Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 320: The Most Precious Thing

A week passed.

On the newly restored borders where the Serathil carved its rightful path into Kaltharion once more, the war camp thrummed with quiet preparation. Spring unfurled around them, flowering branches swaying, the river’s bright voice threading through the canvas walls of their tent. It should have been peaceful. But peace had already chosen a side.

Lorraine sat reclined on a cushioned chair, one hand resting on her belly, the other propping her cheek as she watched her husband bend over the war table. Leroy, surrounded by the kings who had sworn themselves to him, looked like the man fate always meant him to be. Back straight, shoulders relaxed, eyes burning with certainty rather than doubt.

One by one, those rulers had knelt, with bows of loyalty given to the heir of Aurelthar. And each time they sank to the ground before him, Lorraine’s heart fluttered with a dark, sweet pride.

This was how her husband should be seen. Not mocked. Not diminished. Not forced into submission. Exalted. Obeyed. Feared.

And with him standing above all... she stood above all as well.

There was selfishness in it, she admitted. If no one else was above Leroy, then she alone remained the one person he would ever bow to. And that thought warmed her more deeply than any spring sun.

She watched his hands—strong, sure—move over the maps. Calculating formations. Reading terrain. Adjusting timings. His mind ran like brilliant clockwork, weaving strategies she wouldn’t have imagined. She’d thought war was about charging and clashing steel. Instead, it was precision, timing, posture, supply routes, and quality of armor.

He was magnificent. A genius. Even Damian stood silently impressed, and the other kings followed Leroy’s explanations like eager apprentices.

She had always known her husband was sharp. But this? This razor-edged brilliance? She could never have plotted something so complex. Not in the open, anyway.

Then Leroy looked up—those amber eyes soft when they found her.

"I’ll trouble you to handle this, My Queen," he said, handing her a stack of sealed missives.

Lorraine smiled slowly, her fingers brushing the wax seals.

Oh, clandestine negotiations? Information networks? Whisper-laced diplomacy?

That was her battlefield. Her throne.

"With pleasure," she said, her voice silkier than the spring breeze. "Leave the shadows to me, My King."

She stood and waddled out of the tent, one hand bracing her very pregnant belly. Leroy lifted his eyes just long enough to watch her go. It wasn’t easy to see a woman that pregnant moving around the war camp, but with a soft exhale and a fond, helpless smile, he bowed his head again and returned to his maps.

Vaeronyx, perched in his humanoid form near the tent’s entrance, followed her with a baffled stare. Surely, he thought, even mortals haven’t changed so much that a husband would work his heavily pregnant wife at this stage. What happened to chivalry? Is it dead? The ancient dragon sighed, thoroughly offended on principle.

Just as Lorraine stepped out, Emma and Sylvia rushed to her sides, steadying her. She smiled at them, three days, that’s how long it had been since they reunited. For an entire day, she’d ignored Leroy and let herself exist simply as their friend again, listening to their stories, laughing, soaking in the comfort. Both were married now, expecting children of their own. Family. For all of them, that was the most precious thing.

They guided her to her tent... her command tent, pitched right beside Leroy’s. Inside, Aralyn waited with warm tea and snacks. Lorraine’s heart softened. Aralyn had become the mother she had longed for, steady and quietly fierce. To be cared for like this again... it anchored her.

Lorraine eased into her chair and began working through the reports and missives Leroy had handed her. Strategy from the shadows—alliances, secrets, negotiations—that was where she excelled. And she did excel, swiftly and almost joyfully. Aralyn ensured she drank water, corrected her posture, and shooed away anyone who tried to disturb her.

When dinner time came, Leroy entered her tent. The others quietly departed, leaving them alone. He reached for her ink-stained hand.

"Finished?" he asked.

Lorraine stretched, wincing softly. "Finished."

They had already sent missives demanding the self-proclaimed Emperor’s surrender, offering him one last chance to avoid war. No reply had come.

Lorraine exhaled deeply. "You tried to run... thinking it would stop the war. And here we are." Her smile held no reproach; only warm, rueful understanding.

Leroy’s lips curled faintly. "I tried." And he had; his fears were never foolish. The Oracle had tried once to take Lorraine from him. He thought that by hiding in the mountains, they’d be beyond her reach, but even there, they’d found Vaeronyx waiting.

"What has to happen, will happen," Leroy murmured, fingers tightening protectively around hers. His gaze drifted toward Vaeronyx’s silhouette sitting on a far rock, immovable and ancient.

Leroy wasn’t afraid of war.

But the danger he feared, the one thing that could truly break him, still lingered in the shadows beyond the battlefield.

What would he do, when the powerful being wished to take his wife again?

Night draped softly over the war camp, a hush settling between the tents as the Serathil’s gentle rush filled the silence. Lantern light glowed warm and low inside Lorraine’s tent, casting long, flickering shadows over canvas walls. She lay reclined on a pile of cushions Aralyn insisted she must use, her ankles slightly swollen from the day’s work.

Leroy sat at the foot of her cot, sleeves rolled up, his hands warm and steady as he massaged her legs with a tenderness that contrasted sharply with the steel of the commander he’d been all day. His thumbs pressed gentle circles over her calves, working upward with care, pausing whenever she hissed or curled her toes.

"You don’t have to," she murmured, already melting into the comfort.

"I do," Leroy replied quietly. "I make you march around camp with half a kingdom’s worth of paperwork. This is the bare minimum."

"Mm," she said, eyes half-closed, "you’re forgiven, then."

He huffed a laugh, but the affection in his gaze was unmistakable—soft, gravitational, the kind of love that tethered even kings.

He lifted her foot to rub gently along her arch. Lorraine’s lips curved and as he massaged her feet, she fell asleep.

Suddenly, a gust of cool night air swept through the tent flap.

Vaeronyx stepped inside.

Leroy pressed his lips as his sharp eyes landed on Vaeronyx. He didn’t like him near his wife.