King Sol strolled through the palace corridors with easy confidence, hands clasped behind his back, sandals striking marble in an unhurried rhythm. Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching the gold threads woven into his sleeves.
A quiet laugh slipped from him.
Orielle's expression in the Spring Room replayed in his mind, the shy flush, the stubborn defiance, the warmth beneath her guarded composure. She was easy to tease, something innocent about her made it more appealing to do so too.
Getting soft, are we? he mused. "Perhaps it's time I wed as well," he said aloud, voice light with mischief. "Mother would faint from joy. And father... Oh father would be a nuisance, I only recently stopped his nagging about marriage and an heir." Another amused huff followed, earning a cautious glance from Archon Westre, who trailed a respectful distance behind him.
Westre, silver streaks through his neatly combed hair, had served Sol's father before him. His composure was ironed into him by decades of court politics. Yet today, even he looked unsettled.
His Majesty is in an absurdly good mood… considering he abducted a queen and her husband is marching toward our gates,Westre thought grimly.
He cleared his throat. "My king… should we prepare chambers for King Tirian as well? Or do you anticipate… a swift departure?"
Sol paused, turning slowly, a thoughtful tilt to his head. "We'll see," he said lightly. "Tirian's an unpredictable colt. Hard to know if he'll kick or leave peacefully."
Westre's brow deepened into a crease. "With respect, Your Majesty, you are the unpredictable one. You dispatched knights across the sea without council approval."
Sol's grin widened. "That's true," he admitted cheerfully. "But everyone expects me to be unpredictable. Which makes it rather predictable, doesn't it?"
Westre blinked.
Sol tapped his chin as if pondering a great philosophical dilemma. "If chaos becomes routine, is it still chaos?" Westre rubbed his temples. "King Sol... this is no time for your unseasonable levity.
Sol exhaled through his nose, just slightly heavier than before.
"Then... for now," he continued, voice turning thoughtful beneath the humor, "we treat the queen well. She's likable. Intelligent. And I suspect she has more sway over Tirian which will only be good for us. Keep her content, and the colt may stay bridled."
He slung an arm around Westre's shoulders with way too much familiarity. Westre staggered under the sudden weight.
"You worry too much, old man. This could be fun." Sol teased putting more weight on the old man purposefully.
Westre straightened his robes indignantly. "Fun?" he snapped, quickening his pace to walk beside him instead of behind. "Your definition of fun has invited calamity more than once. You're more troublesome than the goddess Mareon herself!"
Sol laughed, lifting his full weight but nudging him again. "I devoted myself to Mareon, goddess of chaos and change. Should I not embody a little turbulence?"
"That is not how divine devotion works—" Westre cut off mid-sentence as a figure hurried toward them.
Calen. His breath was strained.
Sol's amusement evaporated. That's the knight I assigned to the queen is it not?
Calen dropped onto his knee. "My king— the queen— she has collapsed in the garden."
The corridor went silent. Sol's hands dropped from behind his back. "What?" The word came out sharp. "Why? What happened?"
He seized Calen by the shoulders, hauling him upright. "Speak." Calen swallowed. "She wished to see the gardens. We encountered Prince Loven and… the prince offered to take her to Aequira's Mirror—"
Sol did not wait for the explanation to finish. He was already moving. "Where is she?" he demanded over his shoulder, as his pace quickened.
"In her chambers, but—" Sol broke into a run. Westre and Calen followed.
The doors to Orielle's chambers stood ajar. Inside, chaos reigned.
Maids moved swiftly with basins of cool water. The scent of herbs thickened the air. A physician, red hair greying at the temples, spectacles slipping down his nose, leaned over the bed opening the queen's eyes to see her pupils clearly.
Orielle lay pale against white linens, her outer robes removed, damp hair clinging to her temples. Sweat beaded along her brow. Her breathing was uneven.
Prince Loven stood at the bedside, one hand tangled in his golden hair, distress written plainly across his face.
Sol crossed the room in three strides and seized Loven's shoulder, turning him sharply. "What happened?" His voice had lost all humor. "Why is she like this? Why were you with her?"
Loven slapped his hand away. "Oh, of course," he snapped, anger flaring to mask his guilt. "Blame me first. You're the one who dragged her across the sea."
He stepped forward, eyes flashing. "Do you even know what occurred, or have you already decided I'm at fault? Must be because I stole her from one of our strongest kingdom allies..."
He brushed past Sol. "Oh wait... that was you.She's your responsibility. You handle it." And he stormed out.
Sol stood rigid for a moment, jaw tightening. "I'll deal with him later," he muttered. He turned to the physician. "What's wrong with her?"
The physician adjusted his glasses. "A severe mana surge, it seems. We've placed mana emblems on her palms to draw off excess flow, but…my king"
"But?... But what?" Sol demanded.
A priest hurried in, bowing quickly. "Forgive me, my king. I came as soon as I heard." The physician exchanged a grave look with him.
"It doesn't align with recorded history," the priest said carefully. "The Mirror has never caused such a reaction. The prince reports the basin illuminated three times. Her guard confirmed it too."
Sol's brows drew together. "Three?"
The priest nodded. "The Mirror grants one vision per soul. For it to flare twice is rare already as it did for yo my king and the prince. But... Thrice… unheard of."
Sol's gaze darkened.
"Could she... be related to our own strange fate," he murmured. "Does that mean she saw three prophecies?" The priest hesitated. "It would appear so."
"And what does that mean?" Sol pressed.
The priest folded his hands. "Speculation only, my lord. The Mirror shows possible futures — mutable, cryptic. Perhaps she is… entwined in multiple threads of fate. That's why we assumed for the two of you as well my king."
The physician added quietly, "Or perhaps her body could not withstand what she witnessed."
Sol looked back at her. Pale. Looking too small in that bed. "Did anyone witness the prophecies?," he asked slowly. "If we could decipher..."
The priest inclined his head cautiously. "If there is double, it becomes undecipherable... Since it becomes too many images to work with for one lifetime. It is why we couldn't read your and your brother's prophecies either."
Before Sol could speak again, Orielle moaned.
Her body jerked weakly, tears slipping from the corners of her closed eyes. Her fingers twitched as though fleeing something unseen.
Sol moved instantly, taking her hand in his. "My queen," he said, forcing brightness into his tone. "Your king will be here shortly. Shouldn't you greet him with a smile, hmm?"
Her breathing hitched. He lowered his forehead to her knuckles, voice dropping.
"You were meant to enjoy today," he whispered. "After what I put you through, just bring you here." His grip tightened slightly. "Not suffer because of it."
The room felt smaller. The priest and Physician only watched their king worry with their own hearts troubled. "I am sorry," Sol breathed, no humor left. "Truly."
An attendant rushed into Orielle's chambers, bowing so low his forehead nearly brushed the floor.
"My king. Th-The King of Eldoria has arrived… and- an- and he is asking for his queen."The tremor in his voice betrayed the fear in his body.
Sol exhaled slowly. He placed Orielle's hand carefully back upon the sheets, ensuring the manaemblem rested properly against her palm. For a moment, he lingered there, watching her pale face, the faint tremor beneath her lashes. Then he straightened.
"Send word to my brother," he said evenly. "Tell him I do not blame him. I will speak with him later."
The attendant nodded and fled.
Sol strode into the corridor, his expression calm, but the ease he normally wore had thinned into something heavier.
Another servant hurried up beside him. "My lord, the King of Eldoria waits in the Spring Room."
Sol glanced sideways. "Does he know?"
"Not yet my lord... but, he's very agitated."
Sol huffed a dry laugh. "He's always agitated. Nothing new." Still, his steps slowed slightly as he approached the carved doors. He pushed them open.
Tirian stood by the wide window overlooking the cliffs, arms crossed, shoulders rigid. His sheathed sword rested on the central table, far enough to feel safe, if you didn't know Tirian.
Sol looked at the swords then at Tirian. "I suppose I should thank you," Sol said lightly, stepping inside, "for not greeting me with steel already drawn." His tone was half-humor, half-exhaustion.
Tirian turned. His gaze was not merely cold, it was lethal. Sol had seen that look on battlefields. It did not belong in a court chamber.
"I would prefer," Tirian said evenly, "to hear your explanation. And to leave this place on good terms." A pause. "With my wife." He sat, deliberately placing himself within arm's reach of his sword.
Sol moved opposite him, lowering himself into a chair. "I would prefer that outcome as well," Sol replied, his usual brightness dulled. "Though… if you had arrived a day or two later—"
The table cracked under Tirian's palm. The sound echoed. "Why," Tirian interrupted, voice tightening, "is Orielle not standing here?"
The air shifted.
"If you have harmed even a single—"
"No," Sol cut in sharply. "Of course not. We would never harm the Chosen One." A quieter murmur followed, almost to himself. "Not intentionally at least..."
Tirian's eyes narrowed.
Sol forced himself to remain still. "She has fallen ill," he continued. "Our physicians and priests are attending her as we speak."
Tirian's voice dropped. An eerie calm, that felt like the silence before a storm. "Ill." The single word carried more threat than a drawn blade. "That does not align with the assurance I requested."
A chill traced Sol's spine. This man truly does not know how to speak like a normal human, he thought irritably. Can he not just calm his threatening aura!
He rubbed a hand across his face. "If I told you my intentions were to save her," Sol said, leaning forward, elbows braced against his knees, "would that earn even a fragment of patience?"
Tirian leaned back, expression carved from stone. "Save her," he repeated. "From whom? From me? From the curse?" His eyes held steady. "Explain. I am listening."
You call that listening?Sol resisted the urge to grimace. Still, he began. He laid out the fractures in the Holy Circle's prophecy. The inconsistencies. The suspicion that Orielle's marriage had been engineered not for unity, but sacrifice. He explained Veridelle's prophecy, how it warned against those who named themselves holy.
He described the Mirror carefully. The mana surge. The physicians' confusion. He did not mention Loven's involvement. Nor his own failure to foresee the outcome.
As he spoke, Tirian did not interrupt. But the silence grew heavier with each word. When Sol finished, Tirian only rose to his feet He retrieved his sword from the table, fastening it at his side.
"You may keep your prophecy," Tirian said calmly. "I will keep mine."
Sol frowned slightly. "That is not what I-"
Tirian's jaw tightened. "I will not harm my wife." Each word was deliberate. "So if your concern was that I might become her executioner," he continued, eyes hardening, "you have nothing to fear. Even if the Holy Circle intended this union to end in blood… I will not be the one to spill hers."
He stepped toward the door. "I won't—ever—hurt her." At the threshold, he paused only long enough to ask an attendant, "Her chambers?"
"This way my lord..." The servant hurried to guide him.
Sol remained seated. The doors closed. He leaned back slowly, dragging both hands through his hair before letting them fall uselessly to his sides.
"They agree on that much at least…" he muttered to the empty room. A long exhale escaped him. "Gods above, how troublesome."