CHAPTER 238: THE PAINTING

Lorraine’s chest warmed. The thought that he had been thinking of her, planning something just to share it, made her pulse quicken. She had assumed he’d forgotten about ruining her precious hydrangeas, yet here he was, tending flowers for her.

So that was why his hands had been covered in dirt when she found him the other day.

"They’re... beautiful," she murmured softly, brushing a finger over the top of a blossom. The petals were delicate, golden-orange, catching the last rays of the setting sun.

He reached out, his hand brushing hers as he guided it toward a fuller bloom. "Just like you," he murmured, and Lorraine’s cheeks tingled. His touch was careful, measured, yet electric. She could feel the heat of his hand through hers, the quiet strength beneath the gentleness.

A faint laugh escaped her lips. "You’re ridiculous," she said, but there was no scorn in her tone, only amusement and something warmer, something unspoken.

"Perhaps," he admitted with a grin. "But I wanted you to see this. I wanted you to see what I’ve done with my hands... what I can grow." His gaze lingered on her, slow and deep, as though memorizing every detail: the way the sunset caught her hair, the curve of her lips, the careful way she reached for the marigolds.

Lorraine leaned closer, drawn to the quiet, earnest intensity radiating from him, feeling the press of his chest against hers. "You’ve... really grown into yourself," she murmured. "I didn’t think you’d ever care for something so... ordinary."

"Ordinary?" His lips curved into a small, teasing smile. "Nothing about this is ordinary. This is the first step toward becoming a farmer. See how fresh and beautiful these leaves are? I can grow wheat, carrots..."

Lorraine chuckled, shaking her head. Just because he had made marigolds bloom, he thought he could raise crops? She didn’t want to rain on his parade, but one thing was clear: he was determined.

Leroy stepped closer, his hands resting lightly on her waist, careful, restrained, aware. "I wanted you to see this now," he whispered, his voice so soft it barely carried over the evening breeze. "I wanted to share this moment... with you. It’s like I’ve made life from these small seeds... I ruined your flowers, and now, I’ve bloomed some for you."

Lorraine’s breath hitched. The golden sunlight, the scent of the marigolds, the warmth of his body pressed near hers, all of it combined to make her pulse race in a quiet, deliberate way. She wanted to respond, to melt into him, but she restrained herself, savoring the intensity of the moment.

"You’ve made something beautiful," she whispered, her fingers brushing the petals again. "You made my heart bloom too."

His hand lingered near hers, his thumb tracing the back of her hand in a silent caress. "It’s more beautiful with you here," he said, and the warmth of his words sank deep into her chest.

For a long moment, they simply stood there, wrapped in the quiet of the garden. The marigolds swayed gently in the breeze, the sun dipping below the horizon, and Lorraine felt the pulse of life, not just in the flowers, but in him, in them.

Here, in the glow of sunset and the golden light of the marigolds, Lorraine understood a simple, profound truth: the garden, the flowers, this shared moment with her husband, it was more than just beauty. It was home. A connection.

She looked at him, wide-eyed, glowing with rare, childlike joy, and felt herself smiling from the depths of her heart. She felt the simplicity of happiness, the quiet pleasure of being with the man she loved, fully and completely, here and now.

-----

The dowager sat frozen, staring at the painting. She had discovered it beneath layer upon layer of canvases, each carefully stuck over the original, decades ago. Curiosity had compelled her to tear them away, and there it was: the hidden painting, exposed as if it had been waiting for her all along.

Though aged, the painting’s colors remained startlingly vivid, almost alive, as though it possessed a will of its own, determined to fulfill its purpose.

A dragon and a swan dominated the canvas, their forms coiled and poised beneath a sky ablaze, a river running blood-red beneath them. Along the side, written in High-Veyrani, were the words she knew by heart, the ones her uncle had taught her as a child:

"In ash he sleeps, in blood he stirs, in silence he is crowned.

The flame that once bowed to love shall rise again, not for war,

But for judgment.

The world will forget his name. They will mock his line, shatter his throne, salt his soil.

But still, the ember shall endure, hidden in mortal guise.

He shall walk the world as orphan, as servant, as son of no one.

Yet when the stars cry fire, and the river breaks its pact;

The Mountain will breathe again.

He will awaken with the wrath of ten kings, and the mercy of one.

He will scatter the false crowns, burn the unrepentant, and gather the lost under wings of flame.

He will not rule to conquer, but to restore.

And in his shadow, the Lion shall kneel. The Bear shall weep. And the name they tried to bury shall become the banner of a world reborn.

Look not for him in palaces, but where the earth still grieves.

For he is the last blood. The broken flame. The true heir.

And he shall come when no one dares to hope."

When she first uncovered the painting, she found nothing remarkable about it. Not at first. She did find it odd to find this painting in the palace as a copy of this painting was in their library, kept as a secret, almost as if it was a treasonous artifact. Maybe it was.

A strange calm settled over her, as though some deep part of her had always known this moment would come. She questioned everyone she could: the maids, the curators, the old servants who had lived in the palace for decades. Yet no one knew where the painting had come from, nor who might have hidden it beneath those layers of canvas.

And then she saw it.

A small signature, almost invisible, was tucked into the lower corner of the painting. The ink had nearly faded, the letters nearly melted into the dark background—but her sharp eyes caught it.

Eiralyth.

Her breath stilled.

The true name of the Swan Oracle. A name known only to the Six Families, guarded like a sacred secret.

She remembered, vividly, the way her younger self had traced that name in dusty scrolls, fingertips trembling with reverence. She had spent hours studying the stories of that legendary woman: Eiralyth, the Swan Oracle, whose final prophecy had shaped the fate of kingdoms.

And now, here it was. The original painting. Possibly the very canvas upon which the last prophecy had first been inscribed.

She had once believed that finding it was a sign. That she had been chosen.

She remembered that day clearly—the thrill in her chest, the fierce, burning certainty. She had vowed then to keep the promise the prophecy demanded. To play her part in the destiny of the Dragon King’s heir.

There was a reason this painting had found her. She had wanted to be the one who would help bring the prophecy to its conclusion.

As a girl, she had dreamed of it often: the day the heir would awaken. She imagined herself kneeling before him, head bowed, declaring with unwavering pride, "I have fulfilled my duty as your servant."

She had built castles of loyalty in her mind, envisioned herself as a guardian of fate.

But that was a lifetime ago.

She had been young. Naïve. Unburdened by politics, family alliances, and the cold, heavy chains of reality.

She stupidly believed in love back then.

Back then, the prophecy had felt like a calling.

Now... it felt like a curse.

Her jaw tightened, her hands curling slowly into fists.