The morning sky hung heavy with grey clouds, casting a sombre pall over the Palace as the funeral rites began. Dawn's pale light filtered through the high windows of the great hall, illuminating rows of mourners clad in black. The air was thick with the scent of amaranth, cypress, and slow-burning incense—an ancient blend meant to guide the fallen to the Helm, the sacred realm of peace and reunion.
Orielle stood beside King Tirian at the head of the hall, her dark stola simple yet elegant, embroidered with white thread that caught the flicker of the torches. Her silver hair, woven into a tight braid with a single black ribbon threaded through it, rested neatly across her shoulder.
Tirian, in a black tunic and pulla, stood tall, unwavering, his profile carved with solemn resolve. His eyes swept the crowd, when he glanced at Orielle beside him, he was struck by how still she stood—poised, composed, her expression calm. She did not crumble under the weight of being watched by an entire court.
More than I expected from a village girl… Does she go quiet when she's nervous? he wondered.
The Last Mourning began, led by priests draped in heavy, dark paenula cloaks. Their chants rose and fell like distant waves, their voices weaving prayers meant to carry the spirits of the dead to their rest. The low hum of ceremonial bells echoed through the hall.
Attendants, knights, and grieving families formed long rows, heads bowed as each name was spoken.
"Sir Ronan of the Western Watch," the lead priest intoned.
Orielle stepped forward when it was her turn to speak. She pressed her clasped hands together, steadying her breath.
"I did not have long to know the knights," she began, her voice soft yet carrying. "But in the short time I did, they showed a loyalty I will remember for the rest of my days. They protected me—a stranger—and did so without hesitation. I will never forget their courage, nor the kindness that guided it."
A murmur of respect passed through those nearby. Her words, simple yet sincere, settled deeply even in the hearts of those who had doubted her.
Tirian's gaze lingered on her profile.
Everyone's already for her?… Just... like that?
The morning stretched on in reverent quiet. The chanting, the scent of incense, and the hush of grief-filled whispers blended into a solemn embrace of remembrance.
As midday approached, the men prepared for the hunt—a long-standing tradition meant to offer a bounty for the evening's feast. Tirian and his knights departed through the west gate, their hunting gear gleaming in the muted light.
Orielle watched them go, a brief flutter of worry stirring on her face before she buried it with a steady breath.
When the men vanished into the trees, the women gathered in the courtyard. Orielle followed Lyssia and Mirra into the shaded colonnade where baskets of bread, woven blankets, and purses of coin had been arranged for the grieving families.
Her steps slowed as she approached a young widow kneeling beside her two small children. The woman's hands trembled as she tried to keep them still.
Orielle knelt before her, lifting a soft woollen blanket and placing it gently into her palms.
"I am so sorry for your loss," Orielle said quietly. "Please… take this. The evening wind will be cold."
The widow's eyes glistened.
"Thank you, my lady," she whispered. So kind… and she came herself? A bride so gentle—may the blessings fall on her despite the king's curse…
Orielle offered a faint, reassuring smile before moving to the next family.
Lyssia watched her with a swelling heart. She's a natural queen, she thought. We've not had a woman of warmth or influence in these halls for years. Everyone feels it. Now only the king must see it…
By evening, the sky had darkened with drifting clouds and a chill breeze. The men returned triumphant, carrying deer and wild boar strung on poles. The great outer garden—Eldoria's lavish peristyle—had been transformed for the feast.
Cushioned masonry couches lined the stone walkways. Fountains glimmered in the firelight. The scent of roasting meat mingled with the sweetness of crushed citrus leaves underfoot. Musicians plucked at lutes and harps, weaving melodies that softened the sorrow of the day into something gentler.
It was then Orielle saw him.
Her father. Ulric, a humble farmer in Uriah.
Thin but strong, silver streaks bright against his dark hair and weather-worn skin. He stepped into the garden under guard, his eyes searching—
"Father!" Orielle cried, her voice breaking with joy. She ran to him, her stola trailing behind her. She fell into his arms, clutching him tightly.
"My angel," he murmured, his voice rough with emotion. "You're safe. I was so worried."
He held her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away stray tears. Why did it have to be her? Why my angel? Why chosen for this cursed burden…?
Orielle guided him to an empty couch, the two of them speaking in hushed tones—stories of home, of the village, of the days since they had last seen one another.
From the head table, Tirian watched.
She can smile like that? Her joy seemed to radiate warmth into the cool night air. Does it make her that happy to see her family? I was never…
He cut the thought off sharply, setting his jaw.
But a flicker—small, unwelcome, insistent—still stirred.
Does she not realise everyone is watching her?
Night fully descended, and the mood shifted.
The Vyrnath began.
A dance older than Eldoria itself—slow, graceful arcs around the bonfire, meant to honor the fallen while celebrating the living. Couples circled, hands brushing, steps interlacing like threads of one great woven tapestry.
Orielle watched, her chest tightening with longing. The firelight painted her silver hair gold at the edges. She glanced at Tirian—who sat beside her, his expression unreadable.
He felt her gaze.
What now...? Why is she looking at me like that?
"If you want something from me," he said dryly, "you will need to use your words, not those piercing eyes."
Heat rushed to her cheeks.
Gathering her courage, she rose. "Can you… teach me the dance, my lord?"
Tirian's first instinct was refusal. Another tedious tradition… I've never enjoyed these things.
But Torvax, standing behind Orielle, gave a pointed shake of the head.
Tirian exhaled sharply.
What a nuisance.
He stood.
He walked.
He expected her to follow.
She didn't.
He turned, brow raised. "Are you going to come, or what?"
Orielle blinked—then her entire face lit with delight. She hurried after him, grabbing his hand without thinking.
The touch startled him—hot, small, eager.
The music faltered as the King stepped into the firelight. Dancers stilled, the garden holding its breath.
Tirian's voice boomed, a hint of annoyance. "It's a celebration. Keep playing!"
The lutes resumed.
Slowly, the Vyrnath continued.
Tirian pulled Orielle closer, adjusting her stance. Her right hand lifted to his, palm to palm. He gently took her left hand and moved behind her back.
"Watch the other women," he murmured. "Right foot first. Then left. Turn with me. It's a circle—like life. If you forget your step, you lose the next one."
Orielle nodded earnestly.
She stepped.
Then stumbled.
He steadied her with a firm hand at her elbow. "Focus," he said, but there was unmistakable amusement threading through the word. Letting a small smile play at his lips.
She laughed—a bright, soft sound that drew glances.
She's dancing with him, one knight's wife thought, wide-eyed. And the king—he's smiling.
Torvax smirked from the sidelines. Tirian dancing. Ha, didn't know I'd live to see the day... I'm surprised he even listened to me.
Orielle found her rhythm quickly. "It's beautiful," she said, breathless. "Like we're sending them off with joy… not only sorrow."
Tirian's gaze softened as they turned. I never thought of it as beautiful before… But there is some pleasure in it... At least, it's not too annoying.
"I guess it is," he said quietly. "We mourn, yes. But we live. That is Eldoria's way."
Later That Night
The dance ended, but neither of them stepped away immediately. The fire crackled gently, casting shifting shadows across their faces. The music softened to a lull—a gentle hum beneath the stars.
Tirian released her hand last.
Orielle tucked a loose strand of silver hair behind her ear. "Thank you," she said earnestly. "For teaching me, I enjoyed it so much! It's nothing like the dancing we did back in Uriah."
He huffed a low breath. "You're fortunate you didn't step on my foot."
She grinned. "I nearly did." She swished her dress while still humming softly to herself.
Tirian watched her in silence, as though searching her face for an answer she hadn't spoken aloud—waiting for some movement, some flicker he could read.
Orielle finally looked up. Her smile bloomed bright and earnest the moment their eyes met."You dance well," she said softly, pleased.
He huffed—a faint, dismissive scoff—and turned his gaze forward, heat creeping beneath his collar."I fight," he muttered. "That's all."
"But you guided me," she replied, gentle but certain. "Honestly, I expected you'd teach me swordplay long before you'd teach me how to dance."
He paused.
His eyes drifted back to hers and lingered… longer than he intened.
He cleared his throat. "I could teach you that, too. If you wished it. But it requires strength—and commitment. You'd need to train hard before I'd even let you hold a sw—"
Orielle burst into laughter, bright and sudden. "No thank you! I'm not fond of violence. I'd rather not wield any weapons at all."
Tirian nodded, slow and thoughtful. "You may need to protect yourself one day."
She turned toward him sharply, worry tightening her expression.
He continued, voice quieter but firm."It's better to know how to fight and choose not to… than to be forced to fight and not know how."
Orielle bit her lip."I… I see…"
And quiet followed.
Around them, the feast waned. Torches sputtered low. Families with small children departed. The musicians packed away their instruments. The last of the wine was poured, the last scraps of roasted meat lifted from the platters.
A rare hush settled over the garden, following their own silence.
Tirian exhaled. "You handled the day well." His voice was matter-of-fact, but the acknowledgement was purposefully given.
"Thank you, my lord," she said, dipping her head.
Orielle now quiet again, looking down, a solemn air about her.
As they reached the entrance of the archway Orielle turned to Tirian, "If I may my Lord, I'm rather tired and wish to turn in for the night."
Tirian nodded "Yes, it's been a long day, I'll see you tomorrow"
Orielle smiled to herself dipping into a small, graceful curtsey. "Goodnight, my lord."
Tirian studied her, her braid brushed by the cold wind, her eyes warm despite the long, heavy day.
"Goodnight," he said, his voice lower than before.
As she walked away, he found his gaze drawn after her, following until she vanished beyond the garden archway. She's becoming more like a queen with every passing day…
Tirian exhaled, rubbing a hand over his face as if he could wipe away the weight of the long, tiresome day.
"Now… the wedding," he muttered to himself.