Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 279: A Quiet Morning

Lorraine stayed still, her eyes tracing the dark corners of the room. Nothing stirred, no sound but the soft rustle of wind beyond the window, no shadow that moved but the faint flicker of the dying candle. Everything was as it should be. And yet her heart thudded too fast, a wild, uneven rhythm that made her breath catch.

It wasn’t the room. It wasn’t the night. It was her.

The unease was inside her, quiet but unyielding. That mistrust, faint as a scar beneath new paint. She had buried it, covered it with tenderness and whispered forgiveness, but it lived still, waiting for the dark to make itself known again.

She rolled toward Leroy. He was fast asleep, his face softened in the candle’s dim glow. Even as she moved, his arm adjusted, pulling the blanket up to her shoulder, his palm settling on the small of her back. A gentle rub, unconscious, protective.

Her throat tightened. Even in sleep, he reached for her. Even after everything.

And still, she feared.

Was she being paranoid? Was this what love after betrayal felt like? Like half warmth and half ache?

Lorraine exhaled shakily and pressed herself closer, burying her face against his chest. His steady, strong, and familiar heartbeat lulled her.

And the doubt faded into sleep.

When she woke, the first thing Lorraine noticed was the emptiness beside her and the faint, lingering warmth where Leroy had been. The blanket was tucked snugly around her, cocooning her in his scent and care. She stretched lazily, blinking against the soft morning light that slipped through the window, dust motes dancing in the beam.

The cottage was quiet. Too quiet. She rose, the wooden floor cool beneath her bare feet, and padded across the room. There weren’t many doors; one led to the storeroom, another to the kitchen. It was simple, small, and almost endearing in its plainness.

Her gaze fell on the kitchen table. Fresh bread, still warm. A jug of milk beaded with dew. A small basket of vegetables: carrots, turnips, even a sprig of thyme. Lorraine frowned softly. There was no oven here. No hearth big enough for baking. Yesterday, she had wondered how they seemed to have bread and vegetables ready. Now, seeing the bread’s golden crust and the faint scent of earth still clinging to the vegetables, she realized.

There was a village nearby. Someone had been delivering these to them.

She brushed her fingers over the loaf’s surface, its warmth grounding her. They were hidden, yes, but not completely cut off from the world. And somehow, that comforted her.

And it made sense too. She was pregnant. She would have to deliver their child. He wouldn’t have brought her somewhere where they were very isolated, in case she had an emergency.

And now she looked for him... her husband.

The morning sun spilled across the frost-dusted fields, painting the air in pale gold. The mountains glimmered in the distance, their breath cold and quiet, while somewhere nearby, birds began their tentative songs.

Leroy stood in the open field behind the cottage, the sun glinting off his bare shoulders as he swung his longsword in smooth, deliberate arcs. His movements were precise and fluid, the kind forged by years of discipline. The rhythmic sound of steel slicing through the air echoed against the quiet slopes.

Lorraine stood by the doorway, the crisp mountain air nipping at her cheeks, with her nightgown brushing her ankles, the fabric catching the faint breeze. Her hair was loose, tangled from sleep, and she hadn’t even bothered with slippers. She should’ve gone back inside, but she couldn’t. Something about the sight held her still.

The sun was pale but bright, spilling over the clearing in front of the cottage. And there he was... Leroy... shirtless, his sword flashing like liquid silver in the light.

The sun gilded every line of his body, the faint sheen of sweat tracing the scars she had once counted. Each swing was a quiet confession of who he was, showing his strength and restraint, violence and grace, man and memory.

Each movement was deliberate, sharp yet graceful, the fluid dance of someone who had spent his life balancing on the edge between control and violence. His breath came in slow, steady exhales, each swing carving an invisible rhythm through the air.

Lorraine leaned against the doorframe, her nightgown fluttering slightly with the breeze. He must’ve noticed her, because his pace changed, just a little. His strokes became longer, cleaner, more precise. The arch of his back exaggerated, his stance turning almost theatrical. His muscles glisten in the morning light.

She smiled faintly, arms crossing. Of course, he was showing off. He was like a peacock flaunting his feathers, pretending not to see her watching when he so clearly wanted her to.

When he finally lowered his sword, sweat tracing down his chest, he cast her a glance, half a smirk, half a challenge.

"Training?" she asked, her voice teasing.

He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and met her gaze, eyes glinting in the morning light. "Maybe," he said, that roguish grin forming. "Or maybe I just needed an audience."

Lorraine smiled faintly. "You’re loud," she murmured.

Leroy chuckled, breathless, the edge of his playfulness breaking into warmth.

-----

Elias walked toward the burnt mansion at the break of day. He wasn’t sure what drew him there. The place was heavy with memories, good ones. It was where he had found his brothers-in-arms... and where he had met the love of his life, Emma.

Aldric had warned them to stay away, fearing an imperial trap. Anyone who had once served in that mansion risked being captured, tortured, and forced to reveal the prince and princess’s whereabouts.

And yet, that morning, Elias couldn’t resist the pull.

The mansion loomed before him, scarred but standing. The fire had spared much more than he expected. The silks were ruined, the ornaments blackened, but the bones of the house, the walls, the floors, even the high-arched roof remained. It could be restored, he thought.

He stepped inside. The scent of ash lingered faintly, but what caught his eye stopped him cold. The portrait of the prince and princess still hung above the grand hearth, untouched by flame or soot.

He moved closer. Even now, the painted figures seemed alive; commanding reverence, radiating that quiet, untouchable grace only true royalty possessed.

And then, a soft shuffle behind him.

Elias froze. Someone else was here.