Chapter 134 The Shaking Truth

Chapter 134 The Shaking Truth
The wind at the peak of the old Castle blew harder, carrying the scent of damp earth and mist from the valley below. Lyla remained standing at the cliff's edge, her back to Mordred, her eyes staring vacantly toward an Atheria being swallowed by the night. But her mind was no longer there. It was in chaos, tossed between a longing for Lysander and a self-loathing for doubting his love.
Mordred did not leave. He stood just a few paces behind her, savoring every second of the spectacle he had orchestrated.
"You know, Lyla," he said suddenly, his voice soft as a whisper, "I never hated you. I might even... like you. But there is one thing you must understand. This war is not about personal grudges. It is not about thrones, or power, or empty ambition. It is about justice."
Lyla did not move. "Justice?" she repeated, her tone flat.
"Justice for my ancestors. For a slaughtered clan. For a kingdom that was stolen." Mordred stepped closer, took one step, and stopped. "Do you know the history of the dragon empire, Lyla? Do you know who its first ruler was?"
Lyla frowned. This was not a topic she had ever discussed with Lysander. The dragon history she knew consisted only of fragments—civil wars, betrayals, extinction. But details about the first ruler... never.
"The first ruler of the dragon empire," Mordred continued, "was not a Golden Dragon. Nor was it Lysander’s ancestor. The first ruler was a Shadow Dragon. My forefather."
Lyla turned around. Her weary eyes narrowed, trying to read the truth on Mordred’s face.
"You're lying."
"I never lie, Lyla. I only hide the truth until the time is right." Mordred smiled, a bitter smile full of acrimony. "Long ago, before the civil wars, before hatred poisoned everything, the dragon empire was led by a wise king from the Shadow clan. He wasn't perfect—no king is—but he was just. He divided power equally between shadow and light, between darkness and brightness. Under his reign, dragons lived in peace."
Lyla fell silent. She didn't know whether to believe him or not.
"But like all beautiful tales, there were those who were envious. Those who thirsted for power. The Golden Dragon clan, who were merely palace advisors at the time, began to plot a coup. They gathered armies, devised strategies, and one night, while the Shadow King slept soundly in his palace... they attacked."
Mordred paused. His hands clenched, and for the first time, Lyla saw emotion in those pale blue eyes. It wasn't anger, but sorrow. A profound sorrow that had been buried for thousands of years.
"The Shadow King was murdered in his own bed. His family was slaughtered. His kingdom was plundered. And those who survived... those who survived were made into slaves. Concubines. Prisoners of war."
Lyla felt her chest tighten. "You... you're saying your mother was—"
"The last princess of the Shadow King," Mordred interrupted, his voice cold. "She was imprisoned, violated, and forced to bear the child of the Golden Dragon king who butchered her family. I was born of violence, Lyla. I was born of hate. From the moment I was in the womb, I was destined to be the bastard, the son of a concubine, the unwanted child."
Lyla took a step back. Her body trembled, not from fear, but from the reality unfolding before her.
"Do you know what Lysander’s kind did? His ancestors?" Mordred continued, his voice sharpening. "They didn't just seize the throne. They erased history. They buried the truth, replacing it with stories of 'civil war' and 'internal betrayal.' They taught generation after generation that Shadow Dragons were the enemy, that they were evil, that they deserved to be eradicated. When in truth... we were the victims. Victims of the ambition and greed of the Golden Dragons."
"But Lysander—"
"Lysander doesn't know." Mordred cut her off, knowing what she was going to say. "Or perhaps he knows, but chooses to close his eyes. Because to acknowledge the truth is to acknowledge that his throne was obtained through blood and suffering. And he will never do that. He would rather live in a lie."
Lyla bit her lip. Her mind spun, trying to digest the information she had just heard. Was this true? Was Lysander hiding this from her? Or did he truly not know?
"This empire is mine, Lyla. Not Lysander’s. Not the Golden Dragon clan’s." Mordred stepped closer, another step. "I am not seizing a throne. I am merely taking back what is rightfully mine. What was stolen from my ancestors through violence."
Lyla wanted to say something, but her mouth felt stiff. Her gaze was vacant, her mind frozen. In her head, voices collided—Lysander’s gentle voice, Mordred’s cold voice, and the scream of her own confused heart.
"You don't have to choose now, Lyla." Mordred stood right in front of her, his hand reaching out, nearly touching her cheek. "I only want you to know the truth. Because you deserve to know. You deserve to know why I do all of this."
Lyla backed away again. But her foot caught on a stone, her balance faltered, and for a moment, the world seemed to spin.
She fell.
But not to the ground.
Mordred caught her. His cold arms wrapped around Lyla's back, pulling her into an embrace that was warm—too warm, too safe, too deceptive.
Lyla froze. Her chest was pressed against Mordred’s, and she could feel a heartbeat that shouldn't be there, a pulse of life that should have long been extinguished. Her eyes closed, her breath hitched, and within her mind, all the truths she had just heard swirled like a vortex.
"I won't let you fall," Mordred whispered in her ear, his voice soft as velvet. "I will never let you fall, Lyla. Because you are not my enemy. You are... the victim. Just like me."
Lyla wanted to push him away. But her hands wouldn't move. Not because she was paralyzed, but because in this moment, in the arms of the man who was supposed to be her enemy, she felt... understood. For the first time in a long time, she felt she wasn't alone.
"STOP!"
The voice shattered the silence like a thunderclap in a clear sky.
Lyla opened her eyes. In front of them, a few meters from the cliff, Lysander stood with golden fire blazing around his body. His eyes were red—not red from the shadows, but red with fury. His face was pale, his breath ragged, as if he had run non-stop from Atheria to this spot.
"DO NOT TOUCH LYLA!"
Mordred did not immediately let go of Lyla. Instead, he smiled—a cold, triumphant smile. His arms remained wrapped around her back, unmoving, unyielding.
"You've arrived just in time, Brother," he whispered, his eyes mocking Lysander. "I was only... helping your wife stand. She almost fell."
"RELEASE HER!"
Mordred laughed. A short, chilling laugh that made the air around them feel even more frozen.
"Very well. I release her."
He let go. Lyla stood on her own, wobbly, but she didn't fall. She looked at Lysander, and in her eyes, there was something that couldn't be explained with words. Not love. Not hate. But a kind of... doubt. A gaping doubt that nothing could cover.
"What did he say to you?" Lysander asked, his voice trembling.
Lyla didn't answer. She only looked down, hugging her own body, trying to contain the turmoil in her chest.
"I will tell you later," she whispered. "But not now. I... I need time."
Lysander stepped forward, his hand reaching out to grab Lyla. But Lyla backed away. One step. Enough to make the distance between them feel like an unbridgeable chasm.
"Lyla..."
"Please, Lysander. I need time."
Mordred smiled behind Lyla. He said nothing. He didn't need to. Because he had already succeeded. He didn't need to take Lyla by force. With just the truth—the truth Lysander had hidden for so long—he had managed to shake the very foundation of their relationship.
Lysander stood in his place, hand outstretched, but not daring to step forward. In his eyes, Lyla saw fear. Not fear of Mordred, but the fear of loss.
But that fear was not enough. Not right now.
Lyla turned, leaving both men at the peak of the castle. Behind her, Mordred laughed softly—a victory laugh that needed no words. And Lysander could only stand there, watching his wife's back recede, with a heart shattered into a thousand pieces.
That night, for the first time in thousands of years, a king felt defeated. Not by an enemy, but by the truth he had hidden for so long.