Chapter 91: The Serpent's Whisper 2 The old, abandoned Chalice estate was a tomb, not of forgotten bodies, but of a forgotten truth. The discovery of the locked box, a final, sadistic taunt from the imposter, confirmed their fears: he wasn't just a man wearing another's face. He was a master of a new, horrifying reality, a reality built on a long-held prophecy and a deep, personal vendetta. He knew they were hunting him, and he was enjoying every moment of it. The locket, a ghost of a past that was gone, was a final, chilling blow. He was not just a king. He was a master of the hunt. The locket lay cold and heavy in Sheila’s hand, a ghost of a past that was gone. The message, a chilling confession, was a final, horrifying blow. "The hunt is over. The game is over." The words echoed in their minds, a haunting refrain that confirmed their deepest fears. He knew. He had known all along. He had been playing with them, enjoying the hunt, enjoying the thrill of the chase, enjoying the

Chapter 93: The Unseen Architect 2 The unveiling of the portrait was a physical shock, a confirmation of the horrific fact they had been building in their imagination. The man who carried Kairo's features belonged to one of the Chalice family, an undistinguished clan, same as the one which had been purged by the Vale family a decade ago. He was not just an impersonator; he was the very definition of a centuries-old prophecy and a close, personal vendetta. "It's him," Sheila breathed, the sound of her own voice low and raw. Her eyes, fixed upon the face in the painting, stood wide with a new screaming comprehension. "It's the face of the man who killed Kairo's life, his identity, his very soul. He's not a king. He's a vengeful god, a monster who got himself involved in a prophecy that was about a serpent that would become powerful, a serpent that would consume a kingdom. And the Vale family. they betrayed them. They betrayed the prophecy. They betrayed the family. They betrayed the

Chapter 95: The Haunting of the PastThe black ebony notebook and the yellowed painting lay on the floor of their sanctuary, a grim proof of the reality which was now irretrievably no longer in question. The imposter was not just an unwitting usurper but an unseen architect of their destruction, a great deceiver in making lies whose entire lifetime had been spent in reaching this extent. His revenge was not just a reaction; it was a lifetime's endeavour.Tate, his face a mask of cold fury, gazed at the portrait, his eyes tracing the face of the dead nobleman."He was here all along," he grunted, his voice low, anguished, and hard."He was a spectre in the palace, a murmur in the shadows. We were so blind. So committed to the crown, to the system, to the man we trusted. We were so afraid to listen to the truth, that we closed our eyes. We closed out Sheila and her fears. We closed out the servants' murmurs. We closed out the knot in our gut."Sheila, her eyes full of a great and terrib

Chapter 97: The Ghost of Memory The warehouse, a sanctuary of sorts, was a tomb. Heavy with the metallic scent of blood and the suffocating weight of despair, it hung over Tate like a shroud. Tate had taken the severed hand, wrapped it in a piece of oil-saturated cloth, and placed it in an open crate as if hiding the horror would somehow make it not be. But the image seared itself into their minds—the pale skin, the savage mark, the silent accusation of a friend betrayed. Sheila sat against a stack of crates, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees. Her face was a map of shattered control. The carefully constructed barriers she had built to shield herself from the memories of her past—the attack on her family, the ruin of her life—were starting to disintegrate. The appearance of Dorian's hand had opened a door she had long kept closed. A small whimper escaped her lips, a hiss of raw, unadulterated pain. Tate fell to his knees before her, his hands held out, not knowing what to co

Chapter 99: The Echo of a Lie The square was abuzz with life, a morbid fascination drawing the people in like moths to fire. Banners bearing the serpent and shattered crown emblem hung from every lamppost, fluttering in the cold wind. A wooden platform stood erected before the palace, draped in red velvet. This was to be another public address by the usurper king, another carefully orchestrated spectacle to consolidate his power. Sheila and Tate, cloaked and hooded, merged with the crowd, senses alert, hearts grim. The air was thick with a mixture of fear and coerced respect. They had gotten this address through their network of sympathizer contacts, knowing that every word from the imposter's lips would be a calculated move. There was a hush over the crowd as "Prince Kairo" mounted the stage, his new set of royal guards behind him, their armor gleaming. His robes were opulent, his mannerisms graceful and princely. He carried himself with an air of absolute authority, a terrifyin