Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 295: The Place of Her Vision

"I thought you were dying," Aldric muttered, half in relief, half in disbelief. "You scared the life out of me, Sylvia."

She giggled softly, her eyes brightening as she leaned forward, resting her forehead against his. "I thought you’d faint."

"I nearly did." He let out a shaky breath, his thumb brushing over her knuckles as he looked down at her belly. "You’re... going to have a child?"

Sylvia nodded again, this time smiling through tears she didn’t even realize had gathered. "Your child..."

He looked up at her, his expression softening into something reverent, as though he were seeing her for the first time. Then he pulled her gently into his arms, holding her close, careful not to press too tightly.

For a long moment, neither spoke. The fountain murmured quietly behind them; the scent of fresh earth and new blossoms filled the air. Spring had only just begun—and so, it seemed, had something else.

Finally, Aldric whispered against her hair, "I suppose this means I’ll have to start building a cradle."

Sylvia laughed through her tears, nudging him lightly. "You can’t even fix a loose hinge."

He smiled, tightening his hold around her as if the world could be kept at bay by the press of his palm. "Then I’ll learn," he had said, the promise light and absurd and somehow entirely like him.

The smile vanished from Aldric’s face as a sound, that was too small for alarm, too precise to be casual, skated across the garden path. His hand went to the sword at his hip with the movement of habit and muscle memory; the motion was clean, practised, a thing of reflex.

Sylvia went still beneath him, the sudden tension running through her like a dropped stitch. She felt him pivot, felt the heat of his body fold over hers; he covered her without ceremony, the way a roof covers a sleeper in a storm. There was no theatrics now, only focus, a man whose fear sharpened to a single point: she was with child, and he would not be careless again. 𝕗𝗿𝕖𝐞𝐰𝗲𝕓𝐧𝕠𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝐨𝚖

"Who’s there!" he called, voice hard and low, blade angled toward the sound of leather on stone. The small noise that had teased them, another footfall, a brush of fabric... became a shape behind the high bush.

Aldric’s grip tightened until the knuckles whitened. For a breath he imagined the worst: patrols, scouts, the emperor’s long reach.

Then a head rose, all silk and mischievous light, the unmistakable outline of Prince Damian. He peered out with that infuriatingly theatrical bow of his, apologetic and absurd. "I apologize for intruding on your happy moment," he offered, as if he had been invited.

Aldric let out a sound that was half anger, half relief, and the sword slid back into its sheath. "You should stop doing this," he said, not unkind but warning-clear.

Damian only smiled, the expression of someone who had practiced mischief as a craft. "What else can I do? I have nothing else to do."

Sylvia pushed at Aldric’s chest with a small, amused impatience. He released her only after pressing a brief, fierce kiss to the top of her head; she moved inside the cottage with the easy domesticity of someone who mends lives with tea.

Aldric’s posture softened a degree but did not fully relax, for there was always an edge left for the world outside. "One day or another, I’m going to kill you," he muttered, more threat in jest than malice.

Damian chuckled, seating himself on the rickety bench as if he belonged there by right. Sylvia returned with steaming cups, handing them out with the calm competence of a woman who had learned how to make small comforts into shields. Underneath the ordinary warmth of the moment, Aldric watched the prince with an old, guarded suspicion; under the gentleness of Sylvia’s ministrations, Damian revealed a tiredness that no courtly polish could disguise. He was less a polished ornament here and more a man who had run a long way to find company.

Aldric’s jaw loosened in something like acceptance. The garden settled; the fountain bubbled; the thawing world smelled of wet earth and new sap, and the three of them, the steward, his wife, and the flattering intruder, sat together in the fragile, human truce of tea and shared bread.

The spring sun made a rim of light around the prince’s hair; he looked absurdly out of place among the stone and thawing mud, all silk and bright color in a place built to be hidden.

"You should stop doing this," Aldric repeated, voice flat as the steel he leaned on.

Damian gave a small, theatrical bow, apologetic and unapologetic at once. "I apologize for being alive where you’re sleeping, Sir Aldric," he said, that smile never quite reaching the tiredness in his eyes. "But I heard laughter."

Sylvia let out a little exhale; half amusement, half relief. "You worry too much," she told Aldric lightly, pressing a palm to his forearm. His jaw unclenched at the touch. His shoulders eased.

Damian cradled his teacup as if it were something fragile and undeserved, and warming him all the same. The steam curled against his cheek like a secret he shouldn’t have brought. When he finally spoke, his voice was smaller than the laughter he usually wore like armour.

"I owe you apologies," he said quietly. "For the intrusions. The dramatics. For being... a nuisance. I get carried away."

"You always get carried away," Sylvia replied, but her tone was soft, almost fond.

Aldric, however, was not as generous. His gaze hardened. "What is it now?"

Damian’s lips curved, but his eyes didn’t follow. He might have claimed he came to pass time, but something coiled tight beneath the charm. Then, without preamble, he said, "You’ve found out where Lorraine is, haven’t you? I need her."

The silence that followed was heavy. Even Sylvia stilled at the phrasing. Need her?

"Need her?" Aldric echoed, his voice sharp.

Damian’s grin vanished. The mask slipped, revealing the weary shadow beneath. "He thinks he can save her by keeping her away," he said grimly. "But she won’t stay away. And if she returns, there will be consequences neither of them is ready for. We should prepare for... other means."

Aldric’s fists tightened on his knees. Sylvia looked between them, her confusion giving way to unease.

"And what are you planning to do?" Aldric asked. "He won’t be pleased if you meddle in their marriage."

Damian rose, his movements sudden and restless. "I need to know where she is."

Aldric turned his face away. "I’m not telling you that."

The prince’s gaze flicked to Sylvia, pleading and searching, but one look at her husband’s taut expression told her enough. She pressed her lips together and stayed silent.

Damian exhaled, his shoulders sagging. "Then I’ll tell you the truth," he said to Sylvia, voice low, as if that alone might earn him their trust. "The reason Leroy took her away—"

"On the other side of the mountain," Aldric interrupted flatly. Damian blinked, startled. Aldric’s eyes met his, steel-hard. "Near Kaltharion’s border. Once you’re there, you’ll hear about her."

For a long moment, Damian said nothing. Then he nodded once, quietly. "Thank you."

He bowed to Sylvia—a gesture too polite for the heaviness that lingered—and walked away, the fading sound of his boots leaving behind an unease that neither husband nor wife could name.

Sylvia looked at her husband. It was plainly obvious that he was hiding something. The expression and the tauntness in his entire being told her how anxious he was. She wanted to ask, to plead, to nag him to tell him the truth.

But... she let out a deep breath.

She had already found a way to make contact with the princess. And even if it was something dangerous, the princess had her husband to protect her. And there is Aldric. Even if he was keeping secrets, he would definitely protect the princess with all his being. So, she decided to trust him.

-----

Lorraine walked with an unhurried grace, a faint skip in her step as the morning wind tousled the ends of her hair. Sylvia had received her letter and she had sent back word through the young lady. That alone was enough to lift Lorraine’s mood.

She decided not to visit the village that day. Instead, she wandered further into the open expanse, where the sky met the hills and the snow had begun to melt in fine rivulets. The air smelled of thawing earth and pine. Somewhere nearby, she could hear the faint murmur of water—soft, steady, like a lullaby carried through the valley.

Following the sound, she walked upstream, her boots damp with dew. The world was waking around her—the river widening into a silver ribbon, the trees trembling with newborn buds. It was serene, untouched.

She found a smooth rock near the bank and settled there, pulling out the small bundle of food she’d brought. The river shimmered in sunlight, and she slipped off her shoes, dipping her bare feet into the cold water. A shiver ran through her, but she smiled at the sensation.

"Do you like it?" she murmured, her voice tender as her hand came to rest against the swell of her belly. Her child stirred, a small flutter beneath her palm. "You’ll see it soon. It’s beautiful, isn’t it?"

She tilted her head back, watching a bird skim low over the current. Everything felt so achingly peaceful—almost too peaceful.

And then, without warning, her smile faltered.

This place...