CHAPTER 250: NO LONGER DIVIDED

Lorraine’s hand tightened instinctively around Leroy’s arm. She looked up at him, searching for a reaction, but his expression remained composed: calm and deliberate, a mask of control that had always reassured her.

She wondered, fleetingly, if this too was part of his plan.

Yet, the ripple of unease that swept through the hall was unmistakable. Even amid the gilded light, the gentle laughter, and the fading music, the presence of royal command had the power to still every heart.

Leroy inclined his head toward her, their eyes meeting for the briefest heartbeat. No words passed between them, but she understood. She always did.

He released her hand gently, but with quiet finality, and stepped toward the guard with the same unhurried composure that marked every one of his decisions.

Lorraine’s pulse quickened; not from fear, not anymore. Once, whenever a decree came from the Emperor, terror would seize her heart. She would imagine him being sent away to another needless war, another long separation, another season of silence.

But this time felt different.

She knew now how deeply he loved her, how she had become the center of his world. And as she watched him stand before the guard, proud and unflinching, his head held high, she saw no trace of the courtly masks he once wore. He did not bow. He did not falter. He stood, unapologetically brave and unyielding. And he had no intention of covering his birthmark anymore.

For the first time, her heart raced not with dread, but with a strange, heady mix of pride, love, and anticipation; the same feeling that always rose in her when he stepped into the world that demanded his command.

The music faltered, then softly began again, gentler now, the melody carrying both the sweetness of celebration and the quiet shadow of what was to come.

Lorraine searched the crowd for Aralyn. Earlier, she had seen her standing quietly in the shadows near the columns, a faint, wistful smile softening her face. There had been contentment in her eyes, a peace born from seeing joy return around her.

But now, Aralyn was no longer smiling.

Lorraine followed her gaze just in time to see Leroy walking away with the royal guard. Aralyn’s breath caught. She took a step forward, almost lunging as if to stop him, her hand half-raised in helpless instinct. But then her eyes met Lorraine’s across the room, and she halted, frozen between fear and restraint.

Lorraine gave a subtle nod to the musicians, urging the festivities to continue. The violins resumed, hesitant but steady, covering the tension that lingered in the air. Then she slipped out of the hall, following Aralyn’s retreating figure.

She found her in the dim corridor leading toward the garden. The air smelled faintly of roses and the cool breeze drifted through the open arches. Aralyn stood by the railing, her expression distant, illuminated by moonlight.

"He has everything under control," Lorraine said softly as she approached.

Aralyn turned, startled from her thoughts. Lorraine’s tone was calm, gentle, even. She wanted to ease the worry she could see so plainly on the older woman’s face. At least, she told herself, she believed her own words.

Aralyn’s lips curved into a small smile. This time, it wasn’t forced or uncertain. There was no trace of the guarded misgivings Lorraine had grown used to seeing. Only quiet acceptance.

And before Lorraine could stop herself, a sigh of relief escaped her. "I know I might have seemed... dishonest, even unworthy for Leroy before," she said, her voice trembling despite her poise. "But I truly love him, Ara—"

She paused, uncertain. The name lingered awkwardly in the air. Before, she had called her that freely, Aralyn, her mother’s maid, the woman who watched her grow but said little. But now... now she was her mother-in-law. Did she have the right to call her by name anymore?

Aralyn’s expression softened as if she had read her thoughts. She reached out, cupping Lorraine’s cheek with a hand that trembled slightly. "You can call me Mother," she said, her voice breaking with quiet emotion. "I know I am not as kind as your mother ever was, but..." Her eyes shimmered. "She was a rare soul...the Grand Duchess. I still remember how gentle she was. Those were the only peaceful years of my life."

Lorraine’s throat tightened.

Aralyn took a slow breath, guilt flickering across her features. "Even when I was unkind to you... you never returned it. You were patient with me. Steady. You could have lashed out, but you didn’t." Her voice trembled, then steadied with pride. "You’ve grown into one remarkable lady, Little Sparrow."

She meant every word. She saw how much her son loved Lorraine. Lorraine knew that. She could have twisted her outburst into anything if she wanted to. But she didn’t. That required patience, love, and maturity.

The old endearment fell softly between them, and Lorraine felt her eyes sting.

Aralyn smiled faintly, her thumb brushing Lorraine’s cheek as though in benediction. "So much strength," she whispered. "So much grace, for someone so young."

Lorraine smiled through the warmth rising in her chest. In that quiet hallway filled with the gelte rustle of the wind, and the faint echo of distant music, the two women stood together, no longer divided by doubt or duty.

At last, they understood each other, and expressed what they meant to the other. And they both knew they were family and this was how it should be.

Lorraine returned back into the ballroom, while Aralyn watched Lorraine walk away with a smile. Then, her eyes turned serious as she looked at the gates where Leroy left.

"I will not allow you to hurt my son anymore, Isabella..." she muttered under her breath. She put her hand in her pocket and pulled out a knife. "This will end today."

-----

"It’s Lorraine Regis," Cedric declared, his voice echoing through the vaulted hall, "the Crown Princess of Kaltharion."

For a heartbeat, silence reigned.

The audience hall, vast and glimmering beneath the golden chandeliers, seemed to hold its breath. Even the banners, Vaeloria’s lion embroidered in crimson and gold, hung still, unmoving, as if the air itself had turned to stone.

The Emperor, seated upon his throne, did not speak. His gaze was unreadable, his fingers resting lightly upon the armrest carved with ancient sigils of the crown, as he observed everyone.

Then, the stillness broke.

A sharp, incredulous snort from one of the ministers. Another joined in—then another—until the hall rippled with laughter. It began softly, then grew, filling the vaulted chamber with the sound of mockery barely veiled as amusement.