The following morning in Magili, Mirha woke with a sharp intake of breath, her hand instinctively clutching the sheets beneath her. Her heart was racing, her skin warm, as though the dream still clung to her like a second layer.
Arvin.
The dream had been far too vivid—his gaze, steady and consuming; the weight of his presence; the familiar way his hands guided her as if he knew her body better than she knew herself. It lingered long after her eyes opened, refusing to fade with the daylight filtering through the curtains.
She turned onto her side, embarrassed even though no one was there to see her, pressing her lips together as she tried to steady her breathing.
It was ridiculous, she told herself.
And yet, when she finally rose and dressed, the memory followed her. At breakfast, seated across from Gina and beside Goya, she found herself distracted, barely tasting the food before her. Her thoughts betrayed her again and again—his eyes, his voice, the way he always seemed to command the room without effort.
At one point, without realising it, she held her breath.
Goya noticed immediately.
She tilted her head, studying Mirha's unusually quiet demeanour, then nudged her gently under the table. "Breathe," she murmured, amusement dancing in her eyes.
Mirha startled, inhaling quickly as heat rushed to her cheeks. She avoided Goya's gaze, lowering her eyes to her plate, but the princess only smiled knowingly, saying nothing more.
Still, Mirha could not rid herself of the feeling.
It stayed with her—unwelcome yet impossible to deny—a reminder that distance did not dull longing. If anything, it sharpened it.
And as she sat there beneath the Magili sun, Mirha realised with a quiet ache that the Emperor was no longer merely in her thoughts.
He had followed her into her dreams.
Gina exchanged a knowing glance with Goya before leaning back in her chair, lips curling into a mischievous smile.
"Well," she said lightly, "someone was clearly thinking about the Emperor."
Mirha froze mid-bite.
"No—what? No!" she sputtered. "How would you even—who told you?!"
Goya and Gina burst into laughter, the sound ringing freely through the room.
Gina waved a hand dismissively, still chuckling. "Relax, Mirha. If I were you, I would be too. You've been here three weeks—almost a full month—and you haven't seen him." She emphasised the word seen with deliberate innocence.
Goya giggled behind her cup. "Exactly. We understand."
Mirha opened her mouth to protest, then closed it again, choosing instead to sip her drink.
"And anyway," Goya added casually, leaning closer, "how is the Emperor at night?"
Mirha choked.
Gina laughed so hard she had to brace herself against the table. "Oh my—look at her face!"
Mirha wiped her mouth quickly, mortified. "I truly don't know what to say," she muttered. "Besides, I made a vow never to speak of the Emperor's life within the chambers."
Goya nodded exaggeratedly. "Fair enough." Then she tilted her head, eyes sparkling. "But you can speak of yourself, can't you?"
Mirha hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Yes… that much, I suppose."
Goya leaned in, lowering her voice theatrically. "As the Empire's so-called symbol of love—what do you think about… intimacy?"
Gina scooted closer, clearly invested.
Mirha stared down at her plate, pressed her palms together, and whispered, "Lord, help me." Then, softly but honestly, she added, "I think… It's one of the reasons life feels worth living."
Goya nodded immediately. "Agreed."
"Amen," Gina added solemnly.
They all paused—then realised what had just been said.
The room exploded into laughter, unrestrained and unladylike, the kind that left Mirha breathless and clutching her side, her earlier embarrassment melting into warmth.
For a moment, they were not concubine, duchess, and princess.
Just three women, laughing freely.
Their laughter was still lingering in the air when the sharp, formal voice of the announcer cut through it.
"The Imperial General Kain"
Goya's eyes widened instantly. In one practised motion, the ladies straightened in their seats, composure returning like silk being smoothed flat.
Kain entered first, his presence commanding without effort, Rnzo following closely behind him. At once, Mirha, Gina, and Goya rose and bowed, their movements graceful and precise. Both men returned the gesture.
Kain went directly to Goya. He lifted her hand and pressed a soft kiss against her knuckles, his gaze lingering just a heartbeat longer than propriety required.
Rnzo, meanwhile, approached Gina. With a fond familiarity, he tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear and said warmly,
"I hope you've enjoyed the company of these beautiful ladies."
Gina smiled, glancing at Mirha and Goya before answering, "Very much so."
Mirha and Goya returned the smile, the warmth between them unmistakable.
Rnzo then straightened and spoke, his tone shifting to duty.
"The Yearly Banquet is in two days. These lovely ladies will need time to prepare." He paused, then added, "We'll be returning to the Imperial Palace today."
Gina's eyes lit up. "Really?"
Rnzo nodded.
She turned to Mirha and Goya and bowed lightly. "Then I look forward to seeing you both in your finest gowns."
The ladies bowed in return. "And you as well, Your Grace."
With that, the moment dissolved back into motion—maids summoned, plans made, hearts already anticipating what awaited them next—as they began preparations to return to the Imperial Palace.
The journey back to the Imperial Palace began quietly.
Mirha sat by the carriage window, hands folded neatly in her lap, yet her thoughts refused to stay still. With every mile that passed, her heart grew more restless. It had been weeks since she had last seen Arvin—weeks that felt far longer than they should have.
She wondered what she would do the moment she arrived.
Should she go to him at once, as her heart urged her to?
Or should she wait, as a concubine ought to, until she was summoned?
The thought unsettled her.
She wanted to see him—desperately so—but uncertainty clouded her longing. Would he be busy? Distant? Would he look at her the same way he had before she left?
Her fingers tightened slightly against the fabric of her gown as memories rushed in uninvited: his voice, his hands, the quiet intensity of his gaze. Too much was running through her mind, emotions tangling together until she could no longer separate anticipation from fear.
Mirha exhaled slowly and looked out the window again.
Soon, she would be back where he was.
And whether she was ready or not, her heart already knew exactly where it wished to go.
Yuma's soft voice broke through Mirha's racing thoughts.
"Your Highness… we have arrived."
Mirha blinked and looked out the carriage window. The sky had already deepened into shades of amber and blue—the palace lamps were being lit one by one. It was nearly six in the evening. She hadn't realised how late it had become, lost as she was in her thoughts.
As she stepped down from the carriage, smoothing her gown, her eyes lifted—and stilled.
Standing near the palace entrance was a familiar figure.
Lord Vharin.
He turned at the sound of movement, his calm gaze settling on her. Mirha offered him a gentle smile. There had always been something about him—quiet, reserved, almost distant—yet never unkind. Even in Bukid, where she had once felt out of place, he had treated her with a measured courtesy that felt sincere.
Vharin bowed deeply.
Mirha reached out instinctively, stopping him before he could lower himself further. "Please," she said softly.
He straightened and inclined his head instead. "It is a pleasure to see you again, Your Highness."
As always, he spoke with few words. Vharin was not a man given to unnecessary speech, and Mirha had learned to read meaning in his restraint.
She smiled warmly. "Thank you, my lord. It is good to be back."
Before either could say more, measured footsteps approached. Heman appeared, bowing respectfully.
"Welcome back, Your Highness."
Mirha turned to him, returning the greeting with a nod, then looked back to Vharin. "It was lovely seeing you again, my lord."
Vharin bowed once more, his expression calm and unreadable.
Mirha turned and continued into the palace halls, her presence quietly commanding attention as she passed—unaware that her return had already begun to stir more than one heart within those walls.
Heman informed Mirha that the Emperor was still in council and would see her later. He did not mention—carefully—that Arvin had not yet been told of her arrival.
Mirha nodded, relieved. "That's alright," she said softly. "I need to freshen up as well."
She returned to her chambers, bathed away the dust of travel, and dressed for dinner with more care than she meant to admit. Every movement carried a quiet nervousness. Three weeks apart suddenly felt heavy now that she was within the same walls as him again.
When she entered the dining room, the space was hushed.
Arvin was seated alone.
He lifted his gaze instinctively—and then froze.
For a brief moment, he simply stared. His eyes moved around the room, as though searching for proof that she was truly there, that his mind had not conjured her out of hunger and longing. His brows drew together slightly, confusion sharpening his features.
Mirha let out a small, nervous laugh.
She stepped forward and bowed.
"Your Majesty," she said softly, "it is a pleasure to see you again."
The chair scraped against the floor as Arvin stood abruptly.
He crossed the space between them in long strides, stopping far closer than protocol allowed. Without thinking, he reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear—an intimate, familiar gesture that made Mirha's breath catch.
"Hello," he said quietly, his voice low, almost disbelieving.
His eyes searched her face, as if committing her to memory all over again.
"When did you get here?"