The sound of boots against marble echoed through the western corridor, measured, but heavy with unease. Sir Kahiel walked with Orielle beside him, her soft steps barely audible against the clink of his armor. The air smelled faintly of lavender and polished stone, the light spilling through tall arched windows in ribbons of gold.
A servant darted into their path, panting slightly as he bowed. "Sir Kahiel," he said between breaths, "the two maids have been chosen, they will be assigned to her service immediately." Sir Kahiel exhaled "Send them to the west wing... we'll meet them at the Solara room, the king's orders"
The words struck like a thunderclap.
A hush rippled through the hall. The knights standing post turned their heads, brows furrowed. Servants paused mid-step, their whispers fluttering like moths in the silence.
"The Solara Room?" one voice murmured under breath."But that's the queen's chamber…" whispered another."They're not even wed—how could she be placed there?"
The murmurs spread, quiet but sharp, a current of disbelief that seemed to chase them down the corridor.
Kahiel's jaw clenched. His hand brushed the hilt of his sword, not in threat—but to steady himself. The Solara Room... That's across from the Kings own… He'll cross paths with her daily. Usually that room is only for the queen of Eldoria, used mostly when there's discord between the pair, or if her highness needs solace. But the king wants her their already... Does that mean they won't move to the royal chambers after marriage? is he setting boundaries already?
His thoughts churned.
From further back, a maid carrying a tray slowed, her thoughts echoing the same disbelief. The west wing? She shivered. Gods, I pity her. To sleep so near... wouldn't she then run into the king's gaze every day?
Kahiel exhaled again through his nose, the faintest sigh of frustration. "This way, my lady," he said quietly to Orielle. "We'll see you settled soon."
*****
Elsewhere in the castle, the king's footsteps rang against the stone—measured, deliberate.
General Torvax strode behind him, his broad form struggling to match Tirian's pace. The torches flickered along the walls, casting long shadows that swayed between them like restless spirits.
The silence stretched thin until Torvax finally broke it. "My lord," he began, his tone careful. "The Solara Room… why place her there? And already in the queen's chambers—surely that's premature?"
Tirian's stride faltered, then stopped entirely. He turned with the quiet step towards Torvax. His gaze now almost teasing.
"Is there a reason she can't be there?" he asked.
Torvax stiffened under that stare. "My lord, she's not nobility. She's yet to be wed. The Solara Room has always been reserved for the queen—and…" His throat tightened. "It lies near your chambers. I only meant—it may be... uncomfortable for you."
Tirian's eyes narrowed, his presence darkening like a gathering storm, then he suddenly laughed. "Comfort?" His tone was quiet, but it filled the corridor like thunder held at bay. "We'll be sharing a chamber soon enough, comfort was never part of this throne's path, General. Or have you forgotten?"
Torvax's shoulders dropped slightly. He understood the meaning, the heavy responsibility and the echo of truth. "No, my lord," he murmured.
Tirian studied him for a heartbeat longer, then relaxed. The edge of his posture softened. With an unexpected gentleness, he placed a hand on Torvax's shoulder.
"Ammiel," he said quietly, using Torvax's true name—one that hadn't been spoken aloud in years. The sound of it startled the general more than any reprimand could. Tirian's tone eased, carrying a warmth rare and fleeting. "We make do with what the gods give us. Whether she's the answer or another trial, I'll see this through. Let it never be said that Tirian Bordhein lacked the will to fulfill the prophecy."
A faint smile crossed his lips—not prideful, but resolute.
Torvax's chest tightened. He saw, for a moment, the young prince he'd trained—the one who'd laughed in the rain, sword in hand, long before the crown and prophecies dulled his light.
He struck his chest in salute, a proud smile and his voice steady. "Yes, my king."
Tirian nodded once. The warmth faded, replaced once again by composure. "Come," he said, his tone returning to command. "The dungeons await. We'll have answers before the moon rises."
Their footsteps resumed, echoing through the cold stone corridors.
*****
Far above, Orielle walked quietly behind Sir Kahiel, her dirty boots whispering against the polished floor. The west wing unfolded like a gallery of ancient splendor—walls draped with crimson banners, sunlight filtering through latticed windows in fractured gold.
She slowed near a window, eyes catching the distant horizon. Her village lay somewhere beyond those hills, small and unseen, and for a fleeting moment, her heart ached for the smell of wild thyme and smoke from her father's hearth.
"Lady Orielle," Kahiel called softly, nodding ahead. Two maids had arrived—one older, composed; the other young and bright-eyed.
"Lyssia," Kahiel addressed the elder, "you'll oversee her needs. And Mirra,"—his voice softened slightly at her nervous fidgeting—"you'll assist her with the room and attire. The Solara Room has been prepared."
Both bowed quickly.
Lyssia's gaze flicked toward Orielle, assessing. Small thing, she thought. But she carries herself steady. I heard she's a farmer's daughter, no doubt—used to work, not whining. Perhaps that's why she's not fainting in these halls.
Mirra, meanwhile, could hardly contain herself. She's beautiful, she thought dreamily. Like the princesses in the old songs. If only the king weren't so cold—perhaps she'll warm him? Oh, it would be romantic—
A sharp pinch from Lyssia on her arm made her yelp softly.
"Eyes down, girl," Lyssia muttered under her breath.
Mirra flushed bright pink and fixed her gaze on the floor. Right. Not the time. But still—her mind wandered. Though… why the west wing? Maybe the king wants her close. Maybe—oh heavens—has he already fallen for her!
Another pinch followed, and Mirra bit her lip to keep from giggling.
Kahiel caught the faint exchange and almost smiled. Almost. It was the first lightness he'd felt all day.
"Treat her with respect," he said finally, his tone kind but firm. "And don't trouble her with gossip."
The two maids nodded quickly, then turned to guide Orielle away. She followed silently, her gaze drifting across the hall one last time before disappearing through the gilded arch that led toward the Solara Room.
*****
Below, in the castle's belly, the air turned cold.
The dungeon gates groaned open, iron scraping against stone. Two guards shoved the three captured assassins inside separate cells, chains rattling as they stumbled forward. The torches flickered dimly, casting cruel shadows that twisted across their faces.
One of the assassins—a wiry man with a scar running down his cheek—shifted nervously, his eyes darting toward the stairway where footsteps approached.
"Quiet," one guard warned, slamming the bars shut.
But the man's breathing quickened. His hands trembled against the iron. "You don't understand," he hissed. "We don't know anything! you should just kill-"
The second guard scoffed, turning the key in the final lock. "Yes... death would've been a mercy, but you're too late now."
In the corner cell, another assassin closed his eyes, muttering to himself. "The king, yes the king will save us" he whispered. "He'll come before the cursed monster does."
The guard paused mid-step, frowning. "Who?"
The prisoner's smile was faint, unsettling. "The king! you'll all be gone, gone, dead. Gone, go, gone dead. The cursed head of the lies, the lies. You all will die, yes die! Long live the King! the King! the true king!" The man started singing as if his life was spared, and he'll be safe.
Silence lingered for a beat. Then the torches flickered—once, twice—before the light steadied again.
The guards exchanged uneasy glances. "He must have lost his mind" one muttered.
From the shadows of the corridor, a low voice answered—Tirian's. "You seem excited to see me..."
The prisoner's smile falters and his whole body starts to quiver, He turns away from the cell doors, wrapping himself in his own arms singing quietly to himself.
King Tirian stepped into the dim light, Torvax at his side. The king's presence filled the dungeon, quiet but suffocating. His gaze swept across the cells, pausing on the scarred man.
"Then let's see," Tirian said softly, a dark smile growing at the corners of his lips "who's most eager to speak?"
The torches flared higher, and the dungeon fell into the kind of silence that promised nothing good.