Olive guided Orielle through the palace halls. Her bronze skin glowed warmly beneath the filtered sunlight spilling through tall arched windows, freckles dusting her cheeks, as most are in sun-kissed in Veridelle. Dark hair, cropped short and tucked beneath a neatly tied cloth, framed a face made gentle by an ever-present smile. Her pale robes fell in clean Grecian lines, practical for movement, yet elegant enough to reflect Veridelle's devotion to beauty shaped by order.

  As they walked, Olive stole quiet glances at the woman beside her.

  Orielle moved with calm composure now, the earlier strain of travel gone from her features. Without the pallor of seasickness or the sharp edge of anger clouding her expression, her beauty felt almost unreal — soft yet luminous, like moonlight touching still water.

  The queen… Olive thought, her chest fluttering with delight. Oh, how beautifully I could dress her.

  In Veridelle, dressing a noble was not servitude — it was artistry. A craft passed down like a sacred skill. Maids took pride in the elegance of those they served, boasting of their lady's grace as though it were a masterpiece they had helped shape. And Queen Orielle… would turn every head in the palace.

  Those other maids would be green with envy, Olive mused. What a treasure to adorn…

  Orielle slowed suddenly, her attention pulled toward a window along the corridor. Sunlight poured through the glass, she stepped closer, then stopped entirely, her face lighting with unguarded wonder.

  All elegance fell away in an instant. She hurried to the window with a burst of childlike excitement, pressing close as her gaze drank in the sprawling gardens below. Lush greenery curved around sculpted pathways, fountains catching the light, and distant birds wheeled lazily over shimmering water.

  The sudden shift from poised queen to awestruck girl might have seemed unbecoming in another court. Here, it only made her more radiant.

  Olive's smile deepened, while Calen — who followed a few steps behind — paused beside Orielle, resting a gloved hand lightly against the window's frame.

  "Have you never seen the sea before?" he asked, amusement warming his voice. "We did just arrive from the docks, after all."

  Orielle turned toward him with a small pout that nearly broke his composure. A faint blush crept along his cheeks, though he quickly straightened his posture.

  "Well," she said, lifting her chin with playful indignation, "I could hardly admire anything with my nausea stealing the moment, now could I?"

  Calen laughed softly. "A tragedy indeed," he replied. "While I cannot escort you to the shoreline itself, our gardens hold a comparable beauty — a basin as wide as a lake and just as peaceful. You may find it a suitable replacement."

  Her eyes brightened instantly. "Yes, please, I'd love to go!" The words escaped before she could restrain them, and she quickly caught herself, smoothing her posture as though trying to gather the remnants of her royal composure. "I mean… I would be delighted to see it, if it's no trouble."

  The excitement still danced plainly across her face, impossible to hide.

  Calen inclined his head, turning toward Olive. She returned the gesture with a graceful bow, stepping forward to take Orielle's hand. With careful reverence, Olive pressed the back of Orielle's hand to her forehead. Only showing her utmost respect

  "I will leave you in Sir Calen's care, my lady," Olive said softly.

  Orielle's brow furrowed at first, confusion flickering across her expression at the unfamiliar custom. But the warmth behind the gesture quickly reached her, and she offered a gentle smile in return. "Thank you."

  Calen stepped ahead, gesturing down the corridor. "This way, my lady."

  Orielle followed at once, her steps quickening despite her attempt at restraint. The soft rustle of her robes echoed faintly through the hall, her eagerness unmistakable to those around her.

  ***

  Beneath the arched trellises of myrtle and laurel, the palace gardens whispered with soft wind and birdsong — a calmness that clashed sharply with the tension unfolding along one of its shaded paths.

  Prince Loven paced ahead of Archon Qual, golden hair catching flashes of sunlight as he moved. His steps were restless, sharp, the heel of his shoes grinding against gravel with every turn.

  “Here?” Loven scoffed, running a hand through his hair. “He brought the Queen of Eldoria here? Into the heart of Veridelle?” His voice held a casual lilt, but frustration coiled beneath it like a tightening blade. “Does he not think beyond the moment?”

  Qual kept a careful distance behind him, hands folded within his sleeves. “Your Highness, His Majesty believes—”

  “Believes?” Loven cut him off, spinning halfway around. “We are allies with Eldoria. Allies. And now we risk provoking them over what could very well be a misunderstanding of the Holy Circle’s riddles.” His jaw tightened. “You know how gods speak — half-truths wrapped in puzzles. A mistranslation could turn prophecy into chaos.”

  Archon Qual opened his mouth again, voice measured. “My lord, it is because of the prophecy that—”

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  “Enough,” Loven snapped, his composure cracking. He turned sharply, striking a low-hanging branch aside as he strode forward. “Why is it always me that must mend his recklessness?”

  The branch snapped back behind him with a sharp rustle — striking Qual squarely across the cheek.

  The Archon flinched, hand flying to his face as a red mark bloomed against his skin. He swallowed the sting without a word, lowering his gaze while Loven continued walking, completely unaware.

  Loven slowed, rubbing his own temple as though trying to push away a pounding thought. “He’s always so… so… unpredictable in the worst ways.” His voice dropped into a frustrated mutter. “How am I supposed to fix this? …And why should I?” He let out a harsh breath. “He is the king. He should face the consequences of his own madness!”

  He turned suddenly, eyes narrowing at Qual.

  “What did you do? Why is your face—”

  Qual froze, unsure whether to answer. The prince’s confusion was genuine — and that, somehow, made the moment worse.

  “…It is nothing, my lord,” he said quietly, choosing restraint over honesty.

  Loven studied him for a brief second, then waved a dismissive hand. “Never mind. Set up a meeting with my brother.” His voice sharpened again. “I do not care if he ignores your requests. Tell him it is a meeting with Father. That will ensure he cannot avoid it.”

  Before Qual could respond, Loven stepped forward and grabbed the front of his robes, pulling him close. The prince’s eyes burned with restless intensity.

  “You will not fail me again, Archon Qual.”

  Qual nodded quickly, breath caught in his throat. “Yes, my lord.”

  Loven released him and turned away without another word, cloak snapping behind him as he disappeared deeper into the garden paths.

  Left alone, Qual straightened his robes with slow, weary movements. He rubbed the sore mark on his cheek and let out a quiet sigh.

  “That temperamental prince…” he muttered under his breath, glancing toward the retreating figure. I will grey faster than my father at this rate.

  He adjusted his sleeves, composure returning to its usual calm mask — though his thoughts churned beneath it.

  It is not as though I do not try, he thought bitterly. Why can they not speak to one another like a normal family? huffing one, the Archon left.

  ***

  As Orielle turned a corner alongside Calen and Olive, she nearly walked straight into a tall figure striding back along the path. The collision was gentle — more a startled pause than an impact, yet Calen’s hand flew instantly to the hilt of his sword.

  He relaxed the moment recognition dawned, dropping into a swift bow. “My apologies, Your Highness.”

  Prince Loven’s gaze slid past him, settling on Orielle. His eyes narrowed, sharp with assessment as realization flickered across his face. A thin, irritated smile touched his lips, and he offered a shallow bow that carried more formality than warmth.

  “Prince Loven of Veridelle,” he said coolly.

  Orielle returned the gesture with graceful ease, curiosity bright in her expression rather than caution. “Oh! A pleasure to meet you, Prince Loven. I am—”

  “The Queen of Eldoria,” he finished for her, voice edged with dry amusement. “And, it would seem, my brother’s latest… whim.” His attention flicked briefly toward Calen before returning to her. “What brings you wandering the gardens, Your Majesty?”

  Unbothered by his tone, Orielle tilted her head slightly. “I was told of a garden basin — Aequira’s Mirror, I believe? I only wished to see it's beauty for myself.”

  At the name, something shifted in Loven’s eyes — a spark of interest breaking through his earlier irritation. The Mirror…His thoughts turned quickly, curiosity replacing his sour mood.

  “How convenient,” he said, voice lightening almost imperceptibly. “I happen to be headed that way. Allow me to escort you. It is not far.”

  His smile returned, this time smoother, almost charming, though Calen’s posture stiffened beside Orielle, unease plain in his gaze. What is he planning…? the knight wondered, watching the prince too closely to relax.

  Orielle answered with a polite smile of her own. “Of course. Thank you kindly for your company.”

  Loven extended his arm in a gentleman’s gesture. Orielle began to reach for it — then paused. Her hand hovered mid-air as a thoughtful expression crossed her face. Slowly, she drew her hands back, clasping them neatly before her instead.

  “Then… please lead the way,” she said warmly, stepping beside him rather than taking his arm.

  For a brief moment, confusion flickered across Loven’s features. Then understanding dawned. Ah… she is married, of course. Respect replaced irritation, and he lowered his arm without offense, adjusting his stride to keep a comfortable distance at her side.

  Quite admirable, he admitted silently.

  They continued down the path, gravel crunching softly beneath their feet. Orielle’s gaze drifted across the meticulously arranged garden beds, rows of sculpted greenery stretching toward the fountains beyond.

  “This place feels so different from Eldoria,” she said softly. “Everything seems… ordered.”

  Loven gave a small shrug. “Veridelle thrives on precision rather than chaos. Our former kings were obsessed with balance — free will shaped by structure. It sounds contradictory, but here, order exists within choice. That is the Veridelle way.”

  Orielle nodded thoughtfully. “I see…”

  The silence that followed stretched longer than he expected. Loven cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

  “You must find Eldoria’s landscapes wild by comparison,” he said, voice turning dry again. “Though… I suppose the curse has changed much of its beauty.”

  “It has,” Orielle admitted gently. “It was lush once, and still holds beauty, in its own way. But this…” She gestured to the pristine gardens. “This is striking because it is so different from what I know.”

  Loven’s expression softened despite himself. “Much of it is my brother’s work,” he said. “I would call him vain, but it is not himself he seeks to elevate — it is the impact beauty leaves on those who walk through it.” A faint breath escaped him. “He would appreciate hearing his efforts noticed.”

  He glanced at her again, curiosity returning. “What draws you to Aequira’s Mirror? Do you know much about it?”

  Orielle smiled faintly. “Not really. I only heard that it was beautiful. Does it hold meaning for Veridelle?”

  A wry smile curved Loven’s mouth. “More than most outsiders realize. It is a place of reflection, in more ways than one. Some leave with answers… others with more questions than they began with.”

  So she truly does not know, he thought, interest sharpening. But... she is the Maiden of Light… so this will be interesting indeed.

  The garden opened before them, revealing the basin at its heart. Marble tiers shimmered beneath flowing water, light dancing across the surface like scattered stars. The air carried the soft scent of blue lotus, and the quiet hush of the fountain wrapped around them.

  Orielle slowed, her eyes widening at the sight.

  But Loven’s gaze remained fixed on her rather than the basin itself, curiosity deepening as he waited to see what — if anything — would unfold next.