Kaisen returned to the Imperial Palace long after dusk had settled, his body heavy with exhaustion. Every muscle ached—from the fall, from the long walk back, from days of emotions he had never allowed himself to name. And yet, despite it all, his mood had been strangely lifted.
The girl.
Yuma.
Her voice, her warmth, the way she had spoken to him without knowing who he was—without fear, without reverence. For a brief moment, she had taken the weight off his chest. A moment where Mirha was not a wound constantly reopened, where loss did not define him.
But the palace did not allow such illusions.
As he entered the main hall, his steps slowed when he saw the Emperor himself approaching from the opposite corridor.
Arvin.
The sight alone pressed down on him like a reminder of everything he did not have—of how easily life had unfolded for Arvin. Power, the crown, Mirha. Things Kaisen had wanted, fought for, dreamed of… handed to another without effort.
Envy curled quietly in his chest, sharp and bitter.
Arvin noticed him instantly and smiled, warm and familiar. But Kaisen's face remained unreadable, his exhaustion too deep to mask. He lowered his gaze, intent on passing by without a word.
But the Emperor noticed.
The smile faded.
"Kaisen."
The single word carried no command—only recognition.
Kaisen stopped. He turned, straightened despite the pain pulling at his shoulders, and bowed deeply.
"I am exhausted, Your Majesty," he said evenly, his voice controlled despite the storm beneath it. "If you will excuse me—good night."
Arvin studied him for a moment longer than necessary, his eyes sharp, perceptive. But he said nothing.
Kaisen rose, turned away, and continued down the corridor, his steps steady even as his heart pounded.
Arvin remained where he was, watching his back disappear into the shadows of the palace halls—aware that something had shifted, even if he did not yet know what.
Arvin remained standing long after Kaisen disappeared down the corridor, his gaze fixed on the empty space where his cousin had been. Something about Kaisen's posture—too rigid, too controlled—did not sit right with him.
He turned slowly.
"Heman," Arvin said, his voice calm but edged with quiet authority. "What is wrong with him?"
Heman stiffened. He had expected the question the moment Kaisen bowed and walked away like a stranger. Still, he kept his expression neutral, his hands folding behind his back.
"I do not know, Your Majesty," he replied carefully. "Perhaps fatigue from travel."
Arvin studied him.
He knew that answer was false.
Heman had served him long enough to know when silence was chosen, not born of ignorance. And Heman knew Arvin well enough to recognize that look—the one that saw through half-truths.
For a moment, the corridor felt narrower, heavier.
Arvin stepped closer, lowering his voice so it carried only to Heman.
"You are lying," he said evenly, without anger.
Heman did not respond. He did not deny it either.
The Emperor exhaled slowly, then straightened, reclaiming the distance between them.
"Very well," Arvin said at last. "I will not press you tonight."
He turned toward his chambers, his cloak shifting softly as he walked away.
"But tomorrow," he added, not slowing his steps, "I want answers."
Heman watched him go, his chest tightening. He knew tomorrow would come with questions neither of them could continue avoiding.
The palace doors closed behind the Emperor, leaving Heman alone in the quiet corridor—caught between loyalty, truth, and a storm that was no longer avoidable.
Arvin entered his chambers in silence and closed the doors behind him himself, dismissing the servants with a single gesture. The room felt larger than usual, emptier. He crossed it slowly and sat at the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, his fingers lacing together as his thoughts betrayed him almost immediately.
Mirha.
It was no longer simple missing. That word felt too gentle, too forgiving. What coiled in his chest was sharper—a restless hunger, a constant awareness of absence. Three weeks in Magili, and every night since had tested a restraint he rarely needed to practice.
He exhaled through his nose, eyes drifting shut.
He knew he could go to her.
The thought came uninvited, as it always did. A single command, a prepared carriage, and by morning he could be in Magili—could see her, touch her, have her warmth dissolve this ache. No one would question it. No one would dare stop him.
Yet he stayed.
Not because it was easy, but because it mattered.
He did not want to take her time from her, did not want to appear as though he could not bear her absence for even a handful of days. More than that—he wanted her to return because she wanted to, not because he summoned her like a possession.
That restraint cost him.
His jaw tightened as memory betrayed him—soft laughter, the way her voice lowered when she spoke only to him, the weight of her resting trustingly against his chest. He let out a quiet, breathless chuckle, shaking his head as if scolding himself.
"This is ridiculous," he murmured to no one.
He rose abruptly and went to the bathing chamber, as though cold water could wash away longing. Steam soon filled the space, and he stepped beneath the falling water, tilting his head back as it ran through his hair, down his neck, across skin that felt too aware.
Even there, his thoughts did not leave her.
The way she looked at him when she thought he was not watching. The way she said his name—not with fear, not with reverence, but with something softer. Something that made him forget titles, crowns, and duty.
When he returned to the bedchamber, dressed simply, he lay back against the pillows and stared at the ceiling, one arm resting across his eyes.
Sleep did not come easily.
Instead, he drifted—half-awake, half-lost—in thoughts of her return. Of footsteps at his door. Of her presence filling the room the way it always did, quietly, naturally, as though she belonged there.
And perhaps, he admitted silently, she already did.