The elders exchanged glances, their expressions softening as understanding settled among them. Smiles spread—measured, approving, dignified. The moment held, suspended, as though the room itself waited for permission to breathe.
Arvin spoke first.
"Then let us feast."
The hall answered him at once.
Applause broke out, voices rising in cheers, the sharp clatter of cups and laughter filling every corner. The formality dissolved into celebration, and the sound swelled until it became impossible to distinguish one voice from another.
Mirha flinched at the sudden noise. She joined the applause a heartbeat later, her smile polite, practiced. But the cheers pressed in on her, loud and relentless, and she felt her composure begin to slip.
Without drawing attention, she stepped back. Then again. And when no one was looking, she turned and left the study, her departure swallowed by the celebration.
Arvin turned instinctively, searching for her at his side.
She was gone.
His smile faltered—only slightly, but enough. He scanned the room once more, then again, the cheers fading to a distant hum as his gaze lingered on the empty space she had occupied moments before.
Mirha moved through the palace corridors without direction. Doors stood open, laughter spilling out, servants hurrying past with faces bright with joy. Music echoed off the stone walls. Everywhere she went, the celebration followed.
Her heart beat too fast. Her breath came shallow, uneven.
She did not know why.
This was a victory for the empire. Nailah had given birth. The succession was secure. Arvin was now a father. She told herself this again and again, as though repetition might make it settle properly within her.
She was a concubine. Nothing more. Her place was clear.
Still, the tightness in her chest refused to ease.
She turned down a quieter passage and quickened her steps. When she reached her chambers, she closed the door behind her and rested her forehead briefly against the wood. Only then did she allow herself to breathe.
"It's only exhaustion," she murmured.
She lay down fully clothed, staring at the ceiling, her hand resting over her heart until the tremor in her body subsided. Sleep claimed her before she could make sense of what she felt.
A knock woke her.
Mirha rose slowly and opened the door to find Arvin standing there. He entered at once and closed it behind him, shutting out the distant sounds of the palace. The quiet between them felt deliberate.
He studied her, clearly searching for words. When none came, he leaned in to kiss her.
She turned her face away.
"I'm very tired, Your Majesty."
Arvin stopped. He withdrew, confusion flickering across his expression. "I only wished to check on you. You left suddenly."
"I'm fine," she said evenly. "Thank you for your concern."
Her tone was polite—careful. It unsettled him.
"Are you truly well?" he asked.
Mirha looked up at him and smiled. The gesture was flawless, composed, entirely hollow.
"The gods have blessed Èvana with an heir," she said. "Who would not be well?"
The words landed harder than either of them expected.
Arvin nodded once, stiffly. "Good night, Mirha."
"Good night, Your Majesty."
The door closed behind him.
Only then did regret take hold—quiet, immediate, unforgiving. She sat on the edge of the bed, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
I should have let him stay.
The thought offered no comfort. She lay back and stared at the dark, understanding at last what restraint truly demanded of her.
Arvin returned to his chambers alone.
He dismissed the attendants with a single gesture and stepped into the bathing pool without ceremony. The water was warm, lightly scented, meant to calm the mind. It did not.
He lowered himself until the water reached his shoulders and closed his eyes.
Control the breath. Still the thoughts.
But her expression returned to him uninvited—the distant smile, the deliberate composure, the quiet refusal.
He remained motionless in the water long after it cooled, jaw tight, hands clenched beneath the surface.
An emperor could command loyalty. A father could secure a legacy.
But there were silences he could not rule.
And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
The following morning, the palace stirred with purpose. Servants moved briskly through the corridors, arms full of silk and jewelry, voices hushed but excited. The Imperial General's wedding banquet was hours away, and every corner of the palace reflected the anticipation of it.
In Mirha's chambers, the air was unusually quiet.
She sat before the mirror as the maids worked around her, brushing, pinning, adjusting—hands practiced, movements gentle. Normally, Mirha would have filled the room with light conversation, soft laughter, or teasing remarks. Today, she said nothing.
The maids noticed.
They exchanged small glances, their smiles subdued as they worked. Even they seemed weighed down by her silence, careful not to disturb whatever fragile stillness surrounded her. Her reflection stared back at her—composed, distant, eyes thoughtful rather than bright.
When the final touches were done, they draped a Lamig-style cloak over her shoulders. The fur lining was pale and soft, framing her face, the fabric rich with embroidery that echoed the banquet's theme. It should have made her feel beautiful.
Instead, it felt heavy.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Heman," a maid announced softly.
Mirha rose at once.
Heman entered with a respectful bow. "Her Majesty has asked me to escort you to the banquet hall, my lady."
She inclined her head and took his offered arm. They walked through the corridors at an unhurried pace, their footsteps echoing faintly against the marble.
"You look lovely," Heman said gently, breaking the silence.
Mirha turned to him and offered a small smile—real, if brief. "Thank you."
"I remain at your service, always," he replied, sincere as ever.
They reached the waiting carriage, its lanterns already lit despite the daylight. Yuma sat inside, adjusting her own fur-lined gown. She brightened when she saw Mirha.
"My lady."
Mirha stepped inside, the door closing softly behind them as the carriage began to move.
As it rolled toward the banquet hall, the palace receded behind them—music, laughter, and expectation waiting ahead—while Mirha sat quietly, hands folded in her lap, preparing herself once more to wear a smile she was not sure she felt.