Chapter 133 Between Purity and Deception

Chapter 133 Between Purity and Deception
The night wind at the peak of the old castle was biting, piercing through to the bone. But Lyla did not move. She stood at the cliff’s edge, her eyes fixed on a tiny speck in the distance—a golden shadow racing away from the ruins, away from the valley, away from her. Lysander.
He was gone.
Lyla gripped the hem of her cloak, feeling a gaping emptiness in her chest. It wasn't because she hadn't wanted him to leave; she was the one who had told him to go home. But seeing her husband’s back recede, without a look back, without a final shout of her name... it felt as if a part of her soul was being uprooted.
"You know, the view from here is quite beautiful. But what is more beautiful is seeing it from behind your shoulder."
Lyla wasn't startled. She had felt that presence for some time now—cold, slick, like a shadow crawling beneath the skin. Mordred stood beside her, silent and stealthy. His black cloak almost merged with the night’s darkness, and his pale blue eyes watched Lyla with an intensity that made the hair on her neck stand up.
"You can never just stay quiet, can you?" Lyla said flatly, her eyes remaining on the horizon.
"People say darkness cannot be still. It is always moving, always creeping, always searching for a crack." Mordred smiled. "And the crack in your heart right now... is very wide, Lyla."
Lyla didn't answer. She simply let the night wind whip against her face, hoping the cold could freeze the messy emotions inside her chest.
Mordred stepped closer, standing right beside her. He didn't touch her, but he was close enough for Lyla to feel his presence like a shroud of mist.
"Love," he said suddenly, his voice soft as a whisper. "Do you believe in love, Lyla?"
"Why do you ask that?"
"Because I want to know. Do you still believe after all that has happened? After Lysander cared more for his duty than his wife? After he came to fetch you not because he missed you, but because his clan needed its queen?" Mordred turned, gazing at Lyla’s frozen profile. "Love is illusory, Lyla. It comes and goes depending on who is most obedient. It defends the submissive and betrays the defiant. It is merely a tool for control."
Lyla took a long breath. In her chest, the Blazing Tides pulsed slowly—not with anger, nor with fear. Just... calm.
"You’re wrong," she said softly, her eyes still fixed on the distance. "Love isn't a tool. Nor is it a duty. Love is the purity of the heart. It does not ask, it does not force, it does not demand. It only... gives. And accepts things as they are." She turned, looking Mordred directly in the eye. "Do not confuse love with ambition. Because ambition will run dry, but love... love will keep flowing as long as the heart still beats."
Mordred fell silent for a moment. Then he laughed. It wasn't his usual mocking laugh, but a warm one that almost made Lyla forget the man before her was an enemy.
"You are fascinating, Lyla. Truly fascinating." He shook his head slowly, still smiling. "I have lived for thousands of years, met many beings—dragons, humans, shadows. But I have never met anyone like you. So steadfast. So stubborn. So innocent."
"I am not innocent."
"That is exactly what makes you innocent." Mordred raised both hands, placing them gently on Lyla’s shoulders. He didn't grip or force her; he just rested them there, like a friend offering support. But Lyla could feel the coldness piercing through her cloak. Not a physical cold, but one stemming from the deepest depths of a soul.
"I can feel it," Mordred whispered, staring into Lyla’s eyes. "Your vulnerability. You are tired, Lyla. Tired of being strong. Tired of smiling while your heart is breaking. Tired of giving without ever receiving. And here, on this peak, you seek a place to rest. Not to hide, but to... breathe."
Lyla bit her lip. She wanted to argue, but no words came out. Because Mordred was right. And that was what hurt the most.
"I won't persuade you," Mordred continued, his voice growing quieter, deeper. "I won't seduce you with sweet words or false promises. But I want to tell you one thing, Lyla."
He leaned in, his lips close to Lyla’s ear. They were very close. Very, very close.
"Lysander might surrender everything to me."
Lyla turned her head. Fast. Too fast. Their faces were only centimeters apart. Her eyes locked with Mordred’s—cold, pale blue, but strangely, in this moment, looking so... honest.
"What?" Lyla whispered, barely audible.
"The throne. Power. The entire Golden Dragon clan. He will surrender it all, if it means you are safe."
Lyla shook her head, slowly but firmly. "Impossible. Lysander would never—"
"Impossible? Are you sure?" Mordred smiled. A smile that made Lyla doubt. "You know him better than anyone. Isn't he the type to sacrifice everything for the one he loves? Even if that sacrifice destroys him?"
Lyla went still. Because she knew. Lysander would do exactly that. Without hesitation. Without a second thought.
"And do you know what else he will surrender?" Mordred whispered, his breath brushing Lyla’s cheek. "You. He will surrender you to me."
"Nonsense."
"Is it? Think about it, Lyla. If I threaten to destroy his entire clan, what will he do? If I say the only way to save them all is to let you go, what will he choose?" Mordred sighed, feigning pity. "Poor thing. Loved, but always the second priority after duty."
Lyla clenched her fists. Her chest heaved as she fought an emotion she couldn't explain. Not anger. Not sadness. But a sort of... bitterness settling on her tongue.
"I am not here because of your persuasion, Mordred," she finally said, her voice firm despite the tremor. "I am here because I seek a quiet place to think. To breathe. To remember who I am outside of all the titles and duties. Don't try to deceive me with your honeyed words. I will not fall."
Mordred didn't retreat. He only smiled, and then gently, his nose brushed Lyla’s neck. It wasn't a kiss. It wasn't a bite. Just a touch. But a touch that made Lyla freeze.
"Your scent is intoxicating," Mordred murmured, his eyes closed. "Like the first rain after a drought. Like a flower blooming in the middle of a desert. I can smell it every time you pass, every time you sleep, every time you cry in silence."
Lyla pushed Mordred away. Gently, but firmly. Enough to make him step back.
"Enough," she said, her breath hitching. Not from lust, but from anger—anger at Mordred for constantly testing her limits, and anger at herself for being unable to completely hate him.
Mordred wasn't surprised. He simply smiled and stepped back, giving her space.
"As I said, I won't persuade you. I will only tell you the truth." He bowed slightly, like an actor ending a performance. "The decision is in your hands, Lyla. But remember, when you are tired of running, tired of being strong, tired of waiting for Lysander to say the words you want to hear... I will be here."
He turned, stepping toward his own shadow.
"Not because I am good. But because you deserve someone who sees you as Lyla, not as a queen."
Lyla bit her lip. Her chest was tight, her eyes stung, but she did not cry. Not in front of Mordred.
She simply stood at the edge of the cliff, gazing toward Atheria faintly visible in the distance, where Lysander might have already landed, might have already returned to lead his clan, might have already forgotten her.
"What should I do?" she whispered to the night wind.
But the wind did not answer. There was only the growing cold and a shadow slowly fading away.