Chapter 67: Deeper than Outrage...
Keiser remained rooted to the spot, unable to breathe, unable to blink.
Those eyes, blazing, unflinching, were locked on him, burning with a fury that seemed to strip the air from his lungs. He had seen beasts in their final thrash, knights in the grip of bloodlust, but nothing compared to the raw, personal anger radiating from the Saint of Aurex.
"W-wait, Princess...!" Olga stammered, rushing to her side. Her hands hovered uncertainly in the air, as though afraid to touch her liege. Even she seemed rattled, her voice unsteady as she tried to calm the girl she had sworn to protect.
But Althea wasn’t calming.
Her chest heaved with each ragged breath, her hand still raised as if she intended to strike again. Her voice cracked through the night, sharp and venomous, carrying none of the softness the world so adored her for.
"I told you not to come back!" she hissed, her words shattering the silence like glass.
The force of it made even Olga flinch back, her composure crumbling for a moment. It had to be the first time she’d ever seen her princess like this, stripped of serenity, stripped of grace, baring something darker than wrath itself.
Keiser’s brow furrowed.
His cheek still burned, hot beneath his fingers as he gingerly touched where her hand had struck him. The warmth of it grounded him, reminding him that this wasn’t some fever dream. He had been slapped. The Saint had slapped him.
At first, he was too stunned to think, caught between disbelief and the weight of everyone else’s silence. But slowly, unease seeped in. There was something here he wasn’t grasping. Something deeper than outrage.
The princess had cared this much?
He searched her furious expression for an answer, but all he saw was unrelenting hatred.
This wasn’t the six princess he remembered, the one who had stood in the temple, serene as a marble statue, offering blessings to the fallen.
When she prayed over the announced deaths of the tenth prince and his vassal, her voice had been steady, detached, like she was honoring another name on a long, endless list of souls to bless. No grief. No trembling. No special reverence.
But this, this was something else entirely.
Her fury wasn’t a saintly duty. It was personal.
Keiser’s stomach tightened as realization sank in, heavy and bitter.
Perhaps Muzio’s title as the bastard prince carried more than the stain of his illegitimate birth.
Perhaps ’bastard’ was a word others hurled because of the scars he had carved into people’s lives.
Gideon’s bitter disdain. And now the Saint’s unmasked hatred.
What had Muzio done to ignite such fire in them?
Lenko suddenly stepped between them, his hands clenched at his sides, his voice trembling as he bowed stiffly.
"Greetings to the Holy Saint... I request that the princess step back."
Though his words were formal, his eyes didn’t waver from Althea’s. There was no fear there, only a raw determination, even as his lips trembled around the plea.
"Lenko..." Olga’s voice was low and sharp, as she moved closer to her brother, her large frame protective beside the princess. "Don’t get in between them---"
"No." Lenko cut her off. His teeth ground together, his jaw tight. The defiance in his voice startled even her. He wasn’t moving. He wasn’t letting her push him aside this time.
The sting in Keiser’s cheek pulsed, warmth giving way to creeping numbness. His one good eye didn’t dare stray from the blazing red ones locked on him. Althea’s fury burned deeper than her handprint ever could. He couldn’t turn. He couldn’t move.
Until a sound cut through.
The patter of boots. The clatter of armor. The low jangle of chains.
They didn’t need to wonder, it was the knights. The glow of their torches flickered off stone as the noise grew nearer, spilling into the alleyway.
Lenko glanced over his shoulder at the approaching light, his face tightening. Even Olga’s brow furrowed at the noise. The knights were sweeping the streets. Closing in.
Tyron’s throat bobbed as he swallowed, pale and twitching as his eyes darted between the Saint and the torchlight. "A-are they...?" His voice cracked.
Jim and Jill exchanged a look, brief but telling. A wordless conversation born of shared dread.
Olga’s eyes cut back toward them, her voice low and commanding. "What is happening?" She moved protectively to pull the princess’s white cloak tighter, shielding her figure from the stray light. But even then, her gaze lingered on Keiser, sharp and suspicious, as though weighing him against the danger closing in.
Keiser lowered his head, tugging his own cloak deeper over his face, forcing himself to look away from the princess’s burning stare.
Lenko darted him a nervous glance, then turned back to his sister, his jaw still tight. "It’s... they’re looking for us."
The word burned, bitter on Lenko’s tongue. His scowl deepened, and for a heartbeat Keiser was reminded of that moment in the dungeon, the boy’s fist striking a knight’s face, the sound of chains snapping shut, and the cold echo of iron doors slamming behind them.
Olga’s lips pressed into a thin line. Her frown lingered only a moment before she exhaled sharply through her nose. The knights were nearly on them now, torchlight spilling brighter against the walls.
Tyron, Jim, and Jill peeled off from the shadows of the wall and moved instinctively to stand behind Keiser, as though his lone presence offered any shield against what was coming. Even Lenko stiffened, shoulders tight, his body tensed like a cornered animal ready to flee, or fight.
Then Olga sighed, a sound both weary and sharp, and without looking back at them, she turned toward the mouth of the alley.
"Pull your cloaks. Turn around. Make sure none of you look back. Got it?" Her teeth ground audibly as she spoke, her command leaving no room for argument.
She began walking forward, steps steady, every line of her posture radiating steel.
"...sister?" Lenko whispered, his voice trembling as if he barely recognized her back.
"Hurry," she hissed, her tone clipped and merciless.
And so they obeyed. Cloaks pulled low, faces hidden, backs turned.
Keiser, though, risked a glance.
Through the dark edge of his hood, he caught a glimpse of Olga standing at the entrance of the alley, broad-shouldered and defiant, as the glow of torchlight washed over her. The knights had arrived, their armor gleaming, their steps halting as their eyes fell on her.