The next day, the palace felt calmer, as though the storm of whispers and tension had finally exhausted itself. With the banquet behind them and most matters temporarily settled, the air carried a rare sense of ease.
Goya had not returned to Kilimah. With her marriage about to be made official, she was required to remain in Taico—fittings, preparations, and endless attention awaited her. For the moment, however, she was seated comfortably with Mirha, the two of them sharing tea beneath a shaded veranda.
They had just begun to relax when footsteps approached.
King Kalan appeared, dressed far more casually than usual. The ladies rose slightly in greeting; he returned the gesture with a polite bow before taking a seat beside his sister.
Goya studied him for a moment, her sharp eyes narrowing.
"You look… miserable," she said flatly. "Why?"
Kalan sighed. "Because apparently, I am expected to marry soon."
For a split second, there was silence—then Goya burst into laughter, nearly spilling her tea.
"You're sad because of that?" she asked between laughs.
Kalan rolled his eyes. "I simply don't believe in marriage."
Mirha listened quietly, her cup cradled in both hands, her expression neutral as the siblings bickered.
Goya leaned forward, suddenly serious. "Then marry someone who thinks the same way. Someone who doesn't believe in romance or expectations. You'll both keep your beliefs, and society will stop breathing down your necks."
Kalan turned to her slowly. "Doesn't that defeat the entire purpose of marriage?"
Goya groaned. "You are impossible. You can have a free marriage. No expectations. No illusions. Do I really have to explain everything to you?"
Kalan's eyes lit up slightly. "Oh. I see." Then he smirked. "But what if she changes her mind? You know I'm irresistible."
Goya visibly cringed. Mirha couldn't help herself—she giggled softly.
"Trust me," Goya said dryly. "She won't."
Kalan laughed. "You can be clever sometimes. You definitely get it from me."
Goya shot him a lethal side-eye. He only laughed harder.
"So," he continued, leaning back, "where do I find this intelligent woman?"
Before either of them could answer, Gina appeared, plucking an apple from a nearby tray as she joined them.
"What's this meeting about?" she asked casually.
Kalan explained what he was looking for in a wife—calm, independent, uninterested in power, preferably allergic to romance.
Gina paused mid-bite. "Wow," she said slowly. "Why are you describing Reka?"
Goya and Kalan both turned to her at once.
Mirha blinked. "Oh—yes. Reka Monti. I almost forgot about her." She smiled faintly. "That does sound like her."
Goya frowned. "Who is Reka?"
Gina explained, "She's Lady Kiara's younger sister. Very fiery. Energetic. She's studying music and dance so she can become a governess—she thinks it's her best chance of staying unmarried forever."
Kalan's smile widened. "Bullseye."
Mirha shook her head gently. "I wouldn't call it a victory yet. She would never agree to marry—let alone marry a king."
Gina nodded. "Exactly."
Kalan waved a hand dismissively. "That's fine. How do I get her to come here?"
Mirha and Gina both shook their heads in unison.
"She didn't even attend her own sister's wedding," Gina said.
Kalan winced. "Ouch. That's cold."
Mirha added, "She did send gifts. She refuses to come to Taico."
Kalan sighed, then straightened. "All right. I'll find my own way."
He rose from his seat, offering a small smile. "Anyway, ladies, I'll take my leave."
They waved goodbye as he walked off, already deep in thought—plotting, no doubt, his next move.
The tea grew cold, but the amusement lingered.
After Kalan left, Gina slowly set the apple down on the table, her expression shifting from playful to thoughtful.
"I saw Kanha today," she said.
Mirha glanced up at once, while Goya only scoffed, rolling her eyes so hard it was almost dramatic.
"Of course, she looked happy," Goya said. "She got exactly what she wanted."
Gina giggled softly at that, clearly amused. Mirha, however, shot Goya a pleading look.
"Goya, please…"
Goya threw her hands up. "Fine, fine, fine. I'll behave. But you know I can't stand her."
"I know," Mirha said gently. "Just… try to keep your composure."
"I will," Goya replied, waving it off. Then her expression brightened. "Anyway—what are you wearing to my wedding banquet?"
Mirha tilted her head. "Your theme is Lamig style, right?"
Goya nodded enthusiastically. "Yes. Please tell me you still have the gowns Madam Mori made in Lamig."
"Of course," both Gina and Mirha answered at the same time.
Gina's eyes lit up. "Finally! I get to wear those beautiful dresses with the furry trims."
Goya laughed, while Mirha shook her head, amused.
"Seriously, Gina. If you wear those gowns here with no occasion, people will think you're attending a bridal selection banquet or something."
Goya grinned. "That's Lamig for you. People dress like royalty to go to the farm."
The three of them burst into laughter, the sound light and carefree—until a maid approached, bowing politely.
"Your Highness," the maid said to Mirha, "His Majesty is calling for you."
Mirha stood at once, smoothing her dress. She smiled at the others and waved lightly.
"I'll see you later."
Goya nodded. "Go on."
Gina smiled. "Don't keep the Emperor waiting."
Mirha followed the maid down the corridor, leaving behind the laughter—and stepping back into the gravity of the palace once more.
Mirha trailed the maid through the echoing palace corridors to the imperial study, her heart pounding with a mix of anticipation and nerves. The maid halted at the heavy doors, bowing as Mirha stepped inside alone. No guards flanked the entrance, and the sight of Arvin seated solitary behind his desk sent butterflies fluttering wildly in her stomach—a thrilling vulnerability that made her pulse race.
Arvin rose fluidly, circling the desk with purposeful strides until he perched on its edge, his height now level with hers as she stood before him. Their eyes locked, a spark of shared intimacy igniting the air. Mirha's lips curved into a shy smile, her voice soft and breathless. "How are you, Your Majesty?"
He grinned, his gaze piercing, reading her like an open scroll. "Why so nervous Mirha? "he teased, his tone warm yet commanding.
Heat flooded her cheeks; she turned her face away, biting back a giggle that bubbled up from the joy of his nearness. Arvin's low chuckle rumbled through the room, drawing her back. "Come here."
She closed the distance, drawn like a moth to flame. His hands captured her waist, pulling her flush against him as his lips claimed hers in a tender, lingering kiss that sent warmth blooming through her core. He pulled back just enough to murmur," I'm much better now,"his breath hot against her skin.
Mirha's smile widened, but shyness won; she glanced aside, heart swelling with affection. Gently, he turned her face back, capturing her mouth again. This time, she melted into him, arms wrapping around his neck as the kiss deepened—tongues dancing in a slow, hungry rhythm that spoke of longing and unspoken promises.
Abruptly, the air shattered with the clamour of bells tolling triumphantly and drums thundering like a heartbeat. They broke apart, breathless, Arvin's hand still firm on her waist, anchoring her. A knock echoed at the door. "Come in," he called, voice steady despite the flush on his cheeks.
Four elders entered, their faces alight with joyous smiles. 'The Heir of Èvana has arrived!' they proclaimed in unison. "Empress Nailah has given Èvana a male heir."
The words hung in the air.