ƒгeewёbnovel
Mother-in-law?
Not many things could shock Lugh, but this definitely did.
The elf standing before him looked like she could be Mirelle’s age-mate—if not for the ancient weight that rested behind her eyes.
She hadn’t once let her gaze stray from him.
He didn’t know how she had bypassed the countless eyes he’d scattered across the gardens, all of which should’ve raised alarms the mont she approached.
Isolde seed just as shocked by the woman’s sudden appearance, though that didn’t stop her from bowing deeply in respect.
The elf spoke, her voice sharp and clear.
"Hey, boy. What was that magic you just used?"
Everyone had seen the event unfold: the beastkin had changed, taking on his form in every possible detail.
What they didn’t know—and what Lugh had no intention of explaining—was that he had taken control of her body before casting a reinforced transformation spell, one precise enough to forge a perfect clone.
To outside observers, it looked as if he had simply turned soone else into himself.
Eerie. Unnatural. Sothing dragged from the inked pages of horror novels.
Lugh remained silent. Refusing to speak.
The elf frowned.
"Hey, hello?? I’m talking to you."
Still, he didn’t reply. But his eyes stayed fixed on her.
She let out a tired sigh and turned to Isolde.
"You’ve been too lenient. You finally get a son, and this is what he grows into? Completely mannerless."
Isolde bit her lip.
"I haven’t birthed a son."
The elf stilled.
"Huh?"
Isolde cleared her throat and slowly gestured toward Lugh.
"He is my stepson."
"Stepson?"
The elf’s frown deepened. Then, understanding dawned—and with it ca fury. Her expression twisted as she roared.
"Where is Lucas?! Bring him to ! It seems he still hasn’t learned his lessons!"
The atmosphere grew tense and heavy. Isolde’s voice dropped low, weighed down with sothing more than sadness.
"My husband is dead."
A thick silence fell.
The elf’s voice cracked.
"My son... is dead?"
Isolde didn’t answer.
"How? When? I was away for only ten years. Just ten years..."
Lugh’s mind echoed the phrase.
Just ten years.
Of course. Only an elf would call a decade just.
His body swayed slightly. Today’s events had strained him, not so much physically as ntally.
He needed rest.
Thankfully, Isolde spoke before things escalated further.
"I’ll explain everything. But first, let’s regroup. You’ve traveled far—you must be tired."
The elf nodded faintly.
"I suppose so."
Together, under Isolde’s guidance, they left the wrecked garden.
Before disappearing through the archway, the elf’s gaze flickered briefly to the portly man who’d only just recovered from his earlier collapse—Victor Aelhurst.
Her expression darkened. She had seen too much. He had seen too much. The thought of killing him simred beneath her calm exterior.
Victor, for his part, scrambled awkwardly toward them, driven by instinct. He didn’t know why, but every nerve in his body scread that staying behind would be a grave mistake.
Better to pretend familiarity than isolate himself.
It didn’t work.
Before he could draw near, Isolde spoke without looking back.
"Take him to the dungeons."
"Wait, no—"
A sharp blow struck the back of his head, and he crumpled to the ground.
Isolde didn’t intend to kill him. Not yet. They needed answers. Specifically, how he’d gotten involved.
Lugh followed them too, but when they reached the main estate, he turned and walked straight to his room. Not the dungeons.
Isolde didn’t argue. She couldn’t. Maybe she once had a reason to keep him confined—so excuse tied to protecting her daughter, Lirienne—but that reason no longer held weight. Not with the true culprit revealed.
Even if that hadn’t been the case, she doubted she could keep him there now. Everyone, herself included, was uneasy around him.
It wasn’t just his physical prowess. That, she could still strategize against: keep distance, barrage him with spells from afar.
No, the real danger ca when he used magic. If it even was magic.
He hadn’t cast anything. He simply looked at the beastkin, and she changed.
She had no desire to challenge him anyti soon, not unless she wanted to wake up in the morning with his dead gaze staring back from her own face.
Still, she hadn’t given up her efforts to keep him isolated. Her shadows moved swiftly, clearing the halls, rerouting servants, relocating guards.
She would make sure few ever saw him. Fewer still would know of him.
Lugh didn’t care. The difference between his room and his forr cell was minimal. In fact, it was starting to feel like he’d been confined for more than just spite.
Perhaps Isolde’s reasons weren’t entirely rooted in cruelty.
Once inside, the first thing he did was change the bloodied maid outfit on his clone. It didn’t suit it anymore. He dressed it in one of the elegant, simple indoor garnts that made up the entirety of his wardrobe.
He picked a matching outfit for himself. Similar in shape, color, and design.
This new body, this puppet, was too perfect to risk losing.
Now he could be in two places at once. He could do that before, but now... now it could be with the sa face.
It was an incredible improvent. The clone was not only identical but physically superior.
As a beastkin, it had enhanced reflexes, strength, and senses. And since it was him, it shared the thousands of years of combat expertise burned into his soul.
That proficiency alone was already dangerous.
Combined with his original body’s ability to glimpse fragnts of the future, it made him nearly untouchable.
This was another step forward in fulfilling the mission given to him by Xhi—the priestess—and the god she served.
Later that night...
"Ah. I see. Lucas died in the war."
The room was silent after Isolde’s explanation.
The elf’s voice was quiet, stunned.
"And his son? The one he had with that Heieg girl?"
Isolde shifted in her seat, visibly uncomfortable.
"His na is Lugh."
The elf repeated the na slowly, tasting it like sothing foreign.
"Lugh..."
Then, she straightened.
"Call Lugh here. I need to ask my grandson so questions."
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