Chapter 212: Living Legacy of Cruelty
"Anything in High-Veyrani," Lorraine called over her shoulder, her voice bright with purpose. "I need to know if Hadrian uncovered the true story of the fall of House Aurelthar."
The ladder rattled faintly as she stretched higher. Leroy tightened his grip, heart in his throat. "Will you at least be careful?"
"Yes, Your Highness," Lorraine teased, a soft laugh tumbling down to him. She’d done this countless times before. She didn’t fear it.
But Leroy still stood there, steadying the ladder with both hands, ready to catch her the instant she slipped, even if she never did.
"Get some books, Leroy," she called, distracted, intent on her search.
He rolled his eyes, but obeyed. There was no moving her when her curiosity was aflame. So he dragged the wheeled ladder to the next shelf, climbed up, and ran his fingers along the thick binders. Nothing looked useful, until his hand paused on a half-burnt book.
Why would Hadrian keep such a thing? Its spine was blackened, its pages warped, yet it was stored as carefully as the rest. Not High-Veyrani, but Lystherian. His pulse quickened. Was this smuggled from Lystheria, where the libraries had been set aflame? Why preserve this one, unless it mattered?
"There’s a book from Lys—" he stopped. A noise.
The faint scrape of wood against stone. The shuffle of another presence.
Leroy’s head snapped up. He leapt down from the ladder and strode quickly toward Lorraine’s aisle, just as the sound sharpened. That terrifying sound.
The rattle of her ladder being shaken... Violently.
He rounded the corner to see Elyse’s eldest son, small hands gripping the wood, jostling it violently. Lorraine clung to the rungs above, skirts swaying with the movement.
"It’s your fault!" the boy shrieked, his young face twisted with grief and rage. "It’s your fault my mother is hurt!"
"Stop!" Leroy’s voice thundered through the library as he lunged forward.
But before Leroy could reach them, Lorraine acted. She threw a heavy book in her grasp and crashed down, striking the boy squarely on the head. He staggered back, crying out in pain.
She was shocked that a little boy would do that, but she was not going to put her life at risk for a little boy. And she didn’t care for that murderous son of Elyse. She used the biggest book she could find.
Leroy caught the ladder before it tipped, shoving the boy away with his forearm as he steadied the wood. His hands flew up, catching Lorraine by the waist, pulling her down into his arms.
Only when she was pressed against his chest, trembling but safe, did the iron band around his lungs loosen. His heart pounded against her ear, ragged and unsteady, as though trying to remind him she was alive, here, his to protect. He clutched her tighter, unwilling to let even a breath come between them.
"You murderous bastard!" Leroy’s voice broke like a whip, his fury snapping toward the boy. His leg twitched with the impulse to strike, to punish that murderous boy, but the child had already scrambled away, running as if the devil himself was at his heels.
The silence he left behind rang louder than the boy’s cries.
"Why can’t you shout?" Leroy demanded, his voice edged with both fear and frustration. He pulled back just enough to look at her, emerald eyes blazing. "Why couldn’t you call for me? Why—" His voice cracked. "Why did you stay silent?"
Who was she still pretending to be mute for? She didn’t even make a little noise back when she fell down from the window either. Why? What would she do if he were not watching her?
Lorraine blinked, dazed by the force of the question, and only then realized. She had not screamed. Not once. Not even when her ladder shook beneath her like a death trap. Her lips parted, but no words came, only a raw ache in her throat.
"I don’t know..." Her voice broke, spilling out in a whisper, thick with pain. She pressed her face into his shoulder, trembling. "I don’t know why I can’t shout to save myself, Leroy..."
His arms closed around her as if he could shield her from the very memory. His chest heaved against her cheek, and when he buried his face in her hair, she felt the wetness of unshed tears.
"Everything is fine," he whispered fiercely, holding her as if sheer will could keep her whole. "I am not mad at you. I am here. I’m not going to leave your side. Do you hear me?"
Her arms tightened around him, clutching him as though he were her anchor. "Don’t," she breathed. "Please... don’t."
A tremor ran through her. If a child’s hatred could shake her so deeply, what horrors would await when that hatred grew into the strength of a man?
"Elyse is here?" she asked quietly, the question slipping out with dread. If she was back... would she remember? Would she aim her venom again?
A dangerous light flickered in Leroy’s gaze. His jaw clenched, teeth grinding until his words came through in a growl. "I should have let it happen," he said. His voice was low, raw, torn between rage and regret. "I should have left her with that man... and let them cut her down the way they cut Hadrian. Saving her was my mistake."
Lorraine froze, hearing the venom in his tone.
Leroy’s arms locked around her, a vow made flesh. His rage was no longer wild; it was sharpening, focusing. Elyse had sent her own son to kill his wife. That woman had chosen her side.
And in Leroy’s heart, the decision was already made.
Elyse would not be allowed to live.
-----
Leroy didn’t let her feet touch the ground. His grip was firm, protective, unyielding as he carried her out of the library, as though the very air of the Arvand mansion had turned poisonous against her.
At the threshold of the great hall, Lysander appeared, his expression smooth and caring. "You’re leaving already? Stay for dinner," he offered, voice steady but laced with the gentleness of a host who expected their company.
Lorraine parted her lips, ready to conjure some gentle excuse, something polite, something that would keep the fragile peace.
But Leroy’s voice cut sharper than any blade. "We are not staying in a house where even children are emboldened to kill."
The words reverberated through the hall, hard and cold, silencing the servants who lingered in the shadows. Lorraine flinched, her throat tightening; she knew his words struck like an accusation hurled straight at her brother.
Before she could soften it, before she could add balm to the wound, Leroy turned and strode away, carrying her with him as though she were his only claim in this world.
Lysander did not answer. He only shifted his gaze, past his sister, past the departing prince, to where Elyse’s son stumbled across the marble, fleeing like a cornered rat.
For a fleeting heartbeat, Lorraine caught the glint in Lysander’s eyes—sharp and cold. It was enough. She knew then, without a single word spoken, that her brother would act. He would not allow a boy’s rash hatred to stain his name or his new dominion.
What kind of decision would he make?
And in that quiet, leaning on Leroy, Lorraine realized: her father’s shadow was gone, but Hadrian’s legacy of cruelty lived on, still drawing blood in this house.
-----
Osric swirled the cup of tea in front of him, watching the ripples turn and settle as though the liquid might reveal the truth he sought.
"You’ve been swirling it for quite some time, uncle," the Dowager said at last, her voice smooth, amused. Then her eyes dipped to the untouched cup. "Do you think I’ve poisoned your tea?"
Osric did not answer. Instead, he set the porcelain down with deliberate care, the faint clink ringing louder than it should have in the quiet chamber. His gaze cleared, no longer hazy with doubt, but sharp and unwavering as it landed on her.
"After you brought your grandsons to your house," he asked, his voice low, each word measured, "what exactly were you planning to do with them?"