Chapter 117: Sterling Ultimatum
The carriage pulled up to their suite at dawn.
Holden watched from the window as it rolled in.
It was made of shiny black wood with gold trim, pulled by two expensive white horses. The Sterling family crest was painted right on the door in silver leaf.
A footman in white livery stepped down and knocked on the villa’s front gate.
KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK
"House Sterling requests the presence of Holden Voss for a private meeting with the Duke and Duchess."
Lyra appeared in the hallway behind him. She’d heard the knock. Her face had already gone pale.
"Don’t go," she said.
The words came out fast, losing her usual calm tone.
"My parents don’t request private meetings. They issue summons. And when they summon someone, it’s because they’ve already decided the outcome. Whatever they want to say to you, they’ve rehearsed it. There’s no negotiation."
Holden turned from the window.
"Lyra."
"I’m serious, Holden. They’re not like the Royals. Oscar and Julian are loud and stupid. My parents are quiet and patient. They’ll smile at you while they explain exactly how they’re going to destroy you, and make it sound like they’re doing you a favor."
"That sounds like something I should hear in person."
"They’ll offer you money. And when you refuse, they’ll threaten you."
"Hmm... Really?"
"And when you don’t bend to the threat—"
"Then we’ll deal with it." He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "You told me once that you hated being controlled. That you wanted to make your own choices. This is me making one. I’m going to walk in there, hear what they have to say, and walk out again."
Lyra stared at him for a long moment. Her jaw tightened and her hands clenched into fists at her sides.
"If you die, I’ll never forgive you," she whispered.
"Chill, I’ll be fine."
He grabbed his jacket and walked out the front door.
The tearoom was inside a private Sterling estate in the upper Capital district.
It had the beauty of true wealth. The room featured silk walls, crystal lights, and teacups made of porcelain. At every door stood two guards, with their hands on their swords and eyes fixed forward.
The Duke and Duchess of House Sterling sat at the far end of the table.
The Duke was a tall man, silver-haired, with a face carved from angles and disapproval. He wore a dark military coat with dozens of service medals pinned to the chest.
The Duchess was beautiful in a way. Her auburn hair was pinned up perfectly. Her dress was black, simple, and clearly worth a fortune.
"Sit," the Duke said.
It wasn’t an invitation.
Holden sat.
The Duchess poured the tea. Her movements were slow and precise. She pushed a cup across the table toward him.
Holden didn’t touch it.
"You won the National Championship," the Duke said, his voice flat and casual. "Pretty impressive for a border academy. Especially considering your... background."
"Background," Holden repeated. "That’s a polite word."
"It’s a fair description." The Duke leaned back slightly. "You are a useful sword, boy. Strong, sharp, and apparently quite clever. But swords do not marry nobles."
There it was.
"We have watched your performance in this tournament with genuine interest," the Duchess added, her tone smooth and sharp. "Your fighting instincts are incredible, and your tactical sense is way above your rank. Under different circumstances, we might have even hired someone like you for our household guard."
"But not as a suitor for our daughter," the Duke finished.
"No," Holden said. "I already figured that out."
The Duke nodded slowly, as if Holden had passed a small test. "You crippled Prince Oscar. Whatever your reasons, that act has made you a political liability of the highest order. The Royal Family will not forget it. Associating with you puts House Sterling directly in their crosshairs. Our allies are already whispering. Our enemies are already plotting."
"So you’re here to protect your house," Holden said. "Not your daughter."
"Our daughter is our house," the Duchess said, her eyes suddenly turning ice cold. "She has been since the day she was born."
The Duke reached under the table and pulled out a wooden chest. He set it on the table and opened the lid.
Inside were stacks of gold. More money than Holden had ever seen in one place. It was enough to live comfortably for decades without ever lifting a sword again.
"Two hundred thousand gold," the Duke said. "Take it and leave the Capital tonight. Never speak to Lyra again. Return to your border academy, or go wherever you wish. Start a new life somewhere the Royals won’t find you."
He closed the lid and slid the chest across the table.
"A generous exit," the Duchess said. "More than most in your position would receive."
Holden looked at the chest.
Then he looked at the Duke.
Then at the Duchess.
Then at the untouched teacup in front of him.
"Keep the money," he said. "I don’t take bribes from people with such terrible taste in tea."
The Duchess’s smile didn’t waver, but her eyes went dead.
The Duke’s jaw tightened by an inch.
"You misunderstand the nature of this conversation," the Duke said, his voice turning ice-cold. "This is not a negotiation. This is a courtesy. We are offering you a path that doesn’t end in a shallow grave."
"See, that’s the thing about paths," Holden said, leaning back in his chair. "I’ve been digging my own since I was six years old. Your path leads somewhere soft and easy. Mine leads somewhere I actually want to go. And it happens to go right through your daughter’s life, whether you like it or not."
He smiled but it didn’t reach his eyes.
"Also, for the record, calling your daughter a house is the most depressing parenting thing I’ve ever heard. And I grew up in an orphanage. That’s a low bar, and you cleared it."
The Duke’s hand twitched toward the table.
CRASH.
The tearoom door slammed open so hard it broke the wall.
Lyra stood in the doorway, breathing heavily with her spear clutched in her hand. Frost was creeping up her arms, and her eyes were blazing.
"Lyra," the Duchess said, her composure finally cracking. "This is a private—"
"No."
Lyra walked right into the room. All the guards at the door instantly stiffened, reaching for their weapons, though nobody pulled them free. None of them wanted to be the one to lay a hand on the Duke’s own daughter.
Lyra stopped beside Holden’s chair and stood there, shoulder to shoulder with him.
"I heard all of it," she said. Her voice shook with rage, not fear. "Every word. You traded me like property and put a price tag on my head as if I were livestock."
"Lyra, you don’t understand the political—"
"I understand perfectly." She turned to face her father head-on. "You don’t care that I’m happy. You don’t care that he saved my life. You don’t care that Team Soup just won the National Championship because of him. You only care about your alliances and your reputation."
"Your reputation IS our legacy," the Duke said, rising from his chair.
"Then find a new one."
The room went absolute zero.
Lyra reached down and took Holden’s hand. Her fingers were ice-cold from the frost gathering on her skin.
"I am staying with Team Soup," she said. "Not because Holden asked me to. Because I choose to. Because he is the first person in my life who looked at me and saw a person instead of a piece on your board."
She turned and walked toward the door, pulling Holden with her.
The Duchess spoke one final time, her voice barely above a whisper.
"You will regret this, Lyra."
Lyra didn’t look back.
Neither did Holden.
The carriage ride back to the villa was silent. Lyra’s hand never let go of his. Her frost had melted away, but her fingers still trembled slightly.
Holden squeezed her hand and said nothing.
Back in the tearoom, the Duke sat still for a long time.
The Duchess watched him, her expression unreadable.
Then the Duke reached for his teacup.
His fingers closed around it.
CRACK.
The teacup shattered in his grip, spilling tea and broken porcelain across the table. A thin line of blood appeared on his palm where a shard had cut him. He didn’t flinch.
"She chose the slum rat," he said quietly.
"She chose rebellion," the Duchess corrected. "It’s a phase. It will pass."
"It won’t pass while he’s alive."
The Duchess folded her hands in her lap. Her eyes drifted to the window, looking out at the Capital skyline.
"There’s a guild," she said, her voice turning inhumanly cold. "In the lower districts. They ask no questions, leave no tracks, and never miss a target."
The Duke pulled a handkerchief from his coat and slowly wrapped his bleeding hand.
"Contact them," he said. "Tonight."