Chapter 137 The Long Table in the Shadow Palace

Chapter 137 The Long Table in the Shadow Palace
The massive dining table was crafted from black stone polished to a mirror-like shine. It stretched nearly ten meters long, enough for twenty people to sit side-by-side. But that night, only two figures sat facing each other at opposite ends. The candles in the center of the table burned dimly, casting dancing shadows upon the walls of the Shadow Palace—a palace that once belonged to the first king, now occupied by Mordred.
Lyla sat upright in the cold stone chair, her back not touching the rest. Before her, a plate of cold food remained untouched. She wasn't hungry. But she had come here by choice—not because Mordred invited her, but because she needed answers. Not for Mordred, but for herself.
At the other end of the table, Mordred reclined casually in his chair, legs crossed, one hand holding a crystal glass filled with a dark red liquid—not wine, but something older, denser, which Lyla never dared to ask about. His pale blue eyes never left Lyla, savoring every second of her presence.
"I didn't expect you to come," Mordred said, breaking the silence. His voice was soft, almost warm. "I thought you would run back into your husband’s arms, cry, and forget everything I told you."
"I don't run," Lyla answered flatly. "I have never run. I only needed time to think."
"And now? Finished thinking?"
Lyla didn't answer immediately. Her fingers tapped the stone table in a slow rhythm that mirrored the unease in her heart. In her mind, thousands of questions were still spinning, but there was one thing she was beginning to realize. One thing that Mordred had perhaps ignored all along.
"There are a few things you should know, Mordred," she finally said, her eyes meeting those pale blue ones directly. "Things you might have never considered because you are too busy with your grudge."
Mordred arched an eyebrow, slightly intrigued. "What do you mean?"
"The dragon clans," Lyla began, her voice firm despite its low volume. "The clans you hate so much, the ones you desire to destroy, the ones you claim robbed you of your rights... they are nearly extinct, Mordred. Not because of civil war, not because of betrayal, but because of time. Because of human greed. Because of the Dragon Slayers who hunt them relentlessly. If not for Lysander... if not for his sacrifice over thousands of years guarding the remnants of what's left... they would be gone. Nothing would remain. Not even the memory of the dragon empire, nor the memory of your ancestors."
Mordred fell silent. The glass in his hand stopped moving.
"You may hate Lysander," Lyla continued. "You may hate the entire Golden Dragon clan. But you cannot deny the fact that without them, without their struggle to survive, there would be no dragons left for you to lead. There would be no empire for you to reclaim. Only dust and memories."
Mordred set his glass down. His voice, which had been gentle, turned cold. "Are you trying to make me feel indebted?"
"I'm not trying to do anything. I'm just telling the truth." Lyla leaned forward. "You say you care about the dragon clans. You say you want to restore the glory of the empire. But what have you done for them? You hide in the shadows, waiting, plotting revenge, while they die one by one at the hands of humans. Lysander, even if you hate him, is the one standing on the front lines. He is the one protecting them. He is the one sacrificing."
Mordred didn't answer. His face, usually full of mocking smiles, was now blank—unreadable.
"So, if you truly care," Lyla pressed on, her voice gaining strength, "why not care for them together? Live side by side? Not as enemies, but as... brothers? Isn't that what your ancestors wanted? Didn't the first king of the empire desire a balance between shadow and light?"
Silence enveloped the room. The candles flickered as if they, too, were holding their breath.
Then, Mordred laughed.
It wasn't his usual cynical laugh. It wasn't a triumphant one. It was real—warm, almost relieved. Like someone hearing a joke after a long time in sorrow.
"A fine idea," he said, shaking his head slowly. "Sharing the throne? Sharing power? I have no problem with that. As long as Lysander is willing to acknowledge me as a brother, to admit that this throne should rightfully be mine as well..." He paused, his eyes gazing at Lyla with a new intensity. "...I could consider it."
Lyla felt a glimmer of hope. But that hope vanished the moment Mordred continued.
"But what about you, Lyla?"
He rose from his chair, walking around the long table with slow, graceful steps, like a predator approaching its prey. Lyla didn't move, but her muscles tensed.
"Are you willing to share yourself with me?"
Lyla slammed her hand on the table.
The strike wasn't heavy—not enough to break the stone—but enough to make the glasses rattle. Her eyes flared with blue-gold fire, her Blazing Tides surging in an instant, surrounding her like a living shield.
"You are insolent, Mordred!" she hissed, her voice trembling with restrained fury. "You show me no respect at all!"
Mordred didn't back down. He wasn't surprised. He simply stood there, looking at Lyla with eyes that were no longer cold, but warm—too warm, too intimate.
"What am I to do, Lyla?" he whispered, his voice soft, almost pleading. "I have tried to hate, tried to forget, tried to focus on grudges and ambition. But out of all the things I've planned, out of all the strategies I've composed... you always appear in my thoughts. The scent of your body... the smell of it... it's like the first rain after a war. Like earth becoming fertile again after being scorched. I can track your scent wherever you are. In Atheria, in Arthoria, even on that castle peak. Your aroma refreshes me. It makes me feel... alive."
Lyla backed away, her chair scraping against the floor with a sharp sound. But Mordred followed her, his hands now resting on the back of her chair, cornering her without touching her.
"I don't want to take you from Lysander by force," he continued, his eyes never leaving hers. "That is too crude. Too primitive. I want you to come to me willingly. Not because I coerced you, but because you realize that only I can give you what you need."
"And what is it I need?" Lyla asked, her voice barely a whisper.
"Freedom," Mordred answered. "Freedom to be yourself, without titles, without duties, without the burden of history you must carry. Lysander loves you as a queen, as a healer, as the pillar of his clan. But I... I only want Lyla. The tired human. The fragile woman. The soul searching for a place to anchor."
Lyla looked down. Her clenched fists slowly loosened. The blue fire around her began to dim—not because she was defeated, but because she was exhausted. Tired of pretending to be strong. Tired of fighting. Tired of being something she never asked to be.
"I won't force you, Lyla." Mordred took a step back, giving her space. "But I won't stop hoping, either."
He turned, walking back to the end of the table, picking up his half-full glass. Behind him, Lyla remained sitting in silence, her head bowed, her shoulders shaking slightly.
"I just want you to remember," Mordred whispered without looking back, "amidst all these wars and intrigues, amidst all the lies and betrayals... there is one place where you can come home. Not as a queen. Not as a healer. But as Lyla. And that place... is by my side."
Outside the palace, the rain began to fall. Droplets pelted the stone windows, creating a soothing pattering sound. But inside, Lyla’s heart was still in turmoil, not knowing where to anchor.
That night, she did not return to Atheria. She did not go into Mordred’s arms, either. She just sat in the cold stone chair, watching the candles burn out one by one, asking herself a question she never thought she would ask.
"Who am I, truly, outside of all these titles and duties?"