The Dragon's Heart: Unspoken Passion-Chapter 114: Biggest Fans

Ilaria blinked at the brunette boy beside her, belatedly realizing she had absolutely no reason to be crouching like a thief. Why was she crouching? Why was he crouching? Why were they acting like they had committed treason by existing too loudly?

The boy kept his hands clamped over his mouth, eyes darting everywhere except at her. He looked like a rabbit caught stealing vegetables from the royal garden in front of the Princess.

Then very slowly, like someone lowering themselves before a guillotine, he lowered his hands and bowed again, quietly this time, almost whispering his shame into the tiles.

"...Your Highness," he murmured in a strained whisper, "I sincerely apologize. I-I mean no disturbance. I wasn’t... supposed to fall."

"You weren’t supposed to fall?" Ilaria repeated, her eyes wide, baffled. "Are you often up there?"

He choked at the statement, ears turning red, and immediately veered his gaze away.

"No! I mean yes. I mean— no! Not in a suspicious way! I only meant—" He sputtered helplessly, then bowed again as if hoping the ground would swallow him. "F-forgive me."

"It’s fine," she said quickly, suddenly flustered by how flustered he was as she shook her head. "Really. I’m not upset."

Ilaria remained in her small crouch beside him, blinking at how formal he suddenly became while both of them were still hiding behind stone railings like misbehaving children.

Would it be alright to ask? Or should she stand up like a proper princess and dismiss him immediately?

"...Actually, I feel like I’ve seen you before," she spoke instead.

The boy stiffened. And then in an attempt to regain dignity, however little remained, he straightened his back, scooted around, and sat cross-legged on the cobblestones with exaggerated composure. Ilaria almost snorted at the sheer determination to act like this was normal.

"Yes, uh... yes, princess," he said, clearing his throat as he tried to speak properly instead of in panicked shrieks. "We crossed paths once at the main entrance. You were with Prince Levan at that time."

"Oh!" Ilaria gasped softly as the memory slipped in her mind. She remembered it now. "That’s why you looked familiar."

He nodded, then immediately lowered his head again, more polite this time and less like a dying soldier.

"My name is Leroy Vintner," he introduced, his voice was quieter and more steadier now. "...I serve His Highness the Crown Prince."

He glanced briefly between the holes of the railings and toward the training ground. Ilaria could see the admiration flashing so intensely in his gaze that it made her turn her gaze to look at who he was staring at.

"I specialize in... information gathering," he added tactfully. Which, in a spy language, probably meant I hide in ceilings and fall out of them sometimes. But the princess would not know that.

Still, Ilaria found herself smiling before she even realized it. If he was one of her husband’s men, then that alone eased any caution. In her world, anyone Levan trusted was someone she could meet with an open heart rather than stiffness.

Not that she needed much prompting to be warm. Ilaria had always been the kind of princess who greeted people first and worried about protocol later. She had always carried her kindness close to the surface, ready to spill over the moment someone met her eyes.

"Thank you for introducing yourself," she said warmly, extending a hand with the easy sincerity of someone who had never learned how to greet people coldly. "I am Ilaria."

Leroy could not move. His gaze darted from her hand to her face, then back to her hand, as though she had just offered him a sacred relic he was absolutely unworthy of touching.

His posture snapped upright, his shoulders squared, and for a split second he seemed to be debating whether he should touch her hand, bow to it, or drop dead on the spot.

"Princess Ilaria," he corrected in a hushed, terrified whisper, sitting even straighter as though the title alone physically straightened his spine. "It’s an honour to finally meet you properly."

Ilaria withdrew her hand gently when she realized he might combust if she held it there any longer. She folded it neatly over her lap, and the two of them sat there, still half-crouched, half-kneeling behind the railing like two conspirators who had forgotten why they started hiding in the first place.

A brief, painfully awkward silence passed.

Leroy cleared his throat. "Um... if I may ask, Your Highness... what— what are you doing here? Alone in a training ground." He hesitated. "Not that you can’t be here alone— you can— you absolutely can— I’m just— curious."

Ilaria winced at how shy she suddenly felt. "Ah... well..." She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, gaze drifting helplessly toward the field below. "I just... wanted to see my husband."

Leroy followed her gaze. And then his jaw dropped in the most silent, reverent awe she had ever seen. His expression was so animated it was actually bizarre.

"Oh," he whispered, as if that explained everything. "Oh. Yes. That... yes. That makes complete sense."

Her cheeks warmed. "D-does it?"

"Yes," he said instantly while nodding so hard a strand of hair fell into his eyes. "Completely understandable, Your Highness. Entirely reasonable. If I were married to—" He stopped himself with a strangled noise. "I mean—! from a logical standpoint, he is very visually impressive— I swear I don’t mean that strangely—"

"I-it’s fine!" Ilaria squeaked, covering her burning face with both hands.

Desperate to divert the topic before she died of embarrassment, she blurted out, "What about you? Why were you up there?"

Leroy froze. It did not feel like he wanted to sya anything, but then colour crept up his neck like rising heat.

"I..." He lowered his eyes. "I was... also here to watch the prince."

Silence.

"...Oh," Ilaria trailed off, her tone was not judgmental, not confused, only understanding.

Leroy dared a glance at her. And for some reason, her expression was painfully familiar. That starry-eyed, far-off look of someone who had definitely been admiring the same man he had. And Saints, he felt his face heat.

He rushed to justify himself, hands flailing in tiny controlled motions as if afraid to gesture too wildly in front of royalty.

"I-I mean, His Highness is exceptional," Leroy whispered fiercely, like he was confessing a state secret. "His form is immaculate. His footwork is unmatched. And the precision of his blade—" He inhaled sharply, hands clasping reverently. "Princess, he is the closest thing to witnessing poetry in motion."

Ilaria blinked, stunned. Mostly because he sounded exactly like her internal monologue from five minutes ago. And then they both simultaneously turned to stare at Levan sparring below, glowing in sweat and sun and competence.

"Oh," she said again, softer this time as a nervous laugh bubbling at the edge of her voice. "I... I agree. He’s very good. I mean, of course he is, I’ve always known but he looked... especially good today."

Leroy nodded forcefully. Then nodded again, because once was not enough.

"Yes," he whispered fervently, clutching a fist to his chest. "He did."

Leroy’s gaze drifted toward the training ground again, unfaltering. His admiration was so palpable it made Ilaria’s heart twist. It was not something new to admrie him, of course, but seeing someone else’s awe reflected in the way they looked at him... it made her feel a little giddy.

They sat in near silence, crouched behind the railing as their eyes fixed on the training ground. She planned for it to stay like that, but Ilaria’s curiosity got the better of her.

She tilted her head slightly, careful not to break the quiet and whispered, "Can I ask? How long have you been under his care?"

Leroy’s sharp, focused eyes flicked to hers, confusion knitting his brows. "...Under his care?" he repeated.

She nodded subtly, a tiny smile tugging at her lips. "You clearly admire him a lot. I’m just wondering how long have you served him."

For a moment, he hesitated, weighing whether it was appropriate to answer. Then he adjusted his position.

"Five years," he said, eyes back on Levan. "But it feels like forever."

"Forever?" Ilaria prompted, intrigued.

Leroy nodded, still keeping his gaze fixed on the crown prince. "Yes, ever since I met him, he’s always been someone I could follow even when the world was not."

Ilaria rested her cheek on her clasped hands.

He continued slowly. "I... used to be a stray. Barely surviving, stealing food, taking coins in the vast city of Obsidianhold, and whatever I could to keep going." He looked a little flustered, but he was not scared to admit. "Until... I stole from the wrong person. Or rather, from him."

Ilaria’s eyes widened. "You stole from Levan?"

He nodded and quickly explain, hands flailing, wanting to clarify. "Yes! But don’t get me wrong, I didn’t know back then. He looked rich so I made him a target."

Ilaria could not help but laugh.

Leroy scratched the back of his neck before continuing. "But instead of... I don’t know, throwing me into the dungeons or punishing me, he took me in and taught me things. About discipline, respect, honour, and how to be more than I was. I owe him everything."

Ilaria’s heart swelled at the quiet reverence in his voice. She could see, in the careful tilt of his shoulders, the loyalty and awe that Levan inspired, so natural it seemed ingrained into his very being.

"He’s remarkable," she whispered, almost to herself.

"Remarkable isn’t the word," Leroy replied smugly. "He’s like a compass. You know exactly where you stand with him, and somehow, even when you’re scared or lost, you know he won’t let you fall."

Ilaria nodded slowly, fingers brushing lightly over the stone railing. The way Leroy spoke, it was not just admiration, it was the kind of devotion that only came from seeing someone save you in more ways than one.

"And that..." Leroy went on, his gaze flicking back to the training ground, "is why I’ll follow him anywhere. Because he makes people more than they think they can be."

Meanwhile...

Levan let out a slow exhale, the scrape of his sword against the practice dummy finally giving way to silence. He wiped the sweat from his brow, tugging the dark tunic over his head with a practiced flick, muscles gleaming faintly in the morning sun.

He ran a hand through his damp, dark hair, brushing it back from his forehead. The strands glinted in the morning sun, catching hints of silver where light touched them, a faint sheen of sweat traced the planes of his neck and collarbone.

"Take a break," he commanded.

The knights immediately scattered like leaves in the wind. He rolled his shoulders back, stretching the ache from them as the knights behind him collapsed onto the dirt, groaning and rubbing their sore arms and shoulders.

Levan did not turn, but the prickle along his spine and the soft tug of awareness beneath the noise of the training yard had been there since the moment he started.

He knew he was being watched since the beginning, but he did not bother to find who it was. Because he was not being watched in a hostile way. No, this presence felt warm and familiar, like sunlight brushing the back of his neck.

And so he looked up. Surely above him on the railing of the archway of the palace, his wife and Leroy were perched like twin judges while grinning with mischievous delight. Palms up, silently giving him a perfect ten out of ten for God knows why.