Chapter CXIX: Breaking
The room was filled with the lingering heat of their passion, but the tension between Isabella and the Dragon King remained palpable. The king, his chest still heaving from the intensity of their encounter, stared down at her, the rage that had momentarily been forgotten simmering back to the surface.
“Where is Ikkar?” he demanded, his voice low but full of venom. His eyes, still dark with desire, now gleamed with anger and frustration.
Isabella, still catching her breath, looked up at him with a mixture of defiance and exhaustion. “You know I won’t tell you,” she said quietly, but firmly. “He’s safe.”
The King’s composure snapped. In an instant, he grabbed a nearby vase and hurled it against the wall with a furious roar. The sound of shattering ceramic echoed through the room, causing Isabella to flinch. Her body tensed, but she remained standing, refusing to cower beneath his fury.
"Stop this madness!" he bellowed, his voice trembling with rage. "This has gone too far, Isabella!"
Before she could respond, a deafening boom reverberated through the castle, and the walls trembled violently. Dust fell from the ceiling, and the floor beneath them seemed to shake with the force of the impact. Both the King and Isabella froze, their eyes meeting in a moment of shared confusion.
“What the hell was that?” the King growled, his brows furrowed.
Isabella’s lips curled into a bitter smile. “Your men walked into an ambush,” she replied calmly, though her eyes were gleaming with tension. “My army was prepared. They’re taking down what’s left of your forces as we speak.”
The King stared at her in disbelief, his chest tightening as the realization of what was happening began to dawn on him. “You…” He couldn’t finish the sentence. The betrayal, the cunning—it was beyond what he thought Isabella was capable of. His heart raced, not just with anger but with a sense of loss that he could barely comprehend.
Isabella slowly drew a small blade from her sleeve, her expression unreadable as she held it loosely in her hand.
The King’s voice, hoarse and incredulous, cut through the tension. “Is this it? Are you going to kill me, Isabella?”
Her eyes softened, and she looked at him with a strange mixture of sadness and determination. She threw the blade to the floor with a sharp clatter. “I could never kill you,” she said, her voice trembling slightly. “But my men will… My husband will. And that’s why you need to escape.”
Her words struck him like a dagger. The idea of her protecting him, even after orchestrating his downfall, made his heart ache with a pain he hadn’t anticipated. His breath caught in his throat as he stared at her, his mind reeling with disbelief and heartbreak.
The King’s hand clenched into a fist. “Come with me,” he ordered, his voice desperate now. He crossed the room in swift strides and climbed to the window, looking out over the castle grounds. He turned back to her, his voice breaking. “Come with me, Isabella!”
Isabella walked slowly toward him, her face a mask of sorrow. She reached out as if to touch him but stopped herself just short. Her eyes met his, and for a brief moment, the world outside seemed to disappear.
“I won’t be anyone’s captive,” she whispered, her voice filled with a quiet resolve. “Not yours. Not anyone’s. Not ever again.”
The King’s heart shattered at her words. “Please,” he whispered, a final, desperate plea as he extended his hand to her.
Isabella stepped closer, her eyes softening. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice breaking with emotion. Then, in a sudden motion, she pushed him hard. The King’s eyes widened in shock as he lost his balance and fell through the open window, plummeting toward the water moat below.
The last thing he saw was Isabella’s face—pained, regretful, and yet filled with the same fire that had captivated him from the moment they first met.
He crashed into the cold water with a heavy splash, the force of the fall knocking the air from his lungs. Disoriented, he scrambled to the surface, gasping for breath as he broke through the water's edge. His mind was spinning, both from the fall and from the betrayal that burned deeper than any physical wound.
The palace walls loomed above him, and the battle raged on beyond the moat. But in that moment, none of it mattered. All he could think of was Isabella—and the realization that he had lost her, perhaps forever.
The door to the royal chambers burst open with a loud crash. Lord Pallor stormed in, his sword slick with blood, the evidence of the battle raging outside. His soldiers followed close behind, their faces grim, but the moment Pallor saw Isabella, disheveled and clutching at the torn rags of her dress, his concern overtook everything else.
Without hesitation, he dropped his bloodied sword onto the floor with a clang and rushed toward her. "Isabella," he breathed, his voice laced with worry, his eyes searching her face for any sign of injury. He knelt before her, taking in the state of her torn dress and disheveled appearance. "What happened?"
Isabella, still shaken from what had just transpired, fumbled to cover herself with the remnants of her gown.
"The Dragon King," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly as she pulled the fabric tighter around her body. "He escaped."
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