Chapter 198: The Illusion of Choice
The door groaned wider, spilling a shaft of light across the blood-streaked library floor.
"Lorraine?" The voice that was steady, far too steady for the carnage it walked into, echoed through the library.
Lysander. Her brother.
Not a warrior, never a warrior. His fine robes draped awkwardly over a frame better suited to counting coins than lifting swords. He was a man of contracts and ledgers, of trade routes and tallies, not of steel and fire. He blinked hard against the stench of iron in the air, his gaze stumbling from corpses to clashing blades, uncomprehending.
What was he doing here? Lorraine was shocked. Why would he leave his wife and son to be here?
And in that single heartbeat of stunned stillness, the last mercenary saw his chance.
With a guttural snarl, he wrenched free of Aldric’s grip, desperation lending him brute strength. Aldric staggered back a pace as the man’s boots skidded across blood-slick marble, straight toward the figure in the doorway. Not toward Lorraine. Not toward the boys. But toward the one man least fit to stand there.
"Lysander!" Lorraine’s cry ripped out of her, raw and sharp.
Too late. The mercenary’s arm clamped like a vice around her brother’s throat, dragging him close. The blade pressed hard against his ribs, just shy of piercing through. Lysander’s breath hitched, his hands scrabbling uselessly at the iron grip that held him. His lips blanched, eyes wide, wild with disbelief. He didn’t belong in this. He was parchment and ink, not blood and steel.
He had only come because he felt something was wrong. He saw that most of the manor’s guards were dead. He couldn’t stay still and wanted to check on his sister, never expecting to stumble into slaughter.
The mercenary bared his yellowed teeth in a grin, sweat and blood streaking down his face. "Well, well. Looks like the little princess keeps her family close. Fortune smiles on me after all." His voice dripped venom as the blade dug deeper, forcing a strangled gasp from Lysander.
Lorraine’s legs nearly buckled. "Let him go!" Her command cracked, laced with fury, terror, helplessness.
"Not a chance," the mercenary growled, his chest rising and falling in ragged heaves. "You want him breathing, you’ll do as I say. One more step, and he dies choking in front of you. Unless..." His eyes glittered as he twisted the blade against Lysander’s side. "You hand over the boys. And then...maybe... I walk out of here alive and you get your brother back."
Silence thickened, heavy as a storm about to break.
Aldric stood poised, blade steady, every muscle taut with coiled intent. His hood shadowed his gaze, but Lorraine caught the flicker of his eyes that expressed a silent promise. Say the word, and I end this.
But she couldn’t breathe past the lump in her throat. All she could see was Lysander’s wide, terrified eyes, and the cruel curve of the mercenary’s smirk as he pressed the scholar closer, turning him into a living shield.
The chamber itself seemed to still. The clash of steel was gone; only Lysander’s shallow, panicked breaths filled the space.
For the first time since the fight began, the balance of power was not in Aldric’s hands, nor hers. It hung entirely on a trembling scholar’s fragile body... and the blade pressed mercilessly to his side.
And in that moment, a chill deeper than fear crept down Lorraine’s spine.
As if things weren’t already spiraling, Lorraine suddenly found herself ripped from the blood-soaked library and hurled back into the stillness of the mirror lake.
"No!" she screamed, the sound shattering the glassy silence, echoing endlessly over the dark waters. Panic clawed at her throat. This was the worst moment for her to lose control.
"My brother! Let me go! I need to protect him!" Her cry tore into the emptiness, only for her own voice to mock her in return, echoing back from the mirrored surface.
Usually, the Oracle revealed herself before seizing control. But this time, there was only emptiness. There was no spectral figure, no guiding voice. Lorraine’s chest tightened. What was happening?
Then it came: the faint ripple across the glassy water, widening, deepening, until from its depths the Swan Oracle rose. She emerged with impossible grace, her features serene, lips curved in a celestial smile. She walked forward, each step blooming ripples across the mirrored surface, her hand stretching out as if in a gentle offering.
Lorraine’s jaw clenched so tight it ached. She crossed her arms, pressing her hands against her body as fury tangled with dread in her veins. She would not yield. Not now, not when her brother’s life teetered on a knife’s edge.
"I can help..." The Oracle’s voice slithered through the air, smooth as honey, soft as a lullaby, yet threaded with an unspoken threat. Every note promised salvation, every pause hinted at dominion.
"You cannot do this!" Lorraine’s voice ripped through the stillness, sharp and ragged. "My body is mine! You will not take it from me! You cannot trap me here, force yourself into me, bend me to your will! That’s not very graceful."
The Oracle remained silent, her gaze serene, timeless, unreadable. Her hand hovered in the air, poised and patient, eternal as the lake itself.
A chill ran down Lorraine’s spine. She realized, with a cold certainty, that this time the Oracle was not forcing herself upon her. There were no claws tearing at her mind, no invisible hands pushing her will aside. Instead... she waited.
She was waiting for Lorraine’s choice.
She was waiting for consent.
But patience can be a cage as cruel as chains. Lorraine felt it pressing against her chest, locking her in place. Without the Oracle’s permission, she could not leave this lake, could not step back from this suspended world.
It was a stalemate. A silent and invisible trap.
The illusion of choice mocked her. Every heartbeat stretched the seconds thinner, every pulse a reminder that elsewhere, in the world beyond this water, her brother’s life dangled on the edge of a blade.
And with each second wasted here, Lorraine’s hands itched to act, to break free, to reclaim control, even as she understood the terrifying truth: surrender might be the only path to survival, and yet, every step toward surrender felt like yielding to a force she could not fully trust.
What should I do?