Chapter 326: The Queen of Dawn

God, that was hard.

He never thought of himself as sociable. Being surrounded by so many people all at once, showering him with apologies and words of reconciliation, made him feel more out of place than when they hurled accusations at him. The sincerity in their eyes was almost heavier to bear than their past hostility.

What he really wanted to say was something blunt, practical, “Idiots, we’ve got a fortress to secure, get back to work.” But he knew the moment would shatter if he did. So he swallowed the urge, accepted their hands in silence, and moved on.

As he walked through one of the main corridors, one of the fortress maids passed by. Without raising her eyes, she gathered the edges of her dress, dipped into a quick curtsy, and kept moving. It took him a moment to realize it wasn’t the first time. And then it clicked: the deference wasn’t toward him. It was toward the clothes. The maids belonged to the Order of Assassins, and he now wore their robes of authority.

He quickened his pace. His thoughts were already elsewhere. Allison. Something about her reaction earlier gnawed at him. Maybe it was his imagination, maybe not. Either way, he needed a chance to speak with her, to clear the air, even briefly.

When he stepped into the courtyard, he saw archers manning the watchtowers and soldiers clustered in tense groups. The night sky was already fading, the horizon touched with the first hints of dawn. Among the soldiers, he spotted Allison beside Eleanor, both leaning over a map spread across a makeshift table.

They noticed him immediately.

“I heard you and Ronan dealt with Bartholomew,” Eleanor said, voice steady.

Luke raised an eyebrow. “Let me guess… new problems?”

She exhaled, weary. “As always, in this cursed tutorial.” Then her eyes narrowed as she looked him over. “New clothes?”

She was staring at the assassin’s gear. Allison glanced too, but quickly looked away.

Damn it. The only reason he still wore the thing was simple: his HP was too low, and this was easily the sturdiest set of equipment he owned. Walking around defenseless here was suicide.

“What do you think, Allison? Looks good on him, doesn’t it?” Eleanor asked without realizing the weight of her words. “Before, it was that black cloak, orc-bone chestplate, cloth pants, and silver boots. At least now, he actually matches.”

The air shifted. Allison cleared her throat, avoiding his eyes. “Yeah… at least it keeps a consistent style.”

Eleanor didn’t press, turning her attention back to the map. “How much mana do you have left, Luke? Think you can take a tower with that bow of yours?”

He shook his head. “Running low. If I keep generating arrows, I’ll burn out fast.”

Allison didn’t look up from the map when she spoke. Her tone was calm, but it carried the weight of resolve. “Dawn is close. I plan to tell everyone the truth. From what Eleanor’s told me, a lot of soldiers believe the Midnight Warden invasion was our fault. Bartholomew spread rumors through the entire city that we were behind Bastion’s fall.”

Luke pressed his lips together. “So… out there, if anyone sees us, we’re the villains. The murderers of their noble king.”

It was almost as if Bartholomew had prepared for his own death, leaving his shadow behind as a weapon.

Eleanor gave a small nod. “The chaos inside was contained quickly, but most of his loyal soldiers were outside the walls. He shoved them into the slaughter, and now what’s left is a restless army ready to strike back.”

Luke’s eyes narrowed. “And when exactly are you planning to open those gates?”

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Allison opened her mouth to answer, but a heavy grinding cut her off. The gates were opening. Everyone snapped to attention. Mason appeared at the gate shouting at someone, fury written across his face. But when the doors swung wide, whatever he was yelling about fell away. The sight froze the crowd.

Erza Grimhart stepped out. In one hand she held Bartholomew’s severed head by the hair.

The gate’s creak rolled like metallic thunder. The silence that followed felt suffocating.

Erza walked out across the threshold with slow, deliberate steps, as if the whole fortress itself had been built for her exit. Dawn was tinting the sky, casting long shadows across the gathering outside. In her other hand she kept the trophy no one expected—the king of Bastion’s head. She yawned casually, an almost bored motion against the brutality in her grip. When she lifted her eyes, she met the faces of soldiers and defenders alike, men and women who had fought for the city, standing mute.

She stopped before them and spoke, voice clear and unadorned. “I’ll be direct. I killed Bartholomew.”

A ripple of shock ran through the ranks. She did not flinch. “He orchestrated the Midnight Warden’s attack on the Safe Zone. Whether you believe that or not doesn’t interest me. Whether you mourn him or celebrate him, I don’t care. What matters is this, Bastion has a queen now. Me.”