The Heroine is My Stepsister, and I'm her Final Boss-Chapter 63: Eli-zabeth

"’Choose?’" she echoed, her laughter hollow and edged with something ancient. "You think this is a choice, Atlas? You think I ’wanted’ this?"

Her mental voice cracked, raw as exposed bone.

"I was born into this role. Chained to it before I could walk. Do you know what it’s like to have your entire life mapped out in blood and treaties?"

Atlas stepped back, his spectral form falling back. The chill of her anger seeped through him like a curse, cold enough to remember. It felt like home, if "home" was a coffin lined in frost. His hands twitched, fingers curling inward—reflex, defense, denial.

"What are you saying?" he asked, though he already knew. He knew. He just couldn’t breathe it in yet.

"Do you really think I’m just a spy? Just a captain soldier of the empire?" she said quietly, each syllable sharp as ice splinters. "No... that was never enough. Not strong enough reason for two collasal party to wage war."

The wind outside screamed through the cavern mouth like a dying animal, and the ground beneath them trembled ever so slightly—as if the world itself leaned closer to listen.

Eli—Elizabeth—lifted her chin. The air around her thickened, coalescing into cold. Ice crept along the stone floor in veins, crystalizing up jagged stalactites, and tracing her outline with a fragile, merciless crown. Her silver hair, once muddied by travel and shadow, now shimmered in ghostlight. She wasn’t just a woman. She was myth made manifest.

"I am Elizabeth Orelous Austus. Empress of the Orelous Empire. Heir to the Frostweaver bloodline. And you..." She paused. Her voice trembled, not from fear—but from something worse.

"You were never supposed to live this long....Atlas."

Atlas’s breath caught in his throat.

No, it shattered.

His mind clawed backwards, scrambling through memories—her laughter over burnt meat by the fire; her breath hitching when he’d pulled her out of the swamp and mocked her for smelling worse than a rotting wyvern; her silence, that horrible silence, when he’d fallen in battle for her. Her hands on his face before he blacked out. The way she cried when she thought no one saw.

"All those times..." he whispered. "You ’knew.’"

"Yes," she hissed, and the cave echoed with the sound of ice fracturing. Shards formed between her fingers, curling into blades. "I knew. I knew the moment Henry sent you into the Dark Continent. The moment my mages tracked Lara. The moment I watched you throw your life away—for me."

The daggers trembled in her grip. Then cracked. Then shattered.

"I couldn’t let you die. Not again. Not when I’d already lost you once."

Silence. Like the pause before avalanche. Like breath before confession.

"Shut up," Atlas snarled, but it came out strangled. Weak. Like a dying thing trying to pretend it still had teeth.

Elizabeth didn’t flinch.

"Do you know why the Empire fears you, Atlas? Why they sent me? Assassins. Armies. Plagues in your path?" Her gaze locked with his—a violet blaze in a cathedral of ice. "Because you’re a void—a fracture in the script. You defy fate. You rewrite laws. You are unchained—and my Empire... we don’t know how to bind you."

"Then why not kill me yourself?" he spat. "You’ve had a hundred chances."

Her face twisted, anguish and rage bleeding into one.

"Because I love you!" she screamed.

"I wasn’t supposed to. Just like the demon attack wasn’t supposed to happen. Just like you weren’t supposed to matter."

The shards fell. Not fast—softly, like snow. But each one stabbed into the ground with the weight of a coffin lid. Final. Cold.

Elizabeth’s shoulders slumped.

"You saved me, Atlas. You fed me. Protected me. And eventually... I fell."Her voice dropped to a whisper.

"No matter how much I tried to suppress these feelings, they came blurting out in the end. After you died for me. After you sacrificed yourself for me."

Atlas inhaled sharply. Something hot pressed against his throat—grief? No, not just that. Something worse. It was understanding.

"...But in the end..." he began.

"...But in the end," she echoed, eyes damp, "I chose the Empire. Just like Henry chose Berkimhum."

His jaw clenched. Muscles twitching. "You’re no different from him."

She didn’t deny it. She didn’t flinch.

"Worse," Elizabeth whispered. "He sent you to die. I let you live."

A silence stretched between them—longer than it had any right to be. It became a second skin, a vacuum so absolute it hurt to breathe.

Atlas’s mind flashed, just for a second, to a field of white poppies. A moment in a past life—when he had stood before his pet’s grave, wondering if love always meant choosing someone over someone else. He hadn’t found the answer then. He didn’t have it now.

"Why now?" he said finally. "Why reveal this here? You could’ve still pretended. Still lied like the liar you are."

Her laugh was brittle. Like a scream buried under glass.

"...Because the war is here.... Because I need you to hate me now. To fight me with everything you’ve got. Only then... only then can the balan—"

Her words choked. As if her throat refused to echo the lie one more time.

She closed her eyes. freewёbnoνel.com

I am Elizabeth Orelous Austus, she reminded herself. Empress. A leader. The only Sacrifice.

But when she opened them again, all that cracked.

"...Atlas..."His name was no longer a threat, but a plea.

"...join me."

The silence that followed was so deep, the ice around them stopped humming.

"Join my Empire...I will make you Emperor. You and I—we will rule together. Side by side. No shadows between us. No lies anymore."

She stepped forward. Just one step.

It was enough to blur the line between illusion and truth. She wasn’t the Frost Empress. She wasn’t a spy. She was just Eli, the girl with bruised knuckles and a crooked smile. The one who pulled arrows from his back and cried when he couldn’t see.

"I don’t care what it costs," she whispered. "Not for this moment. Not for you."

Atlas stared.

She was close enough now that he could see her breath, hanging between them like a ghost. Her lips were trembling. Her fingers, once so steady on a blade, now twitched helplessly at her side.

"...Say something," she said, almost inaudible.

Atlas did.

He stepped forward—and the walls of the cave creaked, as if the world itself protested. His spectral form flickered, strained, barely holding shape.

"I..." His voice cracked. "I ....can’t."

Her face crumpled—but she didn’t cry.

"I want to," he said. "Gods, I want to. But if I say yes, then what do we do? Burn Lara? Betray the others? Rewrite every war, every choice, every life to fit what we want?"

He stopped.

His voice dropped to a whisper."...I’m not ready to become my future self. Not yet."

A breath.

A pause.

His eyes never left her.

Then, softly, "I know." She voiced.

Another silence fell—but this one didn’t cut.

It ached.

A gentle, spreading ache. Like frostbite that only hurts when it starts to thaw.

Her hand rose—then stopped halfway, uncertain.

He didn’t move.They stood there, suspended. Two ghosts caught between past and future. Between love and war. Between death and everything that came after.

But right now—

A tear slid down Elizabeth’s cheek. It crystallized before it reached her jaw and shattered on the floor.

"I would’ve loved you in another life," she said, softly.

Atlas didn’t answer.

He didn’t have to. The silence between them spoke louder than any vow.

And as the frost crept back in, sealing the walls with silence once more, Atlas finally turned.

One heartbeat passed.

Then another.

But he did not look back.

The shard that had landed near his foot glinted once. Then cracked.

Like a memory too fragile to survive the warmth.

________________

The Book of the Damned

_________________

Chapter 1: The Path of Unbound Desire

On the futility of restraint and the glory of hunger that gnaws at all boundaries.

I. The Mortal Delusion of Chains

The weakling philosophers preach restraint. They whisper of "moderation," of "taming the beast within," as if desire were a rabid dog to be leashed or slaughtered. They build shrines to asceticism, idolizing the hollow-eyed hermit who starves his cravings into submission. Fools. To starve a hunger is to feed it—in secret, it grows fangs. The mortal who denies their thirst for power, pleasure, or ruin only binds themselves tighter to the wheel of craving. Their "discipline" is a lie, a flimsy veil over the truth: *all beings are born of hunger, and to hunger is to touch the infinite.

II. The First Sin: Obedience

What is obedience but the first betrayal? The moment a soul swallows the command *"thou shalt not"*—there, it surrenders its birthright. The Abyss does not bargain. It does not barter with "should" or "ought." It *demands*. To walk the Path of Unbound Desire is to vomit up the poisoned chalice of "duty." Let the angels kneel and the saints grovel. You, O Unbound, will claw the throat of every "should" that dares to shackle you.

III. The Feast of the Impossible

Mortals fear their hungers because they see them as finite. They believe the lie that to want is to lack. But the true disciple of the Abyss knows: desire is not a void—it is a *gateway*. Crave the impossible. Lick the flames of the unreachable. Let your teeth sink into the raw marrow of paradox. To hunger for what cannot be grasped is to already possess it. The cosmos itself is a banquet laid bare for those who refuse to be guests. Tear into it. The stars are not distant fires—they are crumbs waiting for your jaws.

IV. The Heresy of Enough

There is no "enough." The mortal who claims satisfaction has merely traded one cage for another. To say *"I have enough"* is to carve a tombstone for your own becoming. The Unbound know this: the only sin is stasis. Let the kings hoard their gold, the lovers cling to their fleeting ecstasies, the monks rot in their silence. You will not stop. You cannot stop. Your hunger is the engine of the infinite, the crack in the world’s armor. To rest is to die. To desire without end is to be eternal.

V. The Ritual of Devouring

Every desire is a sacrament. Every craving, a hymn. To walk this path is to become both predator and prey. Swallow your own hungers. Let them ferment in the acid of your will. Then regurgitate them as something fouler, grander. Feast on the flesh of your own ambitions. Drink the blood of your regrets. The Abyss rewards not the meek, but the ravenous—the ones who dare to eat even their own tails in the pursuit of more.

Page 1

________________