CHAPTER 122: THE WOMAN

Leroy’s patience was wearing thin with each time he got mocked. He wanted to snap back, defend himself, and show them his might. But... an entire nation depended on him. His little wife depended on him.

He could endure it. He would endure it.

Every mocking word, every sneer, every laugh at his expense...he bore it all, because he knew the alternative. If he rebelled, if he gave the Emperor the excuse he wanted, he would never again see the one person who mattered.

Lorraine.

Her name was the anchor in his storm. The thought of her, the way her scent curled like soft ribbons around him, the way her hand fit perfectly in his, dulled the sting of mockery. They could strip him of pride, but not of her. She was all that lived in his mind, all that made this humiliation bearable.

After all, she was living for him, and so he should live for her.

And if enduring this charade meant he could walk out alive to continue searching for her, then he would stand here like a statue, cloaked in ridicule, unmoving.

But the Emperor was not done.

The hall quieted when he lifted a jeweled hand. His gaze, sharp and merciless, pinned Leroy. "Take it off."

Leroy’s heart stilled.

The Emperor leaned forward on his throne. "Remove that mask, prince. Let the Empire see the face of its... hero."

A hush spread through the hall, like a knife pressed against skin. Courtiers leaned in, eager, hungry.

Slowly, Leroy’s gaze shifted to the corner of the dais. To her.

The Dowager, who had been the one to insist he keep the mask, who had once smiled at him with conspiratorial calm, now stood rigid. Her painted composure cracked in an instant. Her eyes widened, her lips parted, and for the first time since he had known her, the mask she wore slipped.

She looked at him as though she had seen a ghost.

The silence in the hall was suffocating; every noble was waiting for Leroy to obey, to be unmasked and stripped of the last shroud of dignity he possessed. The Emperor’s lips were already curving into a smile sharp enough to cut.

But before Leroy could move, or refuse, the Dowager’s voice spilled into the air, warm and smooth, gilded with courtly ease.

"Your Majesty," she said lightly, stepping forward, "must we humiliate a loyal prince further when he has just risked his life for your people? Surely his courage in the arena speaks louder than any face beneath a mask."

Her words were nothing but polished emptiness, yet they wrapped themselves neatly around the Emperor’s pride, giving him a way to relent without losing face.

The Emperor leaned back against his throne with a disdainful huff. "Perhaps you are right, Mother," he said, the edge of disappointment hidden beneath lazy amusement. "A man’s deeds must sometimes be enough. Very well. The mask remains."

He smirked, satisfied with himself. Whatever the outcome, it was always he who emerged victorious. Even now, it was by his grace that Leroy was spared the humiliation of revealing his face. He loved nothing more than to appear merciful, as if the world owed him gratitude for restraint.

A ripple of murmurs swept through the court—soft, darting whispers like leaves caught in a restless breeze. Some looked relieved, others disappointed, but no one dared question the Emperor once he had spoken.

Then, with a sudden shift of tone, the Emperor leaned forward, his eyes gleaming with cunning. "Prince Leroy," he drawled, "you will investigate the incident in the arena. I want every stone overturned, every rumor smothered. Report directly to me with your findings."

The air grew thick again. This... this was more than expected. A responsibility, yes. But also a trap, perhaps.

The courtiers whispered amongst themselves. Some pondered, "Why him?" while others defended Leroy, citing his victories and courage. A few eyed him with jealousy as he was once again granted a position of trust.

The Dowager’s hands came together in a soft, deliberate clap that cut through the murmurs. Her smile was serene, her words smooth as silk but edged with something deeper.

"An excellent decision, Your Majesty. Talents must be kept close, after all... better to work together than apart."

Her gaze slid across the room, lingering on faces that tensed at the implication. Was it reassurance? A warning? Or a veiled reminder that the Emperor kept even dangerous pieces on the board rather than discarding them?

The Emperor chuckled, pleased by her support. And Leroy, standing in the middle of it all, felt the weight of every watching eye, but his thoughts remained tethered to only one person.

Lorraine. I need to find her.

The Dowager approached him, taking his gloved hand in hers. Her fingers felt cool yet burning, her gaze heavy with unspoken emotion. "Prove yourself, Leroy," she urged.

To Leroy, her touch was unbearable. It scorched like a flame. This woman, who had so often pinched his heart only to soothe it with feigned tenderness, he would never understand her. What did she want of him? Why was she forever pulling at his chains, loosening them only to tighten them again?

He wanted none of it. His heart was already bound elsewhere, bound so tightly to Lorraine that no other could enter.

The Emperor waved a dismissive hand, breaking the strange stillness between them. "You are excused, prince. Leave us."

With a shallow bow, Leroy released himself from the Dowager’s hold and turned. The echo of his boots followed him as he strode out of the great hall, his mask hiding his face but not the storm in his chest.

Only one thought carried him past the snickering courtiers and through the gilded doors: Lorraine. Find Lorraine.

-----

Hadrian, chained so tightly the iron bit into his skin, squeezed his eyes shut. The clinking of chains in the distance grew louder, irregular, along with the sound of a whip. He didn’t flinch. His shouts had gone unanswered for too long, and now silence felt like the only weapon he still had.

He wasn’t thinking of the mute mongrel. Not her. He was chasing memory instead of the carriage ride before the crash. Someone must have shown their hand. Someone must have slipped.

He forced himself back into that swaying carriage. The girl had been there, huddled against the wall, trembling with her head bowed so low she looked half-broken. He remembered feeling satisfied. She was exactly as she ought to be. Obedient. Silent.

Then... she had opened the window. Stuck her head out.

He remembered smirking, certain she would never leap. She didn’t. She only stared, frozen in the rushing wind.

And then...

She turned.

She looked straight at him.

Hadrian’s brows furrowed. No... that can’t be right.

Did she... smirk at him?

Just as the accident struck?

The memory twisted. He tried to fix it, force it back into place, but it slipped like water through his hands. She never had the courage to meet my eyes. Not once. Did she?

The thought gnawed at him, until...

Torches flared to life, hissing against damp stone. Hadrian’s eyes snapped open. The air reeked of rot—thick, choking. Water dripped from the ceiling in steady beats, trickling down slimy walls, pooling at his feet. Even his dungeons weren’t this foul.

And in that flickering light—he saw it.

A figure gliding toward him. Not walking, but gliding. Swallowed in shadow, draped in a velvet cloak so black it seemed to devour the torchlight whole. The fabric whispered against the stone, each sound too measured, too careful, like the faint hiss of scales across dry rock.

A hood concealed the face, and had a single vyrnshade blossom—its petals a dark, glistening blood-red, as though the flower itself had been fed on blood.

Hadrian’s breath caught. The figure’s presence pressed against him the way a viper’s gaze held its prey—silent, patient, venom waiting in the strike. Every step was a slow coil, every movement a promise that the killing blow could come at any moment, fangs hidden just beneath the hood.

The air grew colder.

"Greetings, Hadrian."

The voice was sweet. Too sweet. It coiled through the rot and chains like poisoned honey.

A woman?