The corridors of the west wing whispered with a faint chill, a soft hum carried through marble and silk. Gold linings traced the walls like veins of sunlight, and tall windows cast slow-moving shadows that swayed with the wind. The servants' footsteps, hushed gossip, and the rustle of maids hurrying about.
Orielle's hair shimmered faintly even in the dim light, tangled and dull with dust, yet still ethereal. Her dress clung to her arms, torn at the hem.
Lyssia and Mirra led the way — one composed and stern, the other visibly fidgeting with excitement. Neither dared to speak until the maiden herself did.
The Solara Room opened before them — a vast, sunlit chamber adorned in ivory and gold, with soft drapes of white that caught the morning light and shimmered like river water. A four-post bed stood near the far wall, its canopy flowing with embroidered silk threaded with gold. A circular bathing pool rested by the window, its marble edge carved with symbols of the Holy circle, and perfumed steam drifted lazily above the surface. Crystals hung from the ceiling, scattering sunlight into gentle halos across the room.
Mirra inhaled sharply, her heart skipping. A room fit for heaven itself… how can anyone sleep here and not dream of angels?
Orielle paused just inside the threshold, her gaze sweeping across the chamber with a quiet awe. Her lips parted in soft wonder. "It's… beautiful," she whispered, voice soft.
Lyssia's stern façade shifted. "It once belonged to the queen," she explained quietly. "None have slept here since her passing. The king… wished it to remain untouched."
Mirra bit her lip. "Until now," she added, her eyes darting shyly to Orielle.
Orielle's smile was faint, wistful — like the sun peeking through mist. She brushed a hand along one of the golden curtains, fingers brushing against the soft fabric.
"My lady," Mirra piped gently, "would you like your bath first, or shall we bring you a meal?"
Orielle turned, startled slightly out of her thoughts. She looked down at her gown and smiled faintly, embarrassed. "If you don't mind… a bath first," she said softly. "I'm a bit of a mess."
Lyssia blinked, guilt twisting in her chest. Gods... yes. A torn dress, disheveled hair, covered in dirt, how did I not notice? Aloud she said, "Of course, my lady. We'll prepare it at once."
As they moved to their duties, Mirra stole another glance at the maiden. Oh, how gentle she is, she thought dreamily. Are all the maiden's in her village this beautiful?… I wonder, would there be men just as fare?
Orielle clasped her hands before her, watching as the maids poured lavender oil into the steaming pool. "Thank you," she said suddenly, her voice trembling with warmth. "Both of you. I am in your care."
Mirra's cheeks flushed, nearly dropping a towel. "Of course, my lady!" she squeaked. "We will serve you with all our heart!"
Lyssia allowed herself a tiny smile. "I am Lyssia," she said formally, bowing her head.
"And I'm Mirra!" the younger maid added brightly.
Orielle's smile widened — and for a moment, the whole room seemed to glow. "Lyssia, Mirra… I'm glad to know you."
The elder maid felt something twist inside her chest — protectiveness, fierce and sudden. She's like light itself, too bright. My heart... what a darling, I'll protect her, even from the king himself if I have to!
Outside, the west wing the air filled with quiet peace. Light filtered through golden curtains.
But beneath the castle, there was only darkness.
The dungeons of Bordhein Castle breathed a different air — thick, metallic, and damp. Torches sputtered in iron brackets, their light wavering against stone walls.
King Tirian Bordhein had shed his royal attire. His shirt, plain black and clinging to the muscle beneath. His eyes glowed faintly in the dim torchlight, steady and cold.
Before him knelt a man, one of the assassins sent to attack in the woods. The silence between them was punctured only by the drip of water and the crackle of flame.
Torvax stood nearby, arms crossed, watching his king with grim resolve. Tirian… he thought. He becomes something else when a weapon's in his hands. The calm fades, and only purpose remains. This cruelty. It's the language of fear, and he speaks it fluently.
Tirian's gaze fixed on the prisoner, a wiry man with a scar across his cheek. "You'll serve as an example today," the king said softly, almost kindly. "you'll have to scream nicely for your comrades, and make them beg not to be next."
The prisoner spat blood at his feet. "You filthy tyrant! Bordhein Butcher! You'll get nothing from us! Pain is our companion; torture was merely a training regiment for us!"
"That might be true," Tirian replied, his tone mocking. "But I'll give it a good ol' try" he walked towards the prisoner then lifted the prisoners chin with his dagger. "But did you know, the names I've been called weren't given by my enemies — No, the worst ones came from my own men — the ones who couldn't stomach my… fun."" A deep, sinister laugh rumbled from Tirian's chest, echoing off the walls.
The prisoner's bravado faltered, his face paling as beads of sweat formed on his brow. He's mad, the man thought, his heart pounding. Those amber eyes— they're not human. Mumbling now, he whispered, "You're crazy… a demon in king's skin… You... you-"
Tirian's smile deepened. "Of course! How could one not be, to be called the Cursed King?"
He withdrew a small pouch from his belt and blew a fine red powder into the man's face. The assassin gasped, coughing, eyes dilating as the drug took hold — every nerve awake, every sensation sharpened. What... what is this?
"Normally," Tirian murmured, "it's used for pleasure. A rare hallucinogenic derived from the crimson blooms of the hollowed woods, known to amplify every sensation, every thought, tenfold. But for you — an exception, it might not be as pleasant."
The torture began methodically. A small incision to the thigh. The prisoner jerked, teeth clenched, then screamed as Tirian pressed a heated iron to the wound. Flesh hissed. The scent of it filled the air like burnt copper.
Torvax flinched, looking away briefly. That smell, I can never get used to the smell of flesh burning…
The man's cries tore through the chamber, bouncing off the walls. Tirian watched calmly, detached, as if he were pruning a garden vine.
The man screamed again, a raw, guttural wail that tore from his throat, his body convulsing. "wait! wait please! I'll speak! please!" the prisoner sobbed. "I'll talk—!"
But Tirian's eyes remained cool, unfazed. "You misunderstand," he said. "I already told you, you're only here as an example. That's all I need of you."
He twisted the man's fingers until the bones cracked — one by one — until the cries turned into incoherent shrieks.
The man now in tears still begging "pl..ease.. Pl... I.. I'll tell, You, uck-"
To Tirian, the sound was music of necessity, not pleasure. His expression remained almost serene, as if lost in thought. Fear... When the enemy fears you, you already have the upper hand. he mused. This is how — I'll keep the kingdom safe.
In the shadows, the second prisoner rocked back and forth, chains clinking like bells. "The red dust," he muttered, eyes wild. "It dances like fireflies… the king eats souls, yes, eats them whole… the maiden, the silver maiden — to stop the union, but the throne bleeds black rivers—"
He began to laugh, a high, cracking sound that filled the dungeon.
In the shadows to the left, the third prisoner—a stocky man with a ragged beard—huddled against his post, his face ashen as the screams pierced the air.
Gods, what have I done? he thought, regret clawing at his gut. I never should have taken this job— no amount of gold is worth this. That powder… those screams… it'll be me next, no... it can't do this. My family— if Bordhein uncovers my real name, my family they'll be hunted down. If my king finds out I spoke... My wife, the kids… they'll die too. Why is there no way out of this? How.. how can I die? I need to die, I need to save them. How can i save them. The man starts sobbing.
Torvax turned his gaze toward Tirian, who stood silently now, his dagger lowered.
"Tirian…" he said quietly, stepping closer. "this should be... enough."
The king looked over his shoulder, his expression unreadable — not rage, not cruelty. Only stillness. Then he nodded once, slow. "Let them rest," he said simply. "They've had enough to plant seeds for dreams tonight, and learned a bit of truth too"
Torvax hesitated. "What truth, my lord?"
Tirian wiped his blade with a cloth, his tone calm. "That they feared the wrong man."
He turned toward the cell door, the torchlight catching faintly on his eyes — the same eyes that had once softened at the sight of a crying child in the streets.
As they left the cell, his voice lingered in the dark: "War isn't what I want, Torvax. But peace bought without fear never lasts."
Torvax swallowed hard. How this throne has changed the boy I once knew, how he had to adapt to survive... I'm sorry Tirian, I wish this world wasn't as demanding. "Yes my lord..." He said with a heavy heart.