Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 314: To Ride A Dragon

The emperor’s command cracked through the palace corridors like a whip, and within minutes the guards were swarming the great gates of the capital, shoving the iron slabs shut with strained grunts and clattering chains. The clang of metal echoed across the courtyard as the final bar slammed into place; an unmistakable signal of fear disguised as precaution.

But even as the gates sealed, no one was looking at them.

Every soldier’s gaze kept drifting upward... toward the mountains that crowned the horizon.

And it was then, just as the last lock clicked home, that one of the younger guards stiffened, breath stalling in his chest.

"Did you see that?" he asked, his voice barely more than a rasp. "The peak... it moved."

The others snapped their heads toward the dark silhouette of the mountain. The fiery glow behind it should have been impossible; mountains did not shift, their peaks did not sway like beasts waking from slumber.

But the mountain did move.

"I thought it was smoke," another whispered, "but... mountains aren’t supposed to breathe."

A third guard swallowed hard, eyes wide. "That’s where the Crown Prince of Kaltharion is said to have—"

"Shh!" came a sharp hiss. "Do not say his title."

"Right. Sorry. The... traitor."

But the word sounded wrong on his tongue, thin and brittle in the charged air.

One guard leaned in, lowering his voice. "You heard the rumors, haven’t you? Their mansion stopped burning in an instant. And... and they say he walked through the fire. He and his wife both."

Another scoffed, though it was half-hearted. "Fire doesn’t spare traitors."

"That’s just it," the whisperer insisted, eyes gleaming with the thrill of forbidden knowledge. "Fire does spare those of dragon blood. That’s what the old lore said, back when people were allowed to speak of it."

His companions froze.

A name hung unspoken between them.

Aurelthar.

The true throne.

The lineage that was never meant to die.

"Do you think... it’s a... dragon?" his voice became so low, so filled with fear and wonder, and conspiracy, his eyes wide with fear and wonder.

"Oh, shut up," the squad captain snapped, far too quickly. "Get to work. Eyes forward. No one enters or leaves the capital until we have orders."

But even he, the stern, loyal, disciplined soldier, could not stop his gaze from flickering back to the horizon, where fire rained like prophecy fulfilled and the mountain breathed like a creature awakening after centuries of sleep.

And it wasn’t just here.

Across Kaltharion’s drought-stricken villages, across Vaeloria’s bustling avenues, in taverns, temples, and marketplaces where old stories had been whispered only in shadow, gossip burst like wildfire.

"The heir of Aurelthar lives."

"The Dragon King’s line is returning."

"The sky cries fire—just as the prophecy said."

The old lore—hushed, forbidden, feared—was no longer something to hide.

It was rising.

It was spreading.

And the world, whether ready or not, was waking to the truth.

-----

Under the unblinking eye of the pillar of fire—an impossible spire of molten gold tearing up through the heavens—Lorraine and Leroy stood together, their silhouettes washed in a living, breathing blaze. The dragon’s inferno roared above them, yet not a single ember dared kiss their skin. They stood beneath an umbrella of fire, sheltered by a being whose power could raze nations... and who had chosen, for now, to protect them.

For nearly half an hour, Vaeronyx had been breathing flame into the world, announcing Leroy’s return not with trumpets or banners, but with the sky itself torn open in incandescent proclamation. Every corner of Kaltharion and Vaeloria saw the same fiery truth: someone of impossible lineage had awakened.

Lorraine pressed her palm against her swelling belly, feeling the faint flutter within her respond to the heavens’ blaze, her child leaping as though it recognized the fire in the sky as kin. The spark of joy inside her bloomed wider than the flame above, and she giggled softly, her shoulders trembling with a childlike delight she rarely allowed herself.

Leroy, on the other hand, was decidedly not giggling.

He stood rigid, watching the sky with the grim steadiness of a man who realized, in a single breath, that the soft, humble future he had once dared to imagine was slipping quietly out of reach. The fire did not burn him, but the realization did.

He exhaled, a long, weary, soul-deep breath that misted in the strange heat, thinking of all that lay ahead. Responsibilities he had never sought were now carved into the air above them with blazing certainty. He could no longer till soil under the sun, could no longer wake to the peace of a farmer’s chores or eat Lorraine’s half-burnt, oddly comforting stews while pretending the world outside their little cottage did not exist.

Those were small losses, but symbolic ones.

Now, he would face a throne carved from centuries of bloodshed. Plots thick as fog. Wars coiled like vipers waiting to strike. Laws, missives, decrees, diplomacy... shadows that never let a man sleep deeply. The weight of a kingdom—two kingdoms—had lodged itself behind his ribs, squeezing.

He turned his head slightly, torn between dread and acceptance... and froze at the sight of Lorraine.

His wife, the former princess, hidden oracle, venomous mastermind when she wished to be, was staring up at the burning heavens with the unrestrained joy of a child discovering a forest made entirely of candy. Her eyes shimmered, delighted. Her smile was wide and reckless and incandescent. If the sky collapsed into molten rivers, she would probably take notes and start planning how to use it to their advantage.

This—this—was the air she breathed.

Responsibility did not frighten her; it invigorated her. Where he felt the tightening grip of duty, she felt the pull of purpose. While he worried about the weight of the crown, she was already imagining the thousand ways they would wield it for good.

Leroy’s chest loosened.

Ah... he thought, a sigh of reluctant amusement threading through his dread. I will have to depend on her, won’t I?

And the thought did not shame him. It steadied him.

Because with this woman, with this brilliant, terrifying, beloved woman standing beside him, shouldering burdens as easily as breathing, he knew he could face anything. Even the fire crying from the heavens.

Even the throne waiting beyond it.

"Kaltharion or Vaeloria?" Lorraine asked, feeling Leroy’s gaze lingering on her.

"What?" he blinked, confused.

"Where are you landing first?" she repeated, bristling with excitement. "I can’t wait to see you descending in front of them—riding a dragon."

A small hiccup rumbled from the dragon beside them. A hiccup—followed by a towering column of fire that roared across the sky. Lorraine paused mid-fantasy and slowly turned.

Vaeronyx finished spewing flames, then swiveled his massive head toward her.

"Riding? On me?" he asked, scandalized. "Am I a horse?"

Leroy immediately nodded, taking the dragon’s side with alarming speed. He was not going to ride on a demigod, his own ancestor, like he was a common mule. That was... no.

Lorraine looked between the two of them, horrified that her magnificent vision was being questioned. She had already formed the perfect image: Leroy on a dragon, landing in a storm of fire, challenging the world, forcing half the realm to kneel while the other half screamed and ran before Vaeronyx’s flames.

What a delightful sight that would have been.

"Then... do you expect him to ride a horse?" she asked, disbelief dripping from every word.

Horses might be majestic, yes, but nowhere near as majestic as a dragon. Surely her husband wasn’t that dense? She looked at Leroy, expecting support. Instead, he stared back as if she had just suggested he dip himself in honey and wrestle bears.

Why are they looking at me like I’m the unreasonable one? Lorraine wondered.

"Lorraine... he’s a demigod," Leroy whispered. His wife adored him a little too much, so much that she forgot the rest of the world sometimes. It fell on him, as her husband, to remind her of basic reality.

Lorraine blinked slowly. "And that’s exactly why you’re riding him."

Leroy opened his mouth... then closed it again. In the face of her unshakable logic, he had... nothing. Absolutely nothing. What exactly did she think he was?

Vaeronyx snorted, a gust of hot air, and lowered himself onto his belly with an offended thump. No one had ever ridden him. Not even his wife. He was not some tamed beast to be saddled and directed. What on earth was this tiny, audacious mortal woman implying?

Lorraine folded her arms, chin tilting up with that quiet, devastating certainty that made grown men feel like children.

"Is it odd," she asked softly, "for a father to carry his son on his shoulders?"

The words hung in the air like a small, bright arrow—simple, but fatal.

Silence rolled over the clearing. Even the newly awakened winds from the moving mountain seemed to pause, as if the world itself leaned in to judge their reactions.

Leroy went still first. His breath caught; something warm and disarming flickered behind his confusion. He had not expected her to phrase it like that—not with such familial ease, not as if she’d reached into the ancient lineage of dragons and humans and rearranged it with one sentence.

Vaeronyx froze next. The great dragon’s molten eyes widened, the glow inside them flickering like a startled ember. For a heartbeat he looked less like a demigod who could tear mountains apart and more like a man who had just been called out by his daughter-in-law with impeccable logic.

Then both of them—dragon and prince—deflated in perfect, reluctant synchronicity.

Damn it.

She had a point.

The ancient dragon exhaled, a long, reluctant rumble that shook the pebbles at their feet. Somewhere deep in that sound lay five millennia of pride being slowly, painfully swallowed. He remembered, with a sudden ache, the Swan Oracle’s voice—her gentleness, her unshakable strength, the way she had also wrapped truth in softness that left no room for argument.

This mortal woman had that same light. That same disruptive clarity.

And Vaeronyx knew: if he wished to walk the road that might someday return him to his wife, he needed to listen.

Grudgingly—so grudgingly—he lowered his massive head until his horns nearly touched the ground.

"...Fine," he grumbled, the word curling out of him like something dragged from the bottom of the sea.

A victorious warmth gleamed in Lorraine’s eyes. Leroy tried and failed to hide a smile. The wind rustled through the scorched earth around them as if in approval.

Their moment was broken by a rustling sound from the slopes.