The wheels of the last carriage came to a halt in front of the Main Castle of Èvana, a towering monument of artistry and power. The castle, flanked by white stone towers and delicate latticework balconies, shimmered with garlands of lavender and gold. Dozens of long silk banners fluttered in the breeze, each bearing the royal seal of Lamig—a silver lion crossing blades with a golden dove, symbolizing strength and peace.
Footmen rushed forward, opening the carriages as trumpets rang out in joyous waves across the open courtyard.
The first to step down was Gina, her gown glowing under the afternoon light, hand taken gently by Duke Rnzo. The soft shimmer of her lavender fabric made her look ethereal, and the golden accents along her veil caught the light like stars.
Then came Mirha, steady and graceful, wrapped in pale green silk with embroidery that echoed the rolling hills of her Southern homeland. Her eyes wandered, taking in every detail. Kiara descended with a hand on Lord Tando's arm, the two quietly exchanging remarks and stifling a laugh as she adjusted his collar.
From another carriage, Queen Mother Raina stepped down, upright and regal, followed closely by Lady Mei and Lady Kanha.
Then the courtyard fell to silence.
The heavy door of the final carriage opened, and Emperor Arvin emerged, cloaked in midnight blue with a gold-trimmed robe cascading behind him. Heman and Lord Kain stood behind him like pillars—both solemn, both alert.
Suddenly—
"A HAIL THE CROWN OF ÈVANA! EMPEROR ARVIN!"
The announcer's voice echoed, powerful and rhythmic, bouncing off the marble walls.
The crowd responded immediately. Every nobleman and servant in sight bowed deeply. Some guards even dropped to one knee, palms to the stone. The nobles who had traveled with Arvin followed suit, including the royal family of Èvana themselves, bowing before the sovereign of their empire.
Arvin, ever composed, gave a faint nod of acknowledgment, then stepped forward.
But as he reached the grand threshold, he paused—and turned to King Ren and Queen Sarama, who stood waiting at the entry.
"My King. My Queen," Arvin said respectfully, voice calm and clear, "Today, I set aside the weight of my crown. I enter your halls not as your Emperor, but as your guest—your brother. Thank you for welcoming me home."
A hush fell over the courtyard. Queen Sarama blinked, momentarily surprised by his humility. King Ren stepped forward, placing a firm hand on Arvin's shoulder.
"Èvana is honored, and Lamig is grateful," Ren said, his voice gruff but sincere. "Tonight, you are not just our Emperor. You are family."
With that, the great double doors opened.
---
Inside the Performance Hall, the splendor continued. Crystal chandeliers floated like stars above, each one dripping with silver ornaments and enchanted lights that shimmered like fireflies. Harps played in the background, accompanied by soft lutes and the occasional graceful call of a flute.
The seating was arranged with purposeful elegance.
To the right: the Emperor's court, guests, and royal family.
To the left: the nobility of Lamig, resplendent in their local silks, satins, and jeweled robes.
At the North table—an elevated space draped in sapphire silk—sat Emperor Arvin, flanked by Kain, Heman, and the Queen Mother Raina.
At the South table, directly opposite, sat King Ren in deep green robes, his salt-and-pepper hair combed back neatly. Beside him, Queen Sarama, elegant in a crimson gown with gold vines curling up her sleeves. Their two chairs beside them remained empty.
The guest table was arranged with careful politics:
First was Lady Mei, the Queen Mother's loyal lady-in-waiting, ever quiet and composed.
Next to her sat Lady Kanha, wearing a wine-colored gown and observing everyone like a hawk with painted lips pressed in a faint smile.
Beside her, Duke Rnzo, now fully dressed in deep navy and silver, sat with his usual stoic air. He glanced to his right—
Where Gina sat, her posture regal, but a blush still high on her cheeks.
Mirha was beside her, effortlessly radiant. She offered a small, warm smile to the musicians at the front of the room.
Next, Lord Kaisen, his dark eyes dancing with amusement as he subtly leaned toward Mirha, whispering something that made her stifle a laugh.
Then Lady Kiara, in an ocean-blue gown, her bracelets jingling gently every time she adjusted her chair.
And finally, Lord Tando, ever casual, leaned back slightly with an elbow on the table, throwing Kiara a smirk.
The last few seats at the Emperor's side were filled by Kain's high-ranking commanders, dressed in formal military garb.
Across the hall, on the Lamig nobility side, sat:
Lord Fahit, young and dashing, nephew to King Ren. He wore his brown hair tied back, and his eyes kept darting toward Lady Kanha when he thought no one noticed.
Beside him sat Lord Zuko, a seasoned nobleman known for his tactical brilliance, and his wife Isa, a woman of sharp intelligence and strong presence.
Then Governor Sun, his silver beard a mark of long wisdom, and his graceful wife Yusa.
Their daughter, Lady Aru, barely seventeen, looked like a delicate doll in cream and blush tones. She sat wide-eyed, occasionally whispering to her mother and sneaking peeks at the royal side.
There was one empty seat beside Lord Fahit, dressed in finer fabrics than the rest. Murmurs circled. It was said to belong to the Crown Prince's right-hand man, who would be arriving shortly—along with the prince himself.
Gina leaned close to Mirha, whispering, "Do you know anything about the Crown Prince?"
Mirha shook her head gently. "Only rumors. That he rarely attends public events unless required. And that he's...not easy to read."
Kiara leaned over from the other side. "I heard he's tall. And cold. Cold as Lamig's highest peaks."
Kaisen who was stuck in between the three gossiping ladies could only chuckle
"He is a nice man, he isn't cold at all rumours are rumours. "
The embarrassed Gina just nodded Kaisen looked at her and smiled Kiara noticed and her eyes shifted to Kanha who was far from the she was looking but turned her head elegantly.
As the music shifted to a soft, graceful interlude, servants began pouring wine into gilded goblets. The gentle clinking of silver and porcelain created a gentle hum beneath the rustling of silk and low conversations.
Mirha lifted her gaze, letting her eyes wander naturally over the hall. Her eyes paused briefly on Lord Fahit. He leaned in to whisper something to Lady Aru, but even across the room, his confidence was apparent. His smile—easy. His posture—relaxed but assured. The way he casually swept a lock of hair from his forehead as if unaware of how many eyes followed him.
Mirha, unaware of how easily her thoughts slipped into speech, murmured under her breath, "He looks rather dashing, doesn't he?"
Kaisen, seated beside her, had just taken a sip of wine. He paused.
His hand didn't tremble, his face didn't change—but something shifted in his jaw. He cleared his throat gently, almost as if he had something to say. But he didn't.
Instead, he adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, eyes trained forward, as if he hadn't heard.
Mirha turned slightly. "Did you say something, Lord Kaisen?"
"Just clearing my throat, my lady," he said with an easy smile. But the air between them thickened by a mere breath. Mirha couldn't quite place it, but it lingered.
Across the table, Kiara caught it immediately, elbowing Tando softly. She leaned in, whispering just loud enough for him to hear:
"He's jealous."
Tando grinned, nearly choking on a grape. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and whispered back, "Should we say something?"
Kiara snorted softly, stealing a glance at Kaisen. "And risk watching him pretend it's just indigestion? Absolutely not."
Tando chuckled under his breath. "He's going to explode in silence. Like a gentleman volcano."
Back beside Kaisen, Mirha blinked, unsure. She had noticed something—a slight flicker of tension—but when she met Kaisen's eyes again, he was smiling, charming as ever. Polished.
So she did what she always did when something felt uncertain—she smiled gently and shifted her attention elsewhere.
But beneath the table, Kaisen's hand slowly curled into a fist, resting over his knee. He wasn't angry at her. No—never. It was at himself. For once again staying silent.
He stole a glance toward her—she was laughing at something Kiara had said now, her fingers lightly covering her mouth. Her eyes sparkled. And it hurt.
"Can't you see me," he thought grimly, raising his goblet again.
Gina, seated beside Mirha, noticed the tension that had Lord Kaisen quiet as well. She leaned slightly toward Mirha with a teasing grin.
"You know," she whispered playfully, "some people might get the wrong idea hearing you compliment another lord like that."
Mirha blinked. "I only said he looked dashing."
"Exactly." Gina winked. "It's the tone that matters. Not the words."
Mirha laughed softly, clearly not grasping the ripple she'd caused.
At the other end, Lady Kanha's eyes flicked from face to face, as though studying a puzzle. Her wine glass hovered near her lips, untouched. She wasn't laughing—but her lips curled just barely.
"This table is full of love," she murmured.
Lady Mei, beside her, raised a brow. "Hm?"
"Nothing," Kanha replied, her eyes moving toward Kaisen once more. "Just wondering how long silence can survive in a room full of noise."
As more food was brought in—platters of smoked pheasant, honey-glazed roots, and spice-soaked rice—another wave of conversation took over. But beneath the lavish display and pleasant chatter, subtle threads of tension stretched quietly between hearts too stubborn—or too uncertain—to speak.
The music softened into a fluttering pause as attention turned toward the grand entrance—an announcement that drew all gazes to the wide, open double doors at the top of the marble staircase.
A hush fell over the crowd.
The master of ceremonies lifted his voice with clarity and grandeur:
"Now entering: Crown Prince Kalan of Lamig, Princess Goya of Lamig, and Lord Hosha, First Commander of the Eastern Guard."
The orchestra picked up a majestic tune as the three figures descended the steps, cloaked in the glow of high-blooded elegance.
Crown Prince Kalan, tall and dressed in deep navy with silver embroidery, carried himself with the poised gravity of someone born to lead. His eyes, sharp but calm, briefly scanned the room like he was taking measure of it.
Beside him, Princess Goya, younger, delicate in movement but bold in expression, waved gracefully to the crowd. Her soft pink gown glistened, and she smiled when she saw familiar faces—including Lady Kanha, who instantly sat up straighter and beamed with pride as she laid eyes on her brother.
Trailing just behind them was Lord Hosha, and when he stepped into the light, the air in the room shifted for one very specific reason.
Mirha's smile faltered.
She had been laughing lightly with Gina and Kiara only a moment ago, but when the name "Lord Hosha of Bukid" reached her ears, she froze.
Her eyes went wide—but not with recognition. No. That came the moment she saw him.
There he was.
The same proud posture. The same dark, wavy hair pulled back neatly. The same mouth that once whispered forever in her ears under the village trees of Bukid.
Her hands turned clammy. Her chest tightened.
Her first love. Her first heartbreak. The one who left without a word.
Mirha dipped her head so quickly it looked almost rehearsed. She stared down at her lap as the trio passed their section of the hall. She couldn't bear the chance that he might see her.
Kaisen, sitting next to her, caught the change instantly.
He'd seen Mirha laugh before. Seen her confused. Seen her tired.
But never like this.
Her whole spirit had shifted.
Her back was tense. Her breath shallow.
And—was that her heart beating that fast?
He could almost hear it. She was so still, yet her pulse was deafening. He furrowed his brows, concerned, and looked around until he realized who had just walked in.
But the name didn't click—not yet.
He wanted to reach out. Wanted to take her hand, offer it like a shield, but he knew it would be inappropriate here.
So instead, Kaisen tapped the table.
A small but firm sound.
Mirha flinched at the touch of reality, eyes flicking to the wood, then to him.
She met his gaze.
And she smiled.
It was soft, not forced, but practiced. As if she'd worn it during storms and sorrow before.
Kaisen's breath caught. The control she had... it was remarkable.
But now he was even more curious.
Meanwhile, across the table, Gina and Kiara had noticed the shift too, though they said nothing. There was no exchange between them—they hadn't spoken to each other directly all evening—but they both watched Mirha carefully.
And slowly, like fog lifting, the memory returned to them.
They'd heard the story, Kanha never seem to let it go, when Mirha had become a maid at the Bukid palace because of the scandal, quiet and sweet but with a shadow in her smile. So this is him Hosha.
Now it all made sense.
Lord Hosha, on the other hand, was blissfully unaware—at least, for a moment.
His eyes passed over the room politely, smiling when he caught sight of Kanha and Princess Goya, who looked radiant and proud.
Then his gaze swept again.
First to Duke Rnzo, whose steely presence was unmissable. Then to Gina, whom he barely recognized—he hadn't seen her since she was barely five.
But then—his eyes stopped.
The smile died.
His breath hitched.
His heart dropped to his stomach.
He muttered under his breath, just loud enough for Crown Prince Kalan to hear:
"Mirha…?"
Kalan turned his head toward Hosha, curious. "What is it?"
But Hosha didn't answer. His eyes were locked on the young woman seated beside the Duke and Gina—her head turned, her posture perfect, her attention strictly on the dancers who had just entered the floor.
She hadn't even glanced his way. Hadn't given him the smallest acknowledgment.
But he knew it was her.
Even from the side of her face. Even from the gentle slope of her shoulders. Her hair was longer now, dressed in thick curls pinned with golden clasps, but it was her.
The girl he never said goodbye to.
His chest tightened with guilt, rising like a tide. She was dressed like nobility now, with pearls on her ears and a grace in her bearing that made her look like she belonged among queens.
She had become everything he always knew she could be.
Everything he'd convinced himself she deserved—just not with him.
His voice was tight when he spoke again, more to himself than anyone:
"She looks… different."
Kalan, now intrigued, followed his gaze again. He raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He could tell there was more to this than Hosha was letting on.
Hosha blinked rapidly, as if trying to steady himself. He couldn't let this ruin the evening. Couldn't let the storm rising inside him show on his face.
But it was too late.
The past had entered the hall—and she hadn't even looked his way.
The dancers had taken the floor, draped in vibrant silks and gold-threaded hems, their movements a delicate balance between elegance and fire. Drums pulsed low beneath the melody, and the flutes curled like whispers in the air. But for some, the beauty unfolding before them was completely ignored.
Hosha couldn't take his eyes off of her.
Mirha.
She hadn't looked once in his direction—not even by accident. Her face stayed soft, calm, trained on the performers, lips gently parted in admiration. But to Hosha, her silence roared louder than any fanfare.
A thousand thoughts thundered in his head:
Does she hate me?
Is she angry?
Did she move on?
Why is she sitting beside Lord Kaisen had he asked for her hand?
He shifted slightly in his seat, hands clasped too tightly in his lap, knuckles whitening. Princess Goya, seated between him and Kalan, noticed his stiffness and gave him a curious glance.
"Brother," she whispered just low enough for only him to hear. "You look like you've seen a ghost."
Hosha didn't answer. He didn't know how to.
Across the room, Kanha hadn't noticed his reaction yet—she was too busy stealing glances at Prince Kalan, her laughter faint and charming as she leaned toward Lady Mei with some trivial remark.
But Mirha's silence—her total avoidance—was like a knife slowly pressing deeper into Hosha's chest.
Kaisen was watching all of it now. Not just Mirha—though she was the eye of his storm—but Hosha too. The stranger who had come in like a phantom and shook her.
Mirha leaned forward slightly to take a sip of her tea. Her hand was steady, her lips unshaking. But Kaisen saw it. The tiny tremble in her breath when she placed the cup back down.
Then he noticed Hosha staring.
And everything made sense.
Kaisen turned back to Mirha and whispered so low it didn't even carry across to Kiara beside him.
" Do you know him?"
Mirha's jaw clenched ever so faintly. She didn't answer. Just kept her gaze forward. Her hands sat neatly in her lap, folding and unfolding a silk napkin between her fingers as if it were a secret she couldn't bear to tell.
Kaisen exhaled through his nose and leaned back, draping one arm over the chair with quiet ownership—not over her, but beside her, like a silent signal to anyone watching.
But he would protect her all the same.
Meanwhile, Gina, who was growing much too aware of her proximity to this emotional hurricane, tried to turn back to Rnzo, pretending to admire the dancers. But her mind was not in it.
She had heard the story before. And now, seeing it play out like this—Mirha wounded but so graceful, Hosha tense and guilty—she couldn't help but glance between them.