The great hall was alive.
Music rolled through the space in bright waves, lutes plucked quick, playful notes while drums kept a steady pulse beneath it all. Laughter bounced off stone pillars, voices rising and falling as the musicians took hold of the evening. Tirian stood in the center of it, surrounded by motion and sound, feeling entirely out of place.
Orielle's hand was in his. "Like this," she said, giving his fingers a small tug. "Just like the other night. You push, then pull—no, not so sharply. You don't have to fight the rhythm." She laughed at Tirian's almost clumsy strength
"I'm not fighting it," Tirian replied flatly. "I just don't understand the constant movement..."
She laughed, bright and unbothered. "That's fighting it."
He frowned "And also... all this touching seems... unnecessary." Orielle laughed and pulled herself in, twisting under their arms right before swapping hands.
Tirian still confused, but adjusted anyway, following her steps as best he could. The Sylra wasn't complicated, not really, constant motion, a push and pull between partners, always moving, never lingering too long in one place. It reminded him, unpleasantly, of being maneuvered.
"This dance is… inefficient," he muttered.
"In what way?" Orielle asked easily.
"There's too much unnecessary movement, when you can get to one side without having to twist or spin."
She tilted her head, watching him with open curiosity. "That's the point."
They turned. He stepped half a beat too late and bumped her forward, quickening pulling her back into his arms, before she bumped into someone else.
"Oh!" she laughed, steadying herself. "See? You're learning already."
"I just pulled you back... How is that part of the dance?" frowning again.
"Well you pulled me back with the music and continued to turn me to the next step," she replied, smiling up at him.
That smile again. He looked away, jaw tightening. Gods above, how does she keep doing that?
They continued, Orielle speaking as they moved, "We used to do this during harvest festivals," she said. "Everyone joined—children, elders, even the grumpiest folk who claimed they hated dancing." She slipped behind Tirian her hand tracing from his arm to his back, then moving to the other arm spinning gracefully forward.
"I would have been one of those," Tirian said.
"I know," she replied without missing a step. Keeping a laugh in but her face giving away her teasing.
He shot her a glance. "I can see why you picked up the vyrnath so well, you're very light on your feet."
She looked up at Tirian, surprised by his compliment. "I had a lot of practice... But thank you, you are a wonderful dancer too, my lord."
He grunted. "I was forced to practice from a young age..."
Orielle tried again to draw him into conversation. "Did you ever enjoy to dance as a child? Before… before you were king?"
"No."
"Never?"
"No."
"With friends?"
"No."
"With—"
"No."
She blinked, then laughed. "You're very consistent."
"There's no time for being inconsistent." he said. She smiled anyway. "Then why are you here right now?"
The prophecy pressed at the back of his thoughts, an unwelcome presence. This feeling—this restlessness—had to be part of it. The curse loosening its grip, twisting his emotions into something unfamiliar. That was the only explanation that made sense.
"You're thinking very hard," Orielle said suddenly.
"I always do."
"That doesn't sound pleasant."
"Wouldn't it be bad if I didn't think at all?"
She hummed, unconvinced. "Maybe if they didn't put you in such a constant depressing state"
The music shifted, quickening slightly. Orielle adjusted her grip, stepping closer before easing back, guiding him through the change. Then, without warning, she loosened her hold.
He felt it instantly.
She wasn't leading anymore. Wait— His steps faltered for a heartbeat. I'm… leading now? His pulse jumped. Orielle followed smoothly, trusting him to guide the rhythm, her movements responsive rather than directive. There was no hesitation in her posture, no doubt.
Something sharp and electric stirred in his chest. He adjusted his grip, firmer now, pushing and pulling with more confidence. Their movements aligned, the dance suddenly making sense in a way it hadn't before.
This feels like command, he thought. Like directing a formation. But lighter. Unburdened. Free.
Her words from earlier echoed back to him. Your heart leads your feet. Is this what she meant? The realization unsettled him enough that his timing slipped. He pulled too hard. Orielle stumbled forward, colliding gently with his chest.
She laughed, hands clutching his tunic to steady herself. "You're stronger than you think."
Heat flooded his face. Too close. He released her immediately, stepping back as if struck. "I have to go," he said, his voice snapping cold again, his walls slamming back into place. "That was… more enjoyable than I expected." He bowed stiffly, already turning away.
Orielle didn't speak right away. When he glanced back, confusion flickered across her face, something hurt beneath it. He didn't stay to see more. Turned on his heel and left.
What is happening to me? he thought, striding toward the edge of the hall. I think something is wrong with me. His heart pounding. What is this feeling? he thought, frustrated. I'm not myself, this must be the prophecy.... right? I'll have to talk to one of the priests...
He paused at the threshold despite himself and looked back.
Orielle had returned to the dance floor, laughing as she spun with a young maid. She looked radiant, completely at ease, joy written plainly across her face.
Something twisted painfully in his chest. Will the priest be sufficient? Should I see a physician instead? frustration rising as he turned away. I'm not built for this...
Outside, the night air was cool against his skin. He drew a slow breath, trying to steady himself.
He scoffed quietly. "Ridiculous," he muttered.
Behind him, servants whispered.
"Poor queen," one murmured softly. "She tries so hard."
"And what of the king?" another added. "Bound by the prophecy. It's not like he had much of a say in this, besides... Doesn't it look like he's trying?"
"He's still cold with her," someone else said. "If you call that trying then there's no hope for them."
"No, I disagree," an older servant whispered. "He seems more frustrated with himself than the queen... Wouldn't you say she's perhaps gotten under his sk-" The maids cut the old lady off with laughter. "You think anyone could break down that king's wall? Bwhaha, did you forget who he is? Have you gone senile with age already?"
The rest of the servants laughed as they carried on with their duties, The older servant, kept watching the king, swearing under his breath and suddenly kicking a plant. For a long moment he just stared at the toppled over plant, then lifted it back in place, and carried on his way.
"Forget who he is...?" she said to herself. "I knew him since he was a born... The king is not horrible... he's just clueless." She laughed while walking back to the hall to clean.
Tirian trained until his muscles burned. His sword flashed beneath the moonlight, each strike sharp and unforgiving. The wooden dummy cracked, splintering under the force of his blows.
Focus. Varakor. Spies. Impending War. He kept repeating to himself with every swing. Not her laughter. Not the warmth of her hand.
Tirian struck harder. "Damn prophecy," he growled. "Damn her!"
Days passed with them moving around each other rather than together.
Orielle filled her time with duty, planning aid, meeting families, listening more than she spoke. Training to be a queen proved itself to be hard, but Orielle never once gave up.
Tirian buried himself in work. Patrols increased. Reports piled up. His mind stayed busy.
The Gardens
It was evening when Tirian found Orielle in the gardens.
Orielle stood near a fountain, watching water catch the fading light. Tirian slowed, his steps quiet careful.
"Orielle," he said.
She turned, smiling softly. "My lord."
"About the festival," he said gruffly. "I didn't mean to leave like that."
"It's alright," she replied easily. "You danced with me. That was enough." She paused, then added lightly, "Maybe next time, you'll stay for the whole song."
His lips twitched despite himself. "Maybe," he said. "If work allows."
Then the memory hit him. The advisors. The priests. Their knowing looks.
"Did you truly fill the union?" "My lord, the priest would like to confirm the union fulfilment"
We haven't fulfilled it. He stared at the fountain, jaw tightening, knowing he has to talk to her about it.
"Orielle," he tried again, awkwardly. "There's something we need to address." She stilled and looked up, a look of concern on her face.
"The prophecy," he continued. "The… wedding night." Her hands tightened in her robe "I know," she said softly. "We haven't yet fulfilled it...."
He rubbed the back of his neck. "Yes, it is. I've been… avoiding it... Not because I don't—" He stopped, flustered, then sighed. The priests won't let it go. Somehow... They know nothing happened." He forced the words out. "So… we should do our duty."
Silence stretched between them.
Orielle's nodded shyly, but a spark of boldness flickered in her eyes, and she tilted her head, her voice trembling slightly but laced with a teasing edge. "Are you," she asked carefully, "perhaps… scared, my lord?"
Tirian froze, caught completely off guard. Scared? Who...?Me?