Time seemed to slow down as the arrow flew straight toward Zaroth's back. The faint whistle of the arrow cut through the air.
Oriana's eyes widened, her lips parting as her breath caught all at once. Instinctively, she brought out her hands, but that was all she could do. Her words failed her. She could not even call out his name.
The arrow moved cleanly through the air.
Zaroth turned sharply, his hands shooting out with inhuman speed as he caught the arrow. The wood cracked in his grip, the arrow breaking into two before it fell to the ground. Its tips landed on the grass, the broken ends standing stiffly between the blades.
Oriana gasped in shock at what she had just seen. She truly did not know what had come over her to act in such a way. She did not know why she had suddenly done it.
Zaroth's lips tilted ever so slightly. It was barely visible—that smirk that had briefly plastered itself across his face before disappearing. In his eyes, there was no hint of panic, only a calm, chilling coldness.
He began to walk toward her.
Thup.
Oriana released the bow, letting it fall onto the grass. It was as if she feared her own body might act again in a way she did not wish for, just as it had earlier. She truly did not know what had come over her.
But now her heart began to pound harder with every step he took toward her. Her mind searched desperately for an explanation, yet nothing made sense. Who would even listen to her? Who would believe her after what she had just done?
Her breath caught as he finally reached her.
His eyes looked down at her, towering so close above her. He did not seem to care about any scandal now.
Oriana's chest rose and fell quickly as she clutched the fabric of her gown tightly in her hands, as if it were the only thing anchoring her—as if holding it might somehow make her less nervous.
Yet the warmth of his presence, so near, only made her heart beat louder in her ears.
His fingers moved to her chin, lifting it so she could look properly into his eyes.
"Aim for the heart, not the back. A man can survive an arrow to the back—the muscles surrounding it may protect him. The heart is the true center.
Use three arrows, not one. Strike the top, bottom, and most importantly the center, respectively. If you intend to kill, then at least do it properly."
His voice was calm and controlled as he spoke, his choice of words ironic in place, offering the advice as though he were instructing her in something ordinary.
Oriana's pupils dilated as she stared at him wide-eyed, not expecting his words. She had braced herself for something else entirely.
Yet here he was… giving her advice on how to kill betterly… if that was even a word.
Only heaven knew how those words made him even more terrifying than he already was.
"I… did n..not m-m..mean to," Oriana finally found her voice, stuttering hard, though even she knew that was not what she had truly planned to explain. She had not meant to strike—but that was not something anyone would believe.
Her eyes locked spellbound onto his red ones, which flickered faintly. The aura around him thickened ever so slightly.
Then his lips widened.
A shiver ran down Oriana's spine. The expression on his face could not even be considered a smile.
"It does not matter what your intentions were, Queen Oriana. I will still keep my word and marry you. This mere incident will not take that away, I assure you."
Oriana's pulse skipped.
M… Mere incident?
His fingers, which had been holding her chin, seemed to burn her soul with their touch—slowly pulled away. Then his hand moved to hers.
He held her hands gently.
Lowering himself slightly, his blood-red pupils still locked onto hers, he lifted her hand to his lips. His warm lips pressed a kiss against it.
Oriana's knees weakened.
He had kissed the exact hand she had used to release the arrow, as if caressing it with his lips for her courage—or her foolishness at her behavior. She could not tell. This man was unpredictable; his gestures could mean the opposite of what one expected.
Then he turned and began to leave.
Oriana's heart hammered loudly in her chest as guilt washed over her, along with a lingering thread of fear. Her eyes could not leave his back figure as he walked toward the exit with calm authority.
This man was truly a man of his word.
Perhaps part of the reason for her panic had been the thought that he might cancel the proposal after what she had done.
But it seemed this man did not fear death.
Only when he was completely out of sight did she realize she had finally released the breath she hadn't even known she had been holding.
She raised her leg and stomped hard against the grass. The slight ache shot through her foot, but she barely noticed. Why was she making the rumors true?
"Arghh" She groaned in annoyance.
If anyone else had been present, if it had not only been her and the king, there would have been no doubt: they would have believed she had killed her brother.
A sigh escaped her lips as she turned her eyes toward the bull's eyes not far away. She pressed her lips together, releasing her fingers that had been tightened to her gown. She needed something—anything—to distract her from this place.
"Your Grace."
Oriana spun toward the voice almost abruptly. It was Layla. Her head was bowed, and Oriana hadn't even realized she had arrived; she had been so lost in thought.
"Prepare the carriage. I will be going to the village square." Her voice was soft, yet firm.
Layla lifted her head slightly in surprise before quickly bowing again. Oriana usually went there once in a while after numerous pleas with her brother to allow her leave under the pretense of buying a certain material from a particular tailor she fancied, but she had only used that as an excuse.
The village square was lively, chaotic even, and she enjoyed watching arguments unfold and seeing crowds bustle, unlike the calm, controlled palace. He did allow her sometimes—but most trips were futile.
"Your Grace, you do not have to worry about that. We can handle it." Panic trembled in Layla's tone, for the square had become dangerous, even for the queen, not to mention they had lots of royal designers. Why did the queen fancy the one in the village square?
Oriana shook her head with a reassuring smile.
"I want to pick the materials myself. There is a certain color I had asked for on our last visit, and I was told it would be brought and kept for me. You will come with me. I will also wear a hat and a hooded cloak."
But their last visit had been two months ago.
Layla nodded, bowing deeply.
"Very well, my Queen."
But fear still gnawed at her. The village square had become a perilous place. Layla, who lived there, knew it better than anyone. No one was safe, no matter the hour.
People like Oriana had begun disappearing—taken for ransom by men no one ever saw coming.
As if that weren't enough, Oriana's voice broke the tense silence:
"I do not want any guard to accompany us."