The west wing of the palace had always been known for its stillness. Warm lamplight poured over pale marble floors, and the air, heavy with the scent of polished marble and herbs, carried the faint hum of peace. Tonight, though, that stillness felt new — a fragile, hopeful thing, as if the walls themselves were daring to rest.
Steam rose in soft whorls from the copper bath where Orielle sat, her hair trailing like liquid silver across the surface. Lavender and chamomile mingled in the air, and every breath felt like a balm after the long hours of fear and dirt and travel.
Lyssia and Mirra moved about the room with renewed ease, their steps light now that they've grown to love the maiden already. Lyssia, poured another jug of warm water into the tub. "There now, my lady," she said, smiling faintly. "The worst of the road's behind you." She started combing her hair gently removing all knots and dirt stuck in it's waves.
Mirra grinned, her freckled face bright with curiosity as she handed over a soft sponge. "My lady," she said, unable to contain herself, "could you tell us a bit about where you're from? What's it like, outside the citadel? We've never been beyond the gates, so all we hear are stories — fields and rivers, wild hills… it all sounds like an adventure."
Orielle's laughter came happily, light and genuine. She leaned back against the tub's rim, her eyes reflecting the candlelight. "Oh, it truly can be an adventure," she said, the words lilting with affection. "But also peaceful — the kind that makes you breathe slower. There are always problems to solve each season — crops, weather, lost cattle — but then there are days when the world feels still. You just listen to the wind in the trees and know everything is as it should be."
Lyssia smiled softly at that, though Mirra, ever eager, leaned in closer, her chin on her hands. "And your family, my lady? Do they still live there?"
"I've lived with my father my whole life," Orielle said. Her tone stayed bright, though a faint tremor lingered beneath. "I don't remember my mother — Father said she passed when I was still a baby. But he's always looked after me. He's a worrier," she added with a playful smile. "If I scraped my knee, he'd carry on as though I'd broken my leg. And when I came home late from the grove — oh, the lectures I'd get! But he means well. He… doesn't know I left yet... He was on a trip when the priests came to get me, so he'll come to an empty house when he returns..."
Her words trailed off. The bath's surface rippled as she touched it gently, her smile dimming into silence.
Mirra's heart ached at the sight. She busied herself with gathering towels, blinking rapidly. Lyssia, however, felt a sharp pinch of protectiveness rise within her chest. She didn't even get to say farewell?, she thought. Could the priest not as least have sent word to her father before taking her?
After a quiet moment, Orielle lifted her head again, a smile returning to her lips. "Do you think…" she began, hesitating. "Do you think If I ask the king — if he would allow me to see my father again? Just once, to tell him I'm well?"
Lyssia froze. The question, so innocently spoken, struck her like a stone. Her expression faltered, replaced by a flash of sorrow. Oh, sweet girl, she thought. You don't even realize how impossible that might be. And yet… she couldn't bring herself to extinguish the light in those hopeful eyes.
"My lady," she said at last, her voice steady though her heart ached, "our king… he is careful, cautious. He does not grant requests lightly, especially those that involve the safety of the palace. But…" She glanced at Mirra, who had turned away, her shoulders trembling with quiet emotion. Gods, that girl cries over everything, Lyssia scolded silently — though her own throat burned with the same feeling. "But perhaps," she added gently, "if you explain to him, he may show kindness. I've seen him do so before."
"Truly?" Orielle's eyes brightened instantly, her smile chasing away the shadows. "Wouldn't it be lovely? I bet my father's never seen a castle like this. Oh, he'd be shocked to see me living in such a grand place! Maybe that will help him forgive me for not saying goodbye." She giggled softly, sinking deeper into the scented water with a sigh. "Yes, I'll ask him tomorrow. It's worth a try, isn't it?"
Mirra laughed wetly, wiping her eyes with her sleeve. "It is, my lady. It surely is."
Lyssia only nodded, her lips curved into a faint smile. Yes, perhaps the king might grant the maiden her wish. How could anyone resist!
*****
The dungeon's gates slammed shut behind KingTirian.
The clang reverberated down the corridor. He stood for a moment in the dark passage, deep in thought. His shirt was streaked scarlet, soaked with blood, streaked with sweat and flecks of flesh.
Torvax followed behind, his face a mask of rigid discipline — though his thoughts betrayed him. He said we'd rest. He promised he'd leave them to dream. His jaw clenched as he looked at the streaks of red drying along the stone wall. But that fool had to mention his brother. Gods, Tirian doesn't forgive words like that. I had to leave thanks to that foolish man practically begging for another round. Couldn't stomach it...
A door creaked open, and the young knight Tobin stepped out from the adjoining cell corridor. He was pale, barely holding his composure as he saluted. Gods, I've failed himTobin thought, his heart pounding like a war drum. One simple task— watch the prisoners, make them talk and I've botched it. He'll have my head for this, or worse, he'll put me through what the one prisoner had to go through... His voice wavered. "My lord, the prisoner… he bit his tongue, lost too much blood. We noticed too late— we're trying to save him, but it's uncertain if he'll survive to speak."
Tirian didn't respond at once. He watched Tobin — young, trembling, a fearful fellow, and dabbed his bloodied hands with a rag. "And the other?" he asked calmly.
Tobin flinched, his stomach knotting as he braced for the worst. "Mad, my lord. Rambling nonsense. No one can make sense of his words..."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Then Tirian stepped forward, holding out the rag. "You did well to tell me the truth," he said, his tone calm, almost kind. The words landed like mercy, though the weight of them made Tobin's heart race faster. "It's a pity they've become useless though."
Tobin's knees nearly gave out when Tirian's hand came down upon his shoulder — not in punishment, but in a slow, measured pat. It was the gesture of a commander to a soldier, and yet it chilled him more than rage ever could.
"Thankfully, I already got what I needed," Tirian added softly.
He did?Tobin's mind spun. From that one man? But he said the others were just for example… Did he— did he trick him? The realization hit him like a blow. Did he lie to that man, broke his hope before his body… Gods, that's crueler than death. He swallowed, fear and admiration warring within him. No— it's brilliant. Terribly brilliant. The king is—amazing "Y-yes, my lord," he managed, bowing deeply.
Tirian turned away, his boots echoing as he began the long ascent from the dungeons. Torvax followed silently, still haunted by the wet sounds of the torture chamber. The king's voice came at last, low and even. "The man knew little. As I thought, they serve Kharis. Their orders were not to kill the girl, but to take her. Their knowledge was shallow. They gave me a location, though, a base on the edges of Varakor, near the Hollowed Woods."
Torvax frowned. "Could be a trap."
"Most likely," Tirian agreed. "If they'd kill themselves rather than fail, setting a snare would be no stretch. Still, it's a lead. We'll confirm it before they realize their men were caught and not killed."
Torvax bowed. "I'll prepare the scouts."
As his footsteps faded, Tirian gestured for a servant waiting at the corridor's mouth. "Have a bath drawn in my chambers," he said quietly. The servant nodded and ran. Tirian continued on, alone.
*****
Blood clung to Tirian — streaked along his neck, drying in the folds of his sleeves. Wiping off pieces of flesh as he walked the door to the west wing
The marble floor gleamed beneath his boots, and faintly — faintly — he caught the trace of lavender. It struck him as almost absurd.
Then he saw her.
She stood framed in the doorway of her chamber, the candlelight behind her. Her gown was pale blue, flowing like a stream, her silver hair loose down her back. Her eyes — green, bright, unflinching — met his directly, more shy than scared.
For a long moment, neither moved. The torches hissed quietly between them.
Tirian's first thought was not of recognition or anger — but surprise. Few dared look at him so openly. Even his knights bowed their heads before speaking. But this girl, this fragile creature, looked at him as though he were merely a man returning from a long walk.
Her lips curved into a small, polite smile. She bowed — gracefully, though unrefined, the way one might curtsy before a village lord rather than a king.
Tirian's brow lifted faintly. The blood on his sleeve gleamed dark against the soft light. "Was there something you needed…?"