The forest shudders with the clash of men and the echo of pursuit.
Sir Valek's boots strike the earth like hammers as he vaults over a jagged boulder, his breath steady despite the weight of his armor. The assassins flee like cornered wolves, shadows in black, darting through the undergrowth.
"Circle them!" Valek bellows, his voice carrying through the trees.
Two knights peel to the left, two to the right, forming a crescent around the slope. Valek presses forward, drawing his sword. The metal glints — a flash like a promise of vengeance.
Ronan, you fool, he thinks grimly. You never took anything seriously. Always laughing at danger, always first into the fray… never thinking to watch your back. Idiot...
The assassins skid to a halt at the edge of a ravine, breathing hard, realizing too late that they are trapped. One turns, loosing an arrow. Valek shifts his shoulder, the shaft slicing past his pauldron.
"Down your weapons!" he commands.
Their eyes dart between the knights and one jumps forward with his dagger.
They never listen.
The clash is swift and brutal — Sir Valek and his knights move in a seamless dance, blades flashing as they disarm their foes in one fluid motion. The air reeks of sweat, earth, and iron. When the chaos stills, five assassins kneel bound in chains.
As the knights haul them to their feet, one suddenly convulses — foam spilling from his mouth."Grab their jaws! Don't let them swallow!" Valek shouts.
Another drops before the order can reach him, froth bubbling from his lips. The remaining three try to follow, but the knights are faster — prying their mouths open and ripping the poison capsules from hidden cavities in their teeth.
Two assassins lie lifeless in the dirt, their blood and bile darkening the moss.
He turns to his men. "Bind the survivors. The rest—see to the fallen and injured."The knights obey without hesitation, their movements solemn.
*****
Far ahead, Sir Kahiel's horse thunders across the open plains, hooves striking sparks from the stone-strewn path. He leans forward, keeping his armored frame curved protectively over Orielle. Her slight form trembles against him, her pale hands clutching the saddle as though the world itself might throw her off.
The wind lashes her hair across his arm, a reminder of how fragile she is—barely more than a girl, dirt streaked across her cheeks, eyes wide and glassy from shock.
"Hold fast," he grunts over the rush of wind. "We'll be within the palace walls soon."
She doesn't answer, but her trembling eases. Her back straightens, her breath steadies. A strange calm settles over her—as if the mention of safety, however fleeting, was enough to steel her.
Sir Kahiel glances down, his heart heavy. She's trying to be brave. Brave... maybe she can survive the king.
The Citadel looms ahead—its towering spires catching the pale light of dawn, banners snapping in the breeze. The gates, forged of black iron, creak open at their approach. Guards shout, lowering spears only to raise them again when they see the royal crest on his armor.
Sir Kahiel rides into the courtyard and reins in sharply. He swings down from his horse, landing with a thud, then turns to help Orielle dismount. This time, his hands are gentler, though his voice stays firm.
"Easy now," he says quietly. "You're safe, my lady."
Her eyes flicker up to meet his for a heartbeat—green and frightened—and then she looks away again.
"Sound the alarm," Sir Kahiel orders a nearby guard. "Ambush in the Hollowed Woods. Assassins still loose, but pursuit is underway. There were casualties but the maiden is safe."
The young guard pales, salutes sharply, and sprints toward the grand hall. His armor clatters as he disappears beyond the archway, the echoes chasing him through the corridors of stone.
*****
Inside the throne room, the light is gold and cold.
King Tirian Bordhein sits upon a marble throne carved like the seat of a god. The dome above gleams faintly with chipped blue mosaics — and through the open oculus, sunlight spills like liquid fire, catching dust that drifts in slow, reverent swirls. Pillars rise around him in a circle of power and memory.
Before the throne stands General Torvax, eyes sharp and unforgiving to the rude entrance, the young knight rushes in, breathless and kneeling.
"My lord!" the young knight gasps. "Sir Kahiel has returned, your majesty," the youth stammers. "The maiden is safe, but there was an attack. There were casualties. The rest pursue the attackers."
Tirian's gaze hardens. "Casualties?" The single word drops like a stone. Then, after a pause, he adds, "Get the full report, I need to know how many of my men fell."
The guard bows hastily and runs out the heavy door.
Tirian's fingers curl over the armrest of his throne. "An attack already," he murmurs. His voice is low, but no surprise "So soon..."
Torvax bows his head. "It seems there might be more against than for this union."
Tirian's eyes narrow — molten amber beneath shadowed lashes. Who would defy the will of the gods so openly? Varakor's spies? No... They're no fools, to attack and think they'd achieve anything... Unless they wanted to destract perhaps? from what...?
Moments later, the massive doors opens again. The echo fills the hall.Sir Kahiel strides in, dust and blood streaked across his armor, his expression grim. Five knights follow, their steps steady. Between them walks Orielle—her head bowed, her linen dress torn at the hem, hair tangled from the wind.
Sunlight streams through the stained-glass windows as she approaches the throne.
King Tirian sits upon it. The throne itself rises like a monument of carved marble and dark iron, its back sweeping high. Beneath the morning light, it casts long shadows across the polished floor.
Tirian's gaze sweeps over her—one brief, assessing look.
Kahiel stops before the dais and bows low. "Your majesty. The holy maiden of light, Orielle."
Orielle hesitates, then curtsies awkwardly—an unpolished motion born of nerves rather than grace. When she dares to lift her gaze, their eyes meet.
The moment is slight, but it stirs the air.Amber meets Emerald—king and maiden, sword and sacrifice.
Something unspoken flickers between them. Then she lowers her gaze again, her cheeks flushed pink.
Tirian's brows draw together slightly. This is the gods' chosen? She can't even look me in the eye.
Tirian exhales through his nose, the faintest trace of a scoff in his breath. "The gods must have a cruel sense of humor," he says softly, not quite to anyone. "They send me a fragile flower to mend a kingdom's curse."
Kahiel shifts uncomfortably, uncertain whether to speak. Before he can, the heavy doors open again, and the sound of boots against marble announces Sir Valek's return.
"My lord," Valek says, dropping to one knee. "The ambushers are captured—three still live. Two took their own lives. They'll talk, given the right persuasion."
Tirian leans back, eyes flicking from Valek to Orielle. "And you want to... persuade them Sir Valek?" he says simply, his tone hinting as amusement.
Valek bows his head. "Whatever it takes, your majesty."
Tirian smiles, then spots the nervous young knight from before waiting by the entrance of the door. His armor is clean but ill-fitting, his face pale. He kneels clumsily, words tumbling out too fast. "Your majesty— one knight injured and four.. ah, were reported to have died. Their bodies are being brought to the chapel for the funeral proceedings"
Silence stretches.
Tirian rises at last, the motion slow and deliberate. The light from the windows catches in his hair and along the curve of his jaw. "Then honor them well," he says, voice low. "A knight's death deserves remembrance, even in chaos."
He steps down from the dais, the soft ring of his boots the only sound. He moves past Orielle, who flinches slightly as his cloak brushes her arm.
"Three days," he continues, stopping near General Torvax. "Their funeral rites will be held in three days' time."
Torvax bows, concern flickering in his eyes. "Your majesty, the priests urge haste with the union. They claim the curse grows restless the longer we delay."
Tirian's gaze cuts to him, sharp as a blade. "Then they may claim what they wish," he says. "The union will wait until our fallen are laid to rest. I will not hold a wedding under mourning."
A few knights exchange glances, uneasy. Kahiel's jaw tightens. Valek lowers his head. Orielle stands silent, small and pale in the vastness of the hall.
After a long pause, Tirian turns back to her. His expression softens slightly—barely. "You will be taken to the west wing," he says, then continues speaking to Kahiel "Prepare her personal servants and room."
The words ripple through the hall like a spark in dry grass. The knights glance at one another, surprise flickering in every face. Even General Torvax raises his brow. The West wing? But that's...
Kahiel hesitates, then bows. "As you command, your majesty."
Tirian nods once, dismissing them. "See to your men, Sir Kahiel. And Sir Valek... bring me the assailants to the dungeon, a conversation seems to be in order. "
Kahiel bows deeply once more, then gestures for Orielle to follow the attendants waiting by the door. As they lead her away, the light catches her profile—the soft curve of her jaw, the faint lift of her chin despite fear.
Tirian watches her go, expression unreadable.
When the doors close behind her, silence settles.
Valek places a fist over his chest. "Your majesty. For the rites, will we include the maiden in the planning? Since it will be her responsibility once you're wed...."
Tirian inclines his head, his voice low. "... Do as she wishes."
The knights bow and withdraw, one by one.
Left alone, Tirian turns toward the high window, the light glinting like fire in his eyes. His reflection stares back from the glass—stern, shadowed, uncertain.