Tirian stormed into the Lux Lucis, the heavy door slamming shut behind him.
The echo thundered through the great library, swallowed slowly by the cavernous silence that followed. The room felt hollow, only left with the anxiety and anger overtaking all reasonable thought left of Tirian's sanity.
He tore the last pieces of armor from his body with sharp, impatient movements. The leather straps snapped loose under his hands. His coat followed, flung aside as if it offended him by existing. Everything irritated him—the weight of cloth, the press of air in his lungs, the way the world dared continue while she was gone.
"Orielle," he muttered, his voice low and raw. His eyes swept the room with frantic precision.
The table at the centre was covered in books and scrolls, some stacked neatly, others spread open as if abandoned mid-thought. Candles had burned low, wax spilling in uneven trails. A chair sat pushed back at an angle, not overturned, no sign of a struggle.
Tirian crossed the room in long strides, his boots scraping softly against stone. He stopped at the table and reached for the nearest book, lifting it with hands that trembled despite his effort to steady them.
The Holy Scripture of the Circle. His jaw tightened.
Another—A Record of the Twelve. A third, bound in cracked black leather, its title faded nearly to nothing. "All gods," he murmured. "Why were you reading about gods?"
A chill crept up his spine.
He spotted a loose scroll half-hidden beneath one of the books and snatched it up, unrolling it quickly. The parchment was filled with hurried writing, Orielle's most likely. Neat at first, then increasingly frantic.
"Other gods… beyond the Holy Circle? Did Tirian know?" His eyes flew over the words, breath slowing as he realised she was most likely here because of what he said about the curse and the prophecy. He carried on reading her short hand notes.
Lesser gods — Watchers? Bound. Cannot walk among mortals. Twelve known holy gods left.
Five: Holy Circle. Four: True Veil. Three: Unbound?
Gods are bound? can't they come down to earth? or do they just lose their power when they do? Marked souls? what marks? They are greedy?... it says their power is***** what does that mean? who would scratch this out?
Tirian's fingers curled around the edge of the scroll. "These are dangerous questions to have Orielle," he whispered, worriedly looking around. "did someone take her because of this?"
He flipped it over. Nothing. No answers. Only proof that Orielle had been digging into truths buried deliberately deep, and if any priest or loyalist to the temple saw this, would've taken her... To the temple.
The books are closed orderly. The candles snuffed carefully. She hadn't been dragged. Must've left on her own... It would've most likely happened after she left...
"I shouldn't have left you," Tirian breathed.
His hands went to his hair, fingers digging in as if he could tear the thought free. His chest felt too tight, his vision blurring as a familiar terror clawed its way up from his gut. ancient, merciless.
Not again.
The table shattered under his shove, books scattering across the floor as memory surged without mercy. His breathing getting faster, his throat closing. All he saw was blood.
Blood.
So much blood.
Tirian's hands soaked in it, his sword covered.
The throne room burned behind his eyes, torches flickering against crimson-streaked stone. His eldest brother lay sprawled at the foot of the dais, face eerily peaceful in death. KingAuron had always looked like him—same eyes, same jaw—but older, wearier. King by duty, as the eldest of the three.
PrinceDuaric lay nearby, sword still in hand, his stern expression frozen forever. The second-born. The wisest counsellor anyone could've asked for, The throne would've been more fitting for him, If he wanted the throne no one would've opposed, but he was humbly the right hand man of the the king. And Tirian was known as the left hand of the king. The warrior, the king's sword.
Tirian knelt between them, his sword buried point-first into the floor, forehead pressed against the hilt as sobs tore from his chest. "I'm sorry," he choked. "I'm sorry."
His voice broke as he screamed upward, rage and grief bleeding together. "This is what you wanted! isn't it?"
The gods did not answer.
His strength failed him then. His voice dropped to a whisper soaked in despair. "Can I be free now? Can't I die freely too? why ... why did I have to be the one.." His voice rose as more tears streamed down his face "WHY! ANSWER ME!" his head fell back down to his sword as he whispered "please... take me too..."
The memory shattered. And a soft sweet voice rang in his head. "Tirian? can't we have breakfast together today?" the soft voice laughed.
Tirian staggered back, breath ragged, hands shaking. His sense coming back to him. "No," he growled. "You will not take her too." The gods had already taken enough.
The door creaked open. Tirian whirled. Hands still shaking, he rested them on the table, his breathing calming down slightly.
Torvax stepped inside, posture rigid, eyes alert. He took in the destruction, the scattered books, the fury vibrating through the room, and did not flinch.
"Anything?" Tirian demanded. "One of the scouts found the escaped prisoner," Torvax said carefully. "He isn't with Kharis's Saints."
Tirian froze. "What?"
His thoughts raced. Kharis—the butcher knight, the remnant of Varakor, the man who had sworn vengeance when Tirian killed his beloved princess. It would only make sense... If not him, then—
"Who?" Tirian snapped. Torvax shook his head. "Unknown. But we found tracks. Three horses. Heading west."
"The ports?," Tirian said immediately.
"Yes."
That makes no sense. "Veridelle," Tirian muttered. "Why would they risk Veridelle? We're allied, Veridelle would not harbour any criminal of Eldoria. The risk would be too high. Even if it was someone from Veridelle... He won't be able to hide long, they have the best technology in surveillance."
Torvax hesitated. "There's more my lord. We recovered a letter from the hidden cabin the prisoner ran off in... A letter, burned partially. But... it bore Veridelle's seal."
The room went cold. "No," Tirian said flatly. "King Sol is an ally."
"Someone may be acting without his knowledge."
Tirian's expression hardened into something lethal. "What fool when go against King Sol in his own kingdom!? No... there's something else here."
Torvax released a slow breath through his nose. "We'll find her," he said, firm but strained. "King Sol will help us. Of that, I'm certain."
Tirian didn't turn back. His hands were clenched on the table in front of him, the faint tremor in them held in check by sheer will. When he spoke, his voice was low, measured, and far more dangerous for it.
"Find out everything," he said. "I want scouts at every port. Now." Torvax bowed immediately. "Yes, my lord." He turned and left without another word.
The doors closed. Only silence remained for a long time.
Tirian's shoulders sagged just slightly, the weight he carried no longer hidden. He pressed a hand to his brow, breath unsteady.
"Please, Orielle," he whispered into the empty room. "Be safe… just be safe, please be safe."
*****
Orielle woke choking on confusion. Her head throbbed violently as she sat upright, clutching the blanket around her like a shield. The room was unfamiliar, wooden walls, but it was stark, a single chair, a small window letting in dim light and something looking possibly like a sink, placed as if it was a last thought to add any furniture.
Her stomach dropped. "Where am I"? she Whispered, her eyes darting around. She stood carefully, her legs unsteady, and crept toward the door, her breath shallow.
Cracking it open, she froze as she saw the knight who'd taken her, now in plain clothes, a tunic and trousers, his armour gone. He turned, his expression softening, though his eyes held a flicker of guilt. She's awake, he thought. She seems fine, I hope the herbs don't leave any lasting effects...
"You," she spat. He raised his hands cautiously. "Easy, my lady. The herbs—"
"You drugged me," she snapped, swaying as she stood. "You kidnapped me." She staggered, nausea flooding her senses. He reached out instinctively. "Don't touch me."
"How are you feeling, my lady? Did you sleep well?" he asked, his voice calm but cautious.
Orielle's eyes narrowed, her lips curling into a sarcastic sneer. "Oh, just dandy, mister," she snapped, her hands clutching the doorframe. "I love being dragged away against my will." Her voice shook, but her glare did not.
"Why am I here? Take me back! You're defying the gods will!" The knight only looked at her with pity.
"You know what my husband will do to you," she said fiercely. "He will find me."
The knight swallowed. "I know."
"Then take me back!"
The knight stiffened. His expression remained carefully neutral, but a flicker of unease passed through his eyes. "It will make sense soon, my lady," he said. "We're… trying to protect you."
Orielle stared at him, then laughed bitterly. Her nose wrinkled, the disbelief plain on her face. "Protect me?" she repeated flatly. "You drugged me. You dragged me away from my home. If this is protection, you're doing a terrible job."
"My lady, we are not improsoning-"
She broke off with a sharp breath, pressing her fingers to her temples as the room lurched. "Ugh… I hate this. Why is everything spinning…?"
She squeezed her eyes shut, swallowing hard against the nausea. Then suddenly attempting to cross her arms, though the motion made her sway. She caught herself on the bedframe, refusing to look weak.
The knight exhaled slowly. "I know it feels wrong," he said, quieter now. "But there's a greater danger at work. The prophecy, the curse, none of it is as simple as the priests claim. Veridelle is involved because it has to be."
He hesitated before adding, carefully, "You're not a prisoner. Not truly. We're taking you somewhere safe."
"Safe?" Orielle scoffed, the word sharp. "You steal me from my husband and expect me to believe that?" Her voice rose, frustration bleeding through her composure. "Who are you, and why is the kingdom of Veridelle involved in this curse too? We did everything the gods told us to!"
The knight looked away, jaw tight. "My name is Sir Calen." He paused. "As for the rest... For now, please—trust me."
Orielle snorted. She reached for the bed again as another wave of dizziness hit, lowering herself onto the edge, her posture tense, ready to bolt if she had to.
"Trust you?" she muttered. "You have an impressive amount of nerve, Sir Calen." She lifted her gaze, fire still burning in her eyes. "Trust isn't built by kidnapping someone. If you want mine, you'll need more than empty reassurances."
Calen studied her for a moment, something like reluctant admiration flickering across his face. What a fierce little queen, he thought. I guess a cursed king needs a fierce queen. He composed himself against before continuing.
"Rest, my lady," he said evenly. "Once we reach the port, you'll have answers." He gestured to the room. "For now, we can't do anything till we reach Veridelle."
Orielle said nothing, her hands clenched tight in the blanket. Calen then turned and left, closing the door softly behind him. Only then did she sag back onto the bed, anger and uncertainty knotting in her chest.
"Port…?" she whispered. "A boat… I'm on a boat—"
The realization hit at the same moment as another surge of nausea. She lurched upright and hurried toward the basin.
Barely making it to the basin in time.