Dawn arrived thin and grey, the palace moving beneath it like a great, measured heartbeat. Servants scurried along flagstones that still smelled faintly of night; braziers were stoked and knights training on the training grounds. There was a businesslike sorrow to the day—orders barked, lists checked, flowers placed. All choices were asked t be made by the soon to be Queen.
Throughout the morning servants and stewards came and went with petitions: the placement of amaranth and cypress upon the pyres, which knight would walk first in the procession, the phrasing of the priest's eulogy. Orielle read papers of seating and lists of names as if they were letters to be answered, her brow knitted with concentration but her voice unfailingly composed. With the help of a few of Tirians trusted Chamberlain.
"I don't know much about funerals," she admitted once to Chamberlain Groves. She adjusted an attendees' list, the lines of ink wavering slightly as her pen shook. "But I want to honour Sir Ronan and the others properly. Am I doing it right?" Groves, noted her nervousness with every choice she made, and tried her best to be cautious and kind. "Yes my lady, you're doing perfectly fine. We only have a little left to do. The king should be pleased."
There was truth in Chamberlain Groves' praise—sincere, steady, but perhaps a bit exaggerated. For the sake of helping the king, confidence isn't something the future queen should lack if she wished to survive, so I'll be sure to help her grow into the position a royal should sit comfortably in.
Lyssia and Mirra watched them flinching every now and then at the harshness of the Chamberlain, but understanding his purpose in doing so. The day wore on; noon crept into afternoon; plates were set and replaced, and still no trumpets heralded return. Lyssia's brow tightened, worry that had lingered like a small coal in her chest growing hotter, not for the king but Lady Orielle instead.
She watched Orielle walk the west wing's corridor, a blue-and-cream stola whispering with each pacing step, a loose thread between the fingers like a talisman. Lyssia and Mirra lingered within sight, speaking little; their silence worried. She's nervous, Lyssia thought. I told her not to fret, but it seems it did nothing to ease her mind.
A servant approached. "My lady, the king and knights might be late. Perhaps you should rest."
Orielle managed a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Perhaps I should..." Her voice trembled at the final word; she moved toward her chambers under the weight of a thousand small anxieties.
Night made a shroud of the palace, but it did not hide the king's absence. The hours folded into each other until sleep became a stranger to Orielle. She sat awake, fingers tracing the embroidery of her linens, listening for the sound of boots. When horns finally sounded it was only at daybreak. She jumped out of bed wearing nothing but her nightgown and ran, she ran past Mirra holding a bowl of warm water, she ran past Lyssia holding linens, to both they hardly realised what happened until Orielle was already at the end of the corridor and they put everything down to run after her.
"My lady! wait! please wait my lady!" Lyssia screamed after her.
*****
The heavy doors of the hall swung inward and men returned: dusty cuirasses, a smattering of dirt along boots, but no blood—clean victories stamped upon their faces. Torvax, Kahiel, Valek moved right behind King Tirian; discipline in every step. Sir Valek's grin betrayed the fever of battle. "They were surprised," he said, voice flat with satisfaction. "We took them before they could call reinforcements. It felt almost—too easy."
Torvax laughed with the sort of relief that had the taste of iron. "A clean strike. Scouts were precise. How cold that not be a good thing?"
Orielle ran down the grand staircase, her nightgown trailing like the wake of a small boat. She ran across at reached the top of the staircase, and for a moment the hall was a picture—she in motion, the knights still, all gazes fixed upon her from the bottom of the staircase.
Tirian's glance found her, surprised to see her. He watched the changes cross her face: a fold of worry, relief and then, unexpected anger. Tirian, swallowed, suddenly feeling guilty but not knowing why. Tears welled and then fell in Orielle's face; before any word left her, she turned and fled down a corridor, footsteps quick as a startled bird's.
The commanders exchanged looks—a silent debate of what would've caused the lady to have such a strange reaction upon their return.
"We're not even covered in blood," Tirian muttered, more to himself than anyone. "What now?"
Sir Kahiel's laugh was short, an attempt to cut the edge of awkwardness. "Perhaps she feared you had been harmed. Women worry easily, my lord. And you didn't tell her you left."
Tirian's jaw tightened. He had thought of duty in iron terms: time, terrain, logistics. That someone might feel worry for my safety, and he had not involved her in the leaving—it seemed a softness that made no sense. "I sent word," he said. "I left men. What more could she wish?"
Torvax's hand went to his forehead and he groaned inwardly; he did not often groan aloud. Women had needs that were not solely tactical. He imagined a conversation—one that began with a man saying, "I went to war," and a woman answering, "I understand." Instead, here was a woman left to wonder whether she mattered.
Kahiel chose his words with a parent's care. "My lord, she is not one of your men. To her you are not first a commander; you are—" He searched for a word that would not sound foolish—"a partner. When a person you will wed leaves without a word, it does not sit easily. You'll soon be one, good communication might be a better way to avoid future turmoil in the palace."
Future turmoil? thought Tirian, he exhaled sharply. A flicker—small and quick. He inhaled, and rubbed his brows in frustration. So... treat her... like a, partner...? Ugh...
"Find her," he said finally to Torvax, his tone clipped. "Bring her to me in my chambers... I'll... try and explain what I must..." He turned to leave.
Torvax understood the concession for what it was—a step and not yet a stride. A small mercy from a man who measured himself by the blade. He bowed, a faint unstudied smile finding the corner of his mouth; Let's hope the queen sees his efforts, since this is so far out of his comfort zone.
Orielle's was a nestled on her couch, a haven of pillows and linen against a beautiful window sill. She pulled a bolster to her chest and hugged it as if the roll of stuffed cloth had the warmth of a father's arms. Her tears were hot, a confusion of anger and fear and a grief that did not have a single name.
"I'm so stupid," she whispered into the pillow. The word was barely air. "Worrying all night. Thinking he might be hurt— and yet he returns as if the danger were a trifling thing. Why did I care?"
She crushed her face into the fabric. She attempted to reason herself into composure. "He is the king," she said out loud. "not my friend. Not my confidant. A husband to be managed by courtesy rather than affection." She sniffed and tried to make each breath a small victory.
"Not every marriage can have... love," she told the pillow as if it could comfort her. Her voice broke on the last admission. "Father— I miss you so much... this is so hard, I ... hic... I don't know how to do this..." Her small body convulsed with a fresh sob. She pressed her forehead into the cushion and let the sound loosen.
The autumn wind blew the curtains into Orielle's face, making her lift her head and look outside. As she watched grounds with scattered of yellowed leaves. The air had a brittle beauty. Orielle traced a line on the sill with a finger, the gold trim cool beneath her nail. "He's letting me see Father at least," she whispered quietly. The thought calmed her, an island in the middle of a storm. "I will make friends with everyone else then. I will be strong... Yes, I don't need him to be happy!"
She slapped her own cheek once, a ridiculous attempt to shame herself out of weakness. "What's wrong with me? I shouldn't be crying over him." She laughed, brittle and unconvinced.
A soft knock came. Mirra's face peered through the crack of the door, pinched with worry. "My lady? General Torvax is here—he says the king wishes to speak with you. Are you…all right?"
Orielle's smile was practiced, a thin ribbon of composure. She pushed herself up, folded shoulders back, eyes brighter than before. "I'm fine, Mirra—just tired. Tell him I'll be ready."
Mirra's hand found Orielle's and squeezed, steadying. "He asked for you in the king's chambers, my lady. I will escort you."
Orielle rose, smoothing the fabric of her dress. Her earlier sadness settled, buried away for another time. She moved toward Mirra with the gait of someone who had decided, rightly or not, to meet whatever came next.
And with a breath and a motion that made no proclamation, but was honest in its simplicity, she pushed herself up and walked toward the door.