Chapter 2: Chapter 2
Ciri could not believe at how beautiful the castle was , the towers reaching up to the sky like fingers of stone.
The wind carried the scent of roses and ripe grapes, and the distant sound of laughter drifted from the courtyard where the wedding guests were gathering. Ciri stood at the edge of the balcony, her fingers tracing the cool stone railing, her emerald eyes reflecting the golden light of the setting sun.
Zuzran had taken her with him today to see the queen.
The queen had invited them to her castle for a private dinner before the wedding. Zuzran had warned her that the queen was a woman of sharp wit and sharper instincts, someone who could see through lies as easily as she could spot a poorly pressed gown. Ciri had laughed, adjusting the silver circlet in her hair, and said, "Then she’ll love me. I’ve never been good at either."
The castle loomed ahead, its towers piercing the sky like the fingers of some ancient, slumbering giant. The stone was pale gold in the fading light, warm and inviting, yet still imposing.
Ciri had seen grand castles before—Vizima, Cintra, even the floating citadels of Aretuza—but this was different. This was Toussaint, where magic and wine flowed as freely as the rivers, where the air smelled of roses and the past was a thing to be celebrated, not feared.
Zuzran’s hand rested lightly on the small of her back as they ascended the steps, his touch steady and reassuring. He had been quiet since they left the vineyard, his usual easy confidence replaced by something more guarded. Ciri glanced at him, catching the way his fingers flexed against the fabric of her dress, as if he were resisting the urge to pull her closer.
"You're nervous," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. The wind carried the scent of roses and ripe grapes, tangling in her silver hair like invisible fingers.
Zuzran exhaled sharply, his breath warm against her temple. "No but I expect Anne Henrietta will propose a new job she has for me," he admitted, his voice rough with amusement. "She always does. The woman has a talent for finding trouble."
Ciri smirked, nudging him with her elbow. "And you have a talent for walking into it."
The grand doors of the castle swung open before them, revealing a cavernous entryway bathed in golden light. The walls were adorned with tapestries depicting scenes of Toussaint's history—vines heavy with grapes, knights in gleaming armor, and sorceresses with eyes that seemed to follow them as they passed. The air smelled of beeswax and something sweet, like honeyed wine.
A servant in immaculate livery bowed deeply.
"The Queen awaits you in the Grand Hall, Master Zuzran. And the Lady Ciri of Cintra."
Zuzran nodded, his expression unreadable. "Thank you, we know the way."
The servant's eyes flicked to Ciri's silver hair and emerald eyes before he straightened. "Of course, my lord. The Queen particularly requested your presence this evening."
Ciri raised an eyebrow as they walked. "My lord? Since when do they call you that?"
Zuzran chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Well, since I saved the castle and the city from a Dragon and Djin," he replied as he looked at her.
"Since then, they have been calling me that, but I don't really care for it," he states as he looks at her. "Oh, come on, you love it. You just don't want to admit it," she teased, her emerald eyes sparkling with amusement. "Besides, it suits you. You *are* a lord now, whether you like it or not."
Zuzran exhaled sharply, his fingers tightening around hers. "I never asked for any of this," he admitted, his voice rough with something that wasn’t quite frustration, but close. "You do know that when we get married you would be technically my baroness then," he states as he looks at her.
Ciri’s lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. "Oh, I know," she said, her voice dripping with mock innocence. "And I fully intend to take advantage of that title. You’ll see me in furs and jewels, holding court in your vineyard, demanding tribute from passing merchants."
Zuzran barked a laugh, the sound rich and warm. "You? Holding court? The last time you tried to play the noble lady, you ended up dueling a knight in the middle of the market square."
Ciri smirked, her fingers tightening around his. "And won," she pointed out. "Fair and square.
Though I think the knight was more offended by my outfit than my swordplay," Ciri said, her emerald eyes glinting with mischief. The memory made her grin, but the expression faltered as they stepped into the Grand Hall.
The room was a masterpiece of Toussaint’s opulence—gold-leafed columns, frescoes of vineyards and mythical beasts, and a long table set with enough silver and crystal to outfit a small army. At the far end, Queen Anna Henrietta sat like a monarch carved from marble, her dark eyes sharp as she studied them.
Zuzran’s fingers tightened imperceptibly against Ciri’s back as they approached.
The queen’s gaze flicked over them, lingering on the way Ciri’s silver hair caught the candlelight, the way Zuzran’s hand rested possessively at her waist. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats and spiced wine, but beneath it all, Ciri caught the sharper tang of something else—something like anticipation.
"Ah, Zuzran," the queen said, her voice smooth as aged wine. "And the infamous Ciri of Cintra. I was beginning to think you’d changed your mind about dinner."
Zuzran bowed deeply, his movements fluid despite the years.
"Your Majesty," he said, his voice carrying that familiar rough warmth. "We would never miss the chance to share a meal with you."
Ciri curtsied gracefully, but her eyes never left the queen's face. "Your castle is breathtaking," she said, her voice sincere. "I've never seen anything like it."
The queen's lips curved into a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Thank you, my dear. I do hope you'll find Toussaint as enchanting as its reputation suggests."
Zuzran straightened, his hand finding Ciri's again. "I'm sure she will," he replied, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles.
"She's already charmed half the court with her stories."
Ciri smirked, squeezing his hand. "Only half? I must be slipping."
The queen chuckled, a sound like crystal clinking. "Come, sit. I've had the cooks prepare something special for you both." She gestured to the table, where platters of roasted pheasant, glazed carrots, and golden bread still steaming were arranged. A bottle of wine breathed beside two empty glasses.
Zuzran pulled out Ciri's chair before taking his own, their knees brushing beneath the table. The queen watched them with an amused glint in her eye as she poured the wine, the liquid dark as spilled ink.