Chapter 141: Qazaethel’s Final Decision For the Former Empress Dowager

Qazaethel sat on her throne, her gaze cold and sharp as her eyes landed on her mother. The throne room was vast and empty, its high ceiling lost in shadows, its marble floor polished to a mirror shine that reflected the flickering light of a thousand candles. The air was cold and still, carrying the faint scent of stone and wax and something older, something darker—the scent of judgment, of power, of a sovereign who had been pushed too far.

She sighed heavily and finally stood up, the sound of her exhale cutting through the silence like a blade. The light behind her made her imposing figure even taller and more intimidating, casting a long shadow that stretched across the marble toward her mother’s small, crumpled form. She kept her gaze unwavering on the figure kneeling on the floor, refusing to look away even for a moment.

Her mother was kneeling on the cold marble, her chains clinking softly as she trembled. The former empress dowager, who had once been the most powerful woman in the kingdom, who had ruled the court with an iron fist and a cold heart, was now nothing more than a prisoner.

Her fine clothes were gone, replaced by a simple gray gown that hung loosely on her thinning frame, and her hair, once immaculate, hung loose and tangled around her face. She looked old. She looked small. She looked exactly like what she was—a woman who had fallen from grace and had no one to blame but herself.

Qazaethel let the silence stretch between them, watching the way her mother’s shoulders shook, the way her fingers curled against the marble as though she could find purchase there. The throne room had seen countless audiences, countless judgments, countless moments of triumph and despair, but none of them had ever felt quite like this. None of them had ever weighed so heavily on her chest.

"You knew what crime you committed, mother," Qazaethel’s voice rang out and echoed smoothly in the four corners of the throne room. Her voice was not loud, not angry. It was calm, controlled, and all the more terrifying for it. The candles seemed to flicker as she spoke, as though the very flames were afraid of her.

Her mother was shaking badly, kneeling on the cold marble floor as she kept her gaze down, thinking of a possible way out she could use. Qazaethel could see the wheels turning behind her mother’s eyes, the desperate calculations of a woman who had spent her entire life scheming and manipulating, who had always found a way to twist every situation to her advantage. But there was no advantage to be found here, not in this room, not with these chains around her neck.

"Qaz... Qazaethel, my daughter. Please listen to me! I am your mother, please. I carried you in my womb, I protected you!" She sobbed and begged, her voice cracking with fear and desperation. She looked up at her daughter, her eyes wide and wet, searching for any sign of mercy, any flicker of the love that had once existed between them.

Qazaethel remembered that love, distant and faded as it was. She remembered small hands brushing through her hair when she was a child, remembered a voice that had once sung her to sleep, remembered the warmth of a mother’s embrace. But those memories felt like they belonged to someone else now, to a different girl in a different life.

The woman kneeling before her was not the mother she remembered. Or perhaps she had always been this woman, and Qazaethel had simply been too young, too trusting, to see it.

But Qazaethel’s expression remained the same. Her gaze didn’t leave her mother’s figure, and her voice became heavier, colder.

"You’re actually begging, mother?" Qazaethel asked, and her voice was so cold that the candles seemed to flicker. The words hung in the air between them, sharp and unforgiving, and the former empress dowager flinched as though she had been struck.

"I... I shouldn’t be here... I am your mother! You should be protecting me! You’re never gonna be the sovereign if it wasn’t for me!" She yelled, and her voice echoed through the throne room, raw and desperate. She was grasping at straws, trying to find something, anything, that would save her.

Qazaethel felt something twist in her chest at those words, something old and bitter that she had carried for far too long. Her mother had always claimed credit for her rise, had always insisted that everything Qazaethel had become was because of her. And perhaps there was some truth to it.

Perhaps her mother’s cruelty had taught her strength, her mother’s betrayals had taught her vigilance, her mother’s coldness had taught her to find warmth elsewhere. But that did not mean she owed her mother anything. It did not mean she was obligated to forgive.

But Qazaethel remained cold.

The heavy doors at the far end of the throne room creaked open, and Liv entered. She saw the two of them alone, so she hesitated and bowed, her hand resting on the hilt of her sword.

She had come to report on the investigation, on the priests who had been arrested, on the evidence that had been gathered. But she had not expected to walk in on this. She had not expected to see the sovereign and her mother, alone in the vast throne room, with chains and tears and a silence that was heavier than any words.

Qazaethel raised her hand in a gesture that said halt. Liv remained standing and silent where she was, her hand was resting on the hilt of her sword, and her face was unreadable.

The former empress dowager glanced back at Liv, and her eyes widened with desperate hope. She suddenly crawled toward the General, but the chain on her neck prevented her from getting near. It pulled taut, jerking her back, and she let out a choked cry of pain and frustration as her fingers scraped against the marble.

"Liv! General, listen to me! You and Qazaethel grew up together, I am her mother, remember?! Just please, tell Qazaethel to stop doing this to me because I am her mother." She cried to Liv, her voice breaking, her hands reaching out as though she could grab the General’s cloak and pull herself to safety.

But Liv just stepped back and kept her gaze cold. She didn’t say anything. She didn’t offer comfort or anything. She kept her gaze piercing and deathly, and she left all judgment for Qazaethel to make.

Liv had learned long ago that the former empress dowager’s words were like poison wrapped in silk, sweet and deadly in equal measure. She would not allow herself to be swayed by tears and pleas, not when she had seen the damage this woman had caused, not when she had witnessed the aftermath of her schemes.

"Don’t turn to Liv, mother. I hold the chain to your neck. And she wouldn’t be able to save you even if she pleaded for you," Qazaethel said, and her voice was quiet but absolute.

She descended from her throne and approached her mother, her footsteps echoing against the marble floor, each one a death knell. The former empress dowager shrank back, her chains rattling, her eyes wide with terror as her daughter drew closer. Qazaethel’s face was a mask of calm, but beneath it, something churned—something old and painful that she refused to let surface.

"The person you hurt was no other than Eiravelle and my child. You are lucky that none of them was harmed, and that my daughter was delivered safely and healthy," Qazaethel said, and the former empress dowager’s eyes widened in shock.

"H-How come... How come that bastard is healthy?! You should have secured an heir with Dawn! Why are you doing this?!" She yelled, and her voice was high and shrill, filled with disbelief and fury. She could not understand it.

She could not understand how her plan had failed, how the omega she had tried to kill was still alive, how the child she had tried to destroy was healthy and strong.

The words hit Qazaethel like a physical blow, though she did not allow herself to show it. Bastard. Her mother had called her daughter a bastard. The child who had done nothing wrong, who had not even drawn her first breath when her grandmother had tried to end her life, had already been given a name that was meant to wound. Qazaethel’s jaw tightened, but she did not speak. She would not give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her anger.

Qazaethel didn’t even flinch or react. "Dawn and I had an agreement. We’ll remain as friends," she said as she sauntered around the former empress dowager, making her presence more intimidating and tall. She circled her mother like a predator circling its prey, her eyes never leaving her face.

"Friends?! You are out of your mind! Friends don’t keep a kingdom safe!" The former empress dowager yelled, and her voice cracked with desperation.

Qazaethel stopped in her tracks and sighed as she looked at the throne she had inherited. The throne was old and grand, carved from dark wood and inlaid with gold, and it had been sat upon by a hundred sovereigns before her. It was a symbol of power, of duty, of the weight of a kingdom. And it was a burden she had carried for longer than she cared to remember.

She thought of all the nights she had spent in that throne room, poring over reports and signing decrees while the rest of the palace slept. She thought of the weight of the crown on her head, the constant pressure to be perfect, to be strong, to be everything her mother had never been.

"And people who tried killing what’s mine don’t also keep this kingdom safe," she answered, and the former empress dowager’s eyes widened in fear. The words were simple, but they carried the weight of a death sentence.

"Liv," Qazaethel called out.

"Yes, your majesty?" Liv answered, her voice steady.

"Carry out my order... My mother shall receive a hundred lightning whippings, and if she doesn’t die... Ensure she rots in the dungeons..." Qazaethel paused and glanced back, her eyes cold and unyielding. "For eternity," she uttered, and the former empress dowager screamed.

She wailed in such an inhumane, guttural cry that no one should ever make—a sound of pure, primal terror, a sound that echoed through the throne room and seemed to shake the very walls. It was the sound of a woman who had finally realized that there was no escape, no scheme, no manipulation that could save her now.

"Guards! Take the prisoner!" Liv called out, and two big royal guards entered and took the chains on the former empress dowager’s neck. They dragged her out, her feet scraping against the marble floor, her screams filling the air.

"NO! I AM HER MOTHER! I AM THE EMPRESS DOWAGER! YOU CAN’T DO THIS TO ME!" She kept screaming, her voice growing fainter and fainter as she was dragged further away.

But Qazaethel remained a statue of authority and justice. She did not flinch. She did not look away. She stood there, her hands clasped behind her back, her eyes fixed on the doors through which her mother had been taken, and she did not move until the screams had faded into silence.

The throne room was quiet again. The candles flickered, the shadows danced, and the marble floor gleamed in the pale light. Liv stood where she was, her hand still on the hilt of her sword, her face unreadable.

She had known Qazaethel for most of her life. She had seen her fight, had seen her rule, had seen her love and lose and rise again. But she had never seen her like this. She had never seen her so cold, so absolute, so utterly devoid of mercy.

"Your majesty," Liv said, and her voice was quiet, careful.

"Liv..." She paused, and her voice softened, just a fraction. "Thank you. For standing with me. For not pleading for her."

Liv bowed her head. "I serve you, your majesty. Not your mother. And I serve the kingdom. Not the church. The judgment was yours to make, and you made it. I will not question it."

Qazaethel finally turned, and for a moment, Liv saw something in her eyes—something tired, something sad, something that looked almost like grief. But it was gone in an instant, replaced by the cold, steady gaze of the sovereign.

"See that the dungeons are prepared. She will not die from the whippings. She will live. And she will rot. For the rest of her days, she will rot." Qazaethel said, and her voice was final, absolute. There was no room for argument, no room for mercy, no room for anything but the cold, hard hand of justice.

Liv hesitated for just a moment, her eyes searching Qazaethel’s face for something she couldn’t quite name.

Qazaethel thought of her daughter, safe and healthy in the nursery, unaware of the storm that had raged around her before she was even born.

And she thought of her mother, who would rot in the dungeons for the rest of her days, who would never again scheme or manipulate or hurt the people Qazaethel loved.

The thought should have brought her peace. It should have brought her satisfaction, or relief, or some sense of closure. But all she felt was tired. Deeply, profoundly tired.

She turned and walked back to her throne, her footsteps were slow and heavy. She sat down, the familiar weight of the crown pressing against her brow, and she looked out at the empty room. The candles flickered, the shadows danced, and the marble floor gleamed in the pale light.

There was still so much work to be done. The priests were waiting for their trial, the kingdom was still recovering from the chaos her mother had caused, and her daughter was growing up in a world that would always be dangerous, always be uncertain. But for now, in this moment, she allowed herself to sit in the silence and breathe.

She had made her choice. She had delivered her judgment. And she would carry the weight of it for the rest of her life.

But she would carry it alone. As she always had. As she always would.