The soft sound of the hills echoed faintly, no longer clear and crisp, but thickened, muffled by the mud that now clung to them.
The soiled marks stained the once-pristine, polished floor, trailing behind the hem of her wet gown like a reluctant shadow.
Oriana's hands moved to the cold rail as she climbed the stairs, the place that once brought light to her heart now feeling hollow and dead.
Her eyes stared straight ahead into the blankness, unmoving. The hallway was warm, the smell of sweet scented candle better than the chill of the outside that had seeped into her bones—but, for some unknown reason, that coldness was what she seemed to crave. Was it the bitterness it brought?
She finally reached the upstairs corridor. As she walked toward the large door, the castle seemed immense, the candlelight flickering softly.
Silence stretched unbearably around her, excruciating in its stillness. She did not like it, yet she could not help the shiver that ran through her.
Her hands moved almost unconsciously, slowly removing her gloves. One slid from her fingers, falling to the hallway floor. The other followed. She lifted her veil; it too slipped down, leaving a soft, silent mark of her presence on the polished tiles.
She finally stopped in front of the large door. Her fingers brushed the knob but missed it, her movements sluggish, as if weighed by some unseen force. Her teeth clenched, her body trembling, until she pushed the door open.
The air that greeted her made her shudder; her legs had carried her into her brother's room, not her own. She entered slowly, dragging one heel along the floor until it too came free, leaving her standing on a single shoe.
The door shut behind her, pressing her back against its solid wood. Moonlight spilled through the slightly parted curtain, the only light in the room.
Candles remained unlit—this was the dead king's room. Her only brother. The weight of their last quarrel pressed heavily on her chest.
Her eyes trailed around the room. The bed and table were covered with dusty sheets; the smell of soap and clean wood surrounded the room—a testament to the cleaning the maids had done.
She sank to the floor, her body pressing against the cold tiles, her hands splaying for support. Her chest tightened as tears began to roll down her cheeks, unstoppable. Sobs echoed through the stillness, her body trembling as she wept, hands clawing into the tiles for some grounding in the silence.
"Q… Quade… why do… why… do you have to…" Her voice cracked, words strangled by grief. She bit her lips hard, drawing a thin line of blood that mixed with the cherry lipstick she still wore. "Why leave me in this miserable world, you foolish idiot?" she sobbed.
A soft, painful laughter escaped her as she lay on the cold floor, unconcerned if she would catch a chill.
The sound echoed through the room like a mournful chant, a rhythm that seemed to rise from some hidden corner of her mind.
Perhaps this was the beginning of the madness they wrote about in the books she had read. Perhaps she was destined to become the first queen in the history of Gantrem to run mad.
"Congratulations, Oriana… you're officially mad," she whispered to herself, her head shaking slowly, eyes staring blankly into the thin, empty air, as if the world itself had vanished around her.
Her shoulders shook as another mocking laugh tore from her lips—cracked, ragged, yet desperate. It was as if the laughter itself might help her reclaim some composure, lift the heavy lump from her throat, and fill the emptiness gnawing at her heart. Her head bumped against the ground.
But then.
The air grew suffocating.
Her body froze immediately as warm fingers trailed lightly across her neck, long and deliberate, bringing the faintest comfort to her trembling frame.
Her heart raced, her sobs catching in her throat, and for a fleeting moment, silence overtook her grief. Her fingers twitched involuntarily.
"You'll catch a cold," a dry, cold voice echoed through the room, carrying a displeasure that painted itself across the space as he pulled away, standing straight. Oriana slowly turned her head, and there he was.
Icarus.
His black hair fell slightly disheveled to his shoulders, some strands brushing his face, yet he did not move them aside.
His steel-grey eyes pierced through the strands, locking onto her. Hands in his pockets, he wore a white shirt with rolled-up sleeves that revealed the sculpted veins of his forearms—the shirt itself could not hide the perfection of his form, the very epitome of sublimity.
His aura radiated cold authority, intimidating, untouchable. His Adam's apple bobbed as he removed his hands from his pockets, eyes fixed unwaveringly on Oriana, whose gaze returned his, though her mind seemed far away.
The silence between them was deafening.
Finally, Oriana moved. She rose slowly, a fragile, small smile curving her tear-streaked lips, though her lashes fluttered as she closed her eyes briefly before opening them again. Her green eyes deepened with fury, glinting like emerald blades.
"Icarus… not even a condolence?"
Their eyes locked. Anger and pain danced across her face. She moved, fists striking his chest with desperate force, tears trailing down as she gripped his shirt, hitting him again and again.
The sound of her punches echoed through the room, yet he remained still, indifferent, unmoving—allowing her to vent every ounce of grief she carried as she sobbed.
Finally, she took a slow step toward him as she pressed her head to his chest, shoulders shaking, one hand gripping his shirt, the other moving to his bare arm.
Her pinky nails dug into his skin, scraping lightly, drawing a thin line of red. She pulled away, unaware that a drop of blood now marred his shirt; slowly, the line she had caused rolled down his arm to the floor to meet a lone tear that had fallen moments before.
"Y… you heartless man… not even a condolence," she whispered, brokenly, teeth gnashing together.
Icarus's eyes were unreadable. He bent to reach her height and leaned closer, his breath brushing her face, making her knees weak and her chest heave as he spoke emotionlessly.
"Is that what you truly crave?" She tried to strike him again, but exhaustion and sorrow made her falter.
He caught her just in time. Cradling her in his arms, his gaze flickered to her tear-streaked face, strands of hair clinging to her cheeks, before he looked away. He stepped through the hallway and closed the door, his eyes briefly lingering on the fallen glove and veil.
Why was the soon-to-be queen with a man? No one in the palace knew of this. Because this man she clung to, the one she saw every night…
Was already dead.