The morning light filtered softly through the heavy curtains of Orielle's chamber, pale gold streaks across the stone floor. Lyssia and Mirra slipped in quietly, their black mourning gowns replaced back to their simple short-sleeved tunics, better suited for the day's work. They halted at the sight before them.
Orielle was still fast asleep, sprawled on her stomach, silver hair tumbling over her pillow and down one side of the bed. Her face—peaceful, softened by dreams—still carried the faint shadows of the previous day's strain.
Mirra placed a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. "Just look at her, Lyssia," she whispered. "Out cold!"
Lyssia laughed "Well it was a rather draining day, and she danced with the king! If that doesn't drain a young woman's nerves, nothing will."
Poor thing, she thought, tugging the blanket off of Orielle's shoulder. Everything is new to her—new rituals, new eyes watching her, new expectations placed upon her, but she's been handling it with more grace than anyone could've expected.
"My lady," Lyssia whispered gently. "Three days until the wedding, we still have much to prepare."
Mirra nodded and opened the curtains, the room now bright from the morning sun. Orielle flinches at the sudden brightness then groans "My lady," she said loudly, "time to rise. The wedding's just around the corner, and there's so much to do—your gown fittings, the vows, the priests' rites—"
Orielle stirred with a sleepy hum, blinking up at them with bleary confusion. "Three days?" she murmured, rubbing her eyes. "Ahh... But we just finished the funeral, is it really so soon?" She stretched, winced and then laughed. "My legs ache… I must have stood the entire day."
Her drowsiness evaporated in an instant. She shot up, pushing herself to stand on her feet. "Oh!" Her hands fly to her face, a bit of embarrassment mixed with excitement "I danced with the king too! Was I terrible? Oh heavens, did I look alright? I've never danced something so… sophisticated."
Lyssia laughed, helping her towards the bathroom. "Dreadful? My lady, you were a vision. The court could not stop whispering about you and His Majesty."
Orielle's mouth parted slightly. "They were?"
"Oh yes," Lyssia said, eyes twinkling. "Even the king smiled."
Orielle froze. "He… smiled? At me? Truly?"
"That is what whispers claim."
A bright squeal slipped out of Orielle before she could stop it. She spun on her heels, humming the melody from the night before. On impulse, she grabbed Mirra's hands and broke into the Vyrnath, their skirts swishing as they twirled across the floor.
Mirra laughed, half-trying to keep up, then joining in with a light, lilting tune, her voice flowing like instruments rather than words. Orielle eagerly singing to Mirra's tune as they turned "He smiled, he smiled. The King! he smiled" Soon all three of them were moving and clapping in time, their laughter bouncing off the walls as they danced their way toward the bath.
The Frenzy
The next three days passed like a whirlwind. The Citadel felt more like a stirred hive than a palace—servants rushing through halls with bolts of silk draped over their arms, florists carrying crates of orange blossoms and white laurel, scribes hurrying back and fourth with stacks of parchment from the priests.
No one escaped the frenzy, least of all King Tirian.
In a chamber now half-filled with tailors' tools and half with maps and weapons, he stood stiff as a statue while a trembling seamstress pinned a silver-trimmed cloak to his shoulders. His white tunic was rumpled, his jaw set, irritation simmering behind controlled breaths. Knights came and went with questions regarding security. A steward approached with the latest feast revisions. A priest arrived to confirm the ceremonial order.
Tirian's patience stretched thin, his face never hid his irritation, but this time it felt more like a damn readying itself to burst.
"My lord," the seamstress whispered, holding out a white garment embroidered with soft gold threads. "If... if you would just... raise your arms…?"
Tirian inhaled slowly, visibly restraining himself. "Yes. Fine." He lifted his arms—rigidly. "How many of these do I have to keep trying on?"
She hurried to drape the garment over him, fingers fumbling as she tried to fasten the clasps, she looked up to answer but saw his expression. Do I have to... answer him? Gods... I too wish this went faster than it's taking my king, please... Don't, just be a little more patient.
Another attendant stepped forward with a parchment. "Your Majesty, the cooks request confirmation regarding the pheasant glaze for the first course of the wedding banquet—"
Tirian's eyelid twitched. "Pheasant glaze?"
"Yes, your Majesty, they were unsure if—"
"Does it matter?" Tirian said, voice clipped. "Whatever... You pick one."
The attendant blinked rapidly, swallowing. "O-of course."
The seamstress stepped back, studying him anxiously. "Your Majesty, could you please... ah... turn? For the hem—"
Tirian turned, jaw clenched.
A third attendant approached. "Your Majesty, the priests need your decision on which set of ceremonial rings to use—there are three options, and—"
Tirian exhaled through his nose. "Any of them."
"But they wished—"
"Then why aren't they choosing it themselves! If it was so important why leave it to me! I know nothing and couldn't care less about these details! or they could've sent it to Orie-" He cut himself off with a frustrated growl. Then wiped his temples for the forming headache.
Torvax, leaning against a table with crossed arms, lifted a brow. Haha, it's a bit of a pleasure to see how much he's trying. Truly. The man is unsuited for frills, and dress up. This is like his own slow torture. though I do feel bad for the rest taht have to deal with him... Should I help?
The seamstress, voice meek, said, "Now if you could just lift your chin, sire—just slightly—"
Tirian's chin rose a fraction, taking a deep breath
She attempted to pin the fabric. I can't reach properly... what I prick him, can I ask him to move... it further to the side...? "A bit to the side, if—"
His jaw flexed. "Here."
As she pinned it against his shoulders, she realised it wasn't done correctly... oh no... he moved to much when I was adjusting it... How can I ask him to... do anything again?
Nervously the seamstress moves in front of Tirian again. She starts tugging at the fabric hoping to pull it back into place. "You're majesty if you could lower your arm please-"
His nostrils flared. "How is playing dress up going to appease the gods? This is all unnecessary!"
The seamstress squeaked.
Torvax pinched the bridge of his nose. "My lord, we're almost done, this is the last fitting needed."
Tirian inhaled again. Held it.
Then—
A scribe burst into the room, frantic. "Excuse me Your Majesty! The priests urgently need—"
That was the final thread.
Tirian's head snapped toward them all. "ENOUGH!"
The word thundered against walls.
The room froze.
"Why," he growled, "must I wear so many different outfits for one wedding? Why must I be measured, pinned, wrapped, draped—like some decorative relic? I have an entire wardrobe of perfectly functional cloaks and tunics. Use those!"
His voice cracked like a whip, and the seamstress stumbled back, nearly tripping over her own tools.
Torvax stepped forward, trying to soothe. "My lord—this is the final fitting. Tradition requires—"
"I do not care for tradition!" Tirian snapped, tearing the white cloak from his shoulders. "You choose what I wear, Torvax. Anything. I do not give a damn."
He didn't wait for a reply. He stormed out, the heavy door slamming behind him like a falling boulder.
The seamstress sagged against the wall, hand trembling over her chest. "Gods above…" she whispered. "My clothes!" She drooped her shoulders "How will I do a fitting on the king now...?"
Torvax sighed but couldn't quite suppress a faint smile. "Pick the simplest white tunic, I'll send a knight of similar size to pin it on..." he told her. "And make it sturdy. He isn't gentle with clothes, as you can see."
Orielle's Preparations
While Tirian fled the Citadel in search of something—anything—less infuriating than wedding attire, Orielle faced her own whirlwind.
Her chamber had been transformed into a nest of satin, ribbons, jewelry boxes, and flower arrangements. The seamstress measured her for her gown, a flowing creation of silver and white that shimmered more beautifully on her than any other. Lyssia and Mirra hovered nearby, offering endless encouragement.
"It's breathtaking," Mirra said, eyes shining. "You look like a fae queen!"
Orielle smiled wearily. "I only hope I don't trip during the Rite of Union. The priest said all eyes will be on us. Oh Lyssia… what if I make a fool of myself?"
Lyssia shook her head. "You'll be perfect. No one will be able to see anything other than your beauty even if you do fall" she laughed. The Rite is sacred—a public binding to the king, to Eldoria, and to the gods. Afterward comes the cleansing baths, then the wedding chambers. All symbols of harmony towards the position of the King and Queen.
"And... You'll get to see the baths" Mirra added excitedly.
Orielle considered this, trying to still her fluttering nerves. "The baths… what are they like?"
Mirra beamed. "Oh! They're fed by the hot springs—warm and steamy, blessed with sage and rosemary. I've never been inside, but I heard from a maid it looks like something out of a dream, golden lanterns, marble statues, water glowing like amber. Oh, my lady, imagine it!"
Orielle's delight was instant. "That does sound quite amazing. I could tell you about it afterwards Mirra?"
Mirra squealed, spinning in place. "Truly? Oh thank you, my lady! You are the best lady anyone could ever hope to serve!"
Lyssia simply shook her head, though a smile tugged at her lips. Mirra's hopeless, romantic heart will never settle, she thought. She acts more like a young girl than a court servant, but perhaps that is what makes her refreshing.
Their laughter filled the chamber, bright and unrestrained, echoing down the corridor.
The King's Escape
Far from the laughter and preparations, Tirian galloped across the hills beyond the palace walls, his sword strapped to his side, his cloak snapping behind him. He had hoped to find a beast—anything—to kill, to carve away his irritation with steel instead of ceremony.
But the land was quiet.
Too quiet.
He slowed his horse, scanning the terrain. Nothing. No monsters. No beasts. Not even a wild boar.
"You must be joking," he muttered under his breath.
He rode another mile.
Nothing.
He saw not even a track.
"Of all the cursed days…" Tirian growled, dismounting and pacing. "Every time I wish for peace, creatures swarm. But when I have need of them, when I require distraction, Nothing!"
He ran a hand through his hair, muttering curses under his breath. The responsibilities pressed on him heavy—the prophecy, the wedding, the scrutiny of the people. Father... was this what you had to go through? How did you endure... He said quietly to himself.
All he wanted was anything, someone to answer him, whether it was beast ready to be killed or peace if this was the right path that he was on.
But the hills remained still.
Mockingly still.
Tirian exhaled heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"I am getting married," he muttered. "And I am being hunted by tailors instead of monsters." an exasperated laugh escaping him.
He mounted his horse again and wheeled it around, riding back toward the Palace.
As the Citadel's spires came into view—
He knew there would be more fittings. More questions. More expectations.
He let out a long, pained groan.
"Gods… just let the wedding come quickly."