The Spring Room of Veridelle's palace was alive and magical. Fountains whispered along the curved walls, their gentle trickle blending with the soft flutter of tiny blue and crimson birds that drifted freely beneath the painted ceiling. Sunlight filtered through, making the chamber feel less like a room and more like a piece of the outdoors captured and tamed.

  King Sol lounged back in a cushioned chair. One leg crossed lazily over the other, his gaze rested on Orielle across from him. She sat straight-backed, hands folded neatly in her lap, her composure unbroken even as tension lingered between them.

  Orielle broke the quiet first. "Then… the reason you took me was to protect me from..." she said carefully, her voice steady though threaded with uncertainty. "From the gods and their prophecy… not from Tirian?"

  Sol didn't answer immediately. His fingers traced the carved edge of the armrest while his thoughts moved elsewhere.

  Since Tirian follows their will completely… one can't truly separate them, but well... I guess she's on the right track. he mused.

  At last he spoke. "Technically, yes, it's the Holy Circle themselves," he said. "Their prophecy… and whatever hidden purpose lies behind forcing your union with Tirian. From what we've gathered, it was likely meant to end with your death. Most likely a sacrifice to secure claiming it mercy and to lift Eldoria's curse." His gaze softened slightly. "So even if Tirian has no desire to harm you… he has already proven he will obey the gods above all else to protect his kingdom. As you seem to know… he has done the unspeakable before."

  Orielle's head snapped up. "Tirian has never hurt me!" she said sharply, the words leaving her before she could restrain them. "And… and he… he had no choice… with... No! he won't hurt me..." Her voice faltered near the end, fingers tightening around the fabric of her robe.

  Sol watched her quietly, something like pity flickering across his expression. It's true Tirian and I go back, he thought. Political allies… perhaps friends, at least from my side. But after what happened with his family, he buried himself behind iron walls. His eyes softened faintly as he studied her. Has this marriage… done something open him a bit after what the gods inflicted on his soul? Then... for his sake, she's good for him.

  Aloud, he tilted his head, a teasing glint returning to his eyes. "Ahh," he said lightly. "You must love him?"

  Orielle's cheeks turned pink instantly. She looked down, clearly unprepared for the question. "Well… well, shouldn't a ma—married couple at least have lo… lo… love between them?" she mumbled, the word nearly swallowed by embarrassment.

  Sol leaned forward suddenly, closing the distance between them just enough to test her reaction. His face hovered inches from hers. How cute, she truly does love him! How did he manage something like that with his personality?

  Orielle's eyes widened in surprise before narrowing with determination, a small sharp breath escaping her nose as she refused to shrink back.

  A crooked smile touched Sol's lips as he leaned away again, satisfied. "Not usually in arranged marriages, no," he said smoothly. "You, my queen, must wield some rare magic to make that stone-hearted king write a letter so… emotional. I nearly wondered if someone had forged it." Sol laughed deeply, enjoying the thought. "Honestly this whole situation baffles me entirely!"

  Orielle shifted slightly away from him, her blush deepening, but her voice softened with quiet sadness. "It's because he follows duty," she murmured. "Even if it wasn't me… he would do the same." Trying her best to seem like she's only stating facts, her sadness showed in bounds.

  Sol's brows drew together. She... doubts his heart? he wondered. "I'm not so sure about that," he replied gently. "I've met Tirian many times. That message carried more care than I've seen from him in years! Even before his brothers, and believe me, getting any reaction from that bore is difficult let alone one pointing towards care for anything other than his kingdom."

  Orielle looked somewhat surprised, but the shadow crossing her expression unmistakable. Wasn't she so confident just a moment ago? Sol felt a flicker of guilt for pushing too far.

  "My Queen," he said more softly, "he'll be here soon. Tirian isn't the type to threaten another kingdom for someone he does not value. If you meant nothing… he would have sent the First Order instead. Yet he comes himself."

  A playful note returned to his voice as he chuckled. "So when he arrives… you will tell him I treated you kindly, yes? I would hate to be remembered as a villain, and slaughtered because I didn't treat his dearest with bad hospitality."

  Orielle blinked, surprised by the sudden lightness. Realizing he was trying to lift her mood, she allowed a small, genuine smile to appear.

  This story has been unlawfully obtained without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Sol paused for a heartbeat at the sight. What a… lovely smile, he thought, before quickly pushing the thought aside.

  He stood, smoothing his robe as his posture shifted back into that of a king conducting business. "Refreshments will arrive shortly. You are not a prisoner here," he said. "But for your safety, you will remain within the palace grounds. The gardens are open to you, though guards must accompany you."

  He dipped into a slight bow and turned, leaving the chamber with easy confidence.

  The room felt quieter without him. Orielle watched the door for a moment before turning to Sir Calen. "Is he... always like that?" she asked softly.

  Calen's stoic composure softened into an amused smile. "His Majesty is… a free spirit, my lady. He rules more with heart and instinct than strict tradition. Truth be told, he was rather restrained today compared to his usual self."

  Orielle tilted her head, curiosity surfacing. "What is he truly like? I've heard he is bold… perhaps reckless."

  "Aye," Calen replied, armor shifting faintly as he nodded. "The rumours aren't wrong. He claimed the throne at nineteen with a daring that stunned the court. Quick-minded, charming, and far more strategic than people expect. He prefers wit over brute strength." A small pride entered his tone. "The sea calls to him—new alliances, new horizons. Yet despite his freedom, he is fiercely protective of his kin… especially his younger brother."

  Orielle's eyes narrowed slightly. "And his brother?"

  Calen hesitated, choosing his words carefully. "Prince Loven… carries a quiet heaviness. There is tension between him and the king—nothing openly hostile, but… strained. For someone unfamiliar with our court, it may be wise to keep a respectful distance. He keeps to himself, and few truly understand him. But... he does mean well for the kingdom his brother rules."

  Orielle nodded, clearly curious button willing to ask more. At that moment, a young maid approached, bowing respectfully. "Good morning, my lady. My name is Olive, and I will attend to you during your stay." She straightened with a gentle smile. "We have prepared a room for you, should you wish to rest."

  Orielle glanced toward the doorway, the fountains still whispering behind her, and slowly rose to her feet.

  *****

  The wind pulled sharply at Tirian's cloak as he stood at the prow of the ship, the distant cliffs of Veridelle rising like pale sentinels from the sea. Waves broke against the hull in steady rhythm, each crash echoing the restless storm inside his chest. Two hours remained until they reached the docks. If Sol had received his message, an escort would already be waiting.

  His gaze lingered on the horizon, but his thoughts were nowhere near the water.

  Orielle falling asleep the night of the wedding, causing the first fluster he ever felt for anyone. He remembered the way her lips pressed into a stubborn pout when she argued with him, calling him "mister king" that was meant as defiance and frustration but somehow only made her adorable. The warmth she carried lingered in him even now, and despite himself, a faint smile curved at the edge of his mouth.

  Rare. Unprotected. For a moment, he allowed himself to feel it.

  Then the warmth shattered, as a wave hit a little harder than expected. And his thought only brought back a memory he dreaded.

  Blood flooded in his thoughts without warning, the throne room drenched in red, a high pitched ringing against his ears, the weight of sword in his hand. His brother's lifeless eyes stared up at him, frozen in betrayal, and the air tasted of iron and bitterness.

  Tirian's breath stuttered. The deck seemed to tilt beneath him as the vision twisted, He blinked loosing his balance, gripped onto the railing for support. His thoughts shifting deeper and deeper into turmoil, no longer his brother lying at his feet, but Orielle instead. Pale. Silent. Her gaze fixed on him, lifeless.

  "…jesty…"

  His lungs tightened as though unseen hands wrapped around his ribs. The world narrowed, sound dulling into a distant roar of waves and wind. He tried to draw a full breath, but it snagged halfway, leaving him standing rigid at the prow, fingers curling into the wood as the memory threatened to drag him under.

  NO!… Go away!… She's fine!

  "Your Majesty?" The voice broke through the haze, followed by a firm hand gripping his shoulder.

  Tirian blinked, forcing his focus upward until the concerned face of Sir Michal came into view, seasoned, scarred, and far too perceptive, but this time Tirian felt a wave of relief over him. Back to reality.

  "Ah… yes," Tirian said, clearing his throat, though the tightness in his chest hadn't fully faded. "What is it?"

  Michal studied him closely. "My lord… are you well?"

  For a brief second, Tirian said nothing. Then he clapped a hand onto Michal's shoulder and released a short laugh — low, cold, and hollow enough to send a chill through the nearby knights.

  "Don't concern yourself with me," he said, voice steadying into something sharper. "It is them who should be worried."

  The familiar edge of bloodlust slid into his gaze, a shield he wore as naturally as armor. It swallowed the lingering panic, burying the vulnerability beneath something far more dangerous.

  Michal's expression didn't change, but his eyes softened with understanding.

  He had fought beside Tirian long before the crown had ever touched his head, back when the young knight had led the First Order with relentless precision, never faltering, never showing fear. Michal had watched him rise, watched him become the blade Eldoria depended upon.

  But this man… this king forced into a throne carved from loss… was holding himself together by sheer will alone.

  Michal felt pride — fierce and unshaken — but also a quiet ache. Tirian bore more than any warrior should, yet he never allowed it to show for longer than a breath.

  He nodded slowly, masking his concern with a small chuckle of his own. "Of course, my lord," he said.

  Tirian's eyes returned to the horizon, sharp and distant.

  Michal studied him for another moment.

  That look… he thought, unease flickering beneath his calm exterior. Bloodlust — refined, controlled… but today it feels different.

  He had seen that gaze countless times on the battlefield, felt it slice through enemies like a blade through silk. Yet now it carried something heavier, not rage alone, but desperation disguised as strength.

  And that, more than anything, unsettled him.