Chapter 141: Death of A True Hero

Chapter 141: Chapter 141: Death of A True Hero

Pronoia’s mother froze.

Her body became tense, her muscles locking into place as if the words themselves had turned her to stone. Every instinct she had sharpened in the long years of flight flared at once. She pulled Pronoia closer, her arms forming a living barrier between her daughter and the king. The child’s small body fitted against her chest the way it always had, a familiar weight that now felt like the only solid thing left in the world. She slowly moved backward toward the wall, her bare feet silent on the marble, her mind racing through every possible exit. She glanced toward the window, calculating the distance across the room, the height of the drop beyond the glass, the slim chances of escape with an injured body and a blind child in her arms. The numbers came out the same every time: impossible. Yet the calculation continued, automatic and useless.

The king raised his hand, a gesture of peace. The movement was slow, deliberate, the kind of motion meant to calm a frightened animal.

"Don’t worry."

His voice was calm, reassuring, carrying none of the sharpness she had expected from a man who held absolute power.

"I’m not going to harm her."

Pronoia’s mother looked toward him, her eyes filled with suspicion and fear. The reassurance did nothing to loosen the knot in her chest. She had heard soft words before. Soft words had never stopped the crowds or the hunters or the long nights of running.

"Then what do you want?"

She held her daughter tightly, her body a shield against whatever was coming. The question came out low and hard, stripped of every courtesy she might once have offered a king.

"Since you know she has foresight, what do you want?"

The king answered, his voice steady and certain. There was no hesitation, no search for softer phrasing.

"I want her to marry one of my sons."

Her mother’s expression changed, her face contorting with shock and anger. The words landed like a physical blow. Marriage. Alliance. The permanent binding of her child to the very world that had already tried to consume her.

"What?"

She shook her head, her body trembling with emotion that had no safe outlet. The refusal rose from somewhere deeper than thought.

"No."

Her voice was firm, filled with a determination that surprised even her. It cut through the elegant room like a blade.

"I’m never giving my daughter to you for that."

The king remained calm, his expression unchanged. He did not raise his voice.

"If you don’t do that, she will keep being chased and attacked for the rest of her life."

Her mother remained silent, the truth of his words cutting through her like a blade. She had lived that truth already. The village. The crowd at the door. The flight through the forest. The sack. The blood. She knew exactly what the future held if nothing changed. The knowledge sat in her stomach like cold iron.

The king continued, his voice patient and measured, as if he were explaining something obvious to someone who still refused to see it.

"As long as she has that skin color and the color of her eyes, especially her hair, she will attract attention."

He looked toward Pronoia, his eyes studying her with a mixture of curiosity and something that might have been respect. The child remained quiet against her mother’s side, listening with the intense stillness she always brought to dangerous conversations.

"All of it stands out."

He paused, his voice dropping into something quieter, almost reflective.

"She resembles the previous saint."

Pronoia’s mother looked down at her daughter, her heart aching with love and fear and a thousand other emotions she couldn’t name. The blindfold hid the eyes the king had named, but the rest of her—the brightness of the skin, the fall of the hair—remained visible even in the protective circle of her arms. She had always known her daughter was different. She had never wanted the world to notice.

Then she answered firmly, her voice steady despite the trembling in her body.

"As long as I’m alive, I’ll protect my daughter."

The king looked at her, his eyes filled with something that might have been pity. The expression sat strangely on a face accustomed to command.

"For how long do you think you’ll be alive?"

Her mother’s expression hardened, her jaw setting with determination. The question was meant to break her. It only clarified what she already knew.

"It doesn’t matter."

She held Pronoia closer, her arms forming a shield that she would maintain until her last breath. The child’s warmth against her chest was the only answer that mattered.

"I’ll protect her."

Her voice was fierce, filled with a love that was stronger than fear, stronger than the poison she could already feel moving through her, and definitely stronger than the king’s quiet certainty.

"I’ll give her whatever she needs to survive."

The king looked directly at her, his eyes steady and unwavering. There was no triumph in them, only the delivery of a fact.

"You’re dying."

Her eyes shot toward him, her body going rigid with shock. The words rearranged the air in the room.

"What do you mean?"

The king answered, his voice gentle but firm, the tone of someone who had already accepted the outcome.

"You’ve been poisoned."

She froze.

Then she remembered.

While they had been running through the forest, she had felt something bite her. A sharp pain in her leg, sudden and bright, followed by a burning sensation that had spread through her body like fire. She had staggered, caught herself, and kept running. There had been no time to stop, no time to examine the wound, no time to do anything except keep the children moving. The memory returned now with perfect, useless clarity.

A snake.

She hadn’t had time to check the injury. Or to do anything except keep running, keep moving, keep fighting to survive. The burning had faded into a dull throb she had forced herself to ignore. She had carried both children on legs that were already failing and had told herself the pain was only exhaustion.

She looked down toward her leg, her eyes finding the wound she had ignored for so long. The fabric of her skirt had hidden it. Now, in the clean light of the palace, the truth was visible. It was slightly swollen, the skin around the bite discolored and inflamed, the edges of the puncture marks dark against the rest of her flesh. The discoloration had spread farther than she had realized.

The king continued, his voice steady and clinical, as if he were reading from a report rather than delivering a death sentence.

"The poison is reaching your heart little by little."

Pronoia’s mother didn’t care.

"It doesn’t matter."

She looked toward her daughter, her eyes filling with tears she refused to shed. The tears burned behind her eyes, but she would not let them fall. Not yet. Not while her child could still hear her voice.

"I only want to protect her."

The king answered, his voice quiet, almost soft.

"I want to do the same thing."

Her mother looked at him, her eyes filled with suspicion and disbelief. The claim rang false against every story she had ever heard about power and the people who held it.

"No."

She shook her head, the motion sharp and final.

"You just want to use her for your selfish gains."

Her voice became bitter, filled with the accumulated pain of years of suffering, of watching the powerful take what they wanted and leave the rest to starve or run or die.

"That’s how nobles are."

She held Pronoia closer, her arms tightening around her daughter’s small body until the child made a small sound of protest that she immediately gentled.

"You claim you’re protecting people."

Her voice was sharp, cutting, stripped of every remaining courtesy.

"But at the end of the day, you use them to get what you want."

She paused, her voice dropping to a whisper that still carried across the quiet room.

"And after using them, you discard them."

The king looked at her, his expression unchanged. He did not defend himself with anger. He simply answered.

"That’s not how our family treats people."

She stared at him, her eyes searching his face for any sign of deception, any crack in the calm that might reveal the truth beneath. She found none she could trust, and none she could entirely dismiss.

"Then how would you treat her?"

The king answered, his voice steady and sincere, the words measured as if he understood their weight.

"I will treat her as my own."

Before Pronoia’s mother could respond—

Pain suddenly struck her chest.

It arrived without warning, a bright, tearing agony that erased every other sensation. She clutched her heart, her fingers digging into her chest as though she could tear the pain out by force. It felt as though something was gouging into her, tearing at her from the inside, ripping her apart piece by piece. The world narrowed to the single point of fire behind her ribs. Her knees gave way.

She collapsed.

"Mother!"

Pronoia immediately rushed to her, her small hands reaching out blindly, finding her mother’s body by touch alone. The familiar shape of shoulder and arm and the curve of her neck arrived through her fingers with the same certainty they always had, but the body beneath them was no longer steady.

Her mother held her chest tightly, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps that did nothing to ease the pressure. Each inhale was a separate battle that carried a soft, involuntary sound of pain.

The king walked toward her, his footsteps calm and measured, the same unhurried pace he had used when he first approached.

"It’s already kicking in."

He turned toward the door, his voice carrying the weight of command that expected immediate obedience.

"Healers!"

The doors opened, and the healers rushed inside. They moved with the practiced speed of people who had been waiting for the call. Their hands began working at once, pressing, assessing, murmuring to one another in low, urgent voices. Vials appeared. Cloths were unfolded. The air filled with the sharp scent of herbs and something metallic.

Pronoia remained beside her, her small body pressed against her mother’s side, her hands never leaving the familiar warmth of skin and cloth. She could feel every tremor, every shallow rise and fall of the chest that still fought to keep breathing.

The king stood nearby, his presence a silent witness to the scene unfolding before him. He did not interfere. He simply watched, his face unreadable.

The healers continued their treatment, their efforts growing more desperate with each passing moment. Hands moved faster. Voices dropped lower. One of them pressed an ear to the mother’s chest and then looked up with an expression that needed no translation.

But eventually—

They stopped.

One of them looked toward the king, his face pale and drawn. The man’s hands, which had been so certain a moment earlier, now hung useless at his sides.

Then he slowly shook his head.

"There is nothing I can do about it."

Pronoia looked toward him, her sightless eyes filled with confusion and fear. The words did not immediately register. She turned her face toward the place where the healer stood, waiting for an explanation that would undo what she had just heard.

"What does that mean?"

The king crouched down beside her, bringing himself to her level. His voice was quiet when he spoke, stripped of the authority he had used with the healers.

"I’m sorry, Pronoia."

His words were gentle, filled with a compassion that seemed to surprise even him.

"Your mother doesn’t have much time anymore."

Pronoia’s world seemed to collapse.

The floor tilted. The air left the room. The careful structure of everything she had understood about safety and love and the future fell inward on itself. She immediately ran toward her mother’s bed—the short distance across the marble that now felt endless—her hands reaching out, finding her mother’s hand by touch alone.

"Mother!"

She grabbed her hand, her fingers intertwining with her mother’s. The contact was the only solid thing left.

"Please don’t die."

Her tears began falling again, hot and heavy, streaming down her face and soaking the blindfold until the cloth clung to her skin.

"Please, Mother."

She couldn’t lose her. Not after everything her mother had done for her. Not after everything they had survived together. The village. The forest. The sack. The blood. The long road that had brought them here. All of it had been possible only because her mother had refused to stop.

"Please don’t die..."

Her mother slowly opened her eyes.

She looked toward her daughter, her eyes finding Pronoia’s face even though Pronoia couldn’t see her. The effort of focusing cost her. The light in her gaze was already dimming, but it held.

Her hand moved weakly, her fingers reaching out across the small space between them.

Pronoia immediately held it, her small hand wrapping around her mother’s. The skin was familiar—the calluses from years of labor, the shape of the knuckles, the warmth that had always meant safety.

It was warm. Yet cold.

The contradiction registered in the same instant: the residual heat of life still present, and beneath it the deeper chill that was already claiming her.

Her mother struggled to speak, her voice barely more than a whisper. Each word required a separate gathering of strength.

"Pronoia..."

The girl cried, her voice breaking on the single name.

"Mother..."

Her mother held her with both hands, her grip surprisingly strong for a body that was already failing. The pressure was deliberate, a final act of holding on.

"Be a good girl from now on."

Pronoia nodded repeatedly, her tears falling onto her mother’s hands in a steady, silent rain.

"I will."

"Always obey the king."

The command was soft, but it carried the full weight of a mother’s last attempt to secure her child’s future.

"I will."

Pronoia cried, her voice filled with desperation, with the need to make the promises real enough to keep her mother here a little longer.

"I promise."

Her mother looked toward the king, her eyes filled with a fierce, protective love that had not diminished even as her strength left her. The gaze held his for a long moment.

"If anything happens to my daughter..."

Her voice weakened, fading with each word, the edges of the sounds fraying.

"My spirit will haunt this kingdom to ruin."

The threat was quiet, absolute, and entirely believed by the woman who spoke it.

The king nodded, his expression serious. He did not smile. He did not dismiss the words as the final rambling of a dying commoner.

"I’ll protect her."

Her mother looked back toward Pronoia, her eyes filling with tears that she no longer had the strength to hold back. The tears slid sideways into her hair. The look she gave her daughter contained every year of their life together, every sacrifice, every night of quiet protection, every unspoken fear and every stubborn hope.

Then her strength faded.

Her hand became still.

The pressure that had held Pronoia’s fingers so firmly simply ceased. The warmth began to leave in earnest.

Pronoia stared at her, her sightless eyes wide with disbelief. She waited for the familiar squeeze, the small answering movement that had always come before.

"Mother?"

There was no response.

The silence that followed was complete.

"Mother?"

Her voice broke, cracking on the second syllable, the sound of a child who had just stepped off the edge of the only certainty she had ever known.

Then she screamed.

"Mother!"

She clung to her, her small body shaking with sobs that seemed too large for her frame, her tears falling onto her mother’s still face in a continuous, helpless stream. She pressed her forehead against her mother’s cheek, against the skin that was already cooling, and the scream became a series of smaller, broken sounds that had no words left in them.

The woman who had protected her all her life was gone.

And Pronoia was left alone in a world she had never been prepared to face.