Becoming Lailah: Married to my Twin Sister's Billionaire Husband-Chapter 230: The Prize 1

AN ERUPTION drowned out the gasps of the crowd. The heat was immediate, a physical blow that scorched the cool evening air and made Mailah’s horse rear back with a frightened whinny.

Mailah gripped the reins, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Through the shimmering orange haze of the flames, the forest looked different—darker, deeper, as if the trees had stepped closer together to hide a secret.

"The witness," the Herald’s voice boomed over the crackle of the magical fire, "is the heart of the game. She is the prize. The House that finds her and brings her to the altar shall be declared the masters of the Exiles for the next century."

Mailah’s blood turned to ice. She looked at Grayson, her eyes wide with shock. "The prize?" she whispered, her voice trembling. "No. No, I didn’t sign up for this. I’m not a trophy!"

She pulled on the reins, trying to turn her horse back toward the safety of the manor, but Grayson’s hand shot out. His gloved fingers clamped onto her bridle with a strength that was absolute.

He didn’t look at her; his gaze was fixed on the high balcony where a figure sat shrouded in shadows—the King of Exiles. 𝚏𝕣𝐞𝗲𝐰𝕖𝐛𝐧𝕠𝕧𝚎𝚕.𝐜𝚘𝗺

"Grayson, let me go!" Mailah hissed, her panic rising. "I refuse. I’m going back inside."

Grayson leaned over his saddle, his face inches from hers. The silver fire in his eyes was dancing with a frantic, pulsing rhythm. "You can’t go back, Mailah," he whispered, his voice a low, vibrating rasp that sent a shiver down her spine. "The fire has already marked the boundary. If you try to cross it now, the flames will consume you before you reach the other side. You don’t have a choice."

"There’s always a choice!" Mailah argued, her voice cracking. She looked past him, toward the raised platform where the King sat. She opened her mouth to scream, to protest, to tell the ruler of this nightmare world that she was a human being, not a piece in their game.

But as her eyes met the King’s, the words died in her throat.

The King didn’t look like a man. He looked like a statue carved from ancient, weathered bone. His eyes were two pits of endless, swirling void, and the sheer weight of his presence felt like a mountain pressing down on her chest.

He wasn’t even looking at her; he was looking through her, as if she were a ghost. The cold, indifferent power radiating from him was more terrifying than any demon she had met.

Mailah’s breath hitched. Her mouth went dry. She realized in that moment that to the King, she was less than a person—she was a spark of light in a dark room, interesting only until the flame went out.

She slumped in her saddle, the fight draining out of her.

"Easy, Duchess."

A familiar, lighter voice broke through the suffocating tension. Carson pulled his horse up on her other side. He wasn’t wearing his usual playful smirk. His expression was serious, almost gentle, though there was still a spark of excitement in his eyes.

"Don’t let the fire scare you," Carson said, his voice a reassuring hum. "You won’t be harmed. That’s the most important rule. No one is allowed to touch a hair on your head. You just need to ride into the woods and stay where you are. Follow the silver light and the voice of the forest. It will lead you to a clearing. It’ll be over in no time, we promise."

Mailah looked at him, searching for a lie, but found only a strange sort of sincerity. "And what if you fail?" she asked, her voice small. "What if Grayson and the rest of you don’t find me? What if another House gets there first? What happens to me then?"

It was Grayson who responded, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "You will serve as a symbol of victory, nothing more. The House that finds you wins the King’s favor and the right to lead. They will escort you back with the same protection we provide. You are a symbol, Mailah. Not a literal prize to be kept."

"A symbol," Mailah repeated, the word tasting bitter. She looked at the dark woods, then back at Grayson. "And what if the King changes the rules again? What if the ’symbol’ suddenly becomes something else halfway through the hunt?"

Grayson’s expression darkened. The shadows under his cheekbones deepened, and the silver in his eyes turned into a sharp, lethal ring. The grip on his reins tightened until the leather creaked.

"All the more reason for my brothers and me to win this game," he said. His voice was no longer a whisper; it was a promise of violence. "We are Ashfords. We do not lose what belongs to us."

It wasn’t exactly the reassuring "everything will be fine" Mailah was hoping for. In fact, it was terrifying. He wasn’t talking about her safety; he was talking about his possession of her.

But as she looked at him—powerful, and radiating a dark, protective heat—she felt that traitorous "swoon" again. She hated that she felt safer in his shadow than anywhere else.

"Go," Grayson commanded, his eyes locking onto hers. "Follow the light. Don’t look back."

Before she could say another word, Grayson slapped the flank of her horse. The chestnut mare bolted, leaping over the line of fire which parted for a split second to let her through.

Mailah let out a scream of surprise, clinging to the horse’s mane as they plunged into the tree line.

The transition was jarring. One moment she was in a clearing filled with fire and shouting guests; the next, she was enveloped in a silence so thick it felt like velvet.

The horse slowed to a trot, its hooves muffled by a carpet of white moss that glowed with a faint, ghostly light.

Mailah’s heart was still thumping against her ribs. She pulled back on the reins, bringing the mare to a halt.

"Okay," she whispered to herself, her breath coming in short, visible puffs. "Follow the light. Follow the voice. Don’t die. Simple."

The forest was unlike anything she had ever seen. The trees didn’t have leaves; they had long, shimmering ribbons of silver silk that hung from the branches like weeping willow hair.

Every time the wind blew, the ribbons brushed against each other, creating a sound like a thousand tiny bells.

Follow the voice.

She closed her eyes, trying to listen.

At first, all she heard was the bells.

But then, underneath the ringing, there was a hum. It was low and melodic, like a woman singing a lullaby in a language Mailah didn’t know.

It was coming from deeper in the woods, where the shadows were the thickest.

As she nudged her horse forward, she noticed her moonstone choker. It was pulsing with a soft, steady rhythm. Every time she moved in the direction of the singing, the stone glowed a little brighter.

"Great," she muttered, her fingers brushing the cool silver of the necklace. "I’m a human GPS."

She rode for what felt like hours, though the sky didn’t seem to change. The "Obsidian Gambit" felt more like a dream than a hunt. Occasionally, she would see a flash of movement in the corner of her eye—a spectral stag leaping through a thicket, or the glint of silver armor in the distance—but no one approached her.

The forest was alive, and it was watching her. She could feel eyes on her back, thousands of them, hidden in the silver ribbons of the trees.

"Almost there, Duchess" a voice whispered.

Mailah gasped, spinning her horse around. "Carson?"

There was no one there. Only the shimmering trees and the white moss. The voice had sounded like Carson, but it had come from the wind itself.

"This is not normal," she whispered, her grip on the reins tightening. "This is very, very not normal."

Finally, the trees began to thin. The white moss grew thicker, and the singing grew louder, filling her head with a sense of strange, sleepy peace. She stepped out into a massive circular clearing.

In the center stood an altar. It was carved with scenes of ancient battles and star charts. Above the altar, a single, massive crystal hung from the sky, glowing with a pure, white light that turned the clearing into midday.

"The altar," Mailah whispered.

She dismounted, her boots crunching softly on the moss. She felt exposed. She was the prize, sitting in the middle of a spotlight, waiting for the hunters to arrive. She walked toward the altar, her hand resting on the smooth, cold stone.

"I hope you’re fast, Grayson," she said to the empty air.

Suddenly, the singing stopped.

The silence that followed was heavy and cold. The stone around her neck began to pulse frantically, the light turning from a soft glow to a sharp, stabbing violet.

Mailah froze. She turned around, scanning the edge of the clearing. The silver ribbons of the trees were no longer swaying. They were still, as if they were holding their breath.

A shadow detached itself from the trees.

It wasn’t Grayson. It wasn’t even an Ashford.

It was a man dressed in the colors of a rival House—deep crimson and gold. He was tall, with skin the color of ash and eyes that burned like embers.

He wasn’t on a horse. He moved with a predatory slouch, a long, curved blade resting against his shoulder.

"Well, well," the man said, his voice a gravelly sneer. "The Ashford’s little pet. All alone in the big, dark woods."