Otylia swallowed, the rich, earthy taste of venison and herbs a startling warmth on her tongue. The stew was undeniably good, a rustic warmth utterly alien to the polished, tasteless fare usually placed before her. She kept her face impassive, but the corners of her lips twitched almost imperceptibly as Lorian’s words settled over the hushed court. A scowl for posterity. The sheer audacity. She set the bowl down with a soft click, her gaze fixing on the painter. “You are bold, Lorian.”
“Only in the pursuit of truth, my lady,” he replied, a disarming dimple appearing on his cheek. “And beauty. A scowl, however regal, obscures the truth of a monarch’s spirit. For your portrait, we shall endeavour to capture something more… enduring.”
Her eyes narrowed. “My spirit is not for display, sir. It is for governance.” She rose, the heavy embroidery of her gown rustling like dry leaves. “Chancellor Valerik, arrange for Master Lorian’s accommodations. He will begin his work in the solar at dawn. Alone.” The last word was aimed at Valerik, a clear dismissal of the court. Jaska, still pale, quickly gathered the empty bowl and spoon, his movements jerky.
Valerik bowed, his expression unreadable as ever. “As Your Majesty commands.” He then turned to Lorian, a flicker of something cold in his usually placid eyes. “Come, painter. I shall escort you to your chambers. And enlighten you on the protocols of the Ironspire Citadel.”
Lorian merely winked at Otylia before following the Chancellor, his cheerful stride a stark contrast to Valerik’s grave procession. Otylia watched them go, then turned to the window, the perpetual grey skies of Zalevia mirroring the unease settling in her chest. The painter was an irritant, a pebble in her boot, yet his brazen gift had momentarily bypassed her usual vigilance, and Jaska’s reaction lingered like a sour aftertaste.
At dawn, Otylia found Lorian already at work in her private solar. The room, usually a stark chamber of dark wood and heavy, somber hangings, felt subtly altered by his presence. An easel stood by the tall, arched window, catching the pale, overcast sky. Canvases leaned against the walls, and the air held a faint, pleasant scent of linseed oil and something else, something herbal and fresh, utterly unlike the usual dust and old parchment.
He whistled a jaunty, unfamiliar tune as he mixed paints on a large wooden palette. He had dragged forward a high-backed seat, draped with a surprisingly soft woollen blanket. “Good morrow, Your Majesty!” he greeted, turning with a flourish. “Ideal timing. The light is just so. Please, take your seat.”
Otylia settled onto the chair, rigid and unyielding. “I do not seek leisure, Lorian. I fulfill my duties.”
He merely chuckled, already sketching furiously onto a fresh canvas. “Of course. And my duty is to capture the formidable Queen Otylia. Perhaps, for today, we might start with the hands? They speak volumes.”
She allowed him to position her hands, resting them lightly on her lap, fingers interlaced. The quiet of the solar was punctuated only by the scratch of charcoal on canvas, an intimate silence she found both unnerving and oddly compelling. Her gaze drifted to the dyed wool hangings that lined the walls, depicting ancient Zalevian battles and stoic heroes.
“Where did you acquire such… unusual tastes, painter?” she finally asked, her voice cutting through the stillness. “No craftsman of repute would dare to insult a monarch with a casual meal.”
Lorian paused, charcoal poised. “Oh, my tastes are quite simple, Your Majesty. I enjoy good food, good company, and the occasional challenge.” He offered a wide, easy smile. “As for my… approach, let’s just say I’ve found that true beauty often hides behind the most intimidating facades. One must be brave enough to look past the thorns.”
“Thorns?” Otylia echoed, a single brow arching. “You liken me to a thorny bush?”
“A magnificent, impenetrable rose, perhaps,” he countered smoothly, returning to his sketch. “Worth the prick for the bloom within.”
She scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “You speak in riddles. Where do you hail from? Your accent is… distinctive.”
“I’ve travelled extensively, Your Majesty,” Lorian replied vaguely, his gaze fixed on her hands. “From the sun-drenched coasts of Veridia to the whispering forests of the Sylvans. I find inspiration everywhere. A bustling market, a quiet village, even a cold, imposing citadel.” He paused, then added, “But I learned to cook from my grandmother. She believed food was the shortest path to the heart, even for those who had forgotten they possessed one.”
Otylia’s jaw tightened at the implication. “I assure you, my heart functions without fault. It beats for Zalevia.”
“Of course,” he murmured, though a hint of amusement played in his eyes. “Now, if you could just… hold that pose. Excellent.”
The session continued, a quiet duel of wills. Lorian deftly avoided every direct question about his past, instead weaving charming, inconsequential anecdotes about his travels, about the precise shade of blue in a northern sky, or the golden crust of a freshly baked loaf. Otylia found herself, against her better judgment, listening, almost captivated by his meandering tales. He was infuriatingly good at deflecting.
Suddenly, a deep, ominous groaning sound emanated from above. Otylia, her senses honed by years of living under threat, reacted instantly. Her head snapped up, locating the source: a massive, ancient wall hanging depicting the Battle of the Crimson Pass, heavy with centuries of accumulated dust and thread, was tearing free from its iron moorings high on the stone wall.
Lorian, engrossed in his work, seemed oblivious. He was leaning forward, squinting at her hands, charcoal still scratching softly.
“Look out!” Otylia’s voice cracked across the stone. She lunged, a blur of dark fabric and unexpected speed. Her hand shot out, grabbing Lorian by the collar of his paint-splattered tunic, yanking him with surprising force from his stool. He stumbled back, shocked, just as the heavy textile ripped free entirely. It crashed down onto the exact spot where he had been sitting, the ancient fabric billowing outward, kicking up a cloud of dust and sending the easel toppling with a clatter. A heavy wooden support beam, once part of the hanging’s frame, splintered on the flagstone floor, narrowly missing Lorian’s feet.
For a moment, silence hung thick, broken only by Lorian’s ragged breathing. He stared at the heap of fallen cloth, then at Otylia, his face a mixture of bewilderment and sudden fear. Otylia stood over him, her hand still gripping his tunic, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The scent of old dust filled the air.
“Guards!” she roared, her voice echoing through the solar. “To me! Now!”
Within moments, two armored figures burst into the room, swords drawn. They assessed the scene, their eyes darting from the fallen cloth to the Queen and the bewildered painter.
“Investigate that fastening!” Otylia commanded, pointing a rigid finger at the ceiling where the drapery had hung. “Immediately!”
The guards scaled the wall with practiced ease, examining the remaining sections of rope and the hooks embedded in the stone. One of them, a burly guard, whistled low. “Your Majesty,” he called down, his voice gravelly. “The main rope… it wasn’t old age. It was cut. Cleanly. With a serrated edge, by the look of it.”
Otylia’s eyes narrowed to slits. An assassin. Here? In her private solar? And aimed at… Lorian? Or had he been a convenient target to clear the way for her? A cold, hard knot formed in her stomach. The protective instinct she had felt, the sheer speed of her reaction, surprised her. She had not felt such a visceral need to intervene for anyone in years.
She looked at Lorian, who was now cautiously approaching the fallen wool, his painter's curiosity overriding his fear. He was running a hand over the intricate weave, his brow furrowed.
“A serrated blade,” she repeated, her voice low and dangerous. “Find who carries such a weapon within these walls. Search everyone. And secure this area. No one enters or leaves until I give the command.”
The guards saluted and began their work. Otylia moved to the edge of the fallen wool, examining the frayed, sliced ends of the rope that dangled from the wall. This was no accident. This was a message. Or a botched attempt.
Lorian, meanwhile, had knelt beside a splintered piece of the wooden frame, brushing away dust with a gentle hand. His eyes fixed on something small and glittering. He picked it up, holding it delicately between his thumb and forefinger.
It was a tiny, impossibly delicate petal, flawlessly shaped, but not of flesh or silk. It was crystalline, shimmering with a faint, inner light. It looked like a miniature, frozen shard of winter bloom.
“Your Majesty,” Lorian said, his voice quiet, almost awed. He turned, holding the glittering petal out to her. “Is this a common decoration here?”