Rain wept over Vaeloria’s capital, a silver shroud cloaking the palace spires. Crown Princess of Kaltharion, Lorraine, stood alone on the balcony, her gloved hands trembling on the cold stone railing. At twenty-six, she was a fragile vision of elegance. Golden blonde hair lay pinned beneath a silver circlet, and her emerald gown clung damply to her frame. Sapphire eyes, sharp yet aching, hid a secret that burned her soul. Her heart was a locked cage, its key lost to a world that had forgotten her. Behind, Vaeloria’s noble ladies hovered like skittish doves, their silks whispering in the drizzle. Daughters of counts and barons, they had once tormented her, called her "broken," pinned her wrists, and mocked her silence. Now, they stood paces away, their eyes wide with fear, as if her presence could unravel their gilded lives. "Cursed," they hissed, voices low but searing to Lorraine’s hidden ears. "She brings misfortune," Lady Mirene whispered, her fan shaking. Years ago, Mirene had driven a hairpin into Lorraine’s back, laughing as tears welled in her eyes. Now, she flinched under Lorraine’s gaze. "Stay back," another lady pleaded. "The Silent Crown dooms us all." The Silent Crown. A cruel jest for the mute princess of their vassal state. Lorraine’s lips curved faintly, a flicker of defiance. The "curse" was her own creation, a rumor she wove five years ago when her husband, Leroy, rode to war. Like thorns, it guarded her wounded heart. She was not naive. She was not useless. Their scorn was her shield. Her title, Crown Princess, was a hollow echo. Leroy Regis, Hostage Prince of Kaltharion, held no power in Vaeloria’s court. Sent to bind his war-torn homeland to peace, he was a pawn, chained to her in a marriage of empty vows. Ten years wed, yet they were strangers. One year together, then war stole him, leaving her heart to wither. "Poor thing," Lady Seline murmured, her pity a knife, believing Lorraine deaf. "Bound to a savage who loves only battle." The ladies tittered, but their eyes darted to her, wary of her "curse." Lorraine stood still, a statue carved of grace and grief, her heart a storm of unspoken longing. She could hear. She could speak. At twelve, her hearing returned, a cruel gift after the accident that claimed her mother when she was ten. In her father’s grand halls, where she was a shadow, Lorraine buried it deep. Grand Duke Arvand, Vaelorian Empire’s mightiest lord, poured his love into her half-sister, Elyse, leaving Lorraine to fade. No doctors sought. No warmth offered. Why bare her soul to a world that turned away? So, she listened. Lords and ladies whispered treasons in her presence, thinking her deaf. Their secrets were her daggers, sharpened in silence. She was not the frail girl they scorned. She was a storm, waiting. Her chest ached with the weight of her silence. She smirked, hiding her pain. The Empress Dowager of Vaeloria approached, silver hair glinting under a velvet hood. Vaeloria’s iron matriarch, mother of the King, was no beacon of kindness. Yet her eyes softened for Lorraine. "My dear, you stand too alone," she said, voice smooth as frost, a gloved hand grazing Lorraine’s arm. Lorraine signed her thanks, hands fluid, her voice locked in her throat. Why this warmth? The Dowager’s kindness felt like a chess move, not a mother’s love. Five years ago, her public embrace had dulled the court’s cruelty. A fragile shield, yet it held her fragile heart. "Your Grace is kind," Lorraine signed, her eyes probing the old woman’s unreadable face. The Dowager smiled, stepping back. The ladies shrank further, as if Lorraine’s "curse" might taint her ally. A roar rose from the city, a pulse that shook Lorraine’s chest. She heard it all. Cheers. Clinking armor. Courtiers’ sneers. "Kaltharion’s dog returns," one muttered. "A hero, but never ours." Lorraine’s jaw tightened. She had caught their lies, her father’s plots, the King’s schemes, each word a wound and a weapon. Her gaze clung to the gates. Leroy was coming home. Their marriage was a ghost, unconsummated, untouched. She closed her eyes, remembering her first meeting with him, at thirteen, in her garden. Green eyes, sharp jaw, hair like wheat in autumn sun. A storm unguarded. That boy haunted her heart, though time blurred his face. Leroy was Vaeloria’s demon, towering over their knights. In Kaltharion, a crown prince; here, a blade, a dog spilling blood for their glory. His gold mask, veiling forehead to cheekbones, was legend. Few knew his face, including her. Now, whispers spoke of a new mask: dark steel, hiding everything. Lorraine’s fingers brushed the railing, her heart a fragile thread. His letters never revealed anything going on with him. Was he scarred? Broken? She had no idea. Five years ago, he returned for a week, a masked shadow, gone before she could touch him. Would he see her now? Not the cursed princess, but the girl who dreamed of him? "The prince deserves better," Lady Mirene hissed, bold in her fear. "A wife who speaks, who hears." Lorraine’s eyes narrowed, her secret a burning coal. She was not useless. One word could unravel their world. The gates swung open, and knights rushed in, their red banners flickering in the rain. The King put Leroy at the back, holding back his glory. Always first in battle, Leroy was left behind during victory parades. Lorraine’s heart flared. No parade could cage her husband. He was a king in exile, radiant in shadow. There he was. Leroy, astride a black stallion, armor gleaming, cloak heavy with rain. His new mask, a slab of steel, swallowed his face. A lord jeered, "Does the dog hide his shame?" Laughter rippled through the crowd. Lorraine noted the mocker. Lord Cassian. Lady Mirene had a fitting match. She ignored him, for now. She turned to her husband. A specter, majestic. To her, he led the parade, a shepherd in dusk, the alpha wolf trailing his pack. His horse’s hooves rang sharply on the cobblestones, a sound she should not know. Her secret clawed at her, a cry for him to see her. "Look!" Lady Seline’s gasp pierced the air. A woman rode beside Leroy, armored, auburn hair blazing under her helm. She leaned close, bold, as if she owned his side. Whispers had warned of her, a warrior sharing Leroy’s battles and his nights. A mistress. She hoped them to be just rumors. But... Lorraine’s heart shattered, rain hiding the tears in her eyes. The rumors were true, a blade to her fragile hope. The ladies’ fear of her "curse" faded, their whispers sharp. "The dog prince’s whore dares ride with him!" "Can you blame him, though?" "He is of lowly birth." "Also, with a wife like his~" "Enough," the Dowager snapped, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. Lorraine stood frozen, her secrets useless against this pain. Her title, her secrets, her "curse", her loyalty... None could hold a man who was never hers. The woman’s gaze lifted, meeting Lorraine’s across the rain-soaked dusk. A challenge burned in her eyes, a dagger to Lorraine’s breaking heart.