The pale light of dawn filtered through the window of Orielle's chamber in the west wing, casting soft shadows across her bed. The room was quiet, save for the faint rustle of linens as Orielle stirred, her hair a tangled halo above and around her face, her eyes rimed with the faint purple of a sleepless night. The heavy door creaked open, and Lyssia and Mirra entered, their arms laden with fresh linens and a tray of grooming tools. Orielle's eyes opened as if waiting for a reason to open them, and she sat up with a big smile—one far too bright to be natural.
Lyssia and Mirra paused mid-step, their smiles faltering at the sight.
"My lady…" Mirra breathed, her brows lifting as she took in the shadowed eyes, the rumpled hair. "Did you not sleep? Your eyes…"
Orielle turned, forcing a small laugh. "Hehe, I guess not," she said lightly, though her voice held a softness that betrayed her exhaustion.
The maids exchanged a glance heavy with concern.
The poor thing,Lyssia thought, her usually sharp features gentling. She must miss home terribly. And that king—likely hasn't shown her so much as a glance since yesterday's introduction in the throne room. How could she sleep with such uncertainty?
Mirra's heart swelled with twice the emotion. She looks so fragile this morning… and if only the king possessed an ounce of pity. Hmph! He couldn't even spare her a warm welcome. Truly troublesome. Never fear, my lady—your brilliance will return once I fix your poor tired face!
Lyssia, clapped her hands sharply. "Come now, my lady! You'll be dining with the king for breakfast—perfect chance to ask about your father!"
Orielle shrieked and yanked the blanket over her head. "The… king!" she whispered through the fabric. "Oh yes... He won't hate me… will he?"
Both maids felt their hearts pinch.
Terrified,Mirra thought. No! he couldn't possibly hate her. How could anyone? If only I could give a stern talking to the king! He should at least pretend to be captivated by his bride-to-be!
Lyssia stepped closer. "Of course not! We'll fix your eyes and dress you pretty, and even the King won't be able to look away."
Mirra nodded so vigorously her hair bounced. "You're already beautiful, my lady, but trust us—we'll work our magic, and he'll fall in love immediately!" Then, muttering under her breath, she added, "Though he should've fallen yesterday… perhaps his eyes were too out of sorts after all that blood he's handled all his life…"
Orielle peeked out, lips forming a soft pout. "You're teasing me, aren't you?"
"Not at all!" Mirra said, taking her hand and gently leading her out from the bed. Lyssia joined in, pulling her toward the vanity where the morning light spilled over polished bronze mirrors and little jars of scented oils. They spoke of the emerald dress chosen for her, the braids they would weave, the pearl beads they would tuck into her hair.
"We're not teasing," Lyssia promised. "You'll be a vision."
Their chatter, bright and warm, filled the chamber as they brushed and braided, dabbed rosewater beneath her eyes, and coaxed her hair into soft, elegant twists. Orielle's nerves slowly eased.
The dining hall of the western keep was vast, its vaulted ceiling painted with faded frescoes of ancient victories. Sunlight cut across the polished marble, gleaming off the long table of dark-stained wood. The air carried the scent of warm flatbread brushed with olive oil, roasted figs, soft cheese infused with herbs, and crispy larks glazed with citrus. A jug of spiced wine steamed faintly beside a bowl of pomegranates split open like ruby treasure.
KingTirian sat at the head, already armored in his morning attire: fitted black trousers tucked into high leather boots, a dark under-tunic of soft weave, and over it a flowing sleeved mantle clasped with a silver fastening shaped like a wolf's head. A light robe of clean white rested over one shoulder, elegant without excess.
His focus remained locked on the parchment map before him, one finger tracing a red-marked line along the eastern border.
Varakor's outpost… I still don't understand why would Kharis would want the girl? Not for breaking our union alone. He's cunning, not foolish. There must be another reason.
The hall doors groaned open.
Orielle entered.
Her gown flowed in soft waves. The small pearls glimmered in her braided hair, making it seem spun from moonlight itself. But the beauty was wasted on Tirian.
Tirian's head didn't even lift once.
Torvax, standing near the king's right, did. His stern expression softened.
The girl looks radiant, he thought. And Tirian—he knows nothing of women. Lady Orielle has a mountain to climb with this one… a cold, tedious mountain at that.
Orielle took her seat opposite Tirian, folding her hands neatly in her lap. Her posture was naturally elegant but unrefined by noble standards, and her eyes betrayed her nerves.
Still, Tirian remained focused on the parchment.
He picked up his fork at last, eating without glancing up.
Silence settled over the hall—thick, stifling, broken only by faint clinks of silverware.
Torvax's discomfort grew.
Say something, he urged silently. Anything, my lord.
Orielle glanced at Tirian, then tried. "Good morning, Lord Tirian…"
His fork paused midair. He looked up just long enough to nod once. "Yes, same to you." Then he returned to his parchment.
Orielle inhaled softly, gathering courage to her bestest ability.
"My request from last night… about my father." Her voice shy, but she pressed on. "I was wondering if we could discuss it now?"
Tirian looked up fully this time.
A faint smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.
Ah yes, he thought. Her reason for barging into my chamber like a lost little lamb. There was no fear back then. Curious.
"Your father?" he asked mildly. "You're certain he's worth all this fuss?"
Orielle nodded, fingers tightening in her lap. "He's all I have left, my lord. He's a farmer. A kind man. I only want him to know I'm safe. If… if visiting him is impossible, then may I send a letter?"
Tirian leaned back, studying her.
Bold, and painfully naïve. Varakor's men and gods know who else, lurk in the shadows, and she wants to wander outside?
"And if I say no to both requests?" he asked, watching her carefully.
A flicker of fear crossed her face, but she did not look away.
"Then… I'd ask why, my lord."
Tirian's brows rose slightly. Not insolence—honesty. Directness. Rare in noble courts.
Torvax's admiration grew.
She speaks plainly. And Tirian… he's actually listening.
The hall held its breath.
Then—
Laughter.
Rich, sudden, echoing through the vaulted ceiling.
Servants jumped. A maid nearly dropped a tray. Torvax's jaw loosened in disbelief.
He laughed?Torvax marveled. By the heavens… I've not heard that sound in years.
Orielle startled, unsure whether she had amused or offended him.
Tirian's tone shifted—not warm, but not cold either. "All right. I'll allow it, but I'll set some conditions."
Orielle straightened, joy brightening her entire face. "Thank you so much, my lord! Anything—I'll gladly follow any condition."
Tirian hid a small, bemused smile.
Obedient little thing, he thought. And earnest. Dangerous traits in a world like this.
"You may meet him here," he said calmly, "for dinner."
Orielle blinked. "…Dinner?"
Tirian nodded, expression tightening into authority. "The funeral will be in two days. He should honor the knight who died protecting his daughter. It is only proper."
Silence crashed over the room.
The serving girl near the king flinched. Another froze mid-pour.
How could he say such a thing? Blaming her for the knights deaths? Howcruel… even for him…
But Tirian felt no cruelty—only logic.
The funeral grounds will be filled with armed knights. No safer time for her father to approach. Perfectly reasonable.
Oblivious to the unspoken outrage around him, Tirian lifted his cup and drank.
Orielle lowered her gaze, voice shrinking. "Yes… my lord. Thank you for allowing him to honor the fallen knights."
She lifted her fork, paused, then set it down again.
"I'm… not really hungry... May I be excused?"
Tirian glanced up and waved a hand. "As you wish."
To him, a simple courtesy. To the room, a dismissal.
Like shooing off an anxious child, one steward thought darkly. No wonder she looks ready to fold in on herself.
Orielle rose quietly and slipped from the hall.
The doors closed.
Tension lingered, clinging to the walls like smoke.
Torvax approached Tirian with caution. "My lord… I fear that may have been a bit harsh for such a delicate lady."
Tirian looked up, genuinely puzzled. "Harsh? I granted what she asked for. She'll see her father. Is that not kindness?"
A maid stifled a gasp, nearly dropping her tray.
Kindness? If that's kindness, may the gods preserve us from his cruelty!
Torvax pressed his lips together, suppressing a groan.
He chose his words carefully. "No, my lord. It is simply… Lady Orielle is not one of your soldiers. She requires gentler phrasing."
Tirian frowned. "Differently? Nonsense. I already treat her differently."
Torvax nearly choked.
But Tirian continued, rising from his seat. "The wedding will be held in six days. The priests agreed it is the latest we may delay. Make the arrangements—and inform the girl."
He started toward the doors, adding dryly, "Wouldn't want her thinking I'm being 'harsh' because I forgot to tell her."
He swept out, cloak billowing behind him.
Torvax watched him go, shaking his head with a rueful sigh.
The man has a heart buried somewhere under all that iron. The girl may have a spark, but she'll need a blazing fire to melt it.
He turned toward the abandoned dishes, the quiet servants, the map still spread across the table—signs of two worlds colliding without either party understanding the other.