly. "You won't lose me."
"Mordred is unlike any enemy we have ever faced, Lyla. He won't attack with an army. He won't destroy cities or kill innocent dragons. He will creep into your life, into my mind, and pull us apart one by one. And when we are at our weakest, when we least suspect it, he will take you."
Lyla bit her lip. "We can fight him."
"We can. But not with strength alone." Lysander looked at her intensely. "To defeat Mordred, I must be honest with you. About everything. About the prophecy. About what might happen. About..."
"About what?"
Lysander fell silent. In his eyes, a fierce internal war raged. Then, he shook his head.
"Not yet. It isn't time yet. But I promise, Lyla. I will tell you. When we are ready. When we have no other choice."
Lyla wanted to push. But seeing Lysander’s weary face, burdened by the weight of millennia, she chose not to. For now.
"Alright," she whispered. "But don't hide things anymore, Lysander. Whatever happens, we face it together."
Lysander pulled her into an embrace. The warm water soaked Lyla’s clothes, but neither cared. In the large marble tub, amidst the rising steam, two souls who loved each other held on, trying to ward off the fear beginning to creep between them.
But in the distance, behind the dark penthouse window, Mordred smiled. He heard everything. He saw everything. And he knew that tiny crack—the secret still hidden—was exactly the opening he needed.
"Lean on him, Lyla," he whispered to the night wind. "Because when he fails to protect you, you will come to me on your own."
He turned and vanished into the shadows, leaving the quiet penthouse behind. Inside, Lyla gripped Lysander’s hand tighter, trying to dispel the feeling that something was watching.
But that feeling never truly went away.