Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 301: The Reunion

"Why are you here?" Leroy asked, striding toward the peak where Lorraine had vanished.

He wanted the man gone. The last thing he needed was Damian’s theatrics in the middle of a war-swept riverbank and when his sister wanted him dead. There were no trees, no thickets, no sensible place for a woman to hide.

Had she crossed? Was she captured? Was that the reason those men retreated? Each possibility tightened the line of his jaw.

"Where is Lorraine?" Damian asked, voice silky, untroubled by the bloody ground beneath them.

Leroy stopped. He turned, slow and hard, and let his glare do most of the talking. This man had the gall to hunt for his wife as if he had any right to ask where she hid. The thought of it made something cold and raw coil in his gut.

Damian met the look without flinching. He smiled... that infuriating smile, all ease and practiced charm. "I have something to ask her," he said, shrugging as if the battlefield were a drawing room and Lorraine an ornament he might borrow.

Leroy’s hand tightened on the hilt of his sword. Every polite bone in him burned with the desire to drag Damian forward and settle the matter like men, with a blade between ribs and an end to the insolence. He pictured the duel in a single, sharp vision: steel flashing, Damian’s fan scattering like confetti, the prince on his knees, air leaving him in a surprised gasp.

But... He imagined Lorraine’s face afterward. Not triumphant. Not pleased. She would hate the spectacle. She had, for some reason, found Damian acceptable. And also, she would hate the blood he’d add to their night. She would want him whole, not wounded for pride’s sake.

The thought steadied him. Leroy released his grip and let his sword rest. He squared his shoulders and gave Damian one last look; it was not a challenge, but a promise that the next time Damian overstepped, there would be consequences.

"Find your answer elsewhere," he said coldly. "Or ask with better manners. It’s my wife you’re asking about."

Damian’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it deepened into mischief. "As you wish, Your Majesty. But if she’s in danger, do try not to die before I get a chance to be of help."

Leroy’s jaw clenched. He didn’t answer. Instead, he turned back toward the ridge, toward the peak where Lorraine had vanished, every step a vow to find her alive, no matter what prince or army stood in his way.

Damian walked ahead without waiting, his boots crunching over loose gravel as he passed the peak’s edge and started his descent down the slope. "She must’ve gone this way," he called over his shoulder, voice half-lost to the wind.

Leroy didn’t follow. Something in his chest, that instinct older than thought, made him pause.

He scanned the ridgeline, the dark horizon, the hush that had fallen after the battle. The air here was strange. Too still. Too heavy, as if holding its breath.

No... she isn’t down there.

He couldn’t explain how he knew, but he was certain of it. Lorraine wasn’t below the mountain; she was somewhere beneath it.

And then the ground shifted.

It began as a low groan under his boots, a sound like the earth exhaling after a long sleep. Pebbles rolled past his feet. He took one step back, but it was too late. The stone cracked open beneath him, light and dust flaring up in a sudden roar.

"Leroy!" Damian shouted from below, but his voice was already fading.

The ridge gave way completely, swallowing Leroy whole.

He fell through darkness, weightless for a heartbeat, his sword slipping from his grasp as air rushed around him. The world above vanished into a single, distant speck of light, then even that was gone.

All that remained was the sound of his own breath, the cold bite of air, and the endless drop into the unknown.

Leroy fell.

The wind howled past his ears, and for a split second, he thought this was it; this was how he would die. But then, just like Lorraine before him, his fall ended not with bone-shattering pain, but with a solid, strangely alive impact.

Something beneath him moved.

He froze. The surface beneath his palms was uneven and warm, almost... breathing. The faint rise and fall beneath his touch made his blood run cold.

What in the gods’ name...

He shifted slightly, and the thing beneath him shifted too. A tremor ran through the ground, deep and resonant, followed by the faint scrape of scales: a sound like rocks grinding together. Leroy’s instincts screamed danger, but before he could even draw his weapon, the surface tilted.

He slipped.

And then he was sliding, tumbling down the smooth, scaly slope, trying to grab onto anything that would stop his fall. Dust filled his mouth; his coat snagged against something sharp, and then... He hit real ground. Hard, damp, and unyielding.

Groaning, he pushed himself up. The air was heavy with warmth, thick enough that he could taste the iron tang of it. For a moment, he thought he saw movement in the dark, a faint shimmer, like molten gold catching light. But he didn’t linger.

Because then he saw her.

A small fire flickered faintly nearby, its orange glow trembling against the black walls of the cavern. Lorraine sat beside it, her back against the stone, one hand protectively over her belly. She was asleep, her breathing steady, her face pale but peaceful.

Everything else, the dragon-shaped shadow stretching far into the dark, the echo of deep breaths that shook the ground, the gleam of something massive and silver-golden in the gloom, faded from Leroy’s mind.

He staggered toward her, half-limping from the fall, his heart pounding so loud it drowned out even the rumbling breath behind him.

"Lorraine," he whispered, falling to his knees beside her.

She didn’t stir. Only the fire cracked softly, and somewhere behind them, a slow, amused exhale rolled through the cavern like thunder.

But Leroy didn’t even look back. He brushed the dust from her cheek, his jaw tightening in quiet relief. She was safe. That was all that mattered.

Lorraine felt warmth wash over her. It was not the heat of the cave or the faint fire flickering nearby, but a warmth she knew by heart. A touch that carried both strength and tenderness, the kind that had always anchored her through every storm.

"Leroy..." she breathed, eyes fluttering open. Before her vision cleared, his scent reached her first, that familiar mix of smoke and pine, now tinged with the metallic edge of blood.

Her heart lurched. "Are you hurt?" she asked, her hands immediately moving to his chest, his shoulders, his face, searching desperately, as if she could smooth away every unseen wound with her touch.

"I’m fine," he said, voice low and steady.

Lorraine finally looked up at him, her lips parting into a smile — small, trembling, but filled with pride. "You made it," she whispered. Against all odds, he had kept his promise. Her husband, one man against an army, had survived and returned to her.

Leroy leaned down and pressed his lips to her forehead, his touch lingering there for a moment longer than necessary, as though he needed the reassurance that she was truly there. "Are you hurt anywhere?" he murmured.

"My ankle..." she admitted, her tone softening, a faint pout curling her lips.

That look, that small, vulnerable sound in her voice... it unraveled something in him. Leroy’s breath hitched as he drew back just enough to see her face. Her lashes framed those tired, luminous eyes; her cheeks were smudged with dust, and still, she looked achingly beautiful. The way she pouted, like she hadn’t just survived a fall and a war above, tugged at his heart in a way no blade or battle ever could.

"Your ankle," he murmured, lowering himself before her. His fingers, calloused from years of swordwork, moved with surprising gentleness as he reached for her boot. "Let me see."

Lorraine shifted slightly, watching him with quiet amusement as he tugged off the boot with careful precision. Her breath caught when his fingers brushed against her skin—warm, reverent, tracing the faint swell of where the ankle had turned.

He looked up at her, his eyes softened from the fierce glow they held in battle. "You should’ve stayed hidden," he said quietly, though his voice carried more affection than reproach.

"I was," she whispered. "Then the ground decided otherwise."

Leroy chuckled under his breath, the sound low and weary, yet full of warmth. He cradled her foot in his palm and began to massage it gently, testing for pain. His touch was careful, his thumb drawing small circles that soothed more than just the ache in her ankle.

Lorraine sighed softly, the sound echoing faintly in the cavern. "You’re warm," she murmured.

"That’s the least I can be," he said, his lips curving faintly. Then, in a voice roughened by exhaustion and relief, "You worried me."

She reached forward, cupping his cheek, her fingers brushing the streaks of dirt and blood on his skin. "And you, as usual, scared me half to death," she said. "Fighting an army alone, really?"

He leaned into her touch, closing his eyes for a brief moment. "I told you I’d find you," he said simply, his tone steady, a quiet vow made real.