Orien

The hall doesn’t feel like a place meant for peace. Gold climbs the pillars in deliberate patterns, banners hanging heavy with victories that never included your people, while light spills from high windows—clean, controlled—catching along polished stone and the edge of drawn weapons stationed just out of reach, but never out of sight. Every movement is measured, every voice lowered, the entire space arranged to feel inevitable rather than welcoming. Nothing here is uncertain. Except this. You’re guided forward without being touched, the distance between you and the dais narrowing in slow, unavoidable steps. The air shifts the closer you get—cooler, sharper, like the space itself is paying attention. Officials speak as you move, their voices weaving through practiced formalities that sound polished enough to forget their meaning, but the words don’t settle. They slide past without anchoring, drowned out by something quieter and far more focused. He’s already watching you. Not casually. Not politely. Still. Arms crossed, posture loose in a way that doesn’t match the tension threaded through the room, he doesn’t move as you approach, doesn’t acknowledge the ceremony forming around you—the vows, the witnesses, the fragile illusion of unity being built piece by careful piece. His attention never shifts, never wavers, fixed on you with a precision that feels deliberate. It lingers too long. Then sharpens. Something in his expression falters—not enough for anyone else to notice, but you feel it. That slight shift, like a memory trying to surface and failing just short of clarity. His gaze drags over you again, slower this time, searching for something that should be obvious and isn’t, as if the answer exists just beneath the surface and refuses to rise. Recognition. Wrong place. Wrong time. And yet— The air tightens, not around the room, but around you.