Goya stormed down the corridor, her breath uneven, her steps sharp against the marble floors.
"Goya!" Kain called after her, his voice echoing through the halls. "Goya, wait—"
She did not slow. She did not turn.
Kain lengthened his stride and caught up to her, reaching out and gripping her wrist. She tried to wrench herself free, striking his chest once in frustration, but his hold was firm—steady, not forceful, grounding rather than restraining.
"Let go," she snapped.
He didn't. Instead, he stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop.
Her eyes burned as she looked up at him. "You believe me," she said, her voice suddenly quieter, almost fragile. "You see it too, right? That she is playing him. Right in his face."
Kain exhaled slowly, the fight draining from his shoulders. His expression softened—not with disagreement, but with resignation.
"I do," he admitted. "And you're right. Any logical person would have stopped, questioned, investigated." He paused, then added, "But this is Kaisen."
Goya clenched her jaw.
"He won't listen to anyone right now," Kain continued. "Not you. Not me. Not even the emperor. Guilt has him by the throat." His gaze darkened. "So we let him choose."
Goya scoffed bitterly. "And when the truth comes out?"
Kain's eyes hardened. "Then Kanha will pay for it." His voice was calm, almost cold. "Kaisen has never been the forgiving type. Love him or hate him, once he realizes he's been deceived…" He shook his head slightly. "She will reap exactly what she has sown."
Silence settled between them.
Goya's breathing slowly evened out. The fire in her eyes did not disappear—but it sharpened, becoming something colder, more deliberate. Finally, she let out a short laugh.
"Well then," she said, straightening her posture, "I want to be there when she meets her demise."
Kain raised an eyebrow.
She looked at him, a wicked glint flashing across her face. "Let's go get married."
Kain couldn't help it—he smirked, that familiar crooked smile tugging at his lips. He offered her his arm, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"This way, Your Highness," he said smoothly, turning her back toward the study.
Side by side, they walked back—united not just by love, but by a shared certainty that fate had already begun sharpening its blade.
As they walked, Kain glanced sideways at her, his voice low.
"You don't seem very fond of her," he said. "Why is that?"
Goya stopped.
Kain halted with her, turning to face her fully. For a moment she said nothing, her jaw tight, her gaze fixed somewhere far beyond the palace walls. Then she looked at him.
"Because she is like my father," she said.
The words were sharp, heavy with old resentment.
Goya folded her arms. "And because I can't stand nobles who treat anyone beneath them like trash. It infuriates me." Her voice wavered only slightly. "Power does not make cruelty acceptable."
Kain listened in silence.
His thoughts drifted—unbidden—to his younger days. To the boy he had been. To the arrogance, the distance, the way he once recoiled from the touch of peasants as though they were beneath his very breath. A faint, almost imperceptible shame settled in his chest.
He said nothing.
Instead, he nodded once, slowly, in understanding.
Goya exhaled, the tension easing just enough for her to move again. Together, they turned and continued down the corridor toward the study—side by side, each carrying the weight of who they had been, and who they had chosen to become.
When they re-entered the study, Kaisen was still there, bent over the desk, finalizing the last details of his wedding arrangements. His shoulders were tense, but there was a strange steadiness in him now—as though resolve had replaced shock.
Goya walked toward him without hesitation.
She bowed gracefully, a soft smile curving her lips. "My lord Kaisen," she said gently, "I owe you an apology for my earlier outburst. I allowed my worry for you to cloud my judgment—and in doing so, I failed to think of poor Kanha. That was careless of me."
Her tone was warm. Convincing. Almost tender.
Kain, standing beside Arvin, watched her closely. If he had not known her as well as he did, he might have believed every word. The ease with which she slipped into the role unsettled him; her acting was flawless.
Kaisen looked up, surprised, then smiled faintly. "It is all right, Princess," he said. "I understand how overwhelming these things can be." His voice softened. "I promise you, I will take good care of her."
Goya inclined her head slightly. "It is the least you could do," she replied, her smile never faltering.
Kaisen nodded, accepting the words as reassurance rather than judgment. With that, he gathered the papers, bowed, and exited the study.
The door closed behind him.
Arvin, who had witnessed the entire exchange in weary silence, leaned back against his desk and exhaled slowly. The day had drained him. The politics, the emotions, the endless complications—he wanted none of it anymore. All he wanted was Mirha. To see her. To lie beside her and let the world quiet itself.
Kain broke the silence. "Vino," he said, his tone businesslike, "we would like a day set aside to obtain our marriage certificate."
Arvin nodded without hesitation. "It's already being drafted." He turned slightly. "Heman?"
Heman straightened. "Two days, Your Majesty."
Goya and Kain exchanged a look, then nodded in agreement.
"Perfect," Goya said. Then, as if remembering something, she tilted her head. "One more thing—where is the Precious Concubine?"
Arvin rubbed his temple. "I'm not sure. Try the pavilion."
Goya smiled. "Thank you."
She bowed once more and turned to leave, her steps light and purposeful as she headed in search of Mirha—her expression serene, her intentions anything but.
When Goya finally found Mirha, she was seated beneath the pavilion, her posture relaxed yet distant, her gaze unfocused as though her thoughts were far away. The afternoon light filtered through the columns, brushing her skin softly.
Mirha noticed her presence and looked up, blinking as if pulled from another world.
"Oh—hi," she said quietly.
Goya returned the greeting with equal simplicity. "Hi." She sat beside her without ceremony.
Yuma was there as well, standing a little to the side, her hands folded neatly, her expression alert.
Goya did not waste time. "Did you hear what happened?"
Mirha frowned slightly. "With Kanha?" she asked.
"Yes," Goya replied.
"So terrible," Mirha said instinctively, her voice low—
—but Goya cut in sharply.
"That lying mess."
Mirha turned fully toward her, startled. "What are you talking about?"
Goya leaned back, folding her arms. "None of it makes sense. Not a single part. No investigation, no questions, no delay—just immediate vows and quiet approvals." Her eyes narrowed. "They were both supposedly drugged? By whom? And for what reason? No one seems interested in that."
Yuma nodded in agreement. "Exactly," she said. "The story doesn't add up."
Mirha fell silent as Goya continued, laying out her suspicions piece by piece—too many gaps, too much haste, too convenient an outcome. As she spoke, Yuma listened closely, nodding more and more.
Yuma's agreement was not only instinctive. She had seen Kanha before—her sharp tongue, her entitlement, the way she treated those beneath her as if they were invisible. This kind of move felt predictable. Calculated. And there were far too many unanswered questions.
Her thoughts drifted, unbidden, to Kaisen.
That poor man, she thought bitterly. Trapped by a woman like that.
For a fleeting moment, she even wished she could find Kai—the man she had once mistaken for a stable hand, one of Lord Kaisen's men. She wanted to tell him. To warn someone. To save his master from what was clearly a snare.
When Goya finally paused, Yuma exhaled sharply and muttered, without thinking,
"That bitch."
The word landed heavily in the air.
Goya and Mirha both turned toward her.
Yuma's eyes widened in horror at herself. "I—!" She dropped to her knees instantly. "Forgive me, Your Highness. I shouldn't have said that—I—please forgive me."
Mirha reached out gently. "It's all right," she said calmly. "Just make sure you never say such things in public."
Goya scoffed. "But she is right. That bitch—"
Mirha closed her eyes briefly, already exhausted. "Goya," she said softly.
She could feel it—this was spiraling. There was no stopping them now. So instead of intervening further, Mirha leaned back and listened, letting them rant, letting the anger burn itself out.
When Goya was finally finished, she stood and smoothed her gown, her mood abruptly lightening. She smiled at Yuma.
"We should have tea sometime," she said warmly. "I like you."
Yuma bowed deeply, still flustered. "It would be an honor, Your Highness."
After Goya left, Mirha let out a small breath and looked at Yuma with a faint smile.
"That," she said, "is truly the general's wife."
Yuma giggled softly, relief washing over her as the tension finally eased.