Morning sunlight spilled through the thin curtains softening the edges of the royal chamber. Tirian wasn't used to waking this way. Or this late, still in bed, still in the warmth of the room. By now he should've been in the training yard, boots in the dust, sword cutting the air.
Instead, he sat propped against the headboard, arms crossed loosely, half-listening as Orielle spoke beside him. She sat with her legs tucked beneath her, robe tightly wrapped and pooled around her, her hair trailing over her shoulder as she talked.
And talked.
"…and the baker's son would always give me extra honey bread because I helped sweep in the mornings," she said, her voice bright and warm, like she'd been waiting forever to share these things. "The village was small, but everyone knew everyone. We weren't rich, but it always felt full, you know? Like… a big family."
Tirian nodded absently, eyes drifting toward the window. Gods, she can talk endlessly, he thought. But somehow… it isn't unpleasant. Why?
Her voice softened slightly as she continued, "I never knew my mother. She died when I was a baby."
Tirian glanced back at her. She spoke lightly, deliberately lightly, but he caught the small strain in her smile.
"Father never loved another," she said. "Everyone told me that. They said she was his only star. And I thought that was so romantic." Clasping her hands together blissfully.
She laughed at herself, brushing a strand of silver hair behind her ear.
"I always wanted siblings. Just one, even. But Father said the gods gave him all they meant to. So the village became my family instead."
She paused, fidgeting with the end of her robe, then continued without thinking.
"But I suppose that's why I talk so much. When I was little, I'd chatter to anyone who passed by, even strangers, and my father would say, 'Orielle, one day your tongue will get you in trouble.'" She giggled. "He wasn't wrong."
Tirian fought a smirk.
I don't think that's why you talk so much... It seems to be ingrained in you rather than because you were alone... He thought to himself.
He nodded again, pretending he was paying full attention, when in truth his mind wandered between her words and the unexpected comfort of the moment.
Then she turned toward him, leaning slightly closer.
"What about you, Tirian? What about... your family...?"
His spine stiffened.
Her eyes were bright with curiosity but shaded with something softer, caution, maybe. Hope.
"You… had siblings." The words left her like she wasn't sure she should say them. "Didn't you?"
Tirian's breath lodged in his throat. His body tensed at once, instinctive, like a blade drawn.
Siblings...
His smile vanished. Her question echoed painfully in his head, dragging old memories clawing to the surface.
Blood on stone. A hall of bodies. His sword slipping from shaking hands. His father's last breath. His own tears burning tracks through the blood on his face.
No.
He pushed the memory down, muscles tightening.
"You must've heard the stories," he said. The words tasted like iron.
Orielle held his gaze. "I… have. But now that I know you, I can't imagine them to be tr—"
"They're true." His voice cut sharply across hers, harsher than he meant.
Orielle startled, biting her lip. The pity in her eyes made him feel exposed, bare.
She whispered, "You must have… had a reason though... Right?"
Her voice carried no fear. No accusation. Just a sense of hope.
Tirian looked away, jaw flexing. Pretending he didn't care was pointless, she could already see the tension rolling off him.
"I…" His throat closed. Her eyes wide, soft, pleading, waited patiently for a truth he wouldn't give.
"It doesn't matter anymore," he muttered finally, forcing a dismissive shrug. "What's done is done."
He cleared his throat, tone shifting abruptly. "But I do have two cousins. They couldn't make it to the wedding. You'll meet them eventually."
A grimace twisted his mouth before he could stop it.
"Though I'm not sure you'll enjoy their company."
Orielle blinked first, a little disappointed, then suddenly brightened like he'd told her the best news in years.
"Cousins? Really? Oh, that's wonderful!" She scooted a little closer, hands merely inches away from him on the bed. "I've never had cousins either! In my village, there were so many families dancing together happily, it did make me feel a little envious" She laughed more to her own words. "Now that we're married they become my cousins too! Could we invite them to the next festival then?"
Tirian stared at her.
Why in the gods' names is she excited about them?
He turned his head away, scratching absently at the back of his neck to distract from the heat spreading under his skin. Her enthusiasm was… overwhelming. And strangely unsettling.
When he looked back, she was still smiling, an open, unguarded smile that warmed something deep inside him he wasn't prepared to acknowledge.
Why are you so... unguarded... and warm? he thought, stirring uncomfortably.
He cleared his throat again. "What… what type of dancing did your village do?"
Did I just stutter? ...Me?
Orielle laughed and hopped off the bed, her robe fluttering around her ankles. "It's not anything fancy! But it feels like freedom. Like your heart pulls your feet along."
She grabbed his hand with both of hers and tugged.
He didn't move an inch.
She tugged harder. Still nothing.
Tirian's lips twitched. Is this her full strength? Pathetic. We're definitely working on that. She wouldn't be able to wield a dagger let alone a sword. How could she defend herself with this body?
He rose only when she tugged again, this time with a little frustrated puff. He let her drag him to the open space in the center of the room.
For the first time, he realized just how tiny she was next to him, she barely reached his shoulder, her frame delicate enough that a strong breeze might topple her.
No wonder she's weak, he thought. hah... A little fox indeed.
Orielle took one of his hands and stepped backward, spinning lightly, her movements graceful and bright. "It's the Sylra," she said. "We'd dance it at festivals. Always moving, and staying connected. You slide the hand here—" she demonstrated "—or there, or spin out, then come back."
He attempted to follow. Attempted being generous.
His body locked up the second she tugged his arm. "This is ridiculous," he muttered, feet refusing to cooperate.
She stopped, facing him with both hands wrapped around his. "It's like the Vyrnath," she said. "But you need to be more relaxed, it doesn't have set steps like the Vyrnath. Hehe maybe it also needs music. Without it… it seems I can't really show you."
She released his hands. Tirian expected relief but felt something closer to… loss. Before he realized what he was doing, his hand reached out and took hers again, fingers closing instinctively. Why did I—? What's wrong with me...
He let go at once, clearing his throat. "Well… maybe if you explained a bit better. Then we can try again... Later... At a… different stage." Gods. Am I stuttering again?
Orielle beamed. "Yes! I'd love—"
"No."
He cut her off too quickly, frustration clawing his insides. "I forgot. I have training to do. I've already wasted half the morning."
He pulled his robe tighter, forcing distance between them. The last few days had been too much. Too many ceremonies. Too many rituals. Just all too much. ...Too much her.
"This will be our room," he said gruffly, avoiding her eyes. "Also... I won't be back tonight."
Before she could answer, he walked out too fast, closing the door behind him. He didn't let himself breathe until he was halfway down the corridor.
I need space. Training. Duty. Something I know well. Something I understand.
Orielle, left alone, smoothed her robe, her earlier brightness dimming to a soft, lonely quiet. She walked to the window and watched the morning light dance across the curtains, her fingers resting gently against the glass. Saying in a soft but hopeful voice "He, keeps pulling away..." As she looks further out the window towards the mountains in the distance. "Maybe Instead of trying to move the mountain... Hehe I should first try and reach it..."
She rested her head on her hand. Hopeful, but still saddened by the sudden loneliness in the large room.
Training Grounds
Tirian threw himself into training that day with a violence that startled even the seasoned knights. His blade carved the air with relentless force, each strike a wordless attempt to silence the confusion swirling inside him, each slash hitting the mark on the opposing knight's sword, leaving no knight being able to stand for long.
From a distance, Torvax watched with narrowed eyes.
Something happened, he thought. But this isn't the face I expected to see from him this morning.
The next week passed in a blur.
Tirian trained. Met with advisors. Planned defenses against Varakor's growing threat. And each night, he returned late, long after moonrise, slipping into the shared chamber in silence.
Orielle was always asleep.
Always curled quietly on the bed. This time though on his side, for reasons he couldn't understand.
The little fox, he thought once, pausing at the side of the bed. Is she doing this on purpose?
He watched her in the dim moon light shining through the window, unable to stop himself, he leaned closer. Her lashes were long, feathering over her cheeks. Her skin was soft-looking, with light freckles stretching over her nose and cheeks. And her lips—
He tore his gaze away.
What is wrong with me?
He settled on the far side of the bed, staring up at the ceiling until sleep forced his eyes shut.
Orielle slipped into her new role with an ease that impressed even the harshest nobles. She learned quickly, asked questions, and smiled at everyone she met, She never got angry, or at least never showed it if she did. Handling everything with a grace that had everyone's walls breaking.
*****
Lyssia noticed the way Orielle's smile brightened whenever someone mentioned the king, even though Orielle never once asked where he was. She both felt pity and admiration for Orielle. Who lived her life brightly despite everything that has gone one.
It was late evening when Tirian returned from a grueling patrol, armor dented, mood dark as a storm front. He entered the great hall only to stop short.
Orielle stood among servants, rearranging flowers with sleeves rolled up. She looked up and smiled, soft, warm, completely unguarded.
That smile again. Something hot twisted in his chest. Anger? embarrassment? something worse? He didn't know.
She stepped forward. "My lord, will you join us tonight? There's a small festival. Music… and dancing."
Dancing? His mouth picked the worst moment to betray him. "Dancing? Your village kind… or ours?"
Her eyes lit. "Maybe both. With music this time. I could show you the Sylra properly."
He stared. Unsure of his own thoughts. I can't, I have work to do.
"Fine," he said, surprising himself. "I need to get changed first..."
Gods, why did I say yes?
He retreated before she could celebrate, grumbling under his breath as he strode toward the baths. This prophecy is going to ruin me.
He changed into more comfortable clothes, still royal, still dignified and headed for the hall.
He barely stepped through the doorway before Orielle spotted him. "You came!" she squeaked, running toward him.
He lifted his chin, scoffing. "I said I would." She took his hand, warm, small and pulled him toward the hall's center, where musicians tuned their lutes.
Why am I here right now? I have work. Important work. Real responsibilities. Not this... this frivolous... dancing. But he didn't pull away.
The musicians began to play a new tune, lively notes rising around them. Orielle turned to him, lifting their joined hands gently.
"So…" Tirian muttered, heat crawling up his neck, "what exactly am I supposed to do here?"
He avoided her eyes. He couldn't look directly at her, not with that warmth pouring off her, not with this unfamiliar tightness in his chest.