Chapter 128 The Invisible Crack

Chapter 128 The Invisible Crack
The days following that dream felt like walking on thin glass.
Lyla woke up every morning with the same smile, preparing tea for Lysander, helping tend to the eggs that were beginning to pulse with a more vibrant life, and healing the dragons still in recovery. From the outside, nothing had changed. She was still the dedicated queen, the tireless healer, the loyal wife at her husband’s side.
But inside, something had shifted. A crack. Thin, nearly invisible, but enough to let a cold wind seep through.
Lysander didn't notice. Or perhaps he was simply too preoccupied with his duties as a king—organizing defenses, leading patrols, and deliberating with the elders about the fate of the remaining eggs. Every night he returned with an exhausted body, sometimes only having enough energy to kiss Lyla’s forehead before falling asleep. The discussion about Mordred, about the prophecy, about the secrets he was still hiding... it never happened again.
Lyla waited. But silence was the most honest answer.
"You aren't important enough to know," her inner voice whispered. "You are just a tool. A healer. A decorative queen."
She brushed the thought away. But like a shadow, it always returned.
In Atheria, Mordred didn't need to be physically present to continue his poisoning.
He didn't appear before Lyla; he didn't enter her dreams again. He was smarter than that. He knew that if he kept pushing, Lyla would become suspicious and build a wall. So he chose a subtler way: he planted small seeds around Lyla, letting her tend to them herself until they grew into deep-rooted doubt.
One afternoon, as Lyla was adjusting the bandages on Kronos’s arm, the black dragon murmured, "You are too kind to us, Lyla. Sometimes I forget that you are human too. You have limits."
"I'm fine," Lyla replied with a thin smile.
"No, you aren't." Kronos looked at her with his sharp yellow eyes. "Lysander should pay more attention to you. But he’s too busy being a king."
It wasn't a harsh critique. Just casual conversation. But the seed fell on soil that was already cracked.
Lyla smiled again and continued her work. But that night, when Lysander came home and immediately collapsed onto the sofa without asking how she was, Lyla felt something she couldn't explain. Not anger. Not disappointment. But a sort of... bitterness that settled on her tongue.
"I'm tired," Lysander muttered, eyes closed.
"I know," Lyla answered, sitting in the chair across from him. Not beside him. Not in his arms.
Lysander didn't notice the distance.
The following week, Mordred sent an envoy. Not a shadow, not a black dragon, but a human—an old woman with sunken eyes and tangled white hair. She came to Atheria claiming to be a refugee seeking protection. No one was suspicious.
The woman sat near Lyla while she was resting under an old tree at the edge of the valley.
"Are you Lyla? The one they call the Princess of Light?" she asked, her voice raspy.
Lyla nodded.
"You look weary," the woman said, her eyes narrowing. "I used to take care of many people too. Family, neighbors, anyone in need. But no one ever cared for me in return. When I fell ill, they all left. They said, 'You’ve sacrificed enough. Now rest.' But no one stayed."
Lyla remained silent.
"Do you know why?" the woman continued. "Because when you are too kind, too giving, people forget that you are also a human being. They will see you as a source, not as a person. And when that source runs dry... they will look for a new one."
The woman left before Lyla could ask anything more. No one knew where she came from or where she went. But her words lingered, crawling under Lyla’s skin like venom.
"They will see you as a source, not as a person."
Lyla looked at her own hands—hands that had healed dozens of wounds, that had cradled baby dragons, that had wiped away Elara’s tears. Tired hands. Hands that never stopped.
Lysander never asked, "Are you okay?" without following it up with, "Can you heal this first?"
It wasn't because he was cruel. It was because he was used to it. Used to the fact that Lyla was always there, always strong, always ready.
And Lyla had allowed that habit to persist. Until now.
That night, Lyla and Lysander sat in their tent. A small fire burned between them—not for warmth, but for light.
"Lysander," Lyla called softly.
"Yes?"
"Do you trust me?"
Lysander raised an eyebrow, slightly taken replace. "Of course. Why do you ask that?"
"I just... want to know. Do you believe I am strong enough to bear your secrets? Or do you still see me as a mere human who needs to be shielded from the truth?"
Lysander went silent. The silence was more painful than a thousand words.
"I didn't mean to—"
"I know you didn't mean to," Lyla interrupted, her voice flat. "But intent isn't always the same as impact, Lysander. When you choose silence, you are indirectly saying I am not worthy of knowing. That I am just a decorative queen who is strong enough to heal, but not strong enough to understand."
"I never—"
"You never did, but you also never didn't."
The words hung in the air. Lysander opened his mouth, then closed it again. There was nothing he could say because Lyla was right.
He hid secrets. Not because he was evil. But because he was afraid. Afraid that if Lyla knew the truth about the prophecy, about what might happen to them, she would run. Or worse—she would sacrifice herself to protect the others.
He didn't realize that his own fear was the knife slowly carving away at their relationship.
"I'm going to sleep," Lyla said, standing up. "You should rest too. We have a lot of work tomorrow."
She went to her side of the tent. Usually, they slept side-by-side, holding each other. But that night, Lyla curled up in her blanket, facing the wall.
Lysander stared at her back for a long time, then extinguished the fire. Darkness swallowed the tent.
"Lyla..." he whispered.
There was no answer.
Elsewhere, Mordred sat on his throne, smiling with satisfaction. He didn't need to kidnap Lyla. He didn't need to attack with an army. A few words planted at the right time were enough; making Lyla feel alone in a crowd was enough; making her doubt her husband’s love and trust was enough.
He wasn't destroying Lysander with strength. He was destroying him from within. Shaking the throne of the dragon king not by seizing power, but by stealing his queen.
"Let them mourn in silence," he whispered, his finger tracing the carvings of the throne. "Let the crack widen. And when the time comes, Lyla will come to me. Not because I forced her. But because she will realize that only I can give her what she needs."
He laughed. A laugh that was soft, warm, and utterly deceptive.
In the distance, Lyla shivered in her sleep. Not from the cold. But because in her dream, she saw a shadow of herself standing at the edge of an abyss, alone. In front of her, Lysander walked away, never looking back. And behind her, Mordred reached out his hand.
"You aren't alone," the shadow whispered. "As long as you are willing to believe in me."
Lyla woke up in a cold sweat. Beside her, Lysander was still asleep, unaware of anything.
She hugged her knees, staring into the darkness, and for the first time in a long while, she didn't know whose side to take.
"What should I do?" she whispered to the night wind.
No one answered. Only the cold, growing sharper.