Galaxy's Only Triple-S: Five Lords Can't Hold Her novel Chapter 237

Chapter 237 The Most Useless Thing

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The crown had been their responsibility. They’d withheld it themselves, and now it was gone. There was no one else to blame.

Darien dragged in several deep breaths, forcing down the urge to demolish the entire vault. He stared at the empty pedestal and let out a cold, bitter laugh.

“Fine. Playing dirty, is she?” He straightened his rumpled tie. “If she resorted to stealing it, that means she didn’t dare take it by force. The ceremony is only hours away. Let’s see how she plans to produce that crown. If she’s bold enough to wear it in public, I’ll be bold enough to ask her-in front of the entire galaxy —exactly where it came from.”

The dressing room was lit in soft, muted tones. Norman stood before the full-length mirror, tugging uneasily at her collar.

The deep crimson velvet gown was edged with intricate gold embroidery, a pattern the royal family had worn for a thousand years. The garment had been rushed through the night, but every measurement was exact, every stitch immaculate.

A six-year-old’s frame, still small, wrapped in all that heavy ceremonial fabric. She looked slight standing there, but there was something formidable about her nonetheless.

Margaret crouched in front of her, fingers working deftly through the cloak clasps. Her eyes were lowered, fixed on Norman’s reflection in the mirror, her touch unhurried and gentle.

“Straighten your back Cheiron stood just outside the dressing room door, his voice even but carrying a rare edge of steel. “You are the future sovereign of this Empire. Everyone out there is waiting to watch you stumble. If you back down a single step, they’ll tear you apart.”

Norman drew a breath, thrust her chest out the way she’d seen Margaret do, and forced her spine rigid.

“Don’t be so hard on her. She’s six.” Margaret’s tone was lazy as she ruffled Norman’s red hair. “As long as she doesn’t burst into tears up there, I’m calling it a win,”

Norman turned her head, her gold eyes bright. “Margaret, I won’t cry, Mother said tears are the most useless thing.”

“Good” Margaret let out a quiet laugh and patted Cheiron on the shoulder. “And you don’t wind yourself so tight. With all of us here, not even the worst could harm her.”

Cheiron straightened slightly, his gaze dropping to the hand Margaret had left resting on his shoulder. The chill in his gray eyes dissolved without a trace.

“Alright,” he said quietly, and closed his hand over hers.

Margaret didn’t pull away. She let him hold it for three full seconds before turning and pushing the door open. “Come on. Let’s go see what kind of show Price Darien has staged for us.”

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14.08 Mon, 6

Chapter 237 The Most Useless Thing

55%

+35 Free Coins

The great ball of the Imperial Compound had become a gladiatorial arena. Light refracted through the stained-glass dome, casting fractured colors across the undercurrents seething below.

The seats on both sides were packed with the Empire’s old-blood nobility-political weathervanes, every last one of them, loyal only to whichever way the wind blew.

Most eyes were fixed on the entrance, weighing whether this Regent who’d materialized out of nowhere would even make it through the ceremony in one piece.

Steady footsteps echoed through the vast chamber.

Margaret walked the red carpet with Norman’s hand in hers.

Norman moved with perfect composure. Young as she was, every step fell with steady, measured precision. The stares from both sides pressed down on her six-year-old shoulders like dead weight.

Margaret looked straight ahead, her stride casual, as if she were taking a younger sibling for a walk through the park. In her other hand she carried a metal case, utterly indifferent to the scrutiny around her.

Cheiron followed half a step behind, his posture immaculate. The highest-ranking uniform of the Academy of Sciences sat on his frame like a second skin, radiating a cold, quiet authority. His gaze swept across the assembly, and the nobles who’d been craning their necks quickly averted their eyes and lowered their heads.

Norman stopped before the throne and turned to face the assembly. The hall fell dead silent.

Victor, the Master of Ceremonies, stood at the dais, the heavy gilt-edged folio in his hands. His peripheral vision caught Darien in the front row, and a thin sheen of sweat broke out along his temples. The lengthy formal recitations were done. By protocol, the time had come to summon the symbol of power.

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