Oriana's heart began to race once more. Since waking, it seemed her heartbeat had not followed its normal rhythm. Her fingers loosened slightly around the fork, taken aback by his words.
Did this mean he had finally considered marrying her?
But why?
As if reading her mind, he continued.
"We are both rulers, and I too will require an heir. One never knows when unfortunate situations may occur. Besides that, there would be great advantage on your path. I will remain here in Gantrem for a few days before leaving, as we will require time for ourselves and preparation before the marriage takes place."
The way he spoke carried perfect etiquette. If speaking itself had etiquette, she was certain this man would lead it. Despite the emotionlessness in his voice, it sounded almost divine.
And this was the longest she had ever heard him speak.
"Very well then, Your Majesty," Oriana replied.
A small smile moved to her lips without her knowing.
Zorath's eyes flickered to her. His sharp gaze lingered as her tongue slipped out slightly to lick her upper lip before moving downward. Slowly, he shifted his gaze away, his dark eyes lowering to the sliced strawberry resting upon his plate.
He picked it up with calm precision and brought it to his lips. He bit into it slowly. Yet his eyes returned to her lips.
Unbeknownst to Oriana, as she continued eating, her mind replayed his words again and again.
She had a thousand questions she wanted to ask about last night—how he had known her room, why he had been in the hallway, and what had happened after she had fallen asleep. Yet she could not bring herself to voice them. She did not want answers, and she feared any explanation would inevitably lead to questions about her injury—a topic she was not ready to discuss.
"I do have archery to attend to after breakfast, if you do not mind joining me," Oriana said suddenly, moving the napkin to her lips to wipe away the remnants of her meal. She thought this would be the best way to learn a little about him. She knew this was happening fast, far too fast, but as queen, some sacrifices were simply expected.
"Mm," he hummed in acknowledgment, slicing the meat with precise, deliberate movements. It struck her again just how much this man valued table manners, as if every gesture were a display of perfect discipline.
A silence fell between them, thick and heavy, until Oriana finally broke it. This was very unlike her; since yesterday, she had been behaving in ways she scarcely recognized. Ordinarily, she valued quiet and discretion in the hall unless duty demanded otherwise. Yet here she was, initiating conversation.
"King Zorath, what brought you to Gantrem?" she asked softly, her voice steady but curious.
"Your ball," Zorath replied curtly, a slight, almost imperceptible smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
Oriana's eyes deepened in focus as she studied his expression, searching for any hint of jest or sincerity.
"King Zorath, that is very hard to believe," she said, taking a small sip of juice.
A soft chuckle escaped his lips, catching her off guard. She nearly choked, bringing the cup down quickly, as he laughed as though the moment were a rare indulgence. Trying to steady her composure, she shifted her gaze away briefly before meeting his eyes again.
"Very true," he continued, his voice calm but teasing. "I was merely pulling your leg. I see your foolishness has diminished a fraction."
Oriana's lips parted, ready to reply, but he spoke again before she could.
"I had come to Gantrem to inspect my estate. Just as I was preparing to depart back to my kingdom, the letters arrived about the masquerade that the Queen was hosting. I decided, therefore, to spare a glance."
Oriana's eyes widened slightly at his choice of words.
'Spare a glance.'
This man truly carried himself with unshakable confidence. She bit back a retort, unwilling to appear rude; after all, this was a delicate moment. She could not afford to spoil the proposal. And she reminded herself: unlike others, he was marrying her not for money—he had wealth beyond imagination—but for the need of an heir, much like herself.
"I see," she said softly, her voice measured, though her fingers clenched the fork a little too tightly as she poked at the meat harder than intended. The sharp clink against the plate made her cheeks warm slightly, but she quickly looked away, aware of his attentive eyes.
Even as she ate, her mind wandered. How could such a striking, perfect man remain unwed? The admiration he must have received—the countless glances and whispers last night alone—surely matched, or even exceeded, the attention of his entire kingdom. Had he rejected many? Or perhaps he had simply waited for something… like this.
"Condolences for the death of the king," he finally spoke, his eyes distant and unreadable.
Oriana slowly raised her head, her gaze soft and measured. She gave a slow nod.
Zorath's eyes caught the faint trace of sadness settling on her face. For a moment, neither spoke. Silence filled the room, heavy and contemplative.
They ate in silence.
The afternoon wind swept through Oriana's hair as she stood on the far side of the castle grounds. The grass, sun-scorched and brittle, crunched softly beneath her feet as the sunlight caught the red tips of her hair. Zorath stood beside her, posture tall and brooding, an imposing shadow against the bright day. Not far off, the archery range awaited, arrows and bows laid carefully within reach.
Oriana could not explain why, but she suddenly became acutely aware of herself—perhaps because he was here, or perhaps because she could feel his presence lingering in the air like a weight she could neither escape nor ignore.
"How did you learn to strike?" Zorath asked, his voice calm, measured.
The question made her start slightly. There was no curiosity in his tone, no softness—yet the words alone made her heart flutter for reasons she could not name. Why did she feel this way for this arrogant, commanding man?
"My brother loved it," she replied, her voice careful. "He taught me… and sometimes we compete. Well, not to brag, but I am… perfect at it."
Zorath's sharp gaze lingered on her.
"'Perfect' is a strong word, considering I can already picture your first three misses when we begin, Queen Oriana," he said, his tone clipped, almost teasing. His eyes flickered briefly to her slender arms, tracing the graceful tension in her posture.
Oriana's cheeks flushed lightly with embarrassment. In saying that, had she implied she never missed a strike? Her words had carried more boldness than she intended, and she felt the mixture of pride and mortification heat her skin.
"Oh, you would have to watch me dim those prideful words of yours, King Zorath," she replied softly, her eyes glinting with defiant determination. The flush of embarrassment faded, replaced by a spark of confidence.
Zorath's lips widened in a dark, almost predatory smile at the sharpness in her gaze. Yet their moment of tension was abruptly interrupted.
One of the castle guards approached, carrying a letter in his hands. Oriana's lips parted in surprise.
"King Zorath… you have a letter," she said, curiosity creeping into her voice. She found herself staring at the elegant handwriting, wondering who would send a letter to the king while he was here.
"From?" Zorath asked, his tone casual, almost indifferent, as if the sender mattered little to him.
"Young Duchess Isabella,"