Rnzo and Gina were given the privacy they needed, the doors closing softly behind them as if the palace itself understood grief required silence.
Arvin and Mirha returned to their chambers.
The room felt different now — heavier, thicker, as though the air had absorbed the weight of what had happened. Nothing was wrong between them, yet neither of them knew where to place their thoughts. They moved around each other gently, carefully, like two people afraid of disturbing something fragile.
No one spoke at first.
Mirha was the one who finally broke the silence.
"Did you go far earlier?" she asked softly, her voice cautious, almost apologetic for speaking at all.
Arvin turned to her.
"No," he replied. "We barely made it out of the palace. We were heading toward the capital when the messenger found us."
He paused, then added, attempting a faint smile,
"You should have seen Rnzo. He pulled the messenger straight off his horse and took it for himself."
Mirha smiled — small, fleeting, but real.
"He loves her," she said quietly.
Then, without thinking, without realizing the weight of what she was about to say, she added,
"I believe you would do the same for Her Majesty."
The words hung between them.
Arvin fell silent.
He looked at her — really looked at her — and Mirha met his gaze without suspicion, without fear. She had spoken innocently. Honestly. Completely unaware of what she had stirred.
Arvin's thoughts drifted somewhere far from the room.
To Nailah.
To the letters.
When was the last time he had truly read one?
Most of the time, they were brought to him while he was working, while his mind was elsewhere. He would listen halfway, nod, murmur approval, then instruct Heman to reply in his place. He couldn't remember the last time he had sat alone and read her words himself — traced her thoughts, her worries, her affection.
A quiet guilt settled in his chest.
Yet, tangled within it was something he could not deny.
Mirha was here.
With him.
And his heart… his heart had not followed duty. It had followed truth.
It was not his fault she stood beside him now.
Nor was it a choice he could undo.
Arvin exhaled slowly and said nothing, reaching instead for Mirha's hand. He held it gently, firmly — grounding himself in the present.
Mirha squeezed his fingers back, unaware of the storm behind his eyes.
And in that silence, love and guilt sat side by side — neither willing to leave, neither strong enough to erase the other.
Arvin stepped closer, his hand lifting instinctively, his intent gentle — almost absentminded — as if seeking comfort rather than desire.
Mirha stilled.
She placed her hand lightly against his chest and shook her head.
"How can we enjoy ourselves," she said quietly, "when your brother is grieving?"
For a brief moment, Arvin simply looked at her. Then he chuckled — low, warm, not offended in the slightest.
"I'm not going to make love to you," he said.
"It's just a good night's kiss."
Mirha's breath caught.
Arvin took a step back instead, giving her space, his expression softening rather than hardening.
"I'll sleep in the study tonight," he added. "Just in case Rnzo needs me."
He inclined his head slightly.
"Good night, Mirha."
And before she could respond — before she could decide whether she had misread him or herself — he turned and left the room.
The door closed quietly behind him.
Mirha stood there for a long moment, heat creeping up her neck, embarrassment settling in her chest. She pressed her lips together, exhaling slowly.
Oh…
She moved to the bed, sitting at its edge, replaying the moment over and over — his tone, his restraint, the way he had stepped back instead of forward.
It wasn't rejection.
It was worse.
It was kindness.
And that, somehow, left her feeling far more undone than desire ever could.
Arvin entered the study, the faint scent of wine already thick in the air.
As he expected, Rnzo was there — slumped slightly, one hand gripping his glass, the other resting on his knee like he'd forgotten what to do with it.
Heman was beside him, a bottle in one hand and another on the table.
It was strange — Heman hated alcohol, yet tonight he sat close to it.
Arvin closed the door behind him quietly and took the chair opposite them.
No one spoke for a while. The only sound was the soft crackle of the lantern's flame and the faint clink of Rnzo's glass against the table edge.
Then Heman sighed and leaned forward, his voice low, steady — the kind of tone that came from someone who had carried his own pain too long to fear another's.
"You know," he began, "Mayora and I… we lost two children before our first son."
Rnzo slowly lifted his head, his eyes hazy from drink but caught by the sincerity in Heman's voice.
"The first was a surprise," Heman continued softly. "We weren't ready, but we were happy. Then one morning, it was gone — just like that. The second…" He paused, swallowing. "The second one was worse. The baby came… already gone. I didn't even know how to hold Mayora that day. I couldn't eat for weeks."
Arvin looked down. The silence between them was heavy, sacred.
"I told myself I'd never put her through that again," Heman said, his gaze distant. "But after some time, she came to me and said, 'If we stop trying, we let the pain win.'"
He smiled faintly, the memory softening the grief. "And we tried again. That's how we got our two boys — my reason to still believe."
Ruso's words earlier echoed in Rnzo's mind. But now, hearing Heman, it cut deeper.
"I didn't realize how much it had broken her," Heman said quietly. "Because I was drowning in my own grief. She was the light in that darkness, and I almost didn't see her."
Then he looked directly at Rnzo.
"So, Your Grace… don't let the pain swallow you both. Be her light, even if it hurts."
Rnzo stared at him. He simply nodded, the weight of understanding pressing deep into his chest.
Heman straightened in his seat, his voice firm now — no longer only gentle, but resolute.
"It wasn't my fault," he said slowly. "Nor was it hers. And it is not yours either, Your Grace… not Gina's."
Rnzo's fingers tightened around his glass.
"So do not go looking for reasons," Heman continued. "No ifs, no maybes, no silent accusations that will rot you from the inside. Loss like this does not come with a culprit. There is no one to blame."
He looked from Rnzo to Arvin, making sure the words landed.
"If you start asking why or who, you will only create wounds where there are none. The pain is already enough."
Rnzo exhaled shakily, his shoulders slumping as though something heavy had finally been set down.
"Grieve," Heman said more softly now. "But grieve together. That is the only way it does not destroy you."
Arvin finally spoke, voice low. "She'll need you now more than ever, brother."
The three men sat in silence again — not as ruler, duke, and aide, but as men who knew loss, each in their own way.