The music faded gently into silence, and with it, the dancers offered their final pose—arms suspended like the petals of a falling lotus, eyes downcast in reverence. Applause rippled through the hall like a gentle tide, rising slowly, then falling into soft murmurs as the performers exited gracefully.
Mirha sat with poise, her expression serene, as though nothing at all had stirred her. As though the man who once shattered her hopes was just another noble in the room. She lifted her teacup again, sipping with ease, her back straight, her smile faint but genuine.
Gina blinked slowly, trying to catch up with what just happened. A moment ago, Mirha looked like her soul had left her body—and now?
"She's back," Gina whispered under her breath, eyes wide. "Just like that."
Kaisen leaned in just a little, still watching Mirha with equal parts admiration and confusion. "She's... she's something else," he murmured. He wasn't sure if it was a compliment or a confession, but the words left his lips before he could stop them.
He'd felt her heartbeat. Saw the way her fingers tightened on the table, the way her chest rose and fell in shallow panic. And yet now—now it was as if none of it had happened. A mask? No… it was deeper than that. It was discipline. Strength. And something else too.
Pain, buried in grace.
He didn't press her. Neither did Gina. There were things a woman chose to share, and things a woman carried like armor. Mirha's silence was not weakness. It was wisdom.
But across the room, a completely different current was stirring.
Crown Prince Kalan watched his best friend without blinking. His regal posture never wavered, his hands resting casually on the polished armrests of his chair, but his eyes… his eyes were sharp as blades. He saw the shift in Hosha—the way the boy who used to charge through the royal gardens like a storm had now stilled like a man in mourning.
And he saw her.
The girl from the stories.
The one Hosha had told him about during midnight watches and long hunts. The one he described with words so tender, Kalan had once laughed and asked if Hosha planned to write poetry.
"She was a gentle soup," Hosha had said once, voice low as they drank rice wine under the stars. "You don't taste her fire right away… but she warms your bones before you even notice she's changed you."
Now, Kalan saw her. The soup girl.
And yes—she was beautiful.
Not in the way courtesans trained to be, not like noblewomen painted to perfection. Her beauty was lived-in. Calm. Pure. And strong in the way soft things are when they refuse to break.
With his gaze still trained on her, Kalan tilted his head just slightly toward Hosha and muttered in Madish, the private language they had learned together during diplomatic exchanges with the eastern tribes. Only they knew it. And they used it for secrets.
> "Eyen ke tio Madi, Yoikso Hosha?, Mira ye li?"
(She taught you Madish, lucky Hosha? Mira was it?)
His tone was soft, neutral, a thread of warmth hiding beneath courtly boredom. But his eyes glimmered with understanding.
Hosha's lips barely parted. His eyes didn't leave Mirha. He could still see her jawline illuminated by the soft candlelight, the way she smiled—just enough to seem polite, but not enough to offer anything more.
He answered simply.
> "Hai."
(Yes.)
Kalan's mouth quirked into a half-smile, not of amusement, but of knowing.
A pause settled between them. The performance was done, and conversations were slowly resuming, but around the two men, the air felt different. Charged. Confessional.
Then came Kalan's second question—calm and casual, but laced with weight only they understood.
> "Hosha, Hosha, Hosha… Tsu mha ni?"
(Hosha, Hosha, Hosha… what now?)
The words didn't demand an answer.
They echoed.
Hosha looked down at his goblet, the reflection of the lights dancing on the surface of the wine. He didn't answer immediately. He couldn't. Not out loud. But the words circled in his chest like a restless spirit.
What now?
What now that she's sitting across from me, radiant and untouchable?
What now that the woman I left behind has become something so poised, so serene that I feel like the child in our story, not the man?
What now that I remember every moment with her—her laughter in the orchards, her kindness to strangers, the way she believed in me, completely… before I tore it all away?
He didn't speak of that night. Of what his father told him in the cold candlelit chambers of their estate—the words that ended everything and made him swear silence.
He didn't speak of how he begged Kalan never to tell. Not even Kanha. Not anyone.
The secret would die with them.
And so he simply lifted the goblet to his lips and drank, as if the wine could drown the pounding of his heart.
Kalan, silent beside him, said no more. But in his stillness, in his steady presence, Hosha knew—he was still his chest. His secret chest. And Kalan would hold his burdens for as long as needed.
Mirha never once looked their way.
But Kalan suspected... she didn't need to. She knew her worth now.
And maybe that was what cut the deepest of all.
The music shifted from the soft cadence of the performance into a vibrant, elegant rhythm. The polished marble floor welcomed nobles and dignitaries, who gracefully took to the space between the golden pillars and floral arches. Laughter mixed with the subtle clink of goblets, dresses twirled like petals in the wind, and the scent of honeysuckle and wine filled the air.
Hosha, however, sat at his table, lips brushing the edge of his goblet, lost in its depths like a man searching for something long drowned. His jaw was clenched, but his eyes never left her—not even for a breath. Mirha, radiant and full of light, danced beside Kiara, twirling in step with the noblewomen and court dancers, her laughter light and free.
Her joy was real.
And it tore him apart.
Beside him, Crown Prince Kalan watched with a smirk tugging at his lips. He rested an arm on the back of the chair and leaned in slightly. "You planning to drown your liver before the end of the hour, or is this your way of punishing yourself?"
Hosha didn't reply, but he did reach for the bottle again.
Kalan's smirk deepened. "I'll take that as the latter."
But their casual banter was a mask for something deeper. A storm brewed at the front of the hall—just beneath the gleam of polite smiles and flowing gowns.
Seated atop the dais, cloaked in velvet and shadowed candlelight, were King Ren of Èvana, Emperor Arvin of Lamig, and the sharp-eyed Queen Mother Raina, whose silence often cut deeper than words.
Their conversation was a war in ribbons.
Ren's smile was wide, but his eyes bore through Arvin with kingly intention. "You've brought quite a charming young woman, Emperor Arvin. Lady Gina, is it? A noble from Eastern Bayor? Or perhaps a private interest of yours?"
Arvin held his goblet steady. "Lady Gina is dear to my cousin."
Ren's eyes flicked to Duke Rnzo, dancing intimately with Gina near the far end of the floor. Their closeness was not veiled—it was deliberate.
The king let out a slow chuckle, low and controlled. "Pity. I was hoping our lands might grow closer through marriage. Goya is of age, after all."
Queen Mother Raina's smile was still, eyes resting on her son like she could hear his heartbeat. Arvin said nothing, though tension curled around his fingers gripping the cup.
King Ren leaned in with regal confidence. "King Jun was quick with his hand in the matter of Goya. But I'm not too late for a second union. Kaisen has a strong build. Handsome. Noble in posture. He'd make a fine prince."
Kaisen, oblivious to the storm brewing in his name, was laughing gently nearby with Tando, glancing now and then at the dance floor where Kiara spun with Mirha. The women's dresses flared as they moved with elegant joy. Kiara beamed at Mirha, who twirled to the rhythm, completely unaware of the longing eyes watching her from afar.
And then—
Queen Mother Raina placed her goblet down with grace, her voice breaking through the surface tension with velvet sharpness.
> "I know what it is you desire, Ren," she said, her voice soft but lethal. "But last I checked, our royal family is more than just Kaisen and Rnzo."
Ren turned slowly to her, his interest piqued.
Arvin kept his gaze fixed on the wine in his glass, willing his breath to stay even. Mother, please don't—
But she wasn't done. She looked out over the dance floor, her eyes glinting with mischievous wisdom.
> "After all, we still have Kalan."
Arvin stiffened, just barely. His eyes snapped to his mother's face—stoic, unbothered, but smiling just enough to make Ren wonder if it was strategy or spontaneity.
Queen Mother Raina remembered the words Arvin had written to her weeks ago in his invitation:
> "You might find this trip interesting."
And now she knew what he meant.
Kain. The head General.The one who swore he would never marry just for politics. He hadn't found her yet—his so-called worthy woman. But Raina was determined, tonight might change that.
Ren chuckled deeply. "Kain? I hear he has more regiments in Èvana and beyond... Thou i hear he doesn't want a woman."
"I hear you make assumptions too quickly," Raina replied with a sweet smile.
Meanwhile, the dance floor pulsed with energy.
Rnzo spun Gina with practiced ease, one hand at her waist, his smile tender and sure. She laughed, fingers wrapping around his shoulder as they shared a moment so intimate, it needed no words.
Kanha, seated at the edge, watched everything unfold with a frown. She crossed one leg over the other and sipped slowly—until a hand reached out to her.
"Brother!" she gasped, leaping into Lord Kain's arms. She hugged him tight, their reunion warm and sudden. "I missed you terribly!"
"Of course you do.., little storm cloud," he murmured, chuckling.
But her happiness faltered when her gaze slipped to Hosha.
He was slumped in his seat, drunk and despondent, his eyes still on Mirha.
Then came a familiar voice.
"Lady Kanha," said Goya, smiling as she approached with elegance. "You look lovely tonight."
Kanha dipped her head politely. "And you, as always."
Behind her, Lord Fahit stepped forward, his presence commanding and confident. He bowed slightly.
"May I have this dance?" he asked Kanha.
She stared at him—hesitation flashing in her eyes. Then slowly, deliberately, she placed her hand in his. The moment their hands met, Hosha flinched, rising half out of his seat—
But Goya's hand closed around his wrist gently.
"Dance with me," she whispered.
"I—"
"Please."
Hosha's eyes flicked back to Kanha, her figure slipping onto the floor with Fahit. He clenched his jaw.
Then nodded.
As Goya led him away, Kalan watched from afar, practically salivating at the chaos. His fingers twitched. Oh, how he loved a good social spiral.
He rose, brushing his coat lightly, about to step forward—when a voice from the royal table called to him.
> "You are the future Crown of Lamig," said Queen Mother Raina without looking his way. "Do not do anything reckless to disgrace your name."
Kalan paused... and then smiled.
"Of course, Mother," he murmured. "Nothing disgraceful."
He walked toward the dance floor anyway.
His first step was toward Kiara, her gown fluttering as she returned from dancing. "May I?"
Kiara tilted her head, then chuckled. "You're charming, Prince, but I'm a married woman now."
Kalan blinked, then laughed. "Apologies," he said smoothly, turning—
And saw Mirha.
His lips parted slightly. "Even better," he whispered under his breath.
He stepped in front of her just as she finished a turn with one of the staff dancers.
"My lady," he said with a gracious bow, "Would you grant me this dance?"
Mirha looked up, a little surprised, but before she could respond, her eyes flicked to the side—where Kaisen stood. he froze mid-laugh with Tando, eyes narrowing faintly as he watched the crown prince offer his hand to Mirha.
Mirha hesitated for a moment—just long enough to make Kalan wonder—but then placed her hand in his.
"Of course, your highness."
As Kalan led her to the center, his smirk returned. "Let's give the guests something worth whispering about."
From the sidelines, Kiara returned to Tando, a curious smile on her lips as she watched the new pair take center stage.
And Kaisen… he said nothing.
But his jaw tightened.
His hands clenched.
And inside him, something quietly shifted.
The music swelled, the air shimmering with candlelight and polished laughter. Guests twirled across the marble floors, silk skirts and embroidered coats brushing lightly as they spun. Yet amid the festivity, there was a quiet current of tension swirling beneath.
Kalan, heir to the crown of Lamig, prowled the edge of the dance floor like a lion surveying prey — though not with malice, but with a mischief only those close to him truly understood. His gaze flicked, sharp and calculating, until it landed on a figure laughing quietly among the dancers — Mirha, radiant and blissfully unaware.
He moved with practiced ease, crossing the floor in swift strides. The other noblewomen followed him with their eyes, but he only had his attention on one. As he neared, he bowed with a flourish, extending his hand toward her.
Mirha hesitated for a breath, eyes widening slightly. Then, in a display of perfect decorum, she placed her hand in his.
As they moved into the dance, Kalan leaned in just enough for his voice to carry to her ear, his tone playful yet rich with something heavier beneath.
"Yume kata ni sari, Mirha," he murmured in Madish.
( Mirha... why is your name so familiar, as though I have heard it in my dreams? )
Mirha stumbled for just a moment in the steps, caught off guard. Her eyes lifted to meet his — clear, soft, but touched with a sudden shyness. A delicate smile curved her lips, small and genuine, and something inside Kalan's chest twisted warmly.
But she recovered quickly, her posture growing a little more formal as she answered in calm, proper Madish, her voice a sweet melody:
"Hai, ai miso ni sarima kan, Haiwa."
( Yes, dreams can be visions, your highness. )
Kalan laughed aloud, a low, delighted sound that rumbled from deep in his chest. It drew a few curious glances from nearby dancers. Her response — so serious, so innocently formal — amused him beyond measure.
"You're adorable," he muttered in their common tongue, amused, though he did not press further. He could guess — Hosha. The poor fool must have taught her that phrase. Still, it charmed him all the same.
Their dance continued, steps weaving effortlessly, but Kalan's mind spun even faster than his feet. He caught the subtle glances from where his sister, Goya, danced nearby — noticed Hosha watching Mirha with a gaze so full it was almost painful to look at.
An idea, wicked and impulsive, sparked within Kalan.
As he spun Mirha lightly, feeling the softness of her fingertips glide from his, he maneuvered her spin just a little wider — wide enough to catch his sister Goya into his grasp. She yelped softly as she found herself spun into her brother's arms.
"Kalan, you —!" Goya hissed under her breath, glaring at him.
But Kalan only grinned roguishly down at her. "Shush, little sister," he murmured, twirling her with a teasing flair. "It's all part of the dance."
Goya immediately turned her head to glance over her shoulder — and saw it.
Hosha.
Standing there, almost frozen, catching Mirha as she stumbled a step from the sudden change of partner. His hands hovered, as if unsure whether he deserved to touch her.
But Mirha only blinked a few times at him, surprise coloring her cheeks — and then she smiled, a small, steady smile that could have melted the hardest stone.
Hosha's chest heaved once, and his eyes, which had been burning with something heavy, suddenly glistened. A tear slid silently down his cheek. He didn't wipe it away. He didn't care.
"Shhh... it's fine, Hosha," Mirha whispered so softly that only he could hear.
She smiled up at him with that same gentleness — the kind that forgave without needing to know the crime.
More tears slipped from Hosha's eyes, though his face remained strangely calm. He wasn't sobbing. He was just… undone. Raw. Vulnerable.
"Malec," he whispered brokenly in Madish.
( I'm sorry. )
All around them, the music played on. Dancers twirled in colorful bursts of movement, laughter filled the air — but in that small bubble of space around Hosha and Mirha, time seemed to stand still.
From across the hall, Gina stopped mid-spin, staring. Her mouth opened slightly, confusion painting her features. Her partner, Rnzo, followed her gaze — and frowned at the sight: the unknown man who held Mirha so tenderly, tears on his cheeks, whispering words against the backdrop of a royal ball.
From the side, Kanha, always quick to spot weakness, stood frozen. Her mind reeled — Hosha, who never showed anything but drunkenness or jokes, was... crying?
Kalan, dancing nearby with Goya, caught the shift in the room. His instincts sharpened instantly. If too many eyes noticed — if it spread — it would not be easy to contain the gossip.
And so, smoothly, he twirled Goya again, releasing her into the arms of Hosha just as naturally as if it had been choreographed.
"Here," he whispered lowly to his sister. "Make yourself useful."
Goya stumbled, caught by Hosha's strong arms — but Hosha hardly seemed to notice. His gaze had been and was still fixed on Mirha, who now stood adrift without a partner.
Kalan, without missing a beat, caught Mirha's hand again — but this time, she pulled back gracefully and offered a formal bow, lowering her gaze in respect.
"Your Highness," she murmured.
There was no irritation, no rejection — simply the quiet reminder that this moment needed to end.
Kalan let her go, giving a rare, genuine bow in return. Respectful.
Mirha turned, walking back to the corner where Kiara, Kaisen, and Tando stood, blending into the group once more like a soft petal falling back among the blooms.
Meanwhile, Hosha, after one lingering, aching glance, left the ballroom altogether without a word.
The music continued. The laughter resumed. But for a few who had seen — who had truly seen — the night was no longer the same.