Another week passed in Veridelle.
Inside his private study, Sol paced restlessly across the polished floor, a parchment clutched tightly in his hand. His usual carefree demeanor had vanished, replaced by a quiet, gnawing tension.
Several of his high officials stood nearby, including Archon Westre, though none dared interrupt the king's thoughts.
Sol's spies had uncovered something deeply troubling. A mole within Eldoria no one suspected would ever be one. Someone Tirian trusted more than anyone, even Sol knew this.
He won't believe me,Sol thought grimly, his stomach tightening. This person is too close to him.
Yet the evidence was undeniable. His network had gathered it carefully, verifying every detail twice. Still… the truth felt like a blade he would be forced to drive into his friend's back.
Sol sighed heavily. Only minutes earlier he had sent one of his officials to summon Tirian. Now, as the seconds stretched into painful silence, he found himself dreading the moment his friend walked through the door.
He glanced toward Westre, his expression strained. If it were you, Westre… If someone told me you had betrayed me… would I believe them?
Sol ran a hand through his hair and leaned forward over his desk, gripping its edge with both hands while the parchment crinkled between his fingers.
Then—
A knock.
Before anyone could answer, the door opened. Tirian stepped inside. His expression was neutral, though irritation flickered in his eyes as he approached.
"You know," Tirian said coolly, "I don't enjoy being summoned at your whim every time." He crossed the room slowly. "So I hope this time, it's actually important."
Sol turned toward him.
The seriousness in his expression was not what Tirian expected. His irritation faded slightly.
Sol walked forward and held out the parchment. Tirian took it. "What's this?" he asked, his voice steady.
Sol's tone was careful. "My spies discovered something."
A pause.
"…Something worse than we expected."
Tirian frowned and began scanning the parchment. Sol continued quietly. "There appear to be several minor moles in Eldoria… but one stands out." He swallowed. "Suspicious meetings with Varakor soldiers. Forged correspondence. Movements that don't align with official orders."
Tirian's eyes moved down the page. Slowly. Then the color drained from his face.
Sol stepped closer, seeing the shift immediately. "I'm sorry, Ty… it—"
"No." The word came out weak. Almost broken. Tirian suddenly shoved the parchment hard against Sol's chest, nearly knocking him off balance. "This is trickery, Sol!" he snapped. His voice cracked with fury. "If you're playing some kind of game... there's no way he's the spy! He would never betray me!"
His fists tightened, crumpling the parchment and bunching Sol's robe in his grip. But Sol didn't resist. He simply looked at Tirian with deep sympathy.
"Ty… it's the truth," Sol said quietly, reaching for Tirian's hands clenched against his robes. "We verified the information twice."
Tirian released him abruptly. The papers slipped from his hands and scattered across the floor. He began pacing, his usual iron composure fracturing as denial warred violently against the evidence.
Sol lifted his hands slightly, his voice calm but firm. "I know this hurts. But look at the facts." He gestured toward the fallen pages. "Meetings at unusual hours. Correspondence using Eldoria's own insignia."
Sol's gaze sharpened. "Are you telling me you personally approved movements that left your defenses exposed?"
"Enough!" Tirian's voice exploded into a low growl. "You think you can plant doubt with this?" he spat. "This person has been loyal to me for all my years! This is just one more lie you tell to break apart the Holy Circle's... their... no... It's not Him!"
His breathing grew heavy. "You're grasping for answers… you have to be."
But Sol didn't look away. "I wish I was wrong," he said softly. "But the pattern is clear. No one else has the authority required to do this kind of damage from within."
The room began to tilt. Sol's voice started drowning in Tirian's head, warping into a strange sound, like a low, distorted drone that vibrated deep in Tirian's skull.
The air in the room thickened—heavy and cold—like invisible sludge filling his lungs. Tirian's eyes locked onto the heavy oak door across the room, the one he just entered. It was the only thing that remained sharp.
I need to reach it.
I need to get out.
I need to run before the walls collapse.
I can't... I can't be here...
But his feet felt impossibly heavy, as if molten iron had fused them to the floor.
"…Ty?"
Sol's voice drifted somewhere far away.
"…re… you… al… right?"
A dark pressure wrapped around Tirian's throat. It felt like a tightening noose. He tried to blink it away, shaking his head. With every pounding beat of his heart, the invisible cord pulled tighter. He clawed at his neck desperately, trying to tear away the unseen weight choking the life from him.
His mouth opened. But no sound came out. His tongue felt like stone.
Across the room, Sol's mouth moved in slow, distorted motion. "…call…ph... cian…" His voice sounded impossibly distant.
Then suddenly— "Ty! Hey—what's wrong with you?!" The voice was louder now.
The world snapped back violently. Sol's hands gripped Tirian's shoulders, firm. The sudden contact shocked him like lightning.
Tirian jerked violently away with a snarl. He was drenched in cold sweat, his breathing coming in ragged, uneven gasps that sounded dangerously close to panic.
He slapped Sol's hands away that reached for him in concern. The motion was less an attack and more a desperate reflex. Still, he forced himself upright. Though his knees trembled beneath him, he stood tall.
His eyes were wide. Glassy. As he looked straight into Sol's fearful eyes. The same terror flickering in them that had once appeared when he held a sword to his own father's throat.
"I'll deal with it," Tirian rasped. The words were hoarse and shaking. Without waiting for a reply, he turned sharply and strode toward the door. Each step looked controlled, but the slight stagger in his gait betrayed his instability within.
Silence fell over the room.
Sol remained frozen, staring at the empty doorway. He had watched Tirian face entire armies without flinching. But he had never seen the king, the battle warrior... his friend, look so utterly defeated by a few sheets of parchment.
Ty…
Sol slowly covered his mouth with his hand.
How broken are you?
His eyes drifted toward the scattered papers on the floor.
You're still standing… after everything…
Guilt twisted sharply in his chest.
I should have helped you. I should have been there… when you had to do it. Sol closed his eyes briefly. "I'm sorry, my friend," he whispered under his breath.
*****
Tirian pushed open the chamber door with more force than necessary.
Inside, Orielle stood near the window adjusting the folds of a pale palla around her shoulders, the afternoon light spilling softly across the room.
"We're leaving today," Tirian announced.
His voice was cold and clipped, the words edged with something tightly restrained beneath them. Though underneath the rigid composure, exhaustion lingered in the tension of his shoulders and the faint unsteadiness in his breath.
Orielle flinched at the sudden declaration. She turned quickly, wide eyes searching his face. "What's wrong?" she asked, alarm rising in her voice. "Tirian… what happened?"
He avoided her gaze. "Something urgent came up," he said stiffly. "We need to return to Eldoria." The answer was short, controlled—carefully constructed to hide the storm he's barely keeping under control within him.
Orielle stepped closer, her brows knitting together. "But why so suddenly? Is something dangerous happening?" she pressed gently. "Please, just tell me—" Her questions tumbled over one another, worry sharpening each word.
Tirian suddenly turned toward her. The movement startled her enough that she halted mid-step. His brows were drawn tight, tension etched deeply into his face.
Orielle's expression softened immediately. She moved a little closer again, concern overtaking her confusion. "Tirian… are you—"
Before she could finish, he reached for her hand. The gesture was firm, almost desperate. "Please," he said quietly. "Just trust me."
His eyes finally met hers, and for a brief moment the mask cracked. Beneath the stern control was something raw—pleading. "Once I sort the truth from the lies," he continued softly, "I'll explain everything."
Orielle searched his face carefully. Whatever had happened… it had shaken him deeply. She could see it. Slowly, she nodded. "Alright," she said.
He leaned forward and kissed her forehead gently. Then he stepped back and called toward the doorway. "Send the maids in. Pack our luggage."
His voice returned to its controlled firmness. "And prepare a ship. We depart for Eldoria in the next hour."
*****
The ride to the docks aboard the Aetherion passed in near silence. The air inside the craft felt heavy with unspoken tension.
Orielle sat across from Tirian, watching him carefully. Her brows remained faintly furrowed as Veridelle's elegant streets and distant white towers slowly passed by the windows.
Tirian sat rigidly in his seat, staring out through the glass. But he wasn't truly seeing the city. His mind churned endlessly. His fingers tightened slowly around the armrest. Was it all for nothing? Even you…? The thought twisted painfully through his mind.
No. His jaw clenched. It can't be. You can't be the mole. The doubts fractured through him like splintering glass.
His breath grew shallow as the thoughts threatened to spiral beyond control again. Then the Aetherion slowed. The slight jolt of landing pulled him abruptly back into the present.
The docks stretched wide and busy beneath the open sky. Tirian stepped down from the Aetherion first, holding his hand out for Orielle to sep out next.
The moment she saw the ship waiting at the pier, she groaned dramatically. "Oh, great," she muttered. "I already feel sick." She stared at the vessel with theatrical dread. "Three days of this again will be wonderful."
Tirian tilted his head slightly. "You enjoy being on ships?" he asked, surprised. "I didn't know." He gestured toward the vessel. "I chose the fastest one because it's urgent we return. It should only take a day."
He paused thoughtfully. "Next time I could—"
Orielle shot him an incredulous look. "I was being facetious." She huffed and marched toward the gangplank.
"Oh." Tirian scratched the back of his head. "Well… that's a relief," he called after her seriously. "We really don't have time to waste right now."
Orielle rolled her eyes with a small laugh to herself as she boarded. His obliviousness never failed to surprise her. But as she stepped onto the deck and turned—
She noticed he hadn't laughed. Not even a little. He already focused on his own troubles again.
Tirian had stopped near the railing where the gangplank met the ship, one hand resting against the wood as he stared out across the endless stretch of ocean.
His expression had gone distant again.
Cold.
Lost somewhere far beyond the horizon.
Orielle lingered near the stairway that led down into the ship's lower cabins, watching him from several paces away. The wind tugged lightly at her hair and the edges of her cloak.
For a long moment she simply studied him. The rigid set of his shoulders. The heaviness in the way he stood. Something inside her chest tightened.
She lowered her voice to a quiet whisper meant only for herself. "Tirian…" Her fingers curled softly against the railing beside her. "I wish you would tell me what's on your mind."
Her gaze softened with quiet longing. "I wish I could help you..."