The tavern's cozy warmth clashed starkly with the cold weight hanging in the air between the two men. Seated at a corner booth of Angel's Share, Orion lifted his mug and took another sip of dandelion wine. His voice cut through the background hum of laughter and clinking glasses.
"Venti… do you know who's behind the attacks on Mondstadt and my kingdom, Arian?"
Venti groaned softly and leaned back in his chair, the mug in his hand swaying dangerously. "You know, I invited you here to relax, unwind, maybe get a little tipsy—not dive into trauma and world-ending conspiracies."
Orion's expression didn't budge. His gaze was steady, unblinking, like the eyes of a soldier who had long stopped hoping for good news.
Venti sighed, a little heavier this time. The mischief drained from his features, replaced by something older… something tired.
"The real enemy… is the Abyss," he said quietly, almost reverently, as if invoking a curse. He began to recount the horrors of the Cataclysm—the fall of Khaenri'ah, the eternal curse of immortality, and the endless abyssal corruption that followed in its wake.
Orion listened in stunned silence, each word hitting like a blade to the soul.
"I can't believe it," he muttered, his voice trembling. "Immortality… as a curse? The invasion, the suffering… This is unthinkable. Such madness could never take root in Arian."
Venti chuckled dryly, the edge of a hiccup hitching in his throat. "Sounds like Rosen's doing. She must've found a way to isolate her kingdom. Keep it safe... for now."
Orion's eyes sharpened instantly, like a blade drawn from its sheath. "Rosen?" he echoed. "You said you didn't know the name VlastMoroz. But now you speak her other name without hesitation."
Venti's grin froze. His posture stiffened—just for a second—then he sprang to his feet with exaggerated flair.
"Oh wow! Would you look at the time? I'm super late for my next performance!" he declared, already backing away.
"Venti, wait—at least pay your damn bill before running off!" Orion called, rising halfway from his seat.
Too late. The bard was gone in a gust of wind and half-spilled wine.
Orion groaned and slumped back down with a weary sigh. "Coward."
Moments later, a young waiter approached with a polite but slightly nervous smile, holding a paper slip in his hand.
"Excuse me, sir. Here's the bill for the beverages you and your… companion ordered."
Orion glanced at the parchment, frowning. "Mora?" he repeated, puzzled. "I've never heard of such currency. But I suppose I must repay you properly for what we've consumed."
He reached into the inner pocket of his cloak and retrieved a brooch. The piece gleamed under the tavern lights—an intricate design of gold and silver, studded with three crystalline gems that shimmered like frozen starlight.
"This was a gift from my father… on my fifteenth birthday. I've cherished it ever since," he said softly, turning it in his palm. "Take it as collateral, until I understand your currency and return to settle my debt properly."
The waiter blinked in awe at the exquisite craftsmanship but nodded respectfully.
"As you wish, sir."
Orion leaned back and exhaled. The wine had lost its sweetness. The warmth of the tavern now felt distant, like a fire in another room.
Orion stood from his seat and stepped out of the tavern.
The city was already dimming—lanterns flickering to life, shadows stretching long across the streets. Night had returned, and with it, a tired chill in the air.
He sighed and made his way back to Frieda's quarters.
---
Her place sat near the palace's inner ring—quiet, secluded. Cozy warmth spilled from its windows. Inside, soft furs covered the floor, books were stacked in organized chaos, and the hearth in the corner crackled gently.
But something was off.
---
As he entered, he saw her—Frieda—pacing.
Her arms were folded tight. Her face creased with worry. She didn't even notice him at first.
"I'm back?" Orion said softly.
She looked up.
No relief.
Just panic. Her breath hitched. Her eyes widened like she'd seen a ghost. Her heart was pounding loud enough for him to hear it.
---
"Frieda?" he asked, stepping in. "Are you okay? You look like you just relived Durin's attack."
"I… I…" she tried to speak, but the words caught in her throat.
He moved closer.
She stepped back.
---
"Do you not remember what happened?" she asked, voice shaky.
Orion frowned. "What are you talking about? Are you alright? Did you overwork yourself or something?"
---
She sighed, trying to steady herself. But the guilt still clung to her like a second skin.
"It's nothing," she muttered. "Just a bad day. Sit down. I'll make dinner."
---
He sat at the edge of the bed, still watching her.
As she busied herself in the kitchen, he spoke again.
"I didn't get to thank you… for taking care of me earlier."
---
"You don't have to thank me," she said quickly.
Too quickly.
Her voice was urgent. Like she needed to stop him from saying more.
"I don't deserve it. It's my fault you pushed yourself that far. I should've seen it. I should've stopped you…" She said, with a sorrowful expression on her face.
Dinner came and went in a peaceful haze. Their plates now empty, Frieda leaned back in her chair with a satisfied sigh.
"That hit the spot," Orion muttered, rubbing his stomach like an old man after a feast. "I might actually survive another day."
Frieda snorted. "Good. I wasn't planning on dragging your corpse out of here."
---
A quiet moment passed, filled only by the soft pop of firewood in the hearth.
Eventually, Orion spoke. "So… I guess I'll be staying here for a while."
Frieda raised an eyebrow. "You guess?"
He shrugged. "It's not safe out there. You said it yourself—I need rest. And, well… I feel better here."
Her gaze softened. "Then stay. As long as you need."
---
There was a pause.
Then they both looked at the bed.
The one bed.
Ah.
---
"I haven't had time to bring up the spare straw mattress from the cellar," Frieda said, suddenly very interested in wiping an invisible spot on the table. "And the futon I ordered from Springvale won't be here for… a few days."
Orion gave her a side glance. "So…?"
"So," she huffed, "until then, we'll share the bed. Again."
He raised an eyebrow. "You say that like I'm a sack of potatoes you're tolerating."
"Don't flatter yourself," she muttered, cheeks barely tinged pink. "You snore like one."
---
They both laughed again.
Frieda stood, taking the dishes to the washbasin, while Orion wandered over to the bed. The thick down blanket was neatly folded, pillows fluffed, the room gently dim under candlelight.
The air smelled of firewood, rosemary, and just a hint of something sweet—maybe honey from the glaze she used.
It felt like… home.
---
"You take the left side," Frieda said as she returned, drying her hands. "That way you're not facing the window draft."
"Yes, General," Orion teased as he kicked off his boots.
She rolled her eyes but smiled all the same. "If you hog the blanket, I'm kicking you off."
"I'd like to see you try."
---
They both settled in—awkward at first, but not unpleasant.
Just two souls worn by the world, finding warmth in the same quiet space.
As the room dimmed and sleep began to creep in, Orion whispered, "Thanks again… for everything."
Frieda didn't reply right away.
Then, softly: "Just get better."
---
Outside, snow fell gently against the windowpane.
Inside, for now… everything was calm.
On the other hand, Frieda lay stiffly on her side, eyes wide open, thoughts anything but calm.
She could feel his warmth beside her. Hear the steady rhythm of his breathing. And every now and then, when he shifted slightly in his sleep, her heart jumped like a startled bird.
Just sleep, she told herself. Do not cuddle him. Do not kiss him again. You're not insane.
Her gaze drifted to his face—peaceful, relaxed. Lips slightly parted.
Gods help her.