Mirha sat at the old stone fountain—the same place she had gotten lost when she first arrived at the Imperial Castle. The cool water rippled quietly, and small white bunnies hopped around her feet, nibbling on fallen leaves. Mirha let out a long breath and stroked the soft fur of the bunny in her lap, letting its warmth drown out the words Kanha had hurled at her earlier.
She had known this side of Kanha for years—the side that looked at her like she was a speck of dirt on silk. Mirha had even made peace with it.
But there was one question she had never been able to answer:
Why does Kanha hate me so much?
Mirha gently placed the bunny down and sighed.
I came here to forget… not to understand.
As the sky dimmed, lanterns flickering to life around the garden, Mirha stood and dusted her dress. By now Goya was surely gone. And although she adored the Princess, Mirha knew that if Goya found her right now, those soft, empathetic eyes would make her feel weaker than Kanha's words ever could.
She took a step back toward the castle—only to freeze.
A horse trotted into the garden.
Riding it was a man in simple commoner clothes—dusty boots, a plain dark tunic, hair slightly messy as though he had been out for hours.
Mirha blinked. Then blinked again.
Why… is the Emperor dressed like that?
Arvin pulled the horse to a stop and looked directly at her. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Mirha snapped out of her shock and bowed so quickly she nearly lost her balance.
"Your Majesty—my apologies, I did not reco—"
She stopped, panicked she might offend him.
"I mean… my incompetence. Please forgive me."
Arvin stared at her, momentarily speechless.
"Please don't apologize," he finally said softly. "Raise your head, Mirha."
She lifted her gaze to meet his. His eyes were warm… almost embarrassed.
Arvin cleared his throat.
"I… was training."
Mirha's lips parted.
Why is the Emperor justifying himself to me?
She said nothing, too shy to comment.
Arvin chuckled under his breath and gestured forward.
"Shall we walk? If you do not mind walking beside a dirty Emperor."
Mirha laughed softly.
"Only if the Emperor does not mind walking beside a clumsy court lady."
They began walking side by side through the quiet garden.
After a moment, Arvin asked, "What brings you here alone?"
Mirha shrugged lightly.
"Oh, I was just… moving around. The bunnies were very entertaining."
Arvin smiled at the gentle spark in her eyes.
Mirha smiled back shyly.
But as she stepped forward again, her foot caught on a patch of uneven stone. She gasped and stumbled back—Arvin reached for her, but she hit the ground faster than he could catch her.
Mirha burst into laughter.
Arvin laughed too, relieved she was unhurt, and helped her up by the arm.
"I'm so sorry, Your Majesty," Mirha giggled.
Arvin shook his head, still smiling.
"You truly have a history with this garden… always falling into something."
The moment the words left his mouth, his expression froze.
Mirha froze too.
He…
He knows?
And did he perhaps know that she was the lady who fell into the old garden hole on the first night?
Mirha quickly shook off her surprise.
Of course he knows. He is the Emperor… he knows everything that happens here.
She smiled gently, trying to cover the flutter in her chest.
"Well, Your Majesty," she said with a small laugh, "I think I'm getting déjà vu."
Suni's frantic voice echoed through the garden.
"My Lady! Lady Mirha!"
Mirha's head turned immediately.
She looked back at Arvin, eyes widening with apology.
"Your Majesty… I must go. I'm needed."
Arvin nodded once, but as she stepped away, he called softly,
"Mirha."
She stopped and turned.
Arvin's gaze held hers—gentle, quietly earnest.
"Will you keep this encounter between us?"
Mirha blinked, then her lips curved into a small, warm smile.
"I won't tell a soul, Your Majesty."
And with that, she gathered her skirts and ran toward Suni's voice.
Arvin watched her disappear past the hedges, the sound of her footsteps fading into the evening hush.
Only when she was gone did he let out a quiet breath and murmur under his own breath,
"Déjà vu… indeed."
He brushed his hand lightly across the horse's neck, then turned and headed into the palace—expression unreadable, but a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Mirha slipped into her chambers and immediately froze when she saw Suni standing there, eyes swollen and glistening with tears.
Mirha blinked.
"And why are you crying, huh, Suni?"
Suni hiccupped as if trying to swallow the last of her panic.
"Because I could not find you, my lady… I was getting concerned."
Mirha let out a soft tsk, shaking her head with mock disappointment.
"You poor thing. You're too dramatic for your own good."
Suni breathed out a shaky laugh, the tension easing from her shoulders. Seeing her lady smile—after everything—was something she didn't expect today. Relief settled on her face like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds.
"I prepared food," Suni added hesitantly.
"In case you wanted to eat."
Mirha's eyes brightened instantly.
"Since when do I refuse food? Come—let's go!"
Before Suni could respond, Mirha grabbed her wrist and pulled her along with playful urgency. Suni let out a surprised squeak, stumbling to keep up as Mirha dragged her toward the side room.
For a moment, the heaviness of earlier disappeared—replaced by warm laughter, clinking dishes, and the familiar comfort that Suni's presence always brought.
But beneath Mirha's smile… her heart was still quietly hurting.
Meanwhile, in Kanha's chambers, the air was thick with the scent of wilted jasmine and dried tears. Her eyes were swollen, the skin around them raw from the constant wiping. She had been crying since morning—crying until she could no longer tell where one ache ended and the next began.
Every breath felt sharp, as if her own ribs were punishing her. Her throat tightened each time she tried to inhale, and still the tears came, uninvited… unstoppable.
Misha Tiavan's voice echoed in her mind on a cruel loop:
"Those leftovers are still here waiting for you."
Who knew those mocking words would turn into prophecy?
Kanha's fingers curled into the blankets, trembling.
When?
How?
How had she not seen it?
How had she not noticed the shift—the stolen glances, the quiet moments, the invisible thread pulling him toward her?
Could she have prevented it if she tried?
Had she been blind?
Or had she simply refused to imagine a world where Mirha—that meek, gentle girl—could ever be competition?
The tears fell harder, blurring the chamber into a smear of gold and shadow. Her maid hovered silently at the side, hands clasped, helpless. Even she felt pity—because nothing about Kanha, not even her arrogance, deserved this kind of heartbreak.
Kanha hadn't eaten since morning. She looked pale, drained, almost fragile. The weight of the day settled on her shoulders like chains. Her pride, her certainty, her plans—everything had shattered in just a few hours.
And still… she sobbed.
Miserable.
Alone.
And painfully aware that the world she built in her mind was already slipping away.
Kanha sat in the pool of her own tears, her body trembling from the weight of the day. Then, slowly, a chilling thought crept into her mind. These… these aren't the tears she should be shedding.
Her sobs slowed, her breathing steadied, and a cold, calculated clarity began to replace the raw grief. The vulnerability that had consumed her all day—the shame, the heartbreak, the helplessness—it wasn't hers to own anymore.
A new resolve settled over her like ice. Her lips pressed into a thin line, eyes narrowing, as the fire of her old pride rekindled. If this world would not bend to her, she would find a way to bend it herself.
And with that thought, the softness, the weeping, and the despair evaporated, leaving behind only a glimmer of something far more dangerous: cold intent.
Meanwhile in the Emperor's wing,
Arvin sat alone in his chambers, the candlelight flickering across the polished floors. The meeting had ended hours ago, yet his mind refused to leave the garden behind.
The image of Mirha kept creeping in—her laughter, the way she had tumbled so effortlessly, the mischievous sparkle in her eyes as she'd teased him. He could still see her bending down to pet the bunnies, so engrossed in her own world that she hadn't noticed him approaching.
He ran a hand through his hair, trying to push the thoughts away, but they only grew stronger. Her smile, so unassuming, yet so disarming, haunted him. He knew he shouldn't dwell on it—she was not his concern in that way—but the more he tried to ignore her, the more vivid the memory became.
A soft sigh escaped him. "Déjà vu indeed," he murmured to himself, recalling his own words in the garden. There was a pull he could not deny, a quiet curiosity, and… perhaps something more.
Arvin leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling, knowing deep down that the day's encounter had left a mark he hadn't expected—one he couldn't yet name, but one that refused to fade.