The great hall of Eldoria had been transformed into a sea of Blue and silver—banners cascading from the towering marble pillars, candlelight catching on strands of silk so finely woven they shimmered like moonlit water. Guests murmured in anticipation, their cloaks, jewels, and polished boots forming a mosaic of military leaders, wealthy merchants, and priests. The air felt heavy with tension, like the very walls themselves were leaning in to witness.
Tirian, however, was not in the mood to admire anything.
He strode down the corridor leading to Orielle's chambers, jaw clenched, expression stormy despite the pristine white tunic he wore. Gold threading lined the collar, marking him as the king, but the deep line between his brows marked him as a man who would rather be anywhere else. His shoes struck the stone sharply, ready to get the day over as soon as possible.
He paused outside her door.
The guards pushed it open, and Orielle stepped out.
Tirian stilled.
Her Tunic shimmered like freshly fallen snow, trimmed with silver and gold that caught the faintest flicker of light. Her hair was braided in the Eldorian fashion, loose strands elegantly framing her face, the rest pinned with tiny pearls. She stopped mid-step when she saw him. A flicker surprise flashed across her face before she composed herself and bowed her head in a graceful, practiced motion.
Tirian forced himself to bow in return, though the twitch in his hand reaching up to scratch his neck betrayed him. There was suddenly a strange awkwardness hovering between them like an unexpected guest.
She… seems better suited for this life than me, he thought, swallowing the surprising bitterness of it.
He exhaled quietly, straightened his shoulders, and extended his hand toward her. "The first step to this long day has finally arrived." He paused for a second to see her face, then continued "I hope... You're well prepared?"
Orielle's eyes widened slightly before a smile—small, eager, and entirely unhidden—broke across her lips. She placed her hand into his, fingers delicate but tense with nerves. Realizing her own enthusiasm had slipped out, she bit her lip and lifted her chin, posture shifting into perfect royal poise. "Yes your majesty, the maids you sent me have helped me thoroughly practice and prepare for the day."
Her voice was calm and poised, but her hand stayed warm, quivering.
Tirian almost laughed—almost. A short exhale escaped him before he caught himself and snapped his gaze forward as if nothing had happened.
Did that just come out of me? What was so amusing? Her trying to hide her nerves? That's… ridiculous. "I see... Then, let's get this over with"
His jaw nearly locked in surprise at himself. The confusion rooted him mid-stride before he forced himself forward again, expression returning to its usual cold neutrality. He glanced at her from the corner of his eye.
She walked like a queen already.
Am I… doing the same? Hiding my own emotions? Since when have I cared to do that…?
He scoffed softly at himself and sped up his pace in irritation. Orielle felt the change, blinked, and hurried to match him, puzzled but determined to keep step gracefully.
They traveled through the long corridor until the towering doors of the throne room came into view. Two guards pulled them open, and a wave of murmurs rippled through the hall.
Every head turned.
Orielle stiffened, her fingers subconsciously gripping tighter around Tirian's arm.
Tirian slowed, surprised by the instinctive protectiveness rising in him. He placed his free hand gently over hers. A quiet reassurance. His thumb gave a small, steadying squeeze.
Orielle inhaled sharply, a tiny smile appearing on her lips. She didn't look up at him again, but her posture eased, her steps now smooth.
He caught himself almost smiling again, quickly replaced by frustration in himself.
They walked together toward the base of the twin thrones. The crowd parted silently. Priests chanted low hymns as they emerged from behind alabaster pillars, carrying silver bowls filled with blessed oil.
"By the Circle's decree," the High Priest Ahan intoned, his voice echoing, "light meets shadow, and unity binds the curse of Eldoria. Through the chosen maiden and the Cursed King, may the blessed union restore balance, and may the curse be lifted."
The crowd bowed.
Orielle lifted her chin.
Tirian kept still.
The rites began.
Orielle's vows were recited with a steady, calm voice, words clearly given to her by the priests, heavy with duty rather than romance:
"I, Orielle of the Holy Circle's choosing, vow to uphold the peace of Eldoria, to walk in the light granted to me, and to guide the kingdom with compassion. I vow to stand by my king, to shield our people with grace, and to bear the mantle of queen with truth and honor."
She finished without a tremor.
Tirian's turn.
He stared at the long parchment handed to him.
No.
He folded it halfway and read only the essential first three lines.
"I, Tirian, King of Eldoria, vow to protect the realm, uphold the unity of this union, and rule with honour and strength."
He handed the parchment back, unimpressed, as the priest blinked in disapproval but said nothing.
The sacred binding cloth was draped over their joined hands, and the blessing concludes with a low chant echoing off stone:
"Light to shadow, shadow to light. One heart to guard, one soul to unite. By this vow, curse be weakened, hope be strengthened."
When the cloth was lifted, the room broke into applause.
The thrones were moved forward for the Blessing of the Guests.
Lords and ladies approached one by one, offering symbolic gifts.
A tiny old woman shuffled forward with a basket in her wrinkled hands. She held up a ripe peach.
"For fertility, my queen," she said warmly. "May the gods bless you with many heirs. Beautiful ones will come, I'm sure."
Orielle's cheeks flushed so red they nearly glowed.
"Thank you—ah—thank you so much. I will receive your blessing with… gratitude."
Tirian's jaw flexed.
"Yes. Thank you," he muttered, waving her away with thin patience.
Gods, this is taking too long.
Behind them, scattered conversations drifted through the hall.
"She's graceful," one lady whispered. "Where did the priests find such a jewel?"
A merchant clasped his hands dramatically. "Do you think if I asked the priests they could find me a maiden even half as beautiful?"
His friend scoffed, "You? They barely care enough to let you in the hall."
"I am the richest merchant in Eldoria!"
"Yes. That bought you an invite. Not a divine bride."
A lady behind them leaned forward pointing towards Orielle, whispering, "You're too late. She's already taken."
The merchant slumped. "Ah… then perhaps the second most beautiful maiden?" He brightened suddenly when he saw the lady who spoke—"My lady, you are quite—"
"Not interested."
His face dropped while his friend nearly choked on laughter, causing the merchant to scowl back at his friend.
Tirian and Orielle continued down the aisle, ready to get dressed in their next attire.
The wedding meal followed. Orielle had changed into a soft cream gown trimmed with pale purple. Tirian wore a matching tunic, though his expression remained deeply unimpressed by the constant formality.
They ate mostly in silence.
Orielle offered gentle smiles to every servant who approached. Tirian offered nods that could be mistaken for stone shifting in boredom.
When they circulated among the guests afterward, Orielle greeted everyone politely, her shy charm winning even the strictest nobles. Tirian, on the other hand, offered short acknowledgments, eyes drifting frequently toward the food or alcohol.
Orielle spotted her father and immediately pulled him into a tight hug. Tirian stepped aside without needing to be asked.
"Your Majesty," Torvax sighed as he approached, "please tell me you will at least pretend to enjoy—"
Tirian reached for a wine glass tower display and plucked a glass from the top.
The entire structure wobbled.
Several attendants inhaled sharply.
Tirian, oblivious, sipped.
"Your Majesty," Torvax muttered, face falling, "that wine is for display only."
Tirian took a bigger sip. "Explains why it's so strong. Hah... It's fine. I'll keep this."
"Your Majesty, this is not wine befitting—"
Tirian finished it and grabbed another.
The tower swayed dangerously again.
Torvax nearly died watching, reaching up incase it might topple over.
"Relax," Tirian muttered. "I've drunk far worse on the battlefield. This is practically refined."
He clapped Torvax on the back. The commander exhaled with a defeated laugh.
Finally the Rite of Union began as night fell. Torches lit the black marble courtyard, flames swaying like dancers around the gathered crowd. Tirian and Orielle re-entered in their white ceremonial garments, hand in hand as they stepped into the center.
The Vyrnath—the sacred dance.
The court fell silent.
Tirian moved first, surprisingly graceful for a man who preferred swordplay. Orielle followed flawlessly, her steps mirroring his, their joined hands creating winding shapes like intertwining rivers. The dance was slow, deliberate, symbolic.
Torvax watched with a softening expression.
Other than his obvious disdain for the day… he's doing decently. And she... she looks at him with so much innocent care. Haha it's a good shift for him I'm sure, whether he realizes it or not.
The dance concluded with both of them stepping back, palms touching, heads bowed.
Applause broke out.
Tirian and Orielle were led to the lower chambers, the sacred baths awaiting them. The rest of the hall erupted into celebration, music resuming, people dancing long into the night.
The baths, however, were silent.
Steam curled through the air, scented with rosemary and sage. The pool glowed faintly from cold specs beneath its surface.
Orielle entered from the right in a simple robe.
Tirian entered from the left in the same.
They froze.
Orielle's cheeks flushed instantly, both hands clutching the collar of her robe. Tirian's eyes widened, something between shock and disbelief tightening his shoulders.
The same bath? He thought stunned. No one told me this.
Orielle looked away so quickly her hair whipped behind her, heart pounding visibly beneath the robe.
The priests stood behind them, unmoved, their expressions calm and unreadable.
The steam gathered around the king and queen, softening the sharp edges of their shock, but not the emotions beneath it, nerves, confusion, vulnerability neither had prepared for.