Chapter 137
Memories did not come as images this time.
They came as feelings so powerful they stole the strength from her legs — tiny fingers gripping hers, soft laughter echoing through sunlit halls, the unbearable pride of watching them grow into formidable, brilliant adults.
And the quiet, piercing fear every mother carried:
Will I outlive them?
A tear slipped free before she could stop it, trailing down her cheek and falling soundlessly onto the cold stone floor.
They had lived long lives.
She could feel it — not as knowledge, but as certainty embedded deep within her soul.
They had not died young. They had not been taken violently. They had not suffered the fate she had feared most.
They had grown old. Ruled. Loved. Continued the bloodline.
The realization loosened something inside her chest that she hadn’t known was clenched for centuries.
A fragile, aching comfort spread through her — thin as glass, but real.
You were safe… You lived well.. It is all that matters. And it is enough.
Her fingers curled into her palms, nails biting into skin as she fought to keep the sob from rising.
Behind her, no one noticed the single tear except Ares.
His eyes darkened.
That was not the reaction of someone moved by history.
That was the reaction of a mother standing at her children’s graves.
And for the first time since entering the chamber, a chilling thought crossed his mind — one he could neither accept nor fully dismiss.
Who exactly are you, Larissa Reyes?
Ares POV.
Ares kept a measured distance behind Lara, his boots whispering against the ancient stone floor, his gaze never leaving her back.
With unsettling certainty, he followed as Lara moved among rows of coffins that stretched into the dimness, each resting on carved pedestals like silent sentinels guarding a forgotten dynasty.
At some, she inclined her head slightly — not a casual glance, not curiosity, but reverence. The kind a junior monarch gives the king and his queen.
Respectful. Formal. Controlled.
At others, she lingered longer, shoulders squared, chin lifted, her posture shifting into something almost… maternal. Protective. As if she were standing watch over sleeping children rather than bones that had turned to dust centuries ago.
It made the hairs on the back of Ares’ neck rise.
This wasn’t historical interest.
This was recognition.
Then his eyes were pulled to the heart of the chamber.
To the dais.
Separated from the others — elevated, commanding, untouchable — the black sarcophagus, beside a white one.
It dwarfed everything around it.
Carved from a black stone so dark it seemed to swallow the torchlight rather than reflect it. Its surface gleamed with a glassy sheen, veined with faint silver streaks that glimmered like frozen lightning beneath midnight water.
Was it made of black marble or obsidian?
He couldn’t tell.
What he could tell was this:
Whoever lay inside was not merely royalty.
He was the center of gravity around which this entire tomb had been built.
Ares stepped closer, boots echoing too loudly in the oppressive silence. Even he felt an instinctive resistance — as if crossing an invisible boundary.
Then he studied the inscription etched into the side.
Ancient script, deep and precise, each character cut with deliberate authority.
Alaric Kromwel – Founding Emperor of Azurverda.
The name hit him like a dull strike to the chest.
It was not unfamiliar. He had heard it before.
Not just once but a few times.
Once, very early in the morning — when Lara bolted upright from sleep, breath ragged, eyes unfocused as if she were looking at a battlefield only she could see.
She whispered the name Alaric.
And other times… when she went still. Too still. As if something inside her had momentarily gone to the past and pushed the present aside.
She had whispered that name, too.
Not as history but as a memory.
Ares’ jaw tightened.
Slowly, deliberately, he pulled out his phone and began taking photos — high resolution, multiple angles, every detail.
The sarcophagus.
The inscription.
The surrounding carvings.
The image of the emperor engraved on the lid.
Then his attention shifted to the coffin beside it.
Unlike the emperor’s dark monolith, this one seemed to hold its own quiet radiance. It was carved from translucent white marble so pure it almost glowed from within, the surface soft and luminous —it reminded him of his visit to the Taj Mahal.
Veins of pale silver ran through the stone like frozen silk, giving the impression that the coffin itself was breathing beneath the moonlight.
It did not dominate the chamber the way the emperor’s sarcophagus did.
It graced it.
Ares stepped closer and brushed dust from the inscription.
Lara Norse Kromwel. First Empress of Azurverda.
His chest tightened unexpectedly.
So this was her.
The woman who had stood beside the man powerful enough to command an empire — and a tomb like this.
He lifted his phone and photographed the lid.
An image of the empress had been carved in astonishing detail, the craftsmanship so exquisite it felt less like sculpture and more like preservation. The marble face was serene, eyes gently closed, lips curved in the faintest suggestion of a knowing smile. Strands of hair framed her face in delicate waves, a crown resting lightly upon her brow.
For a disorienting moment, Ares had the absurd impression that if he leaned closer, he would feel warmth beneath the stone.
She didn’t look dead.
She looked asleep.
He lowered his gaze to the accompanying inscription.
His brow furrowed.
The text recorded that the empress had died at over ninety years of age — a venerable lifespan for any era, let alone an ancient one.
But the woman on the lid p>
She was young.
Not a girl, not naive — but in the full, formidable bloom of her prime. A woman at the height of her power. The age of coronation, perhaps.
The moment history would have wanted to remember forever. Not the slow decline that came after.
Ares took another photo, closer this time.
Immortality, he realized, was rarely honest.
Empires preserved glory — not truth.
Still, as he stared at the marble face, an unsettling thought crept into his mind, cold and unwelcome.
The features felt… familiar.
Not identical.
But close enough to make his pulse slow.
Close enough to make him glance, instinctively, toward where Lara stood in the chamber — as if expecting to find her watching him.
Why did he feel that Larissa Reyes and the Empress looked similar?
He retraced Lara’s path, photographing each coffin where she had lingered the longest.
If this place was connected to her — to whatever secrets she was carrying — he needed answers.