Mirha did not linger in the breakfast hall long.
The moment she stepped into the quiet corridors of the palace, the noise of conversation and clinking dishes faded behind her. Her steps carried her steadily toward the imperial wing, where Arvin's study stood.
The guards outside bowed as she approached and opened the doors for her without question.
Inside, Arvin sat behind his desk, surrounded by scrolls and documents. Sunlight streamed through the tall windows, casting long streaks of gold across the polished wood. He looked up the moment she entered.
His expression softened instantly.
Mirha walked toward him with quiet grace and gave a slight bow, more formal than necessary.
Arvin chuckled under his breath.
"Is that really necessary?" he asked, amusement warming his voice.
He lifted a hand, beckoning her closer.
Mirha obeyed, stepping around the desk until she stood before him. The moment she reached him, Arvin placed his hands around her waist and lifted her effortlessly onto the edge of the desk.
Before she could react, he leaned in and kissed her—warm, unhurried, familiar.
The kiss lingered for a moment before he pulled back slightly, studying her face.
"Honey?" he asked softly.
Mirha blinked, still a little breathless. "I was having breakfast."
Arvin glanced toward the side table nearby, where a spread of food had already been arranged—bowls of fruit, warm bread, honey, and tea.
"You can eat with me here," he said, gesturing to it.
Mirha smiled faintly. "Alright."
"But," she added gently, "you said you wanted to talk to me."
Arvin reached for her hand, brushing his lips against her knuckles before helping her down from the desk.
"Come," he said. "Join me."
They walked together to the table.
Mirha sat beside him and reached for the grapes, plucking them slowly from the bowl while Arvin tore a piece of bread and dipped it lightly in honey.
For a moment, they simply ate in silence.
Then Arvin spoke.
"We are going to Bukid."
Mirha's hand paused halfway to the bowl.
Only for a second.
Then she continued eating the grapes as if nothing had happened.
Arvin watched her carefully.
"You're quiet," he noted. "I thought you would be excited to return to your hometown."
Mirha smiled, though the expression was faint. "I… I am excited."
Arvin didn't believe it for a moment.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, studying her face.
"We leave in four days."
Mirha nodded once, still smiling softly, still picking at the grapes.
The silence stretched.
"Why are you so quiet?" Arvin finally asked.
Mirha turned toward him then. Slowly, she reached for his hand and held it between both of hers. Her smile was gentle, almost apologetic.
"Do I have to go?" she asked quietly.
Arvin frowned slightly.
"Do you not wish to come?"
"No," Mirha said quickly. "I would love to."
She hesitated.
"But…"
Arvin tilted his head.
"But?"
Mirha lowered her gaze to their joined hands.
"I don't know how to face Nailah," she admitted. "I feel like… I've betrayed her."
For a moment Arvin simply stared at her.
Then, unexpectedly, he laughed.
The sound was light, but it cut through the room sharply.
Mirha stiffened.
Her fingers slipped from his hand as irritation flickered across her face.
Arvin noticed immediately and lifted his hands slightly. "Sorry," he said, though the amusement still lingered in his voice. "I couldn't help it."
He leaned forward.
"Why would you feel like you betrayed her?" he asked. "Wasn't she the one who gave you to me?"
Mirha's jaw tightened.
She slowly pulled her hands back, placing them in her lap.
"You don't understand," she said quietly. "She was influenced."
Arvin snorted lightly.
"Yes," he replied. "And she chose you to sacrifice."
His tone hardened.
"She had no problem handing you over to her husband as his fucking tool."
The bluntness of his words landed like a slap.
Mirha froze.
For a moment she said nothing. Then she pushed her chair back and stood.
"Have a good day, Your Majesty," she said calmly.
She turned toward the door.
"Mirha, sit," Arvin said sharply.
She didn't stop.
"Mirha."
Still, she walked.
His voice rose.
"Mirha, come back here."
She spun around suddenly, frustration breaking through her calm composure.
"I need to use the restroom your Majesty," she snapped.
The words came out faster than she intended.
Arvin blinked, momentarily caught off guard.
And before he could respond, Mirha had already turned and slipped out of the study, the doors closing behind her with a quiet but final sound.
The room fell into silence.
Mirha walked quickly through the corridors, her mind far louder than the palace around her.
By the time she reached her chambers, the tightness in her chest had only grown. She pushed the doors open and stepped inside, the quiet of the room closing around her like a shield.
But the silence didn't help.
She moved slowly toward the mirror and sank into the seat before it, staring at her own reflection. Her face was calm, composed—exactly as it should be.
Yet her thoughts churned.
Why am I angry?
Arvin hadn't lied. Not really.
Nailah had given her to him. That was the truth, plain and simple. It had been a decision made in desperation, perhaps under pressure, but a decision all the same.
So why had his words burned the way they did?
Mirha pressed her lips together, her gaze drifting across her reflection as if it might answer her.
Why did it hurt to hear it like that?
The door opened quietly behind her.
Yuma stepped inside, already smiling as if she had expected to find Mirha exactly like this—sitting before the mirror, lost somewhere inside her own thoughts.
"What's wrong?" Yuma asked lightly.
Mirha didn't answer.
Her silence stretched long enough that Yuma's smile faded into something more thoughtful. She walked further into the room, leaning casually against the table nearby.
"One should reap what they sow," Yuma said after a moment, her tone calm but deliberate. "It's good character development."
Mirha's brows knit slightly at the strange phrasing, but she still said nothing.
Yuma continued, watching Mirha's reflection rather than her directly.
"Tell me something," she said. "If you made a decision… and someone else had to suffer because of it… but that person somehow found joy in the pain you caused them—"
She paused.
"Would you hate them for it?"
Mirha's eyes lifted slowly to meet Yuma's in the mirror.
For a moment, neither of them spoke.
Then Mirha's expression softened, something thoughtful settling into her gaze.
"I see," she said quietly.
Yuma's smile returned—small, satisfied.
"Good," she replied gently. "Then, my lady."
Yuma straightened from the table and clapped her hands together softly, as if she had just decided something.
"My lady," she said lightly, "you've been thinking too much. Come—let's go get some air."
Mirha looked at her through the mirror. For a moment she considered refusing, but the stillness of the room had begun to feel suffocating. Yuma was right about one thing sitting alone with her thoughts would not help.
She rose from the chair and smoothed the folds of her gown. Yuma adjusted a loose strand of her hair and nodded in approval.
"There," she said. "Much better. Now you look like someone who isn't fighting a war with herself."
Mirha gave her a faint look of amusement but said nothing as they left the chambers.
The imperial gardens were quiet compared to the palace halls. The morning sun filtered through tall cypress trees, scattering soft light across the stone paths and flowering hedges. The air carried the faint scent of jasmine.
They found the other ladies already seated beneath a shaded pavilion.
Duchess Gina sat with her usual elegance, though she leaned slightly into the cushions as if still recovering her strength. Lady Kanha sat nearby, posture perfect, her expression calm but distant. Mayora stood beside them, speaking quietly as she poured tea.
Mirha approached and greeted them politely before taking a seat.
Conversation began easily enough—light remarks about the banquet, the music, the endless preparations that always seemed to follow celebrations in the palace. Gina spoke about the flowers used at the banquet, teasing that the palace gardeners had nearly emptied half the gardens for Goya's wedding.
Mirha listened, occasionally adding a quiet comment. Kanha remained mostly silent, though she nodded when spoken to.
Then suddenly—
Kanha's hand slipped from the teacup.
The porcelain clattered softly against the table.
Her body swayed.
Before anyone could react, Kanha collapsed sideways.
"Kanha!" Gina exclaimed, half rising in alarm.
Mayora moved faster than anyone else, catching Kanha before she could fall to the ground. She lowered herself carefully onto the cushioned bench, her hands already checking her pulse and breathing with practised calm.
Mirha stood, shock written across her face. "What happened?"
For a moment the garden seemed to freeze.
Mayora examined her quietly, pressing gentle fingers to Kanha's wrist, then her abdomen. Her expression shifted—subtle, thoughtful.
She leaned closer to Kanha, then turned slightly toward the others.
Her voice lowered to a whisper.
"She's pregnant."
The words hung in the warm garden air like a sudden crack of thunder.