Chapter 6: Dinner Under the Throne

Avira’s hand was cold.

She held Sylvia’s as they walked through the shadowed corridor.

The vaulted ceiling, formed from the skeletons of colossal beasts, cast grotesque shadows.

Their footsteps echoed infinitely in the dead silence.

Beyond an arch carved with serpents and bats,

the vast dining hall unfolded before them.

The high ceiling vanished into darkness.

Countless ghostly flames floated in the air, casting a chilling glow.

A black obsidian dining table stretched a hundred meters across the center.

At the far end, on the Throne of Bones, Ophelia was already seated.

She sat alone, yet occupied the entire world.

Avira pulled Sylvia forward, her steps light as she approached the throne.

She wanted Sylvia to sit beside her— the spot she had long reserved.

However, Ophelia on the throne did not lift her gaze from the ancient scroll in her hands.

She simply spoke two words.

“Come here.”

Avira’s feet froze in place.

The joy on her face instantly stiffened.

Ophelia’s finger tapped gently on the first seat to her right.

The seat closest to the throne, symbolizing supreme honor.

“Sit here with me.”

Sylvia felt two terrifying wills tearing at her from both sides.

Avira’s grip on her hand suddenly tightened uncontrollably.

The delicate bones groaned under the strain.

Sylvia looked up at Avira.

In those crimson eyes—always blazing with madness—

there was the first sign of resistance against her mother.

At last, Ophelia’s gaze left the scroll.

She calmly returned the look of her eldest daughter.

Mother and daughter locked eyes silently.

All the ghostly flames in the hall began to flicker wildly, uneasy, shadows dancing.

Sylvia held her breath.

When gods clash, mortals suffer.

She was the sacrifice.

A flicker of struggle appeared in Avira’s eyes.

She wanted to resist, to pull Sylvia to her side.

But the pressure from their mother crushed the breath from her lungs.

In the end, Avira’s shoulders slumped.

She lost.

She released Sylvia’s hand,

forcing a smile on her face far more painful than tears.

Then, she took Sylvia’s hand again,

leading her step by step to Ophelia.

She personally pulled open the chair made of white bones and shadows.

“Sit, my dear little sister.”

Avira’s voice betrayed no emotion.

Sylvia obediently sat down.

Avira did not return to her usual seat, but sat tightly beside Sylvia.

Rows of black-clad handmaidens entered silently, moving without a sound.

One by one, “dishes” held in crystal vessels were placed on the black dining table— various forms of blood.

Sylvia’s stomach churned violently.

She dared not look anymore.

The warm, semi-coagulated, even faintly pulsating crimson liquid sent her human knight soul into a frantic scream.

She fought the urge to vomit.

Avira, however, acted as if nothing was wrong.

She eagerly scooped a spoonful of deep purple blood jelly.

“Mother, today’s sacrifice is fresh.”

Ophelia did not respond.

Avira didn’t mind. She turned her head, pushing a tall-stemmed glass toward Sylvia.

It was half-filled with bright red liquid.

“Sylvia, try this!”

Avira’s eyes gleamed frighteningly bright, full of anticipation.

“This is the Wind Speaker’s Heartblood.

“A century passes before one can catch a single drop.

“The taste is exceptional—warm and fresh.

“You can even feel its last pulse!”

Sylvia’s face went pale as paper.

She shook her head.

Avira’s hopeful expression cooled inch by inch.

“Don’t like it?”

Sylvia shook her head again.

“Why?”

Avira’s voice grew cold.

“Is it that you dislike it, or you dislike me?”

Here it came!

That fatal either-or.

The ghostly flames around dimmed slightly.

The handmaidens stood frozen, wishing to turn to dust on the spot.

Sylvia felt cold sweat soaking through her intricate Palace Dress.

Her mind raced wildly.

As a Warrior of Ignatius, her instincts screamed—this was a trap.

Flat refusal would enrage Avira.

But forced acceptance would only give this madwoman more ground.

She had to find a third way!

Just as her mind went blank,

Ophelia on the throne finally spoke.

“Her body has just been reshaped. She cannot digest such violent blood food.”

The queen’s voice was soft but carried absolute authority that shattered all resistance.

The murderous intent frozen on Avira’s face instantly vanished.

She looked at Sylvia’s pale face and grudgingly accepted her mother’s words.

Yet, a flicker of unwillingness glinted in her eyes.

Ophelia commanded the handmaidens behind her.

“Bring the First Dew.”

Soon, a handmaiden respectfully presented a crystal goblet.

Inside was a milky white liquid emitting a sweet and strange fragrance.

Ophelia pushed the cup toward Sylvia.

“Drink it.”

“It will do your body good.”

Sylvia looked at the First Dew before her, then at the still-beating Heartblood Avira had offered.

A new deadly choice.

Choose mother, or choose sister?

This choice could kill!

Sylvia’s warrior instincts analyzed frantically.

Choose the Heartblood, and gain Avira’s fanatical favor.

But risk infuriating their mother utterly.

Choose Ophelia’s First Dew, and win the queen’s approval.

But Avira’s wrath might be even more terrifying.

Both choices led to death.

But if she had to choose…at least their mother still had reason.

While Avira was a complete lunatic.

***

Under Avira’s gaze, almost piercing through her, under Ophelia’s emotionless scrutiny, Sylvia’s hand froze in the air for a tenth of a second.

Then, she reached for the cup of First Dew.

The moment she grasped it, a faint snap sounded beside her.

Creak.

Avira’s pure silver fork was crushed in her hand like a twisted coil.

Sylvia’s scalp tingled.

She dared not look at Avira’s face.

She forced herself to drink down the milky liquid in one gulp.

A wave of warm energy slid down her throat, spreading swiftly through her limbs and bones.

Her once weak, powerless body was like a dried sponge soaked in the spring of life.

Even her mental fatigue vanished.

Her body felt better.

But she knew she had just ignited the full fury of the madwoman beside her.

“I’ve finished.”

Queen Ophelia wiped the corner of her mouth with a napkin.

She stood.

Without looking at her two daughters again, she turned and vanished into the shadows of the dining hall.

With her departure, the oppressive, absolute pressure stifling the room vanished as well.

The entire hall was left with only Sylvia and Avira, and a group of handmaidens who had stopped even breathing.

Oppression.

Utter oppression.

Sylvia lowered her head, staring hard at the empty cup before her, trying to become nothing more than a speck of dust on the table.

Avira said nothing.

She simply sat quietly.

But Sylvia could feel

this woman beside her slowly losing control.

Her breathing grew rapid.

Her fingers drummed the table unconsciously.

Each tap struck with terrifying force, etching fine cracks into the hard obsidian.

Time passed by the second.

Each second stretched like a century.

Just as Sylvia was about to be driven mad by the silence,

Avira finally spoke.

Her voice was calm.

So calm it sent chills down the spine.

“Sylvia.

“Do you love mother, or do you love me?”