The days that followed blurred into one another.
The first night, Orielle stayed awake longer than she meant to, seated on the couch with a book open in her lap, though her eyes hadn't moved across a single line in quite some time. The door never opened.
At some point, sleep claimed her. When she woke, she was in bed. Her fingers moved instinctively to the space beside her. Warm again. She stared at it for a while… then turned away with a small huff.
—
The second night, she went to bed early. "If he comes, he comes," she muttered, pulling the covers up with quiet defiance. She didn't wait on the couch. She didn't look at the door.
But hen she woke, her hand still found his side of the bed. Still warm. Her fingers lingered longer this time. "…Tch."
—
By the third day, the pattern had settled. Evening would fall. The candles would burn low. The door would remain closed. Orielle would pretend not to notice. And every morning, warmth. Always just enough to tell her he had been there.
—
On the fifth day, she almost broke. She stood by the door longer than she intended, her hand hovering near the handle. She could go to him. She always did. That had always been enough. Her fingers curled slightly, then stilled. A frown formed.
"…No." She pulled her hand back. "If he wants to avoid me, then let him." Her chin lifted just slightly, stubborn resolve settling in. "I won't chase him this time..."
—
By the sixth day, the silence had become routine. The Varkon festival came and went, but Tirian was no where to be seen, even though he helped with the preparations, he didn't even show his face once. Though Orielle did hear some of the knights mentioning he came to confirm everything went smoothly.
The next morning, her hand rested against the empty space beside her once more. Still warm. Her gaze lingered. Quieter now, less frustrated, but more… tired. Then she pulled away.
—
Later that day, the palace kitchens were anything but quiet.
The steady rhythm of knives against wood echoed through the space as two cooks worked side by side, their voices lowered just enough to suggest secrecy. "Did you hear?" one muttered, glancing over his shoulder. "One of the cleaning servants was dragged off for treason."
The other gave a small nod. "Aye. Sir Arch took her himself. Didn't even resist."
The first cook paused mid-chop. "What do you think she did?"
"Not sure," the second replied, lowering his voice further. "But one of the new dungeon recruits mentioned it. Said the word plain as day."
"Treason…" the first repeated, uneasy. "Does that mean she'll be executed?"
The second shook his head. "No… that's the strange part. I heard they've been letting most servants go."
"Letting them go?"
"Aye. Sent off to Veridelle. Banned from ever returning."
The first cook frowned deeply. "Sending criminals to Veridelle instead of killing them? Would their king even allow that?"
The second shrugged. "Who knows? Maybe he asked for them. You know how they are over there… always meddling with things they shouldn't." A pause. Then, quieter— "Some say they run experiments."
The first cook stiffened. "On criminals?"
The second gave a slow, uncertain nod.
"By the gods…" the first breathed. "That's—"
The kitchen doors opened. Both cooks immediately fell silent, straightening as Orielle entered, with Lissia and Mirra just behind her.
They bowed quickly. "My queen."
Orielle barely seemed to notice the tension. Instead, her eyes moved across the kitchen with quiet curiosity before settling on the two of them. "Who makes the pastries here?" she asked suddenly.
The cooks exchanged a quick glance.
"…That would be Muchen, Your Majesty," one answered. "He calls himself a… sugar crafter."
Orielle's face lit up instantly. "Oh! How fitting." A small, eager smile formed. "Could you summon him, please?"
The cooks hesitated for the briefest moment, glancing toward Lissia and Mirra. Both gave the slightest nod. Go along with it.
"…Of course, my queen," the first cook said, bowing again before quickly hurrying off.
Orielle remained where she was, her expression noticeably brighter now, a quiet excitement settling into her posture.
The second cook watched her carefully …Strange did sir Muchin bake something bad? or did he also commit a sin?
—
The first cook moved quickly through the corridors, unease creeping in the longer he thought about it. Did the queen not like something he made?
He frowned. No… she seemed too happy for that… A small shiver ran down his spine…I've got a bad feeling about this.
He reached the smaller quarters tucked away near the kitchens, the ones belonging to the head pastry chef.
The door stood slightly open. He knocked lightly. No response. Peeking inside, he found Muchen exactly where one might expect. Reclined lazily on an old chair, balanced precariously on its hind legs, feet propped up on the table. A book was clutched tightly in his hands, though the soft rise and fall of his chest made it very clear... He was fast asleep.
The cook knocked again. Nothing. A third time, a bit louder. Still nothing. "…Sir Muchen?" he tried cautiously, stepping just inside. A pause.
Then— "…hmm?"
The cook blinked. "The queen… she's summoned you," he said carefully.
"…hmm," came the response.
The cook frowned. He stepped closer. "Sir…?"
"…hmm?"
"The queen is looking for you," he repeated, now standing right beside him. "You need to come."
"…hmm… hmm."
The cook's eye twitched slightly. His gaze shifted to the table. Papers scattered across it—new recipes, detailed notes, scribbled ideas. Then, his eyes moved to the chair again. Balancing but quite...Unstable.
A slow, mischievous smile crept onto his face. "…Well," he murmured under his breath, stepping closer. "You brought this upon yourself, Sir Muchen."
-----
The royal kitchen was quiet, thick with the scent of walnut smoke and citrus. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, catching in the flour drifting through the air and dusting the worktables in a soft, golden haze.
Orielle stood beside Lissia and Mirra, her hands clasped lightly in front of her as she waited, far more patiently than usual, though the quiet excitement in her eyes betrayed her.
Footsteps were heard then Muchen entered. He looked… less than pleased. One hand rubbed at his elbow, while a rather noticeable bump had begun forming on his forehead. Behind him, the cook who had fetched him wore a suspiciously pleasant smile—just a little too pleased with himself.
The moment Muchen noticed the queen, he straightened quickly and bowed, confusion flickering across his face. Before he could speak.
"You're the sugar crafter?" Orielle asked, her tone bright with curiosity.
Muchen hesitated, glancing up briefly at the unexpected enthusiasm before lowering his gaze again.
"Yes, Your Majesty," he replied respectfully. "I greet Your Royal Highness. I am Muchen… was there something you required?"
Orielle's smile only widened. She gestured lightly for him to rise. "You're incredibly talented. I should have thanked you sooner for your wonderful treats."
Muchen straightened, offering a small, polite smile. "It is my honor to serve. Your words are more than enough."
But before he could settle, Orielle stepped closer. Too close. "Please!" she said, her voice suddenly full of energy. "Will you teach me?"
Muchen blinked. Then instinctively took a step back. "I—" he started, clearly caught off guard. "I could never place the queen behind an oven or kitchen work. That would be improper."
Orielle huffed softly, though her smile didn't fade. "I was behind an oven long before I became queen," she replied. "I've cooked before but nothing like what you make."
Her voice softened slightly, though the eagerness remained. "Please… will you teach me?"
Muchen studied her for a moment, his brow faintly furrowed. Teach a queen…? It felt wrong. Out of place. And yet, she wasn't asking as a queen.
He cleared his throat, his voice steady but firm. "If Your Majesty wishes to learn… then she must be prepared to fail."
Orielle's face lit up instantly. "Yes, sir!"
The response was so immediate, so earnest, that it caught him off guard. A faint smile almost surfaced—quickly hidden.
He turned toward the worktable, thinking for a moment. "I am currently working on a new recipe," he said at last. "You may assist… and observe. I am not much of a teacher, but you will learn by doing."
Orielle nodded eagerly. "That's more than enough. Thank you."
Muchen gave a small nod before handing her a bowl. "Flour. Salt. Mix them."
He watched her carefully as she followed his instructions, as soon as he said those words he no longer treated her like a queen. "Make a well," he continued, "then add olive oil."
She did so without hesitation, her movements familiar.
He paused. …She's done this before.
Slowly, he poured in lukewarm water. "Stir until it becomes shaggy."
Orielle followed, focused, her hands working with precision.
Muchen turned slightly, setting a pan of chopped figs over heat, adding honey and a splash of water. The scent began to rise almost immediately. "Knead," he said without looking at her. "No to firm." A brief pause. "Let the dough remember your hands."
Orielle worked the dough carefully, her earlier excitement settling into concentration.
After some time, the dough was left to rest. Muchen stirred the figs, now thickening into a rich, fragrant jam. He handed her a spoon. "Slowly," he instructed. "Let them break on their own."
She stirred— "Not so fast," he corrected. "You'll sour them." She adjusted immediately. He crushed walnuts beside her, adding a pinch of cinnamon. "Taste."
Orielle did.
Then added a touch more honey. Muchen gave a small nod of approval. He cut the rested dough into pieces, demonstrating each step as he went. "Press from the center. Not the edges. If it resists, let it rest."
Orielle followed, learning the rhythm quickly. "Spoon the filling," he continued. "Fold the edges. It does not need to be perfect." Her tartlets came out slightly uneven— But full of care.
"If it tears," he added, "patch it. Gently."
"Good."
He heated a heavy skillet and placed the tartlets down. "Listen," he said. "Too loud, it burns. Too quiet, it's not ready."
They waited. The soft crackle filled the space. After a few minutes, he turned them, brushing the tops with honey and scattering walnuts. "Don't be timid with honey," he said. "It is the soul of the tart."
He stepped back slightly. "And now… we taste." Orielle didn't hesitate. She bit into one and froze.
Her eyes closed. For a moment, it was as if the entire world had disappeared.
"This is—!" She opened her eyes, glowing. "This is the most delicious thing I've ever tasted! Thank you!"
The praise caught him off guard. A faint blush rose to his cheeks, pride warming his otherwise quiet expression.
Orielle turned quickly to Lissia and Mirra, beaming.
"Please prepare mint tea, and call my father to the Green Room! I want to share this with him immediately!"
Suddenly her smile faltered, just slightly. "…Perhaps Tirian as well…" The words came quieter. She hesitated. Then shook her head.
"No—never mind. Just… send someone to deliver one of these to him." A small huff followed. "That's the most of a hint he'll get." With that, she turned and marched out of the kitchen, determination in her step.
—
The corridor was quiet in contrast. Orielle rounded a corner. And nearly walked straight into someone.
She stopped abruptly. Before her stood a young woman—striking, almost radiant. Amber eyes just like Tirian's caught the light like gold, and her sandy blonde hair flowed effortlessly past her shoulders.
Orielle blinked. Then, without thinking. "…How beautiful…" The words slipped out.
The woman paused—then laughed, clearly amused. "Not nearly as much as you, my queen." She bowed gracefully, a playful glint in her eyes as she straightened. "I'm Pearl," she said smoothly. "Tirian's cousin… and, of course, his favorite."
A faint smirk tugged at her lips. "I do hope he's mentioned me?"