Chapter 166: Her Promise, His Offer
Lorraine’s eyes landed on Aralyn as the maid tried to stop her from entering the drawing room. Lorraine offered a quiet nod, and the maid returned a small, tentative smile before exiting the room, her steps light yet uncertain.
Sylvia rose gracefully, moving to guide Aralyn toward the sofa. She helped the woman settle into the soft cushions, then returned to her own seat. Aralyn’s gaze lingering on Lorraine with a gentle curiosity.
Lorraine blinked, momentarily uncertain of what to think of Aralyn’s expression.
"Are your accommodations acceptable?" she signed, her words measured, spoken more to fill the awkward silence than to elicit a precise answer.
Aralyn stared at her, as though Lorraine had sprouted horns, eyes wide with disbelief or mistrust.
But Lorraine’s gaze softened, observing the transformation. Aralyn no longer bore the grime and wear of the morning’s ordeal. Her clothes were clean, carefully chosen and simple, fitting yet dignified. Her amber eyes, once dulled by suffering, now gleamed faintly in the soft light. The red in her hair had faded, subdued by time, but her pale skin had gained a subtle warmth from the bath and food. The fragile woman of earlier seemed more present now, more human.
Sylvia translated the question, and Aralyn nodded, her voice steady but cautious.
"I am taken good care of here," she replied.
But her movements betrayed unease. Her eyes shifted constantly, darting toward every corner of the room, as though shadows might conceal unseen threats. Her hands trembled slightly as they rested on her lap.
Lorraine recognized it without needing words. This was a woman who had lived in darkness and fear for more than a decade, and she was the daughter of the man who had imprisoned her. Trust would not come easily. Doubt was her natural shield.
Lorraine stood and gestured for Aralyn to follow, a silent invitation to speak in privacy. As they moved toward her chambers, Sylvia quietly explained how Aldric had meticulously prepared for Aralyn’s stay; everything from food to lodgings, arranged in advance as though anticipating Lorraine’s unspoken desires.
Lorraine smiled softly, a quiet acceptance blooming in her chest. Aldric always understood before she spoke. He knew her mind, her wishes, even her unvoiced intentions.
Aralyn was not just a guest, she was someone to be treated with dignity, with care in her home. After all, she was someone who showed her kindness even when it cost her.
That fact alone was enough to make Lorraine grateful.
In the quiet solitude of her chamber, Lorraine spoke to Aralyn with gentle sincerity, her hands moving in slow, deliberate signs. She recalled the old days, how she used to sneak morsels of food from the kitchen and bring them to the girl hidden away in the shadows. She spoke of how Aralyn’s smile, bright even then, had offered her a fragile comfort in the darkest moments after her mother’s death.
At first, Aralyn struggled to reach back into those buried memories, as though they were locked behind walls of fear and pain. But gradually, the image of that warm smile began to surface, fragile yet real, and a faint curve of a smile blossomed on her lips.
Lorraine’s eyes softened, but her determination remained unwavering.
"Why did my father throw you in the dungeons?" she signed, her gaze steady.
The question hung in the air. The dowager’s people had sought Aralyn’s death, Hadrian’s words now seemed chillingly more plausible: this woman must hold a secret vast enough to shake the kingdom.
Sylvia’s lips moved carefully, translating. Aralyn’s face turned ashen, her eyes widening with the terror of the past. A tremble began to take hold of her body, as though the weight of that question unearthed wounds too deep to voice.
Lorraine watched, understanding that some things could not be forced. The silence between them became sacred. She would wait until Aralyn was ready to speak.
She signed again, her expression unwavering, her words a quiet vow: "I will protect you."
Her eyes, sharp and fearless, held no doubt. The promise came not from obligation, but from the deepest part of her heart.
"You will be safe with me."
Whether Aralyn accepted the words or not, Lorraine no longer cared. It was no longer about consent. It was about certainty. She had chosen, without hesitation or question, to shield this woman who, even in silence, had been a light in her darkest hours.
Sylvia watched with a gentle smile. This was the princess she served: kind, selfless, and unwaveringly dependable. A beacon of quiet strength in a world riddled with shadows.
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Leroy sat in the quiet corner of the greenhouse, the air thick and stifling for autumn. He stared blankly at the cup of tea before him, steam rising in lazy spirals, only to dissipate into the heavy atmosphere. The distant chirping of birds and the soft buzz of bees seemed faint, almost intrusive against the oppressive stillness. The scent of roses, heady and sweet, pressed into his senses, unwelcome.
The Dowager’s eyes flickered toward the single bead of perspiration sliding down his temple, tracing the sharp planes of his face before dripping at the edge of his jaw.
"You don’t mind the heat, do you?" she inquired with feigned gentleness, her smile a calculated curve. "I’ve grown old. I like to keep myself warm in the evenings."
Leroy pressed his lips into a thin line. There was no answer for her empty civility. His purpose here burned hotter than the stifling air.
Her gaze drifted to the untouched tea.
"Not drinking the tea?" she prodded, pointing delicately. "It pales next to your wife’s brew. I had the... honor of sampling it more than once. She never shared the recipe, not even when I begged. Her tea held an addictive charm, you know—like a potent opioid."
Her words were venom wrapped in silk, a deliberate reminder of Lorraine’s other name—The Swan Divina. And of that morning’s confrontation, sharp and bitter.
Leroy’s hands clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms. He knew exactly the trap laid before him. Her lips held that insolent smile, the one that told him she believed herself victorious, that he had come to grovel.
He didn’t speak. He couldn’t.
"Forgive my wife’s insolence this morning," he said at last, his voice low, measured, as if stating a fact. "Let her kill Hadrian... and we’ll vanish from Vaeloria. I won’t even claim the Kaltharion throne."
The Dowager leaned forward, chin raised, every inch the supreme plotter. He thought she might care for Hadrian’s life. Now he knew better. Hadrian’s death at the hands of his own daughter would be the most poetic of all ends. She didn’t care.
"What will I get in return?" The Dowager’s head tilted, a fan covering half her face, her smile lingering like a guillotine.
"What do you want?" Leroy asked, his voice betraying none of the desperation clawing inside.
Her answer came as if rehearsed, slow and deliberate. "What can you give?"
Leroy cleared his throat, his decision sharpened like a blade. "That woman you wished dead... I’ll hand her over to you. Leave Lorraine and me alone."
The Dowager’s laugh echoed evilly in there.