CHAPTER 268: LIKE MOLTEN FIRE

"Are you surrendering?"

Lorraine’s voice trembled; not from fear, but from fury barely restrained. "After showing yourself to them as the Dragon’s heir?"

She wanted to follow him anywhere. But not like this. Not fleeing like cowards, not turning their backs when fire and fate had already declared them chosen. They deserved more. He deserved more.

Leroy exhaled slowly, his shoulders sinking. He understood her anger. And knowing his wife, silence would only wound her further. He had promised himself he would never let her feel alone in his choices again.

He turned toward her, his tone low but steady. "I’m not surrendering," he said. "And I didn’t do that to reveal myself— or to claim the throne."

Lorraine’s eyes narrowed, but her rage began to soften. There was something raw, unguarded in his face, something that made her listen.

"Seeing you like that..." His jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists. "Tattered, on your knees... broken because of him... I wanted him to know." His voice darkened, almost a growl. "To know that I stand above him in every way. That the throne he clings to was never his. I’m the true heir, his father’s son; The Dragon’s blood. And he’s just the dirt clinging to what belongs to someone else. A beggar sitting on stolen gold."

His gaze flicked to her, burning. "He shouldn’t have even thought about touching you."

Lorraine’s breath shuddered. So this... this was why he’d revealed himself. Not to start a war. Not for pride. But for her.

She almost laughed. What could she possibly do with a man who burned kingdoms for her, make kings shit in their thrones, but wanted none of their crowns?

"You really don’t want the throne," she murmured, half in disbelief, half in reluctant admiration.

Her fingers brushed the stone wall beside her, still warm from the torches around. A part of her, that sharp and vengeful part of her, wanted to burn it all. For every insult. Every drop of blood. Every wound and humiliation.

But then she looked at her husband again.

He wasn’t asking her to forget. Just... to live. To walk away before the flames consumed them both.

She exhaled slowly, a wry scoff slipping past her lips. "You’re impossible."

And yet, as impossible as he was, she knew she would follow him. Not because it was easy, but because it was him.

What good was revenge if it meant losing the only person who had ever made her feel whole? What meaning did a crown hold, if peace with him was the greater treasure?

Maybe peace would last.

Maybe she’d even learn to love being the "farmer’s wife."

Maybe...

Lorraine said nothing more. She only reached for his hand, fingers lacing with his. Together, they walked through the long, dim tunnel, without even the scent of fire clinging to them, though they had walked through its heart. Only his warmth remained, spreading from her hand to her heart, like the last, gentle ember of everything they had survived, and everything they were leaving behind.

-----

When they emerged from the tunnel, Lord Osric Vaelith was already there—his silver hair catching the faint evening light, accompanied by his grandnephew, Finnian.

The tunnel had led them to the outskirts of the city, where the forest began to swallow the outer walls. It was quiet here, save for the chirping of distant birds and the faint, angry shouting that echoed from the city beyond. The gates, Lorraine realized, were being closed. She frowned. Closing the city gates in late autumn, when supplies were most needed, was foolish, but she knew whose order that would have been. The emperor was sealing his city to trap them inside.

Leroy, too, looked surprised to see Lord Osric waiting. Lorraine hadn’t expected that Sylvia could have reached him already, the most trusted advisor of the crown, and the only man left in court with true principles.

When Osric saw them, his eyes filled with tears. He dropped to his knees, his silver cane trembling in his grasp as he bowed low before them.

Leroy stood still, straight-backed, and composed, as though he had expected this. But Lorraine froze, a little startled.

This was Lord Osric Vaelith, uncle to the Dowager, veteran of two reigns, strategist of a dozen wars. She had read about him in old texts, the man whose mind had turned defeat into victory more than once. To see him kneeling before her... it unsettled her deeply.

Seeing his granduncle bow, Finnian followed suit.

"It is my greatest honor to meet you both, Your Majesties," Osric said, voice low, reverent.

Lorraine’s heart skipped a beat. Your Majesties. The word was meant only for the king and queen of Vaeloria. To speak it aloud for them, while another still sat on the throne, was treason of the highest order.

But when she looked at Leroy, her breath caught. His stance did not waver. He stood tall, silent, accepting the greeting, not as an imposter, but as a man reclaiming what was rightfully his.

Lorraine’s fingers tightened around his hand. Then she knelt slightly, reaching out to help the old man rise.

"Your Majesty..." Osric whispered, eyes glistening. His trembling hand hovered near her abdomen, but he didn’t dare touch her. Emotion choked his words.

And then she understood.. . he knew.

He knew she was carrying the next heir.

Something inside her shifted. Her heartbeat steadied, her spine straightened, and warmth spread through her chest, familiar and strange all at once. When she spoke, the words didn’t come from thought; they came from somewhere deeper, older, prophetic.

"My loyal servant," she said softly. "You will live to see my husband sit upon the throne... with our son by his side. Go in peace."

Lord Osric bowed deeply, his eyes shimmering with unshed tears. He said nothing; perhaps afraid that a single word might break the fragile holiness of the moment. Finnian followed suit, bowing once more before helping his granduncle to his feet. Then, with quiet reverence, the two men retreated into the woods, their silhouettes soon swallowed by the deepening dusk.

Leroy turned to her, wordless. He guided her toward a thicket of bushes nearby, where a small carriage stood hidden beneath the branches. Two horses waited, restless but silent, their reins tied loosely as though they had been expecting only him.

Lorraine climbed in beside him, still uncertain of where he meant to take her. The world around them glowed in the muted amber of evening; the last light of the sun dying on the horizon. And in that fading light, she noticed something that made her breath hitch.

His eyes.

They were no longer green.

They burned softly, golden-amber... like molten fire.

The color of his mother’s eyes.

The color of the dragon’s flame.

Maybe... the peace he was looking for wouldn’t last. Maybe he would be dragged to war for one reason or another.

Until then... she would stay with him.