Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 277: After A Long Time

The house was not grand, not small either, but beautiful in its stillness. Its white stone walls were laced with ivy, their green threads still clinging bravely to life despite the cold. It looked newly restored, the woodwork fresh, the windows polished until they caught the fading sun. Beside it stretched a modest garden, dusted in frost like powdered glass. Beyond that, a little coop of chickens huddled together for warmth, a lone cow flicked its tail lazily, and a few apple trees bowed with the weight of early snow. There was even a patch of open land to the side; a small field, waiting to be tilled, patient as hope itself.

Lorraine’s throat tightened. After all the blood and fire, the endless flight and fear, this looked like something from a dream, a place untouched by hatred.

Behind her, Leroy’s voice broke the silence, soft and almost uncertain.

"I found it years ago," he said. "It was in ruins. But this place... these mountains... there was something here that gave me peace. Something that called to me. I know you’ve never left the city, and I wanted to bring you out here. So... I had it restored for you."

She turned toward him slowly. His eyes held that quiet, almost boyish light, hopeful and searching, as if her reaction meant everything. And before she knew it, she ran into his arms.

What else could she do?

Back then, when she had believed he felt nothing for her, when his silences cut deeper than any blade, when he had been at war, surrounded by the stench of blood and smoke, by men who died calling for home, he had stumbled upon this quiet place. A ruin among the mountains, broken and forgotten.

Yet somehow, it had given him peace. And in that moment, when he could have thought of victory, or safety, or even God... he had thought of her.

To bring her here.

To build something gentle out of all that ruin.

He hadn’t answered her letters, hadn’t sent word, but now she knew. He had thought of her all the time.

Lorraine ran inside, her boots skidding slightly against the stone floor. The air smelled faintly of pine and frost, and something older, like forgotten warmth. Leroy followed with a quiet smile, tugging at his lips, shaking the snow from his cloak before moving toward the hearth.

He knelt, striking flint with the ease of a man who’d done this a hundred times. "You can start the stove," he said over his shoulder.

Lorraine blinked. "The stove?"

He nodded.

She pressed her lips, and her eyebrows twitched a bit. She had never worked near a stove before. She was a lady, a princess. She had maids who did all that. With what faith did her husband ask her to do that?

She had no clue, but she didn’t want to disappoint him. How hard could it be?

She squared her shoulders, utterly confident... and it lasted for the first ten seconds. Then came the awkward shuffling, and the inspection of wood like it were some suspicious creature.

I can do it!!! She told herself.

Lorraine knelt before the iron stove, her brows furrowed in fierce determination. The flint struck once and there was a spark. But then... nothing. She didn’t give up. She tried again. This time, the ember caught, danced for a heartbeat, then died in the cold air. She muttered something under her breath, gathering another handful of twigs, too proud to ask for help.

Leroy had been stacking logs by the fireplace when he heard her low growl of frustration. He turned... and stopped.

There she was, sleeves rolled up, jaw set, refusing defeat against a pile of wood. The sight tugged something deep in him: amusement, fondness, and that soft ache he tried to bury. Her pride was her armor, her fire. Watching her fight even a stove with the same stubbornness she faced her enemies with, just with the fierce determination he had seen on her as she sat on her desk, scribbling... it almost made him laugh. Almost.

Another spark fizzled out. Lorraine’s fingers trembled, and she bit her lip in irritation.

That was when he moved. Quietly, he knelt beside her. "You’re choking it," he murmured.

"I am not—" she began, but his hand brushed hers, steady, guiding. A small flame bloomed to life under their joined hands.

Lorraine froze. Leroy’s voice was low, close to her ear. "See? It just needed a little air."

She looked at the fire... then at him... and for a moment, her pride forgot to protest.

"You’re good at this," she said, smiling... a smile that reached her eyes, warm and unguarded. A smile from her heart.

Leroy’s lip trembled. He had thought he would never see her smile like that again, not after everything. And yet... she always found a way to surprise him. His chest ached with the sudden, familiar desire to pull her close, to hold her, to kiss her until the world outside ceased to exist.

But she was already moving, bouncing toward the kitchen with curious energy, inspecting the shelves, lifting jars, and sniffing contents as if she were deciphering some ancient language.

"Can you cook?" he asked, voice low, almost hesitant.

He had forgotten. His wife, his brilliant, untouchable wife, was a lady. Unlike him, who had learned to survive in the mud and cold of tents, scraping together meals and sleep wherever he could, she had never known such struggles. She had been a grand duke’s daughter, with maids to serve her every whim, and while her father starved her in his own twisted way, she had never needed to cook for herself.

No wonder she didn’t know how to light a fire. How presumptuous of him to expect her to manage a stove, a pot, a pan. How could he expect her to cook?

She was not the peasant who plucked birds or chopped meat; she was the woman who had once covered herself in ink-stained robes, issuing orders in shadowed tunnels, commanding others with nothing but her presence.

Leroy’s lips curved into a smile as he imagined her attempting to slice and dice, her hands so accustomed to elegance, now fumbling with vegetables and flames.

"Move," he said, unable to hide the humor in his tone.

Lorraine pouted, affronted. "Do you think I know nothing? Cooking is simple! You throw some... stuff in the pot and out comes the dishes," she declared with the utmost conviction.

Leroy’s brows lifted, flinching at her confidence. Seriously? The food just... comes out?

"You stay away," she insisted, brandishing a wooden spoon like a sword. "I’ll cook. Finally, I can have real food."

And with that, Leroy had no choice but to retreat, his heart full, laughter threatening to spill over as he watched the lady of his life wrestle with the stove.