Chapter 201: Have you ever thought about changing sides?

Morgana opened her mouth.

No sound came out.

She closed it.

She opened it again.

“I-I…” her voice faltered, unbecoming of a ducal heiress known for making grown knights tremble. “Th-this doesn’t make sense—”

Elizabeth raised her hand.

Not aggressively. Not authoritatively.

Just… a simple gesture.

And Morgana stopped speaking immediately, as if her own body had decided to obey before her mind.

“Breathe,” Elizabeth said, with the same irritating calm as always. “Think. Then speak.”

Morgana breathed.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“You’re saying…” she began, choosing each word with excessive care, “…that Damon was sent to Arven by you. Not by my father. Not because of some internal political intrigue. But… to gain experience?”

Elizabeth nodded slightly, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“Real experience,” she corrected. “Out of my shadow. Out of the direct control of Wykes Manor. Arven was… convenient.”

Damon kept his gaze down.

Very low.

The ground had never seemed so interesting.

Morgana blinked.

“Convenient…” she repeated. “My entire duchy was ’convenient’.”

“Don’t dramatize,” Elizabeth replied, crossing her arms again. “Arven has good training grounds, decent knights, and a duke too predictable to be truly dangerous. It was a relatively safe environment to test limits.”

Morgana felt her jaw clench.

“Testing limits… of a boy you knew my father would try to restrain? Use? Mold?”

Elizabeth tilted her head.

“Yes.”

The answer came too quickly.

Too simple.

Morgana gasped. “YOU—”

“—knew exactly what you were doing,” Elizabeth finished for her, without raising her voice. “And she also knew you would be there.”

Silence fell like an invisible blade.

Morgana felt the impact of that sentence more than any blow in the duel.

“So…” she murmured, “…you counted on me?”

Elizabeth didn’t answer immediately.

She observed.

She assessed.

Then she shrugged.

“I counted on your existence,” she said. “On your nature. On the fact that you wouldn’t allow it to be broken. Well, I knew some things, things I can’t talk about, and I know you’re fair.”

Morgana swallowed hard.

“You used me.”

“Yes.”

No beating around the bush.

No apologies.

“But,” Elizabeth continued, “I also brought him back the moment I realized Arven had ceased to be a place of learning and had become a gilded cage.”

Damon finally looked up.

“Technically… I left before that,” he murmured.

Elizabeth just glanced at him.

“You escaped.”

“I left strategically.”

“Escaped.”

“Tactical retreat.”

“Escaped.”

“…okay.”

Morgana ran a hand over her face.

“Wait,” she said suddenly. “You said something earlier. About… training.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Damon had already been training even before he arrived at Arven.”

Morgana’s heart raced.

“By whom?”

Elizabeth answered without hesitation:

“Esther Deathstriker.”

The world stopped.

Literally.

The air seemed to grow colder.

Damon even felt a shiver run down his spine.

Morgana froze completely.

Eyes wide.

Breath held.

“…You’re kidding me,” she whispered.

Elizabeth maintained a neutral expression.

“I don’t usually joke about names of that weight.”

Morgana felt her stomach drop.

Esther Deathstriker.

The Ice Goddess.

The Imperial General who had devastated three war fronts single-handedly.

The woman whose defeat had been so absurd that half the continent refused to believe she was alive—let alone… exiled.

“She…” Morgana swallowed hard, “…she trained him?”

Elizabeth nodded.

“From a young age.”

Morgana slowly turned her face to Damon.

He looked away.

“…Hi.”

Morgana’s brain short-circuited.

“You…” she pointed at him, her hand trembling, “…were trained by ESTHER DEATHSTRIKER…”

“In spear,” he corrected, almost automatically.

That didn’t help.

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE IT ANY BETTER!”

She began pacing back and forth, gesturing wildly.

“Do you have any idea what this means?! What this SAYS about you?! My father wanted to turn you into a war dog, and you were already being molded by one of the greatest living monstrosities in military history?!”

“She’s actually quite calm when she’s not trying to kill you,” Damon commented.

“DAMON!”

Elizabeth cleared her throat slightly.

“Anyway,” Elizabeth continued, “Esther isn’t exactly…suited for all kinds of training.”

Morgana stopped.

She turned slowly.

“…What?”

Elizabeth shrugged.

“Esther isn’t good with swords.”

Silence.

Complete.

Absolute.

Morgana’s face went…blank.

Not in shock.

Not in anger.

Blank.

“…Sorry,” she said slowly. “Repeat that.”

“Esther isn’t good with swords,” Elizabeth repeated, completely naturally.

Morgana’s brain tried to process it.

Failed.

“She…” the voice came out weakly, “…is literally called ’The Ice Goddess.’ She won armed duels against master swordsmen. She—”

“With spears,” Elizabeth interrupted.

Morgana blinked.

“…What?”

“Esther Deathstriker is the Empire’s best spearwoman,” Elizabeth explained, as if she were talking about the weather. “Not the best swordswoman.”

Damon cleared his throat.

“Technically, she’s also excellent with a sword.”

Elizabeth turned to face him.

“Damon.”

“Yes?”

“No.”

“…okay.”

Morgana felt something click inside her head.

“You’re telling me,” she spoke too slowly, “…that you sent Damon to Arven because… you needed him to learn swordsmanship… because the strongest woman on the continent wasn’t ’good enough’ at it?”

Elizabeth tilted her head.

“Yes.”

“THAT DOESN’T MAKE SENSE!”

Elizabeth crossed her legs again.

“It does, if you understand that ’good’ and ’adequate’ aren’t synonyms.”

Morgana opened her mouth to retort.

She stopped.

She thought.

She thought some more.

And… she realized.

“Esther teaches survival,” she murmured.

Elizabeth smiled.

A small smile.

Dangerous.

“Exactly.”

Silence returned.

Heavier.

Denser.

“Arven,” Elizabeth continued, “has schools. Has tradition. Has refined techniques. Has… limits.”

She stared directly at Morgana.

“Esther teaches killing.”

Damon felt a chill.

Morgana closed her eyes for a moment.

When she opened them, the fury had given way to something far more complex.

“So…” she murmured, “…you wanted him to learn control.”

“Precision.”

“Rules.”

“Structure.”

Elizabeth nodded at each word.

“And you,” she pointed at Morgana, “were part of that environment. An exceptional swordswoman, restrained by politics. Frustrated. But… proper.”

Morgana laughed humorlessly.

“Proper isn’t the word my father would use.”

“Your father is irrelevant,” Elizabeth replied immediately.

Damon’s eyes widened.

Morgana’s did too.

“You…” Morgana took a deep breath, “…knew I would get involved.”

“I expected it,” Elizabeth corrected. “But I didn’t count on feelings so… intense.”

The silence became awkward.

Damon wanted to dig a hole in the ground and bury himself in it.

Morgana felt her face heat up.

“That’s beside the point,” she murmured.

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“Attacking one of my knights with the intent to kill is the point.”

“…Touché.”

Elizabeth stood up from the armchair.

The simple act made them both even more tense.

She walked slowly toward them.

“Morgana Arven,” she said, “your hatred is understandable. Your reaction… not.”

She stopped in front of her.

“Damon doesn’t owe you explanations that put him at risk. Not to you. Not to your father.”

Morgana clenched her fists.

“So… what do I do with all this?”

Elizabeth thought for a moment.

“Talk,” she replied. “Shout, if you want. Hit him… verbally.”

Damon raised his head.

“Preferably ’verbal,’ please.”

Elizabeth ignored him.

“But don’t wield a sword against someone you don’t want to lose.”

Morgana felt the weight of that sentence.

She took a deep breath.

“…You’re a terrible woman.”

Elizabeth smiled.

“I know.”

She turned to Damon. “And you.”

“Me?”

“Go take a shower. You’re filthy, bleeding, and emotionally unstable.”

“That was very specific.”

“Go.”

He stood up immediately.

Before leaving, he looked at Morgana.

They stared at each other.

Nothing was said.

But a lot… remained.

When Damon left, Elizabeth sat back down.

“Now,” she said, “do you want to talk like an adult… or would you prefer another attempted murder?”

Morgana sighed.

“…Let’s talk.”

Elizabeth smiled again.

This time… genuinely pleased.

Then she spoke, as if commenting on something trivial:

“Have you ever thought about changing sides?”

Morgana blinked.

“What?”

Elizabeth crossed her legs calmly, resting her hands on her knees.

“Changing sides,” she repeated. “Leaving Arven. Stop pretending you still belong there.”

Morgana frowned, irritation returning in small sparks.

“If this is some kind of provocation, I’m not in the mood.”

Elizabeth leaned forward and pulled something from a side drawer of the armchair.

A folder.

Thick.

Dark.

No coats of arms, no seal, no visible name… except for the simple label stuck to the cover.

“Arven’s Problems.”

Elizabeth extended the folder.

“Read it.”

Morgana hesitated.

“What exactly do you mean by ’changing sides’?” “Read it,” Elizabeth repeated, now in a tone that suffocated all discussion.

With an irritated sigh, Morgana picked up the folder.

She opened it.

The first page made the world spin.

It wasn’t a description.

It wasn’t a report.

It was an image.

A human body thrown against a stone wall, naked from the waist up, skin marked by old and recent wounds. Chains still attached to the wrists. The face… unrecognizable from so much swelling and dried blood.

There was no need for further details.

It was a slave.

Dead.

Clearly deliberately.

Morgana brought her hand to her mouth.

Her stomach churned violently.

“…Damn it…” the word escaped in a hoarse whisper.

She turned the page with trembling fingers.

Another image.

Another body.

Another “lesson.”

“That…” she swallowed hard, “…that’s false.”

Elizabeth smiled.

Not a cruel smile.

A satisfied smile.

“Your dear father,” she said, with venomous sweetness, “is a slave owner.”

Morgana suddenly raised her head.

“That’s a lie.”

“Is it really?” Elizabeth tilted her head. “Keep reading.”

Morgana looked back at the folder, her heart pounding in her chest.

Reports.

Dates.

Trade routes.

Coded names.

Payments made “under the table.”

Records of human transport disguised as “temporary labor.”

She turned the page once more.

And stopped.

Her eyes widened.

“…That signature…” she murmured.

She knew that handwriting.

She’d known it since she was a child.

“Yes,” Elizabeth confirmed. “Your stepmother.”

Morgana felt her blood run cold.

“She… she only takes care of the finances…”

Elizabeth chuckled softly.

“She takes very good care of them, in fact. She manages several brothels. Some in Arven. Others elsewhere. All stocked in the same way.”

Morgana slammed the folder shut.

“NO.”

“And, as a bonus,” Elizabeth continued, relentlessly, “she steals from your father every day.”

Morgana stared at her, stunned.

“What?”

Elizabeth rested her chin on her hand.

“She embezzles funds. She bribes inspectors. She sells ’disposable’ slaves twice. Once to the brothels… and again for illegal alchemical experiments.”

The air grew heavy.

Morgana felt her legs go weak, even sitting down.

“You’re lying,” she said, but the conviction had already died.

Elizabeth opened another smaller folder and placed it on top of the first.

“Independent audits. Testimonies. Wiretaps. Bought confessions… and some extracted by force.”

She leaned forward a little more.

“I didn’t come to destroy Arven, Morgana. Arven is already rotten.”

Morgana closed her eyes tightly.

The images wouldn’t leave her mind.

The body.

The chains.

The imaginary smell of blood and dampness.

“…Since when have you known this?” she asked, her voice almost inaudible.

“For years.”

“Then why didn’t you do anything?!”

Elizabeth didn’t answer immediately.

When she did, it was simple:

“Because I was waiting for you.”

Morgana opened her eyes slowly.

“…Me?”

“You still believe in Arven,” Elizabeth explained. “Or you believed it. You think you can salvage something from there. I needed to know… if you would choose the truth when it hurts.”

Morgana laughed.

A short laugh.

Broken in the middle.

“You call that a choice?”

Elizabeth shrugged.

“I call it an opportunity.”

Morgana looked at the folder again.

Then at Elizabeth.

“If I ’switch sides’…” she began, “…what does that mean?”

Elizabeth stood up.

Walked to the window.

Looked at the courtyard.

“It means you stop protecting a name,” she said, “and start protecting people.”

She turned.

“It means you can stay here. Train. Grow. Act. Without being a pawn on your father’s chessboard.”

Morgana gritted her teeth.

“And Damon?”

Elizabeth raised an eyebrow.

“Damon has already chosen.”

Silence fell once more.

Morgana pressed the folder against her chest.

“…If all this is true…”

“It is.”

“…Then Arven isn’t my home.”

Elizabeth smiled.

This time, without venom.

“No,” she said. “But you can still decide what to do with the ashes.”

Morgana took a deep breath.

Very deep.

“…I want to see everything.”

Elizabeth nodded.

“Good answer.”

She sat back down.

“Welcome to the side that doesn’t pretend to be clean.”

Morgana closed her eyes for a second.

When she opened them…

There was fire in them.

Not blind fury.

Decision.

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