Chapter 20

Six years later, Lois finally moved into the Capital City of the Bienville Kingdom. She leased a modest residence there, carrying with her not just the pain of the past but also six bright souls who gave her life meaning. Over those six years, she poured herself into her hidden gift—art. Now she was a portrait artist of rare skill, her works already whispered about in noble circles.

By her side was Jacinta, no longer just her loyal companion but now a certified physician and midwife. Together they had journeyed into the Capital, both securing respectable and handsomely paying positions within the Royal Bureaucracy. Lois was employed at the Royal Art Bureau, Department of Painting, while Jacinta worked tirelessly at the Royal Infirmary. Between their duties, they devoted every heartbeat to raising Lois’s sextuplets with love and pride.

Lois tried to live quietly on her little street. She avoided unnecessary attention, kept her eyes lowered, and let her days revolve around work and her children. Yet—how could she ever hide? Six enchanting sextuplets followed her everywhere, filling her home with warmth and her life with light. They had no father. And that single absence stirred tongues more vicious than serpents.

The women in the neighborhood called her “Unreal… a witch.” They whispered behind veils and shutters, hissing that no woman could look so young, so radiant, after birthing six children. Some claimed her husband had fled, unable to bear the burden of so many mouths. Others, with darker glee, suggested she had murdered him, sacrificing him to preserve her beauty.

And still, every time she stepped out with her children, the same neighbors who condemned her melted into admiration. The sextuplets were breathtaking, little jewels of life, drawing sighs of awe from all who glimpsed them on their way to their academies.

That morning, the sun streamed through her window, soft and golden, spilling over the hum and laughter that filled the small home. The sound of bare feet scampering, squabbles over muffins, arguments and reconciliations—the symphony of her children beginning their day.

“Why do you always steal my muffin!” Conan wailed, his small face scrunching up before breaking into a grin that revealed how much he adored his mischievous twin. His eyes darted to Coen, who was hurriedly buckling his shoe, crumbs betraying his guilt.

“Why are you always the last to eat your snacks? The muffin was crying that it would get cold, so I rescued it! Be grateful I left you some,” Coen said cheekily, laughter bubbling under his words.

“You don’t always have to be an ass, Coen!” Conall, the eldest, muttered with princely command, and then delivered a sharp kick to his brother’s backside. The room erupted into peals of laughter.

Rolling his eyes, Coen stormed out dramatically. “I’m telling Jacinta!”

“Hi, Cera!” Conan’s face lit up when his sister stepped inside.

“What? You haven’t even done your hair? We’re late!” Cera scolded in the sweetest nagging tone, immediately grabbing the comb. Her small hands brushed through Conan’s silky black locks, so like Lois’s, before pinning them neatly. “There. Perfect. Gorgeous as always.”

Cera adored Conan’s hair, always insisting it was a crown. Unlike him, and unlike Lois, the rest of them carried Alpha Karl’s legacy—blonde and white strands that shimmered in the sunlight.

Meanwhile, Cahir sat in a corner, sulking with his broken wooden sword. “Ciri, fix it with magic.”

“I… I’m not supposed to. I could hurt someone if it goes wrong.” Cirila hesitated, biting her lip.

“You just don’t want to help me. If Cera had magic like you, she wouldn’t think twice!” Cahir snapped, frustration written on his small face.

“I’m sorry,” Ciri whispered, hugging him and patting his back gently.

Before their tender moment could linger, Jacinta burst out of the kitchen, waving a long spoon like a scepter. “Who kicked Coen’s ass this time?”

“Conall!” the children chorused in perfect harmony.

Conall huffed. “He deserved it! Always bullying Conan. I’m tired of his assholery!”

“Language, Conn!” Jacinta scolded, brows pinching together.

And then the voice that always brought silence and joy filled the air.

“Hi, lovelies!”

“Mother!”

They rushed into Lois’s arms, each voice overlapping as they clung to her.

“Hi, Conn! Hi, Conan! Hi, Ciri! Hi, Cera! Hi, Cahir! Hi, Coen,” she greeted warmly, kissing each forehead one by one, her smile radiant. In moments like these, Lois’s heart overflowed. What else could she ever desire but the sight of her six blessings—healthy, brilliant, magical, and hers?

Ciri, Cera, and Conan had been born with magic, sparks of light in their veins. Conall, Coen, and Cahir carried strength and genius beyond their years. Every one of them was extraordinary, a reflection of both their parents—though the world did not yet know.

As she adjusted their collars and smoothed trousers, Lois beamed. “I want you all to have fun today. Learn well. Be great.”

“We’ll try!” Cera teased, already slipping her bag on.

They split their paths as always. Lois, with Cirila, Conan, and Cera, walked toward the Arcane Academy—the same route that led her to the Royal Bureau of Art. Jacinta guided Conall, Coen, and Cahir to their Academy on her way to the Infirmary.

By the time Lois reached work, the Art Bureau was already buzzing. Her colleagues clustered together, whispering as her presence filled the room. She knew their pattern well: admiration veiled as jealousy. Since the nobles began clamoring for her portraits, her reputation had grown. And with it, resentment.

She ignored them as always, diving into her canvases. She had no time for petty rivalries.

“Lois,” a voice boomed, smooth and commanding. The Department Captain had entered. He was broad, handsome, the object of many of her colleagues’ desires. His eyes sought her instantly, and his lips curved into a smile that ignited scornful glares around the room.

“Beautiful dress today.”

Her gown was plain, modest, but draped elegantly on her slender frame. She dipped her head politely. “Thank you.”

The Captain turned to address the workers. “As you all know, today is the coronation of the new King. Our duty is to present flawless artistry—no mistakes. Originally, this level was assigned to the landscape paintings, while the senior artists handled the royal portrait. But after reviewing past works, the Council has decided… Lois Marrok will paint the portrait of His Majesty.”

The announcement landed like thunder. A few claps followed—half-hearted, bitter, forced. Lois bowed slightly, her expression calm though her heart raced.

It was the greatest honor an artist could dream of.

And it was hers.