The carriage moved steadily along the stone path, its wheels humming softly beneath them. Inside, the world felt much quieter—so quiet that Mirha could hear her own heartbeat.
She sat opposite the Emperor, her back straight, her gaze lowered to her hands folded neatly on her lap. She hadn't looked up once since they left the palace gates.
Arvin noticed.
The way she avoided his eyes…
The tension in her shoulders…
The faint tremble in her breath…
He understood it all too well—because he was nervous too.
He leaned forward slightly, voice low and gentle.
"Mirha."
Her head lifted immediately, trained obedience softened by that familiar warmth in her eyes.
"Yes, Your Majesty?"
Arvin studied her for a moment, then asked softly,
"You're nervous, aren't you?"
Mirha hesitated, then smiled—small, polite, fragile.
"Just a little, Your Majesty."
Arvin returned the smile, faint but sincere. Slowly—carefully—he reached out his hand toward hers.
Mirha's eyes flickered to the gesture, then up to his face. She didn't pull away.
Her hand settled in his palm, light as a whisper.
Arvin took a breath, then spoke with a vow threaded in every syllable:
"I understand your new title comes with many expectations… but I want you to know this clearly—"
He lifted her hand gently between them.
"—I will never force you to do anything you do not want. And you will remain my concubine regardless. You do not have to earn the position or perform anything to keep it. You are not here to be pressured."
Mirha's fingers tightened around his—not much, just enough to let him know she heard him, believed him.
Arvin brought her hand to his lips and kissed her knuckles.
Mirha froze.
Her breath hitched.
Her eyes widened in surprise, almost childlike.
Then, without thinking—without pausing—she bent forward and kissed his hand too.
Her hair fell over his lap, brushing against the fabric of his robes as her soft lips touched his skin. Arvin inhaled sharply, startled—not by the kiss itself but by the sincerity behind it.
The humility.
The acceptance.
Mirha lifted her face, meeting his eyes directly for the first time that day.
Her smile was tender—quiet but full.
"Thank you, Your Majesty. You are too kind."
She exhaled slowly, then added with gentle honesty:
"But… if I do nothing of what I am here for, it defeats the purpose of my position. And if this is my fate…"
Her gaze softened, drifting for a moment.
"…then I will make the best of it."
She glanced outside the carriage window at the passing trees, sunlight glinting over her veil and jewels.
"And besides," Mirha said, almost shyly, "I do not mind serving someone as kind and generous as you."
Arvin stared at her—utterly speechless.
The carriage continued forward, but for him, time had stopped.
Inside the Golden Estate Chambers
Mirha stepped into the chambers… and froze.
It was enormous.
Not large — enormous.
A space so vast she genuinely believed twenty people could live comfortably inside it.
Her eyes darted from the ceiling carved with golden vines, down to the expansive silk-draped bed, across to the far wall where sunlight spilled through tall, pearl–rimmed windows.
And then she realized—
There were rooms inside the room.
Curiosity tugged at her.
She slipped off her shoes and padded across the polished floor, opening the first door she reached.
The Bathing Room
Her breath caught.
The entire chamber was like something out of a divine realm — polished stone floors, pale marble walls, and in the center, a massive sunken tub filled with gently moving water.
Mirha blinked.
Moving?
She stepped closer, leaning over the tub.
The water rippled as if alive — flowing in from one side, slipping out through the other.
A tiny tributary… inside a room.
Her fingers dipped into the water.
Warm.
Perfectly warm.
Mirha straightened slowly, whispering,
"How is there a tributary in a bathing room?"
She had never seen anything like it. The entire place looked like a bathing hall crafted for gods — perfumed steam rising, delicate lanterns reflecting on the water like scattered stars.
It was too beautiful to be real.
The Toilet Room
She opened the next door—
Saw what it was—
Immediately closed it again.
"No need."
She muttered under her breath, cheeks warming slightly.
The Study
The next room was a study — carved bookshelves lining the walls, a desk with phoenix engravings, and stacks of parchment sealed and ready for her use. Mirha touched the edge of the table, imagining the endless hours someone must have spent in here.
But there wasn't time to linger.
---
The Dressing Room
The final door revealed a dressing chamber bigger than her entire previous quarters. Elegant mirrors, drawers lined with silk, clothing racks waiting to be filled with fabrics she had never even dreamed of touching.
Mirha stepped back, overwhelmed.
Back to the Bedroom
She returned to the main chamber — her new bedroom — but her emotions tangled so tightly she couldn't name a single one.
Shock.
Awe.
Anxiety.
Gratitude.
Fear.
Curiosity.
Everything mixed together until her chest felt tight.
She exhaled a shaky breath, walked toward the massive bed, and sat on the edge. It was too soft… too luxurious… too unreal.
Mirha laid down—
Meaning only to rest a moment—
But the second her head touched the pillow, the exhaustion of the entire day finally caught her.
Within moments, she was fast asleep, her breathing soft and peaceful in the golden silence of her new home.
Mirha woke to a soft, melodic voice drifting through her dreams.
"Your Majesty… your Majesty…"
Her eyelids fluttered open.
And the first thing she saw was gold.
A woman stood beside her bed — tall, elegant, and glowing so brightly Mirha almost thought she was still dreaming. Her long hair moved like flowing water, smooth and glossy; her skin was a warm, bronzed gold that shimmered as if touched by the sun itself. Bright eyes, framed by long lashes, watched Mirha with gentle patience.
Mirha blinked at her.
Her first word slipped out unfiltered.
"…wow."
The woman giggled, a light, airy sound.
"Hello, my lady. I am Lady Mayora — I will be the Head Lady of your estate."
Mirha pushed herself up, squinting in confusion.
"Head Lady? You… you look a bit too young to be one."
Mayora laughed again, hand lifting modestly to cover her smile.
"Oh no, my lady. I am a married woman — a mother of two beautiful boys and one girl."
Mirha's jaw dropped.
"You—you have three children?"
Mayora nodded proudly.
"Yes, my lady. They are treasures. And I will tell you everything you need to know about the estate, your routines, your duties… but first—"
She clapped her hands softly.
"We must prepare you for dinner. The Emperor will be out soon, and you should be dressed before he arrives."
Mirha's eyes widened.
"Dinner? Now?"
She practically leapt off the bed, nearly tripping over herself as she rushed toward the bathing room.
Mayora giggled as Mirha disappeared behind the carved door.
Behind her, three attending ladies stood waiting, observing.
One sighed dreamily.
"She is perfect."
Another clasped her hands.
"I am going to love it here."
The last, more cautious, sniffed.
"I am not sure yet."
Mayora nodded thoughtfully, not taking offense.
"Prepare her clothes for when she emerges," she instructed.
Her tone warm, but firm. "Tonight must be flawless."
The ladies bowed and hurried to the dressing chamber—
just as the sound of rushing water signaled Mirha's frantic attempt to make herself presentable.
Mirha was dressed in the most comfortable clothes she had ever worn—soft fabric, light as air, no corset tightening her ribs, no heavy skirts weighing her down. She could feel the intention behind such freedom, but in that moment she didn't care. Her mind was too full, her heart still unsteady.
She sat by the low table, elbows resting lightly, eyes fixed on the gentle flame dancing inside a bronze lamp. The room was quiet, warm, and strangely intimate. She didn't hear the door open—only felt the shift in the air when someone entered.
Arvin.
He walked in with the effortless calm that always left her breathless. But instead of taking the seat opposite her—where emperors belonged—he came to sit right beside her. The space between them vanished, and Mirha felt her pulse jump.
She turned to him with a small smile she couldn't suppress. He returned it, but his eyes lingered a heartbeat longer than usual… as if he had been waiting to see her.
Dinner was served, and for a while only the soft sounds of porcelain and utensils filled the silence. It was Arvin who finally broke it, his voice low, warm:
"Have you met Mayora?"
Mirha perked up instantly. "Yes! She's so beautiful. And to think she's married—he must be a very lucky man. She looks so young. And her hair… I swear it moves like water. And her skin—so tanned, she looks like she bathes in gold."
Arvin laughed, the sound deep and full, so rare that Mirha felt her stomach flip. "Yes, Mayora is… quite radiant. Heman is a lucky man indeed."
Mirha's eyes widened. "You mean Lord Heman?"
Arvin nodded, amused. "Yes."
Mirha leaned closer, whispering as if someone might hear. "She is Heman's wife?!"
Arvin chuckled at her bewildered expression. "Yes. Why is it such a surprise?"
Mirha shook her head. "She's so kind and talkative. I've been in Taico for a year and a half, and I swear Lord Heman has spoken only three full sentences. How did he convince her to marry him?"
Arvin burst into laughter—real, unrestrained, the type that softened the lines of his face. Mirha felt heat rise to her cheeks just watching him.
"Well," he said, leaning a little closer, "perhaps some people don't need many words. They do what they can without saying a thing. And that…" His voice dropped, a soft rumble. "That is love, isn't it?"
He reached for her hand—not abruptly, not boldly, but with a slow certainty, as if he had wanted to do it since he entered the room.
Mirha's breath caught. His fingers were warm around hers, grounding her and unraveling her at the same time.
She didn't pull away.
"Yes," she whispered, her voice barely audible even to herself. "A beautiful one."
Their eyes held—longer than necessary, longer than safe. Something unspoken, fragile and intense, expanded between them. Arvin's gaze flicked to her lips, just for a second. Mirha felt it like a spark.
Then, inevitably, he leaned in. Their lips met in a kiss that started soft, exploratory, but deepened into something fierce and consuming. It was tense, intense, each press and pull drawing out the agony of restraint, tongues tentatively brushing as if afraid to shatter the fragile dam holding back the flood of desire.
Arvin pulled back from the kiss first, his breath ragged against her lips, leaving Mirha's mouth tingling with the ghost of his taste—warm, spiced, and utterly addictive. His eyes, dark and stormy in the firelight, held hers for a heartbeat longer, promising depths she ached to explore. Then, slowly, deliberately, he trailed his lips along the sharp line of her jaw, each press soft yet insistent, igniting a shiver that rippled down her spine.
She tilted her head instinctively, granting him access as his mouth ventured lower, brushing the sensitive skin of her neck. The heat of his breath fanned over her pulse, which hammered wildly beneath his touch, betraying the storm raging inside her. A low hum escaped his throat, vibrating against her flesh, and Mirha's fingers tightened in his grasp, her body leaning into him without conscious thought. The loose fabric of her clothes shifted with the movement, the unbound swell of her nipples rising and falling in quick, shallow bursts.
He lingered there, lips parting to graze with the barest hint of teeth, a tease that sent liquid fire pooling low in her belly. Upward his kisses wandered, feather-light now, tracing the curve to her ear. His tongue flicked out, warm and wet, circling the lobe before he captured it gently between his lips, sucking just enough to draw a soft gasp from her.
'You should go to bed,' he murmured, his voice a husky whisper that curled into her ear like smoke, laced with restraint that only heightened the ache between them. The words hung in the air, heavy with unspoken invitation, his free hand sliding up her arm in a slow, possessive stroke that made her skin prickle with anticipation.
Mirha's heart thudded, her body screaming against the suggestion even as a flush crept up her chest. She turned her face toward his, their noses brushing, lips so close she could feel the warmth of his exhale. The fire crackled on, oblivious to the tension coiling tighter, ready to snap.