As Ophelia followed Rin's steps into the fortress, her eyes took in the details of the place… gray stone walls, an open training yard, the scent of burnt wood and iron, and the clash of swords. The place was alive—but in a way unlike the palaces she once knew… this life was built on sweat and toil, not gold and appearances.
Rin stopped in front of three fighters training with intense focus, then pointed to them, saying:
"These will be your comrades, and sometimes… your back when the fight gets tough."
The first stepped forward—a tall young man with wide eyes and a warm smile. He extended his hand:
"My name's Marcus. Don't worry, we're not as scary as we look."
Ophelia chuckled softly, then shook his hand:
"Nice to meet you, Marcus."
A girl with short red hair approached next, her eyes sharp and strong but her features friendly:
"Leah. If you ever need someone to cover your back with a bow… I'm here."
Finally, a quieter girl appeared, with gray hair and soft features. She spoke softly:
"Sarah… I'm in charge of reconnaissance and gathering intel, but I also love baking."
Ophelia smiled—a rare, genuine smile—and said:
"I think I'll find more comfort here than I expected."
Rin commented as he watched them:
"We won't treat you with extra kindness, nor expect pleasantries. Everyone here works, everyone fights. Now… go train, and raise your sword as a mercenary, not as an empire's heroine."
She nodded, then walked toward the training yard, gripping a wooden sword. In her eyes, there was no hesitation… only the focus of a woman who had finally found where she truly belongs.
In the days that followed, Ophelia began adapting to the new rhythm of life inside the Storm Fortress.
She woke with the sunrise, trained for hours on end, sparred with Marcus, learned archery techniques from Leah, and listened carefully to Sarah's advice on tracking enemies without being detected. Despite her background, the group didn't treat her as an exception—and she never asked them to.
On the contrary… she doubled her effort, as if trying to prove herself all over again.
One evening, everyone gathered around a fire burning in the fortress courtyard. The atmosphere was light, filled with laughter and jokes, as cups of simple food and drink passed around.
Marcus smiled at Ophelia and said,
"To be honest, I didn't expect you to last more than a week."
Ophelia replied calmly,
"I didn't know if I could either… but fighting beside you feels like the justice I imagined."
Leah raised her cup and added,
"We didn't promise an easy life, but we promised you won't be alone."
Her words echoed in Ophelia's chest with a sincerity she hadn't felt in a long time.
That night, after the voices faded, Ophelia sat alone, gazing at the deep blue sky.
She whispered,
"Damian… even if you're not here, I know… you're watching."
Weeks had passed since Ophelia joined the Storm. She wasn't just a new member anymore; she had become an inseparable part of the team. She showed skill in battle, but more importantly… she rekindled something their hearts had long lost: the belief that goodness doesn't need a throne to exist.
One day, the team returned from a mission to protect a border village. Children greeted them with flowers, women wept tears of gratitude, and men bowed in respect.
Ophelia looked at the scene and felt her heart—once thought dead—beat anew. This was the victory that mattered, not the applause of nobles or the noise of palaces.
That evening, while everyone slept, she stood on the fortress roof, staring at the sky.
She sensed something… strange.
The same flutter she felt the first time she summoned Damian.
She looked up, the wind teasing her hair, and whispered,
"Damian…?"
Elsewhere, deep within the sacred forest of the spirit world, the elder spirits gathered around a circle of light. Damian's spirit hovered at the center, his form beginning to take shape again, but this time… he was neither trapped nor rejected.
A deep voice spoke,
"You have proven your existence, you whom we once deemed an impure hybrid. You fought for the spirits, for balance. And now, we grant you… return."
After the fire dies, things don't return to how they were—they become something new. Unfamiliar. Almost recognizable, but never the same.
The Carter estate, thought by many to have fallen with Ophelia, had begun to stir again. But no laughter echoed through its halls. No hurried footsteps of servants or visiting nobles. Only silence… as if even the walls themselves were still trying to understand what had become of this family.
Adelia sat by the window, overlooking a garden stripped of color. She stared at the wilted flowers and wondered silently:
"Can something bloom twice?"
"Even a person? Even Ophelia?"
In the capital, upon a throne still warm from spilled blood, sat Oliver.
His heart was heavier than he'd imagined.
He had the crown, he had justice, he had the people's respect… but something was missing.
Something hollowed him from within.
Ophelia.
From the moment she fell—and then rose again—he felt her drifting. Not in distance, but in purpose.
As if she was redrawing her path, one where no one else could follow.
But he saw something in her… in her eyes when she beheaded the emperor, in the silence that followed victory, in the tears she refused to shed.
He saw a woman burying a storm.
The next morning, he summoned her to the palace. It wasn't a formal request.
Just a meeting—between two people who met in the ruins of themselves.
He welcomed her in the imperial garden—the same place where his uncle, the late emperor, once sat plotting ruin.
With quiet sincerity, Oliver asked,
"Do you hate this place?"
Ophelia looked around, her gaze lingering on the polished stone paths, the carefully trimmed roses, the sky above that once bore witness to betrayal.
"I don't hate it," she replied, voice calm and steady.
"But I don't belong here."
Silence settled between them. Then Oliver exhaled slowly, as if steadying something deeper than breath.
"I owe you, Ophelia. I owe the empire you saved. But… it's more than that."
His eyes flickered with hesitation before locking onto hers.
"I want you beside me. Not as a guard… but as Empress."
Time stopped.
Ophelia hadn't expected it. Her heart still bore the imprint of one man—Damian. A promise made, and never fulfilled.
But this was Oliver… the man who never betrayed her. Who stood by her in fire and shadow.
Could she give him that chance?
Would it be betrayal… to stop waiting?
She didn't answer.
She let the question hang, suspended in the air like a star that refused to fall.
And without a word, Ophelia walked away from the palace—leaving behind a question that wasn't political, nor strategic.
It was purely human.
And it stayed burning quietly in Oliver's chest.