Silent Crown: The Masked Prince's Bride-Chapter 300: The Fire Of The Dragon King

"If death wants me," Leroy roared, voice carrying like thunder across the valley, "then let him cross this river himself!"

The wind seized his words and hurled them across the field. For a heartbeat, the enemy’s advance faltered, the soldiers pausing, caught between courage and the creeping dread that rippled through the air.

The river behind him surged, dark and wild, as though stirred by his defiance. Its surface frothed and boiled, swallowing the banks, the sound of the current roaring like the growl of something alive. Beneath their boots, the earth shuddered, a deep, low tremor that no human army could command.

And though Leroy did not know it, far below that trembling ground, something ancient stirred, something that had once breathed fire into kingdoms and felt the pulse of his bloodline thrum awake above.

He lifted his sword again, blood running down his arm, his breath coming ragged and uneven. His eyes burned fiercely, unbroken, and the color of defiance itself.

Alone, before an army. And still, he did not yield.

The enemy charged. Steel clashed. Arrows hissed past him like vipers. Leroy’s blade flashed, cutting through the chaos, precise, brutal, and relentless. Each strike felt heavier, each movement drawn from the very marrow of his will.

But there were too many. A sword caught his side, the impact driving him to one knee. He staggered, the taste of iron flooding his mouth. The sound of battle blurred, turning to a distant hum as pain clawed at his senses. A sword came straight to his neck, almost cutting his braid.

Then... the ground shook again.

This time, harder.

It felt alive. Breathing. Angry.

The soldiers faltered, their formation breaking. Leroy stumbled, nearly losing his footing as the earth beneath him cracked and shifted. Dust and stones exploded upward, the river churning as if possessed.

Someone shouted that the gods were angry. Someone else screamed that the dragon’s curse had awoken.

And then... there was silence.

The men who thought they’d struck him down stared as Leroy straightened, rising from the dust like a revenant. His sword gleamed red with both blood and light, his stance unyielding, unbroken. His eyes blazed with something inhuman, a fire that wasn’t his own, echoing from deep beneath the earth.

The tremor subsided. The river stilled.

And as the wind swept past him again, the soldiers knew... that whatever had woken this man...

was not something they should have disturbed.

And then the soldiers saw it.

At first, it was a shimmer... heat rippling through the mist, twisting the air behind Leroy. Then came the light, low and pulsing, like the first heartbeat of something ancient and terrible awakening after centuries of silence.

Fire.

It licked through the smoke and shadow, curling into the outline of vast wings that were translucent at first, then burning bright enough to stain the river red. The faint silhouette of a dragon rose behind him, its eyes molten gold, its jaws parting in a silent snarl.

The air itself seemed to recoil. The grass bowed. The flow of the river slowed as if they all felt the presence of someone even powerful than nature itself.

Leroy didn’t see it. He stood, unaware, with his sword in hand, blood at his side, breath sharp and steady. To him, it was just another moment of defiance, another stand against the impossible. But to every soldier on that field... he no longer looked human.

He looked like a legend risen from ash.

Whispers tore through the ranks. Someone dropped his weapon. Another fell to his knees, muttering prayers.

And still, the fire grew. The wings unfurled, vast and bright and unyielding, a phantom of flame and fury, towering over the riverbank. It spread behind Leroy like a crown of wrath, the dragon’s silhouette flickering and fading with each heartbeat, until even the air smelled of smoke and ancient power.

For a moment, every man on that battlefield forgot their swords.

Forgot their king.

Forgot their fear.

Forgot everything they knew.

They saw not a hostage prince of Kaltharion, not the runaway prince who was accused of heavens know what, but something far older... something their grandfathers whispered about when the hearth burned low.

The river quieted, as if bowing.

The tremors ceased.

And in the stillness that followed, every soldier knew... they had just seen the fire of the Dragon King.

One by one, they fled.

The clash of steel gave way to frantic footsteps, the roar of men replaced by the rustle of chaos retreating into the night. Armor clattered against stone. Horses reared and bolted. Within moments, the riverbank, once alive with the noise of war, was silent again.

From the shadows of a distant tree, a pair of eyes watched it all unfold, gleaming with quiet amusement. The watcher didn’t move, only tilted his head slightly, as if entertained by the spectacle of mortals fleeing ghosts they could not understand.

Leroy stood among the bodies, chest rising and falling, trying to make sense of what had just happened. The wind carried the faint scent of smoke, though there was no fire. He turned in slow disbelief, half expecting the enemy to return.

Nothing.

After all that... they ran?

He exhaled, almost laughing under his breath. For a long time, he had thought this night might be his last... a worthy battle, a glorious stand. But instead, his foes had scattered like frightened children, for no apparent reason.

With the dull ache of exhaustion weighing on him, he began to walk among the fallen. Their armor gleamed faintly beneath the pale light, unmarked by any crest or banner. No sigils of allegiance. No colors of the nation. Only anonymity, deliberate and dangerous.

He knelt beside one, brushing dust from the helm before removing it. Then another. And another.

Finally, his hands froze.

A face he knew stared back at him... lifeless, eyes half-open beneath the tangled braids that ran over his ear. Recognition struck like a blow to the gut. A Kaltharion general.

Someone loyal to none other than... Lucia.

His sister.

A hollow quiet followed the realization. A single pang of betrayal stirred in his chest — sharp, but not surprising. He rubbed the spot absently, where the pain lingered, and then... smiled. A small, tired, knowing smile.

"Of course," he murmured.

His wife had warned him. Lorraine always saw through people... through masks, through blood. She had figured Lucia out long before he’d been willing to believe it.

He never believed his dear sister for whom he became the hostage prince... the one who always smiled at him and stood by his side... would go as far as to plan such an assassination attempt on him and his wife.

He would not lie. It hurt. It hurt that he was so blind to her and it hurt more to realize all her smiles were fake.

And as the wind moved softly through the grass, Leroy lifted his gaze to the horizon, to the place where the enemy had vanished, and whispered to the empty air, almost fondly, 𝓯𝙧𝓮𝓮𝒘𝓮𝙗𝙣𝒐𝒗𝒆𝓵.𝓬𝓸𝒎

"Oh, Mouseling... You were right. Again."

Leroy turned from the fallen soldiers and began walking toward the woods, toward where Lorraine had disappeared. The river murmured behind him, its current whispering against the stones. His body ached, his sword arm trembled, but the pull toward her, that unspoken thread between them, guiding him as it was stronger than exhaustion and the sting of betrayal.

He walked steadily, purpose in every step. But then... he felt it.

That faint shift in the air.

A presence.

Footsteps — soft, deliberate, too measured to belong to a common soldier. Whoever it was, they knew how to move unseen. The grass barely rustled. But to someone who’d spent his life in war and shadow, it was enough.

Leroy didn’t break pace. Didn’t look back. He simply listened. The sound stayed behind him, keeping distance, but following nonetheless.

And when the rhythm of steps aligned perfectly with his... he struck.

In one fluid motion, he spun around and hurled a dagger toward the darkness. The blade caught the faint gleam of sunlight as it flew—

Clang!

An ornate fan snapped open midair, catching the dagger with absurd elegance. Metal rang against lacquered wood and silk.

Then a familiar voice drawled from the shadows:

"My, my. So quick to throw things at people, Your Majesty? I knew you missed me, but that’s a rather... sharp welcome."

Leroy exhaled through his nose, half a sigh, half an annoyed laugh. The figure stepped into the light... smooth, immaculate as ever despite the battlefield around them. The silver filigree of his fan shimmered as he closed it with a flick of his wrist, sliding it into his belt with theatrical ease.

Prince Damian smiled — that infuriating, knowing smile that always danced somewhere between mockery and flirtation.

"I came to check if the famous Kaltharion lion still had claws," he said, eyes glinting. "But I see you’ve developed a habit of aiming for the heart."

Leroy sheathed his sword, unimpressed. "Next time, announce yourself before stalking a man fresh out of a battle."

"Oh, but where’s the fun in that?" Damian replied lightly, brushing nonexistent dust from his sleeve. "Besides, I wanted to see what you’d do if I snuck up behind you. It’s... oddly thrilling."

Leroy shot him a flat look. "You’re... idiotic!"

"True," Damian said with a grin, "but admit it — you’d miss me if I died."

Leroy didn’t answer. But the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth said enough.