THE KING'S POSSESSION

Chapter 105

Chapter 105: Identity

She pointed it directly at Lucian, her hands steady despite the storm raging within her. The cold steel was a mere breath away from his throat, the threat clear and unmistakable.

Lucian flinched as Isabel raised the sword, his eyes wide with fear. He had faced many battles, but none compared to this moment. Seeing the woman he loves holding a weapon against him, made his knees feel weak and his heart pound furiously in his chest. His eyes widened in shock and fear as he stared at the sword's tip, the reality of his situation crashing down on him. The mighty king, who once commanded armies and instilled fear in his enemies, now stood defenseless before the woman he had wronged so gravely. His arrogance was stripped away, leaving only the raw terror of a man facing his doom.

Isabel's chest heaved with the force of her anger, her grip on the sword tightening. Every ounce of pain, every drop of sorrow she had endured because of Lucian, now fueled her desire for vengeance. For a moment, the room seemed frozen in time, the tension so thick it was suffocating. Isabel's gaze burned with an intensity that could have set the world ablaze.

But just as it seemed she might strike, she hesitated, her breath catching in her throat. The image of Liam flashed in her mind—her sweet, innocent Liam, who had been taken from her too soon. She lowered the sword slightly, the weight of her emotions almost too much to bear.

"I should end you," Isabel whispered, her voice trembling with the conflict waging within her. "For all that you've done, you deserve nothing less." She stared at Lucian, her eyes brimming with unshed tears, her heart a battlefield of rage and sorrow.

But she knew that taking his life would not bring her son back. It would not erase the pain or heal the wounds that festered within her. And so, with a trembling hand, Isabel slowly lowered the sword, though her fury remained as fierce as ever.

Lucian exhaled shakily, realizing just how close he had come to death. But the reprieve brought no relief—only a hollow, gnawing fear of what was still to come. Isabel's mercy, if it could even be called that, was far from a kindness. It was the cold, calculated decision of a woman who had suffered beyond comprehension and who would ensure he paid the price in a way that would haunt him for the rest of his days.

She turned away from him, the sword still clutched in her hand, her gaze now fixed on the floor as if she could no longer bear to look at the man who had caused her so much pain. But her words lingered in the air as she spoke, "If I were the one to decide your fate, Lucian..." She paused, her gaze hardening, her words dripping with venom. "I would ensure your death for every lie, every betrayal, every drop of blood spilled because of you."

Empress Ilyana watched her daughter with both of pride and sadness. She understood the depth of Isabel's hurt and the desire for justice. However, she too, knew that vengeance through bloodshed was not the path they would follow.

Isabel's grip on the sword tightened as she continued, her voice cold and unyielding. "But I would not grant you death. No, that would be too merciful. Instead, I would let you live, knowing that every breath you take is a reminder of your failure, of everything you lost."

Lucian's breath hitched as the weight of Isabel's words crashed down on him. The fire in her gaze left no room for doubt—she meant every word. His once proud posture crumbled as the reality of his situation became undeniable.

Then, Ilyana's voice cut through the charged silence, calm but unwavering. "Guards, escort viscount Lucian from this room."

The guards immediatelty moved dragging Lucian while he let out a desperate, tortured cry. "Isabel! Please! You must forgive me! I was wrong and I am sorry!" His voice was ragged with desperation as he reached out, trying to bridge the chasm between them. "Isabel, you have to understand! I never meant to hurt you!"

But Isabel's resolve remained unshaken. She took a step back, her heart heavy with conflicting emotions, but her face was a mask of cold determination. She could not allow herself to be swayed by his pleas. Not anymore. His screams for forgiveness echoed through the hallways as he was pulled farther from the grand hall. But his cries were met with a profound silence, his desperation falling on deaf ears.

Empress Ilyana's gaze softened as she looked at her daughter, noting the fierce strength Isabel had shown. She then turned to the remaining court officials and advisors, her voice firm and final. "King Lucian has been judged, and his fate is sealed. He shall be stripped of all titles and power, relegated to the lowest rank of nobility. His name will be a mark of disgrace, a reminder of his betrayal."

Isabel watched the guards lead Lucian away, her grip on the sword loosening as her anger slowly ebbed. She turned her back to him, unable to bear witnessing the man who had caused her so much pain.

As the door closed behind Lucian, the oppressive atmosphere in the room lifted slightly. The echoes of his cries faded, replaced by the soft murmur of the court regaining its composure. Isabel and Ilyana stood in silence.

Then, Empress Ilyana suddenly clapped her hands together, capturing everyone's attention. The sound cut through the murmurs like a clarion call, signaling a shift in focus. "Very well," she announced, her voice clear and commanding. "Let us now see our victor."

She turned to face Tristan, who was still kneeling in his place, his face hidden beneath the scarf that had become his shield. The tension in the room was palpable as all eyes turned toward him, waiting for his next move.

Tristan's heart raced as he remained on his knees, the weight of the moment pressing heavily upon him. The victory he had fought so hard to achieve now seemed like a bitter prize. He had not anticipated having to reveal himself under such strained circumstances. With a deep breath, he spoke up, his voice tentative yet resolute.

"Your Majesty," Tristan began, his voice trembling slightly, "may I withdraw from this opportunity?"

His words were met with a stunned silence. Isabel's gaze shifted toward him, curiosity mingled with the remnants of her earlier anger. Ilyana raised an eyebrow, intrigued by Tristan's request.

The Empress's expression softened with a hint of curiosity and understanding. She could sense the inner turmoil in Tristan, the hesitation in his plea. "You wish to withdraw?" she asked, her tone a blend of surprise and interest. "May I ask why?"

Tristan shifted uncomfortably, the scarf still obscuring his face.

Tristan remained silent, his eyes fixed on the floor as if he were trying to find the right words amid his confusion. The Empress observed him with a thoughtful gaze, waiting patiently for him to explain. The silence stretched, heavy and uncomfortable, and the tension in the room grew.

One of the guards, unable to contain his impatience, stepped forward. With a sharp motion, he pointed the tip of his spear towards Tristan. "Speak!" the guard commanded, his voice echoing with authority. "Your Empress is asking you a question!"

The room fell even quieter as everyone turned to watch the interaction. Tristan flinched at the guard's demand, his internal struggle visible. He knew that his decision to withdraw might be seen as an act of defiance or weakness, and the pressure to respond was mounting.

Ilyana's calm voice cut through the murmurs of the court as she stepped down from the dais. Her gaze, filled with curiosity and authority, fixed on Tristan. "That's enough," she said, drawing the room's attention back to the matter at hand. "May I know your name then?"

But still, Tristan remained silent with his head bowed, an aura of apprehension surrounding him. His silence only deepened the Empress's intrigue, and Isabel, watching from the periphery, felt a pang of worry. Did this man, after witnessing the chaos earlier, no longer wish to marry her? Her thoughts raced, but they were interrupted by Ilyana's voice once more.

"No?" Ilyana continued, her tone now gentler but still authoritative. "Then, can you at least show your face to me?"

Tristan hesitated, his internal conflict palpable. Finally, he spoke, his voice barely a whisper, "Your Majesty, I am not a sight Her Highness Isabella would want to see."

The mention of her name struck Isabel with a jolt. She turned her gaze sharply towards the mysterious man, her heart skipping a beat. The way he spoke her name—almost reverentially—caught her off guard. Her curiosity was piqued, and a flicker of hope stirred within her.