In Magili, Mirha, Gina, and Goya sat beneath the pavilion, sheets of parchment spread before them as they sketched absent-mindedly. Laughter drifted through the air, soft and unrestrained, as they shared inside jokes only the three of them understood. Their giggles blended with the breeze, light and carefree, as though the world beyond the pavilion did not exist.
From a distance, near the garden path, Kaisen stood watching.
For the longest time, he had refused to believe it. There is no way she—of all people—is now a concubine. The thought had followed him like a shadow, easy to dismiss when it was only rumor. But now he was seeing it with his own eyes.
Mirha's gown shimmered softly in the daylight, the cut unmistakably imperial. The jewelry she wore was delicate yet commanding—symbols that declared her status without the need for words. There was no mistaking it. She belonged to the Emperor now.
Kaisen felt something twist painfully in his chest. He didn't know whether to laugh at the absurdity of it all or to mourn what had been lost. A quiet chuckle escaped him—strained, hollow—before he turned away.
Without another glance toward the pavilion, he headed inside the palace to see his brother, Duke Rnzo.
When Kaisen entered the study, Rnzo looked up in mild surprise. He knew his brother was expected in Taico for the yearly banquet—but that was still two weeks away. This visit was unexpected.
Kaisen looked drained, as though the road had taken more than just his strength. Yet there was something steady in his gaze, a quiet resolve that told Rnzo he had not come aimlessly. He was tired, yes—but not broken.
Rnzo studied his eyes before speaking.
"Hello, Kai."
Kaisen met his gaze without hesitation and said bluntly, "I came to see Gina."
Rnzo nodded slowly. "She's outside—with Her Highness Princess Goya and…" He paused, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly before continuing, "…Concubine Mirha."
The title tasted bitter on his tongue. Rnzo knew—perhaps better than anyone—how deeply Kaisen had once wanted to marry Mirha.
Kaisen let out a short, humorless chuckle. "I saw them," he said simply. Then, after a brief silence, he added, "I'm going back to the Imperial Palace."
He turned and left the study.
But instead of heading for the carriage, Kaisen stopped in the courtyard. He chose a horse instead, mounting it without ceremony. Moments later, he rode off—not toward the palace roads, but toward the lakeside, where the water was quiet and judgment did not exist.
Kaisen rode the horse hard—too hard. His grip was rough, his legs tense, his mind nowhere near the path ahead. The animal sensed it immediately, its steps faltering, its breath uneven. When Kaisen pulled the reins again, the horse panicked.
The next moment came too fast.
The ground rushed up to meet him. His body struck the dirt with a dull, brutal thud, pain exploding through his ribs and shoulder. The horse screamed and bolted, hooves pounding away, leaving Kaisen sprawled in the dust—hands torn, skin burning, his head ringing as though the world itself had struck him.
For a long while, he sat there, breathing hard, the earth warm beneath him. His thoughts were chaos—anger, humiliation, loss—all buzzing violently in his skull. When the dizziness eased, he pushed himself up with a hiss of pain.
He ripped his jacket from his shoulders and hurled it into the dirt.
"Damn it," he muttered, not caring where it landed.
He did not chase the horse. He did not have the strength, nor the patience. Instead, he turned toward the palace and began to walk. It wasn't far—but every step sent sharp reminders through his bruised body. His hands throbbed, blood slick between his fingers, and his chest ached with each breath.
When the palace came into view, Kaisen circled toward the back entrance. He had no desire to be seen like this—dust-streaked, bleeding, furious.
As he stepped inside, something stopped him.
A voice.
Soft, haunting, and unlike anything he had ever heard.
She was singing in a language he did not recognize, her voice flowing freely, rising and falling with aching emotion. The notes trembled, lingered, then broke gently into the next—so full of feeling that Kaisen felt it press against his chest.
He froze.
The girl stood a short distance away, eyes closed, completely lost in the song. Her skin was warmly tanned—clearly not Èvan—but her hair curled naturally around her face, an Èvan trait. She looked unreal, as though she belonged to a painting rather than a palace. Her lips were full, her smile faint even as she sang, and when she breathed between verses, her small bunny teeth flashed briefly.
For the first time since leaving the lake, Kaisen forgot his pain. He forgot the dirt on his clothes, the blood on his hands, the fury boiling beneath his skin.
Then her eyes opened.
She screamed.
"Ah mama!" Yuma cried out in Madish, stumbling back in shock.
Kaisen flinched just as badly, his heart pounding.
She stared at him, wide-eyed, then snapped in Madish, "What are you doing here?!"
He blinked. "Pardon?"
She clicked her tongue in frustration. "Sorry—how long have you been standing there?"
"A while," Kaisen admitted.
Yuma buried her face in her palms. "Oh no… how embarrassing."
A small smile tugged at Kaisen's lips.
She peeked at him between her fingers. "It's not funny. Why do stable men keep using this entrance anyway?"
His eyes widened. "Stable… men?"
That was when it struck him.
She had no idea who he was.
"Yes," Yuma continued, pointing at him. "You. You're from the farm, right?"
Kaisen hesitated, then said calmly, "No, ma'am. I'm here with the duke's brother."
Yuma nodded as if that explained everything. "Ah. That makes sense."
He extended his hand slightly. "I'm Kai—"
"I'm Yuma," she interrupted, then immediately frowned. "And I'm not touching your hand."
She leaned closer, squinting. "Wait…"
Her expression changed.
"You're bleeding."
Before he could respond, she reached out and took his hand without hesitation. She clicked her tongue again, annoyed—not at him, but at the injury.
"Sit," she ordered, tugging him firmly toward a bench.
Kaisen obeyed, stunned, as she examined his wounded hands with surprising care—completely unaware that the man she was tending was anything but an injured stranger.
When Yuma finished tending to his wounds, she leaned back slightly and wiped her hands on the cloth.
"That's all I can do," she said, her tone practical but gentle.
Kaisen flexed his fingers slowly, surprised by how much better they already felt. He looked up at her and smiled. "You are too kind, Yuma. How can I ever repay you?"
She waved the thought away immediately. "It's no big deal," she said quickly, then pointed at him. "Just pretend you never heard me sing."
Kaisen lifted two fingers to his lips and mimed zipping them shut.
Yuma couldn't help herself—she smiled at the childish gesture, shaking her head lightly.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The air between them felt soft, almost unreal. Kaisen knew he couldn't linger—if anyone recognized him like this, questions would follow—but leaving felt strangely difficult.
He stood, took her hand gently, and before she could protest, pressed a respectful kiss to her knuckles.
"I hope we meet again, Yuma," he said quietly.
She giggled and pulled her hand back. "I hope not."
Kaisen froze, then laughed in disbelief. "That's a cruel thing to say."
She hurried to explain, flustered. "N-no, I mean—if I see you again, I'll remember how embarrassing my singing was."
His laughter softened, his gaze warm. "Then when I see you," he said, "I will remember a charming girl with an angelic voice—who patched me up when I was at my worst."
Yuma's cheeks turned pink. She looked away, smiling despite herself. "I… I should go back," she said softly. "Goodbye, Kai."
"Goodbye," he replied, watching her walk back toward the garden, her steps light, her presence lingering far longer than it should have.
Only when she disappeared from view did Kaisen exhale.
He turned and headed straight for the carriage bound for the Imperial Palace—his body still aching, his hands bandaged, but his heart strangely lighter than it had been all day.