Duri’s voice was low, fraying at the edges like torn parchment. His fingers twitched—once, twice—before curling into fists. "Do you have anything to do with this?"

  Amarda didn’t flinch. Her lips pressed into a razor-thin line, the only betrayal of her rage. Silence stretched, thick enough to choke on.

  Her eyes flickered, a flash of contempt—her pupils constricted, sharp as daggers. The sharp edge of her gaze seemed to cut through him, leaving nothing but raw exposure. Her jaw tightened, clenched so tight that a muscle feathered along her cheek. And her hands... her hands trembled, but not from fear. It was the tremor of repressed violence. She gripped the armrests of her throne, knuckles bleaching white under the pressure.

  "If you want to blame someone, blame yourself," she spat, her voice a venom wrapped in silk.

  Duri’s breath hitched. A flicker of pain crossed his face—quickly smothered by the weight of the crown. His shoulders sagged, just for a heartbeat, before he forced them straight, the weight of her contempt pressing down on him.

  Amarda’s gaze hardened, her voice a low growl, then rising—a crescendo of bitterness that seemed to tear at her throat. "Darga’s first princess is me. I had the first right to choose any partner I wanted, but I chose you. I chose you believing that you were the single owner of your country’s might. But it wasn’t until after our marriage that I discovered you were merely a mere brute," she sneered, the term like poison on her tongue. Her nostrils flared, as if even his scent offended her now. "And all of your inventions were created by your brother. Because of your deception, I wasted a golden opportunity, and now all those scums dominate the Big Three, while I preside over this mudcrap."

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  Her laugh was brittle, mocking—barely more than a cough of disdain.

  "Only our son ascends." Her gaze locked onto Duri’s, unblinking. It was the stare of a predator cornering its prey, and in that moment, Duri could feel the weight of it. His throat worked, but words died before they could form. His silence was answer enough.

  Amarda’s eyes flickered, just for a moment, as though something deep inside her cracked, but it was gone too quickly to catch. She opened her mouth, but her voice faltered. A twitch at her temple betrayed the crack in her icy composure. "I won’t let my son suffer too. I—"

  Then, the explosion tore through the air.

  Glass shattered. Distant screams echoed through the halls.

  Duri’s eyes widened in genuine shock. His body instinctively lunged forward, a part of him wanting to protect, to act. But then he froze, torn. Empire or wife? The conflict tore through him, but in the end, his limbs remained frozen.

  Amarda didn’t even turn toward the chaos. Instead, she exhaled slowly, deliberately, as though the explosion were no more than a nuisance. "Deal with her," she commanded, her tone cold and unwavering.

  She rose from her seat, her lips curling—not into a smile, but into a silent warning. "If I die, so does your empire." Her fingers brushed Duri’s arm, light as a spider’s legs, but there was nothing gentle about the touch. "Think carefully, your excellency The dead don’t get second chances”

  And with that, she was gone, leaving behind the scent of jasmine and poison, a lingering reminder of her power over him.

  Duri remained frozen, a prisoner in his own throne room as the shadows swallowed the last scent of jasmine—and the last of his resolve.

  The silence was shattered. A soldier stumbled in, his report a breathless torrent of fear. "Emperor! Our castle is attacked! The champion, Antheros... she has breached the perimeters!"

  For the first time, a flicker of true fire ignited in Duri’s eyes. He stood, the weight of his wife's contempt replaced by the duty of his crown. The fear on his face hardened into pure resolution.

  "You will stop her," he commanded, his voice ringing with an authority he had not possessed moments before.