The morning sun filtered through the tall arched windows of the eastern dressing hall, casting golden light across the polished marble floor. Servants moved with a quiet urgency, fluffing cushions and arranging bolts of fabric, but the real stir came when an unexpected set of boxes arrived—large, polished, and tied with silver ribbons.
"What's all this?" Kiara asked, stepping closer, her dark hair tied up in a lazy bun as she inspected the luxurious packaging.
Lady Gina, leaning against one of the window alcoves, tilted her head in confusion. "Are we expecting anything today?"
Before anyone could answer, a senior maid approached with a deep bow. "These arrived from Lady Misha Tiavan, my lady. She sent them with her regards."
Gina's eyes widened. "My mother sent these?" She walked over, curiosity blooming into disbelief. "She didn't mention anything."
Kanha was already examining one of the name tags tied to a velvet box. "There's one for each of us. Mirha, this one has your name. Kiara, yours too."
Kiara raised her brows. "Even me?"
"Even you," Kanha murmured, lifting the lid of her own box. Her breath caught.
Inside lay a gown of pale red silk, so smooth and luminous it appeared almost liquid. The bodice was delicately embroidered with golden thread in curling floral motifs that shimmered in the light. The neckline was regal but modest, and the sleeves tapered into soft, bell-like flares that hinted at both elegance and power.
"Oh… gods," Kanha whispered. "This is… extravagant."
Mirha opened her own box with slightly more caution. Nestled within was a gown of deep, rich red velvet—almost burgundy, with black lace insets at the sleeves and around the hem. Gold stitching accented the waist and neckline, subtle but striking. She touched the fabric, and a strange calm settled over her.
"It's beautiful," she said, her voice softer than usual.
Kiara, already peeling the lid off hers, let out a delighted laugh. "Teal, of course," she said, lifting the gown from its folds. The dress shimmered with layers of silk and tulle, delicate silver beadwork running along the skirt like dew on grass. "Your mother knows me too well, Gina."
Gina didn't open hers immediately. Her fingers hovered over the ribbon, hesitating.
"What's wrong?" Kanha asked gently.
Gina smiled, but it was laced with nerves. "My mother has good taste, but sometimes her definition of elegance is... overwhelming."
"Open it. Let's see," Mirha encouraged.
With a breath, Gina tugged the ribbon and opened the box. The gown inside was emerald green, vivid and lush like a forest at dawn. Fine gold threads wove leaf-like patterns through the bodice and skirt, and tiny pearls dotted the sleeves like dew.
Gina blinked. "It's stunning… and terrifying."
"Why terrifying?" Kiara asked.
"Because this looks like something a queen would wear. I'm not even a noblewoman."
"But you're the daughter of Misha Tiavan," Kanha said with a dry smile. "That's higher than half the noble houses I know."
Mirha laughed. "She's right. Misha Tiavan may not have a title, but she could run an entire kingdom blindfolded."
Gina gave a helpless smile. "She does have a flair for spectacle."
The women sat around the room, admiring each other's dresses, holding them up to their bodies and spinning in half-hearted twirls. The mood became warm and excited, the kind of feminine bubble that existed before a grand occasion. They were each different, coming from different backgrounds, but this moment united them.
"Do you think Goya's dress will match General Kain's uniform?" Kiara mused.
"She has to choose their colors, doesn't she?" Mirha asked.
"Yes," Kanha nodded. "It's a tradition. The crown princess always chooses the complementary color to her consort's coronation uniform."
"I wonder what she'll pick," Kiara said. "Something bold, no doubt."
Gina smirked. "If I know Goya, she'll surprise us."
The women talked about possible color palettes—midnight blue and ivory, crimson and gold, even lavender and silver.
"What about Kain himself? Does he have a say?" Kanha asked.
"He'll probably pretend not to care," Kiara said with a grin, "but you know he's already thought about it."
"Men always act indifferent about these things until the day arrives and suddenly they're combing their hair and tightening their sashes twice," Mirha said with a smirk.
Laughter erupted again, echoing softly against the high walls. The servants joined in the preparations—helping the women try on their gowns, adjusting hems, taking in seams. The room became a flurry of silk and satin, the scent of lavender oil and pressed linens hanging in the air.
As Mirha slipped into her red velvet dress for a fitting, she caught her reflection in the tall mirror. For a moment, she simply looked. There was no rush in her chest, no heavy ache in her throat. She looked like herself—elegant, yes, but not hidden.
"Perfect," Kiara said from behind her, her voice quiet.
Mirha turned and smiled. "Thank you."
As the final touches were made and the gowns packed away safely for the next morning, Gina sat down by the window and looked out at the castle gardens, glowing orange in the afternoon sun.
"Tomorrow's going to change everything, isn't it?" she asked.
"Yes," Kanha replied. "It always does."
But for now, in that soft golden hour, with laughter still lingering in the air and silk rustling gently like whispered secrets, change could wait one more night.
The emperor's study was dimly lit, warmed by the gentle amber glow of the lanterns resting atop carved wooden sconces. The scent of old books, fresh ink, and polished cedar filled the room. The windows were drawn, the chill of dusk sealed out. Papers lay in neat stacks across the broad desk, and behind it sat Arvin—straight-backed, shoulders squared, but with an unusual stillness in his eyes.
Heman stood to the side, arms crossed loosely as he stared at the sealed correspondence in his hand. He hadn't spoken in a few moments. He didn't need to. Arvin had barely moved since he sat down over an hour ago.
"Still haven't touched that tea," Heman finally said, his voice even.
Arvin didn't look up from the map spread before him. "It's gone cold."
"Want me to get you a new one?"
"No need. It'll taste the same."
Silence again.
Heman tilted his head slightly. He had known Arvin for years—before the crown, before the weight of empire. He recognized the way the man's knuckles rested lightly on the edge of the desk, like he was holding on to the moment. Controlled. Tired. Stubborn.
"The tailors said your ceremonial robes are being adjusted again," Heman said, casually walking toward the desk. "You've lost weight."
Arvin smirked without humor. "Or maybe they over-measured. You know how tailors love drama."
Heman took the seat opposite him, resting a boot over his knee. "And yet, you haven't eaten properly in days."
"I've eaten." Arvin tapped a finger on the table. "Half a peach counts, doesn't it?"
"For a squirrel, maybe."
Arvin gave a low chuckle but didn't argue. He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the back of his neck before glancing toward the flickering lanternlight.
"Everyone's busy," he murmured. "The whole palace feels like it's breathing quicker."
"Because they are," Heman said. "Tomorrow's no small day."
"The festival, the coronation ceremony, visiting nobles, half the southern court—I know." Arvin sighed, but not out of exhaustion. More like something deeper. "And yet here I am. Sitting still."
"You've earned a quiet moment."
"Quiet feels strange."
"It always does," Heman said. "Right before something loud."
Arvin leaned forward again, elbows braced on the desk, fingers laced. He didn't speak for a while, just studied the map laid out before him—routes, territories, trade lines. Old ink, older ambitions. Heman watched him.
"You still haven't told me what's really bothering you," Heman said eventually.
"Would it matter if I did?"
"It might. I'm not just your second-in-command, you know."
"I know."
Heman leaned back, watching him closely. "You're not sleeping. You're not eating. You're colder than usual. You're off."
Arvin's brow lifted faintly. "That obvious?"
"Only to someone who's seen you bleed."
That earned a real reaction—Arvin looked away, his jaw tightening. He didn't refute it. That, in itself, was telling.
"It's not the work," Arvin said at last. "Not the pressure. I've handled worse."
"Then?"
"My bones ache. Like I've run through snow for a hundred miles and forgot to stop."
Heman nodded slowly. "Then maybe it's time you stop pretending you're fine."
"Kings don't get sick," Arvin said, dryly.
"No," Heman agreed. "But emperors do. They just hide it better."
A ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of Arvin's mouth. He reached for the untouched tea and took a sip. It was cold, bitter—but he didn't wince.
"Tomorrow is going to be a long day," Arvin said. "It'll be noisy. Political. Beautiful. Pretentious."
"And heavy," Heman added.
"Yes. Heavy." Arvin set the cup down. "But I'll manage."
"You always do."
They sat in silence for a long while. The soft crackle of the lantern wicks, the muted voices of servants far down the corridor, the occasional rustle of paper. It wasn't uncomfortable. It was the silence of men who understood each other.
"Do me a favor," Arvin said after a time.
"Name it."
"If I drop tomorrow, don't let them make a scene."
"You won't drop."
"But if I do—"
"I said, you won't."
Arvin smirked. "That's loyalty."
"That's truth."
The emperor closed his eyes for a beat, then opened them again, sharper. He picked up a pen, scratched a note onto a parchment, and handed it to Heman.
"Deliver this to Prince Kalan. Final details on the seating arrangement of the royal family. "
Heman took it. "You sure you want both families near the foreign envoys?"
"No. But I want to see if King Ren survives the discomfort."
"Sadistic."
"Calculated."
Heman stood, tucking the note into his coat. "I'll make sure it's done."
Arvin nodded. "And Heman?"
"Yes?"
"If anything happens tomorrow…"
"It won't."
"But if it does—"
"Then I'll handle it. Like always."
They shared a look. The kind that said everything else that didn't need words. Trust. Brotherhood. Duty.
Then Heman turned and left the study, the door clicking softly behind him.
Arvin remained seated for a long time after, alone with the lanternlight and the slow rhythm of his own breath. The ache in his chest pulsed once. Twice. A reminder. But he didn't flinch.
He had a kingdom to wear tomorrow. And kings don't falter.
The corridor outside the west wing was quiet, the kind of quiet that pressed against the walls like held breath. Heman's steps were measured, slow. He wasn't looking for anyone in particular—just moving, thinking, instinct guiding his feet more than intent.
And lately, instinct had been pulling hard.
As he passed near the strategy chamber, voices floated into the hall.
"...the northern posts haven't confirmed yet, but it's likely the pass is snowed in," said a voice—General Kain's.
"They'll be late, not absent," came another—Duke Rnzo.
Heman stopped. Two sharp minds. If anyone should hear what he was carrying, it was them.
He pushed open the door.
Both men looked up.
"Heman," Rnzo greeted calmly. "You look like you walked in with something on your mind."
"I did."
Kain's posture shifted. Less casual now. "Go on."
Heman stepped in and shut the door behind him. "It's the Emperor."
That got their full attention.
"What about him?" Rnzo asked, more serious now.
"He's not well," Heman said, voice low but firm. "Hasn't been for days. He's hiding it well, but I've been with him long enough—I can tell."
Kain straightened. "You sure?"
"I don't guess about the Emperor," Heman replied. "He's not overworking. He's not troubled. He's just... off. Slower. Breathing heavier. Holding things a second longer. Tonight, he gave me a warning."
Rnzo's brow lifted. "What kind?"
"He said if anything happens during the coronation, I'm not to make a scene. His exact words."
A heavy silence followed.
Kain broke it. "And he told you not to speak of it?"
Heman nodded once. "But I'm telling you anyway."
Rnzo paced slowly to the hearth. "Good. We needed to know."
"I didn't come here to ask for permission," Heman said, arms folded. "I came because if something happens tomorrow, this empire won't forgive panic. We need to be ready."
Kain looked at Rnzo. Rnzo looked at Heman.
A beat passed between them—all soldiers, all men who'd held ground during chaos, all who knew what it meant to be the last ones standing when the world shifted.
"We need a plan," Rnzo said quietly.
Kain nodded. "Agreed."
Heman exhaled, his jaw tight. "Then we do it quietly. And fast."
None of them said more. They didn't need to.
The air between them had changed—like the moment before a sword is drawn.
They wouldn't speak of it again unless they had to.
And they prayed they wouldn't.
And mostly the had to make sure it doesn't spread especially to Queen mother.
The emperor's chambers were silent save for the faint crackle of the fire. Outside the tall windows, the sky had dimmed into a deep indigo—night had fallen fully, but the sleep it promised felt like a distant thing.
Arvin lay on his side, his jaw clenched. His hand was fisted beneath the heavy covers, gripping nothing, as if holding on to something that might slip through his fingers at any moment.
He was cold. But not the kind that could be chased away by the fire or layers of fur-lined robes.
This cold came from the inside.
His spine trembled under each breath. His skin felt clammy despite the chill, and though sweat beaded at his brow, he could not stop shivering.
The physician, Ruso, had been there an hour ago—tall, older, skilled. He had taken his pulse, examined his eyes, checked his temperature with an unreadable face, and offered treatment with confidence.
But nothing had worked.
Now, alone, Arvin stared at the far wall, every blink an effort.
His throat ached. His body felt like it had been wrung out and hung to dry, muscles heavy and stubborn, unwilling to obey the will he so carefully guarded. There were no servants in the room—he had dismissed them all before sundown.
He wouldn't let them see him like this.
The crown was not on his head, but it pressed on him all the same. The weight of the empire did not ease when the body failed. It only grew sharper.
He rolled slightly onto his back, grimacing as a dull, gnawing ache dragged through his chest and into his bones. His breaths were shallow, like every inhale passed through ice.
His eyes burned, but he could not sleep.
He had not truly rested in days.
And now, with the coronation hours away, his body was betraying him at the worst possible time.
His fingers twitched slightly. He thought of the others—Rnzo, Kain, Heman—men he trusted. Men who would see it if he faltered. And perhaps they already had. He had seen it in Heman's eyes tonight—that quiet look of knowing, though no word had been spoken.
He had told Heman not to act unless something happened. Not to worry unless there was cause.
But tonight… there might be cause.
His breath hitched, and he turned his face slightly into the pillow to steady it, gritting his teeth. This wasn't the time to fall apart. He had stood through worse storms. He had fought wars on a body broken and a heart grieving. He would not let this take him down.
Not now.
The candlelight flickered, casting shadows across the dark wood of the ceiling above. His eyes traced them absently, as if they might lull him into sleep.
But the fatigue was cruel—deep, bone-heavy, and relentless—yet it offered no relief. Only more silence. More hours.
And more cold.
Arvin swallowed, throat raw. He reached slowly for the goblet on his bedside table, but his fingers didn't hold steady. The cup tilted and slipped from his hand, landing on the floor with a dull clatter, spilling what was left of Ruso's bitter medicine across the marble.
He shut his eyes.
Just for a moment.
But the cold was still there.
Waiting.
Watching.