Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 291: The Village Under The Mountain

The snow began to melt in hesitant trickles, but the cold still bit through the mountain air like a blade. Each morning, after Leroy left for his "hunts," Lorraine wrapped herself in the thick fur cloak he had bought her and made her way down the narrow, frost-glazed path to the village.

At first, they hadn’t trusted her. She was too clean, too well-fed, her voice carrying the sharp cadence of a noblewoman. But day after day, she came. She helped the women draw water from the frozen well, mended clothes beside them, laughed at their jokes, and listened, truly listened, to their stories. More than what she gave, they go warmed up to her because she listened to them.

Slowly, suspicion thawed into quiet acceptance.

She began to speak like them, her tongue adopting the rounded vowels of the Kaltharion dialect, colored faintly by the melodic lilt of Vaelorian speech. The villagers noticed, amused, when she stumbled over certain words, but their smiles were genuine now.

Lorraine saw the truth of their lives in the lines of their hands and the hollowness in their eyes. The children’s laughter had a brittle quality; the women’s smiles often hid exhaustion. The men worked from dawn till moonrise: splitting logs, hauling stone, carving tools from scraps of metal that should have been melted down long ago.

Even so, they were kind. They gave her stew when she looked faint from walking, let her sit by their hearths to warm her hands. "For the baby," they would say, pressing a crust of bread into her palms, as if her swelling belly had given her a sort of sacred right to gentleness.

And she learned, through their quiet words, how close this place was to Kaltharion. The mountains they lived beneath marked the border, though no one had drawn a line on any map. Even here, the people still whispered of the Bear banners and the river that once flowed into their farmlands, stolen by Vaeloria’s greed.

Lorraine began to understand how deep the wound of the past still ran, not just between kingdoms, but in every empty bowl, every broken roof, every mother’s hungry stare.

Then, one morning, the peace of the little square was shattered.

The villagers froze mid-task, as the rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed off the snow. Lorraine turned toward the sound: a company of armored riders, their cloaks bearing the dark green sigil of House Merrowen.

At their head rode Lord Calder Merrowen, the local overseer, a man known in whispers long before he appeared. His face was thin and sharp as a dagger’s edge, eyes sunken but gleaming with cruel alertness. His armor was polished, his gloves too fine for a mountain lord, and when he smiled, it wasn’t kindness, it was calculation.

"Taxes," he said simply, his voice cutting through the square. "You know the due. And the Emperor has raised the tithes again, for the war effort."

No one dared to speak. Men lowered their heads. Women clutched their children close. The old miller shuffled forward first, placing two sacks of barley before the soldiers. Calder barely looked. "Half," he said. "You owe half more than this."

"But, my lord," the miller stammered. "We’ve had no crops this winter—"

The soldier beside Calder struck him hard across the face. The sound cracked like a whip. Lorraine flinched, instinctively stepping forward, but a strong hand yanked her back.

"Don’t," whispered the woman beside her, one of the mothers who had shared her bread. "They’ll kill you."

Another woman pulled Lorraine behind the haystack, shielding her swollen belly from view. From her hiding place, Lorraine watched the scene unfold, her heart pounding with helpless fury.

Calder’s men took what little the villagers had: grain, dried meat, even the meager bundles of wool the women had spun through the night. And when they found nothing more to take, Calder’s gaze turned sharp and suspicious.

"You’ve been hiding goods," he said softly. "Someone has been selling in secret. Prices in the valley markets have fallen, and I will find who is undercutting my tax."

Lorraine’s stomach twisted. She saw the fear ripple through the villagers; fear not of discovery, but of punishment for something none of them had done.

And she thought, bitterly, that even the Vaelorian Emperor, with all his tyranny, had never reached this level of cruelty. He had drained kingdoms for gold and glory, but men like Calder bled the people simply because they could.

Her fingers curled into her cloak. Her mind began to race again, the dangerous kind of racing she hadn’t felt since before the mountains.

Perhaps, she thought, the rebellion wouldn’t start in the courts or in the castles. Perhaps, it would begin here, in a quiet mountain village, under the weight of winter and injustice.

The square erupted into chaos before anyone understood what was happening.

The crack of a whip cut through the air, followed by a scream — not of pain, but of surprise. The soldiers spun toward the sound just as a dark figure thundered into the square on horseback, snow scattering like shards of glass beneath the hooves.

Then came another rider. Then five. Then a dozen.

All masked. All silent.

They descended like a storm, with no banners, no heralds, only the heavy thud of hooves and the flash of steel. The villagers scattered, clutching their children, diving behind barrels and carts as the masked riders charged through the square.

One leapt from his horse and cut down a soldier before the man could even draw his sword. Another rider caught a fleeing guard by the collar and dragged him into the snow. The soldiers of Lord Calder shouted, their formation collapsing as arrows hissed through the air — sharp, clean, precise.

Calder himself tried to retreat toward his horse, shouting orders that no one followed. The villagers, too shocked to move, simply crouched where they were. Even the dogs had gone silent.

The masked men worked with terrifying coordination. One seized the sacks of grain the soldiers had taken and threw them back to the people. Another overturned a wagon, cutting loose bundles of wool and meat. Coins clattered against the cobblestones, silver flashing in the dull winter light.

Lorraine crouched behind the haystack, her heart hammering in her throat. She wanted to believe this was deliverance, that someone had come to help these people. But the villagers didn’t cheer. They didn’t even breathe.

They were afraid.

Of the soldiers and the masked riders. They feared what this attack might bring upon them when it was over.

And then, amid the storm of movement and noise, Lorraine’s gaze caught on one rider.

He wasn’t shouting like the others; he didn’t need to. His horse moved as if it understood every silent command. His blade caught the light once, twice, before cutting clean through the reins of Calder’s horse, sending the lord sprawling into the snow. The rider dismounted, moving with the ease of someone who had done this far too many times.

Lorraine didn’t need to see his face.

Her lips curved.

So... here he is...