Orielle stood in the corridor outside her chamber, her hands fumbling with the heavy woollen palla draped over her shoulders. The fabric, thick and cumbersome, trailed down her arms like a winter cloak, wholly unsuited for the warm night air that drifted through the palace halls. Her fingers worked the edge of it anxiously, folding and unfolding a corner.
Mirra watched her with a curious tilt of the head. "My lady," she said gently, "why the palla? It's warm tonight."
Orielle gave a soft, embarrassed laugh. "To hide my nerves," she whispered. "I don't know what he wants to say, and… well… I'd rather not shake like a leaf in front of him."
Mirra's lips softened into a sympathetic smile, but her thoughts tangled with concern. She shouldn't be feeling this nervous, she thought. he's really not helped his standing with her being so cold and indifferent. Still, she kept her voice soothing. "You'll be fine, my lady. You look lovely—nerves or not."
A knight approached, offering a polite bow. "Lady Orielle, The king awaits you."
And so the escort began.
The west wing of the palace stretch seemed longer and more shadowed than she remembered, its high ceilings echoing with each step they took. Torches flickered along the stone walls, their flames casting warm pools of light that danced across the floor. At the end of the hall rose the heavy iron-bound door of the King's chambers, tall and imposing, carved with the Bordhein crest.
Inside, King Tirian stood at the window overlooking the darkened courtyard below. He had shed his armor, now wearing a loose black shirt and trousers that revealed more of him than the steel ever had: the breadth of his shoulders, the power in his arms, the sharp lines of a man forged for battle. The moment should have made him appear more human—yet somehow, he looked even more formidable.
His thoughts churned with a mixture of irritation and amused disbelief. Worried for me? he scoffed inwardly. How weak does she think I am—to die on some minor raid? The idea was absurd. The kingdom whispered about his strength with reverence bordering on fear. That she of all people would fret over his safety bewildered him. She's the fragile one—fretting and crying over nothing.
A knock broke through his thoughts.
"Enter," he said.
A maid stepped in and bowed deeply. "As you requested, my lord—Lady Orielle is here."
Orielle stepped forward, the oversized palla engulfing her small frame. Beneath it, the hem of her blue stola swayed delicately. But with the shawl wrapped around her like a protective cocoon, she resembled a festival doll stuffed too full.
Tirian's brow lifted. "Are you… cold?" he asked, tone flat, expression unreadable.
Orielle blinked, startled, then glanced self-consciously at the garment swallowing her frame. "Ah—n-no, my lord," she said with a lilt. "I just… brought it in case I get cold."
He looked confused but brushed it off then gestured to a carved wooden chair near the fire.
She moved stiffly, sitting with both hands clutching the shawl as if it were vital armor. Her eyes lowered to her lap, her earlier anger from the staircase completely buried beneath nerves. The silence between them thickened in the air like fog.
Is she waiting for me to start?Tirian wondered, faintly amused. Fine. Let's get this over with.
He leaned forward slightly. "I was told you were... worried…?"
Orielle looked up, mortification washing across her features, but she said nothing.
"There's no need," he continued, his voice matter-of-fact. "I'm not that weak for someone like you to show any concern."
Her reaction was immediate.
A half laugh escaped her—half offended, half disbelieving. Her eyes flashed, her shoulders straightening. Her voice, when it emerged, carried the sharp snap of a whip.
"And why, my lord," she demanded, "can't someone like me care?"
She stood in one swift, bold motion. The palla slid from her shoulder, revealing a spark of fire so fierce it stunned the room into stillness.
Tirian stared at her, startled. What—? Then clearing his throat.
"Well," he said, trying to recover, "you've obviously never seen me on the battlefield. I'm not someone who—"
Orielle stepped closer, close enough that he saw the flecks of gold in her green eyes.
"Look here Mister King," she said—bold, unyielding, utterly unafraid. "I don't care who you are on the battlefield. You're my husband, so naturally I'm going to care about you! Even if you're the strongest man in this kingdom—no, in all kingdoms! Danger still exists. And is it not good that I care? Should I treat you like a cursed guard dog kept at arm's length, good only for protecting me?" Her voice rose, trembling but sure. "I'm not—"
A loud clatter tore through the chamber.
A servant at the far wall had dropped a tray.
The room froze. The attendants' thoughts erupted in panic.
She's scolding the King! one maid thought, her eyes wide. Gods, no one's ever dared raise their voice to him like that! Another servant, clutching a pitcher, thought, She's either fearless or mad— he'll have her head for this!
Tirian remained immobile. Hah, what is this? Mister... King? he thought, flabbergasted, his usual steel replaced by a strange mix of awe and confusion.
She's scolding me. Me. His pulse quickened—shock, disbelief, and something warmer, sharper, almost exhilarating.
Not fear. Not anger. Something far more alarming. Excitement.
Orielle's expression swiftly shifted as realization dawned on her. Her anger faltered into horror. She stared at him, lips parted then pressed tightly together.
A small laugh escaped him—quiet, incredulous. She'll apologize now, he thought. Pity… that was... fun.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, gripping her palla. "I meant future husband, not husband. Not that—" She turned around gripping her pall tightly, retreating back to her chair like a scolded child. "I didn't mean to say that..."
Tirian blinked.
Then laughter burst from him—rich, unrestrained, echoing through the stone room.
"Future husband?" he repeated, incredulous, delighted.
Orielle's cheeks reddened further. "We're not married yet, so I shouldn't have said 'husband' when we have not… become wed yet so..."
That only made him laugh harder. She apologizes for that? Not the shouting? Clueless. Bold. She quite funny.
"You may call me your husband," he said, still chuckling. "That is not the problem right now."
He waved a hand toward the servants. "All of you may leave now."
The attendants fled gratefully, whispering frantic prayers.
Once they were gone, Tirian leaned toward her, a mischievous glint in his eye.
"So," he drawled, "you care for me, do you? Enough to scold a king in his own chambers?" His tone low and teasing. He leaned forward, his eyes glinting with curiosity. "Tell me, what else does 'someone like you' think of me?"
Orielle huffed, adjusting her palla with dignity. "I think you are… difficult," she said. "You're strong, and everyone fears you, but you don't see how your words hurt. Like at breakfast with... with the fallen knights! I know now you didn't mean to blame me, but it felt like you did. And then you left without saying anything and I…"She swallowed, voice trembling faintly but resolute. "I was scared you wouldn't come back."
Tirian straightened, the teasing fading.
She's calling me out again, he thought, a strange warmth stirring in his chest. Not with anger this time, but with… honesty.
He found himself listening. Actually listening.
"I don't want a relationship where we don't talk," she continued quietly. "My father married someone he loved. And I… I always hoped I would too. Since that was taken from me, the least I can hope is that… you would try. To care. Like in a real marriage."
The words fell gently, yet struck with the force of a hammer.
Tirian exhaled slowly.
"You're bolder than I thought," he said, voice lower now. "Most would sooner face my blade than try to question me." His gaze softened. "You're not what I expected."
Orielle tilted her head. "And what did you expect, my lord?"
He smirked. "Someone who would cower. Or scheme. Or know when to keep silent, Instead I get a fragile flower, surprisingly, with many thorns." He laughed to himself.
Orielle laughed lightly. "I've never been called dangerous before."
He looked at her in a way that made her cheeks warm.
The fire crackled softly between them.
"I'm glad you returned safely," she murmured. "Even if you think it silly."
"Silly," he echoed, amused. "Yes. But… I'll allow it..."
Her smile broadened, soft and bright.
She gathered her thoughts. "Tomorrow is the funeral… most of the rites are arranged, but a few things were too complicated, so I left them for you."
He nodded. "Thank you. I'll look over it all tonight with Groves."
Silence stretched—gentle, peaceful this time.
He cleared his throat. "Your father will arrive tomorrow. Everything will be fine. Just… don't wander off without your knights. And…" His lips curved into a teasing smile. "Try not to scold me in front of the court, hmm?"
Orielle smiled looking down. "I'll try, my lord," she said, laughing softly at herself.