Lorraine’s breath caught in her throat, her eyes tracing the gauntlet that had so boldly displaced Sir Aldric’s hand. Even in the dim, rain-softened light, it glead with an otherworldly brilliance.
The ceremonial armor was etched with a familiar emblem: a golden dragon, its erald eyes flashing like distant stars, sapphire scales rippling like a restless sea. Her heart stuttered, a wild, hopeful beat. Only one man in all of Vaeloria bore that crest.
She lifted her gaze, and there he stood. Leroy Regis, her husband, appeared as if summoned from the depths of her most secret dreams.
With a slow, deliberate motion, he drew down his steel mask, revealing a forehead as smooth as porcelain and eyes as green and sharp as new spring leaves. The mask settled low, veiling his mouth, leaving her to wonder: was he smiling? Did he feel the sa tremor of joy that now coursed through her?
Leroy’s golden hair shone like molten sunlight, spilling from beneath his polished helt in soft, shoulder-length waves. Above his left ear, a single, tightly woven braid stood out, longer than the rest, cascading past his collarbone. This braid, a proud Kaltharion mark for royal warriors, recorded each battle won. After nine years on blood-streaked fields, it hung with quiet strength, secured by an erald pin that glead with vivid green fire, its sharp glint a testant to his enduring triumphs.
A smile broke across Lorraine’s face, wide and unguarded, as if her heart had finally slipped its chains. He was here. For her.
Her husband!
She had feared he hadn’t seen her on the balcony, his eyes fixed forward in the parade’s rigid march. Yet now, he stood close enough to touch, his presence a sudden, blazing light in her shadowed world. Her heart soared.
Lorraine rested her hand on his gauntlet, the tal’s chill biting her hand. Yet it couldn’t quench the warmth blooming in her chest, a defiant fla against the cold. Her gown clung damply to her skin, the air sharp with autumn’s bite, but the rain had softened, and his touch steadied her like an anchor in a storm.
She stepped into the carriage, his hand a silent promise.
Leroy remained silent, his quietness a familiar wall she had yet to scale. With a swift motion, he raised his mask, veiling his face once more, his eyes hidden from the world. Only she had glimpsed them, a fleeting gift ant for her alone.
Lorraine drew back the curtain, peering through the rain-streaked window. A commotion stirred outside, the physician rushing upstairs to tend to Elyse. Her gaze found Leroy, still and watchful, his masked face unreadable. Her heart pounded, a mix of triumph and unease.
"I’ll rejoin the parade," Leroy told Sir Aldric, his voice low, almost a murmur. He nodded once, then turned and strode back into the rain, his figure swallowed by the mist.
Lorraine sank into the carriage’s velvet embrace, the warmth seeping into her chilled bones. Her smile lingered, stubborn and bright, her eyes tracing her hand where his touch had been. Emma slipped in beside her, eyes sparkling with mischief.
"Well, my lady," Emma Wynre teased, her voice a playful lilt, "I haven’t seen you smile like that since you filched extra tarts at fifteen." She leaned in, grin widening. "Is it the prince’s doing, or has the rain bewitched you?"
Lorraine’s cheeks flushed, a warmth she couldn’t hide. She signed a swift rebuke, her hands dancing. "Mind your tongue, Emma." But her smile betrayed her, and Emma’s laughter bubbled up, a rare lody in Lorraine’s silent world.
The carriage lurched forward, and Lorraine’s thoughts spiraled. Why had Leroy co to her? Had he seen her on the balcony, a lone figure in the rain? Or was it re duty, a gesture for his title-bound wife? Perhaps he had only co to check on Elyse, unconscious from her own folly. The image of the auburn-haired woman at his side crept back, a shadow dimming her fragile joy.
She shoved the doubts aside. For now, he had co to her. His hand had steadied her. His eyes had sought hers, if only for a heartbeat. That was enough to cling to, at least for today.
Yet a darker thought lingered. She might play the dutiful wife until he chose to take a mistress. And if he did, she wouldn’t be like the other ladies, simpering and accepting their husbands’ dalliances with courtesans.
She wouldn’t settle for scraps of affection, for soone else’s leftovers.
-----
Lorraine stood before the gilded mirror in her chambers, her breath catching in her throat. The evening stretched out before her, ripe with promise. A victory gala was set to light up the palace, a celebration of Vaeloria’s hard-won triumphs.
Yet for Lorraine, it carried a deeper aning. Tonight, she dared to believe her husband Leroy would take her with him, that she would stand at his side beneath the chandeliers’ glow.
One dance with him, with jealous eyes upon them. That was all she wanted.
Her fingers brushed against the silks he had sent her, gifts from the lands he had conquered. The fabrics shimred like moonlight spilling over still waters, their colors bold and alive. She lifted a length of erald silk, its hue a perfect echo of the dragon’s eyes carved into his gauntlet. These were no re spoils of war to her. They were whispers of his thoughts, tokens that stirred her heart with hope.
"My lady, which gown shall we choose?" Emma’s voice floated through the quiet, soft yet steady.
Lorraine turned to her maid, a smile trembling on her lips as she pointed at the erald one that matched his eyes. "It feels right for tonight."
Her other maid, Sylvia Ironvale, stood silently, arranging the flowers in the room. Only Emma and Sylvia knew she could hear and speak. Lorraine trusted only them to be at her side. Sylvia rarely spoke, often mistaken for mute, while Emma chattered enough for all three. Lorraine cherished them both.
Emma moved with practiced grace, fetching the gown and helping Lorraine slip into its luxurious embrace. As the fabric settled over her skin, Lorraine’s mind wandered back to that mont earlier in the day when his green eyes had locked with hers, and for a fleeting second, ti had paused. She held that mory close, letting it kindle a fla of hope within her.
"He saw ," she whispered, the words slipping out like a prayer. "He ca to ."
Emma fastened the last hook, stepping back with a nod of approval. "You look radiant, my lady. The prince won’t be able to look away."
A flush crept up Lorraine’s cheeks, warm and unguarded. She reached for the jewelry box, another treasure from Leroy. Inside, gemstones sparkled like stars plucked from the night sky, each one a silent vow. She chose a necklace, its erald pendant settling against her collarbone. It was a bold piece, one that spoke of longing and quiet strength.
As Emma wove her golden hair into soft waves, Lorraine’s thoughts drifted to five years past. Leroy had returned then too, his armor still dusted with the grit of battle. But he had gone to the gala alone, leaving her behind like a shadow forgotten in the light. The ache of that mory lingered, a thorn beneath her current joy.
"Will he take this ti?" The question escaped her lips, fragile and raw.
Emma’s hands stilled for a mont, gentle on Lorraine’s locks. Sylvia was about to speak, but Emma shot a glare in her direction, effectively shutting her up before she said anything. "He sent you these gifts, my lady. That must an sothing."
Lorraine nodded, clinging to the reassurance. The silks, the jewels. They were signs, weren’t they? Proof that he thought of her, even amidst the chaos of war.
She rose to her feet, the gown flowing around her like a river of erald. In the mirror, she saw a woman transford, not just by the finery, but by the hope that shimred in her eyes.
"Tonight will be different," she murmured, her voice a soft vow to herself.
After checking herself once more in the mirror, Lorraine stepped out of her room, her heart brimming with anticipation. She was unaware that she was about to face a cruel rejection, one that would test the fragile hope she had so carefully nurtured.
Just as she stepped out, she t that woman.
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