Tirian stood beneath the war canopy, one hand braced against the table as he studied the map spread before him.
Eldoria.
Varakor.
The entire continent laid out in ink and parchment.
Marked.
Crossed.
Most Rejected.
Small X's littered the map, each one a lead followed, a rumor chased, a dead end confirmed.
This one… at least, had been real. Varakor's men had been there. But not the army, not the real base and not the place Prince Zaccai would strike from.
Tirian's jaw tightened. The continent held only two kingdoms. It always had. Eldoria… and Varakor.
But Varakor should have been nothing more than ash and memory by now. Wiped out after the war not even two years ago.
But this last thread... this last blood that refused to be cut down.
Prince Zaccai. Tirian's fist clenched against the table, the parchment crumpling slightly beneath his grip.
it's already been almost five months since the coup. Been away over a month searching every lead they hear. And this, This was all they had.
"Sir Beararn." The call was sharp, controlled.
A knight outside lifted the flap, and Beararn stepped in, already saluting. "Your Majesty."
Tirian didn't look up immediately. "Return to the palace," he said at last. "Ensure the queen's safety."
A pause.
Then, more quietly—
"And do not reveal what we know. The best way forward... Is keeping the queen safe under his nose. but..."
Now he looked at him. "If the prince learns we've identified him… he'll disappear again."
Beararn gave a single nod.
"Go."
"Yes, Your Majesty." Beararn didn't waste time.
He rarely did.
By the time the palace walls came into view, Tirian's words help a heavy weight, it was obvious the the king wanted to be by his queens side to protect her himself, but this was the only way to do so.
As he moved through the palace corridors, his gaze swept everything without appearing to—servants, guards, doorways, shadows. Nothing lingered long enough to draw attention, but nothing escaped notice either...
*****
Sunlight pooled like warm honey across the spring chamber. The air smelled faintly of jasmine and fresh-cut grass, layered with the sweetness of a half-finished tart resting on a plate beside Orielle.
Eight months along, she leaned back against a mound of cushions, clearly uncomfortable, one hand resting over the curve of her stomach. The heat pressed heavily against the room, draining what little patience she had left.
Pearl sat nearby, mid-story, her voice animated as she recounted some scandal from the northern counties, clearly enjoying every detail.
Orielle let out a long, suffering groan. "Oh, please, Pearl…" she said, dragging a hand over her face. "Could you help me? This palla is unbearable today. I need to change, no, I need something lighter. Anything lighter."
She gestured dramatically at the layers of fabric draped over her.
Pearl laughed, already rising to her feet. "Unfortunately," she said, moving to help her up, "this is the lighter dress they chose for you."
Orielle's expression fell instantly. "This is… this is cruel," she muttered as Pearl pulled her gently to her feet.
"All of this—" she gestured again, more dramatically now, "I would rather walk around in my undergarments than endure another moment in this oven."
Pearl bit back a laugh as she steadied her. "I can't imagine Tirian would be too pleased with that," she said lightly. "Other men seeing you in your undergarments and all…"
Orielle shot her a sharp look. "Then I would like to see him try wearing all of this while carrying a child." The words slipped out quickly. Her expression shifted almost immediately, her hand flying to her mouth.
"…Ah. Sorry," she said, softer now. "That was rude. It's just—gods, it's so hot I feel like I'm losing my mind." She rubbed her temples with her free hand.
Pearl's expression softened as she patted her arm. "It's all right," she said gently. "We could spend the day by the pool instead?"
Orielle's head lifted instantly, her mood flipping in a heartbeat. "The pool—yes, that sounds perfect, let's—"
A knock cut her off.
She straightened instinctively, clearing her throat as she composed herself.
"Enter."
The door opened. Sir Beararn stepped inside, helmet tucked beneath his arm. He paused just long enough to take in the room.
The queen. Lady Pearl. Servants. She's safe. He stepped forward and bowed deeply. "I come on the orders of His Majesty the King."
Orielle and Pearl gave each other a confused look. Orielle spoke first "The king? What were his orders?"
"I've been sent to protect her majesty, Lady Pearl and... Her majesty's father." Sir Beararn looked around again as if looking for someone. "Where is-"
Orielle and Pearl walked towards the door, carrying out their previous task to cool down. "Ah, father said he had work back on the farm and had to make sure everything was still running smoothly, he'll be back soon-" She quickly turned, suddenly concerned. "is he in danger? should we send some knights after him in case?"
Beararn bowed "No danger your majesty, the king was only being cautious, but I'll send a few knights after him, if it will ease your mind?"
Orielle sighed with relief then continued to waddle out the door with Pearl. "Yes please, Sir Beararn..."
"I'll do so right away." Beararn walked towards a servant giving him orders, the servant nodded and then ran out.
One week later
Beararn stood at the chamber doors, unmoving, his presence as steady as stone. His helmet rested beneath his arm, his gaze fixed forward, though nothing in the corridor escaped his notice.
There was a peace in the silence, but it didn't last long. Fast footsteps approached. Beararn's hand moved instantly to his sword, his posture shifting.
A servant burst into the room, breathless, mud clinging to his boots, staining the polished floor. The crest on his sleeve marked him from the eastern roads.
Beararn stepped forward, one hand raised sharply. "Stop." His voice cut clean through the room. "State your purpose."
The servant froze, chest heaving, clutching a folded letter tightly in his hand.
"Urgent message, for the Queen," he managed. "From the field."
Orielle's smile faded instantly.
She rose from her seat, one hand instinctively moving to her stomach as she tried to move towards him.
"What is it?"
Before she could reach him, Pearl moved first. "Let me see," she said, sweeping the letter from his grasp with theatrical precision.
She held it at arm's length, narrowing her eyes as if it might bite her, then gave it an exaggerated sniff. "One can never be too careful."
Orielle let out a small laugh despite herself. "It's a letter, not a dagger."
Pearl's expression sharpened, though still playful. "You never know," she said. "Remember the salted ink incident?"
She leaned closer to the servant again, inspecting him now, making him shift awkwardly under the attention. What is wrong with this woman…? he thought, swallowing his irritation. I was told this was urgent…
At last, Pearl handed the letter over with mock formality, hoping to keep the air light. "Go on," she said. "Open it."
Orielle took it carefully. Her fingers trembled as she broke the wax seal. Her eyes scanned the words. Slowly at first, then faster.
Her breath caught.
Pearl leaned in close, trying to read over her shoulder.
"It's from Tirian," Orielle said at last, her voice steady—but only just. "He's… been injured in battle."
"Not killed," she added quickly. "He's alive. He's in hiding—recovering. But… he won't be returning any time soon."
The room went still.
Pearl's usual energy vanished completely, her expression blank with shock. For a moment, no one spoke. Then relief hit Orielle all at once.
She let out a breath that turned into a laugh—high, unsteady. "He's alive," she said again, clutching the letter tightly to her chest, as if it could anchor the truth in place. "He's alive…"
Pearl turned sharply toward the servant, her composure snapping back, but sharper now. "And you couldn't have delivered that with a little more calm?" she snapped. "We nearly assumed the worst!"
The servant flinched. By the gods, I didn't even know what was written, he thought, forcing his expression back into neutrality. They only said it was urgent… "a... apologies my lady..."
Orielle barely heard them. A strange warmth spread through her body. Not comforting. It started low, in her joints, then climbed, slow and heavy, into her chest… her head.
The room shifted and tilted as her grip faltered, catching the edge of the table as the world blurred around her.
The tart slipped from the plate a then the vision struck.
The basin.
The prophecy.
Tirian—
Dying in her arms on a sun-scorched field.
Blood—hot, vivid—coating his hands.
Her own voice, breaking, echoing into nothing. ".. wha.... no... Ty... rian..."
"Orielle?" Pearl's voice sharpened instantly as Orielle swayed. She caught her by the elbows, steadying her before she could fall.
"Careful!" she muttered, though the edge in her voice couldn't hide the concern beneath it.
"Tirian…" Orielle's breath came uneven, her voice rough with panic. "I need—I need to see Tirian."
Pearl's grip tightened. "No," she said firmly.
"You are not riding out to a battlefield in your condition. The physician was clear—no travel. I'm not letting you go."
"I can't just—" Orielle's words broke apart, her breathing too fast, too shallow. Her hands trembled where they clutched at Pearl's arms. "Something's going to happen to him. I saw it—he'll die. He could die—"
Pearl's expression flickered—fear, doubt— Why would he...? She pushed the thought away. And her expression hardened. "And if you go?" she shot back. "What then? What could you possibly do in your state—"
She stopped herself, her gaze dropping briefly to Orielle's stomach. Her tone shifted, quieter, but heavier. "Would you risk both your lives?" she asked. "Yours… and the child's?"
Her hand rested gently against Orielle's belly. "Please," she said, more softly now. "Think carefully about this."
Orielle's breath hitched. The fire in her—the one that once drove her without hesitation—faltered. The vision still gripped her, tight and unrelenting. "I won't…" she whispered, her fingers trembling against Pearl's wrist. "I won't risk the baby…"
Her voice broke. "But I have to go. I saw it. He'll—"
Pearl stepped closer, pressing her forehead gently against Orielle's, grounding her.
"Tirian would never forgive me if me if I let you put yourself in danger like this," she said, her voice steady, certain. "Please Orielle... Do you really see the urgency to go to him in your state?"
A pause. As she looked into Orielle's determined eyes. Orielle nodded with desperation, a fire and pain Pearl hasn't seen in her eyes before
"Fine," Pearl added, exhaling. "We go to him. With knights. Properly."
Orielle stilled.
"But not tonight," Pearl said firmly. "At first light."
Orielle's body remained tense, poised—ready to run, to fight, to tear through anything in her way. She took a deep breath, a s her hand moved to her stomach.
And just like that, the strength drained from her. Her shoulders sagged. "Promise me," she whispered, her voice fragile now, clinging to the only control she had left. "First thing in the morning."
Pearl tightened her grip on her shoulders. "I promise."