Leroy returned from the palace just after noon, his thoughts still heavy with Lorraine. He wanted to speak with her brother, Lysander. Sothing about their conversation after she left the arena gnawed at him. He was sure it had played so part in her sudden disappearance.
When he closed his eyes, all he could see was her: standing tall in the arena, eyes sharp and defiant when they locked with his... and then fleeing like a startled little mouseling. He almost laughed at the mory, but the ache of her absence crushed any warmth from it.
He had acted foolishly, assuming she could weather anything. And now... he had lost her.
A part of him knew, no, trusted, that Lorraine would be fine. She was stronger than she let anyone believe. But being here, in the sa city, breathing the sa air, and yet not having her by his side... it was unbearable.
On his way to Lysander’s business in the market, a ssenger intercepted him with a note, from his sister.
Leroy hesitated. His wife was missing, and his sister was calling for him? He drew in a long breath. Lorraine ca first. Always. But he could not bring himself to ignore Lucia either.
At Lysander’s building, he was told that he had just left, summoned urgently to his house. Frustration pricked at him. With no choice, Leroy went instead to the guest house.
He waited. And waited. The stillness of the drawing room grated on him, his restlessness threatening to spill over. He wanted to be anywhere but here, and yet he could not simply abandon his sister. He was already on the verge of leaving when Lucia entered.
Her smile lit the room, softening the irritation in him. She crossed the floor quickly and embraced him. "I’m glad you’re safe, Leroy," she said warmly. "I heard you were summoned by the Emperor. He didn’t... bla you for anything, did he?"
Leroy shook his head. Her concern brought a small, tired smile to his face.
"I’m glad," she breathed in relief.
"How are Father and Mother?" he asked.
Lucia blinked once before answering casually. She had nearly forgotten that her parents were pretending to be sick yesterday. "They are better now. Gaston, though... he isn’t doing well."
Sothing shifted in her voice then, a raw concern that she hadn’t shown for him. It was deeper, truer, as if the re thought of Gaston’s suffering pulled her whole heart into the open.
Leroy froze for a mont.
It was the first ti he had truly noticed it... how she worried more for Gaston than for him. He had never looked closely before. Perhaps he had never wanted to.
The thought stung faintly, but only for an instant. He brushed it aside, the way he brushed aside every uncomfortable thing.
And as always, he ignored it.
"What’s wrong with Gaston?" Leroy asked.
"He’s... he got sick out of nowhere," Lucia said, her eyes darting for a fraction of a second. "And I asked you because I wanted to et you before we leave."
Leroy nodded slowly. She wasn’t being honest with him; he could tell. But he didn’t press. He didn’t care for it either way. What sickness Gaston had, why they were leaving so suddenly... Did they get what they wanted? Or was sothing else happening beneath the surface?
Lucia pressed her lips together and studied him. He wasn’t begging them to stay longer, the way he used to. He wasn’t asking more about Gaston’s condition. And more importantly—he wasn’t saying a word about his audience with the Emperor.
Her heart tightened. Was the Emperor doubting Gaston? Gaston needed to leave Vaeloria as soon as possible.
Sothing in Leroy’s deanor grated on her. There was a distance in his eyes, sothing she had never seen before. She stepped closer, lifted her hand, and tried to take off his mask. He had always let his guard down in front of them.
But this ti... he flinched.
"I..." Leroy himself was startled by his own reaction. Perhaps he had grown too sensitive about the mask, after all the mocking and sneers it drew. Recovering quickly, he removed it and offered her a smile.
"Stay healthy," he said softly. "Be good to your husband, and I wish all the health and wealth for your daughter. I hope to see her soon."
The words ca from his heart, but they carried the weight of a farewell.
Lucia smiled back, though there was an emptiness to it. "Do you... miss Kaltharion?" she asked.
He drew her into a hug and pressed a kiss to her forehead. It didn’t matter if he missed it or not. Vaeloria was where he had to remain. And his wife... wherever she was, that was ho. Nothing else mattered.
"Why don’t you stay until your wife arrives?" Lucia said, slipping her arm through his and pulling him gently back to the seat. "Let’s summon her. I want to talk to her until I leave. I want to get to know her better."
Leroy froze. His eyes lingered on his sister. Sothing about her tone was wrong.
Your wife. The words were flat, impersonal. Not Lorraine. Not Princess. Not even Lady. Just "your wife," as though she were a stranger to be summoned.
And hadn’t Lucia had every chance to et her already? Lorraine had been here for weeks, living openly in her house. If she truly wanted to know her, why wait until now? Why demand Lorraine co here, as if she were so servant to be called?
Leroy pressed his lips together. For the first ti, the veil slipped from his eyes.
Perhaps Zara’s cruel betrayal had been the lesson he needed—that his wife’s instincts were sharper than his own. Lorraine had seen Zara for what she was, while he excused her as ignorant of Vaelorian customs. And in the end, Zara had struck at his wife.
He would not make that mistake again.
He loved his sister. But he loved his wife more. No one ca close to Lorraine. If it ant choosing, he would risk every relationship to keep her safe.
"I have to be elsewhere," Leroy said, his voice calm but firm as he withdrew from her hold. "You should visit Lorraine the next ti you co here."
Lucia stared at him in shock. This was the first ti he had refused her so bluntly. No soft words. No indulgent smile. Just steel hard refusal.
She watched as Leroy left, her hands clenched. She entered Gaston’s room, her train whispering against the wooden floor. Her heart hurt seeing the state her brother was in.
Gaston sat propped against the pillows, his once-proud figure sunken into the bedding. His skin had turned waxen, stretched taut over bones, and his lips were cracked and bloodied. A faint, rattling wheeze escaped with every breath, the effort making his chest heave as if he were drowning in air too heavy to swallow.
His cough broke the silence, wet and violent, spattering a dark stain of blood into the cloth he kept pressed to his mouth. The hand that held it trembled, fingers thin and bluish at the nails.
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