The soft flicker of morning light crept into the North Palace, brushing golden warmth across the polished floors and carved archways. A hush hung over the corridors, the air thick with anticipation. Outside Goya's window, the wind tugged gently at the silk curtains, whispering secrets through the glass. She had just finished braiding her hair and was about to step out for her morning stroll when a gentle knock pulled her attention toward the door.
"His Highness wishes to see you, Princess," said the guard politely, eyes averted as he bowed low.
Goya tilted her head, curious. "Now?"
"Yes, my lady. He asks you come to his study at once."
Goya nodded, her features calm but brows knitting slightly in thought. Her brother wasn't one for spontaneous meetings, especially not in the morning. Something about the stillness outside and the low tone in the guard's voice made her spine straighten a little more than usual.
She followed the guard quietly, her soft slippers making no sound as they passed tapestries of battles won and royal ancestors immortalized in gold thread. Every step toward Kalan's study felt heavy, like walking into a storm just beginning to form.
When the doors opened, Kalan stood by the window, the sunlight casting a soft shadow over his regal frame. His posture was stiff—shoulders slightly slumped forward, hands clasped behind his back. The scent of parchment and ink lingered in the room, mixed with the faintest trace of clove from the incense burning in the corner.
"Kalan?" she called softly, hesitant, her voice a melodic question.
He turned slowly, his expression unreadable, but his eyes—those ever-familiar eyes—looked burdened, dimmed by something more than politics or statecraft.
"Goya," he said quietly, offering her a seat with a small gesture.
She obeyed, her silken gown whispering as she sat, hands folded in her lap, watching him with concern. "You look like you haven't slept."
"I haven't," he admitted, moving to sit across from her, not at his usual desk but in the chairs by the hearth—as if this were a conversation between siblings, not royals. That alone made Goya nervous.
He hesitated, swallowing hard. "Father's conditions for handing me the throne… have changed."
She blinked, tilting her head. "Changed?"
"Yes. He's made it clear he won't support my claim unless a certain condition is met."
Goya remained quiet, letting him continue, sensing he needed time to lay the truth bare.
"I must secure an alliance," he said finally, "by marrying you to Head General Kian."
For a heartbeat, there was no sound. Not even the soft crackle of firewood. Just the silence between a brother and sister whose world had suddenly shifted.
Goya didn't move. She didn't flinch or gasp. Her gaze remained steady on her brother's face, but her fingers had tightened just slightly in her lap.
Kalan exhaled heavily. "If I don't agree, he'll give the throne to Fahit. He's prepared to cut off all trade from Èvana, destroy our alliances, undo everything we've fought for."
Goya stood slowly, walking to the window he'd once stood at. Her eyes roamed over the mountains in the distance, but she wasn't seeing them. She was pulling herself inward, centering herself.
"You agreed?" she asked, her voice calm but quiet.
"I had no choice," Kalan said, almost defensively. "But I didn't tell him you would. Not yet. I would never—"
"I'll do it."
His head shot up. "Goya—"
She turned to face him. "If this is what it takes, then I'll marry General Kian."
The words left her mouth like smoke, fading into the air before she could feel their full weight. Her voice didn't tremble. Her chin was high. There was no visible crack in her composure.
But Kalan's heart twisted in his chest.
"You… you will?"
She nodded, slowly. "You wouldn't bring this to me unless it was the only path left."
Kalan stared at her, the memory of Hosha's words echoing in his mind: "She's strong." He'd said it without hesitation. And now here she stood, proving it.
He smiled softly, but it was broken—a smile torn in two, stitched with guilt. "You're not supposed to get married like this."
She stepped toward him, placing a hand over his. "No one gets everything they want, Kalan."
He looked down at her fingers, so gentle over his knuckles, and thought of how his father had so easily arranged her life like a chess piece. And yet here she was, still holding herself with grace, not asking him to fix it, only accepting what was needed of her.
"I asked to be born royal," she whispered, almost playfully, "and fate has delivered."
Kalan couldn't speak. The weight of failure hung thick in his chest. He had sworn—when she was barely tall enough to hold a practice sword—that he would protect her from this life. That she would choose who to love. That her happiness wouldn't be traded for power.
And yet here they were.
"I just…" Goya's voice trembled now, barely, "before it all begins—I want to speak with Hosha."
Kalan's breath caught.
She didn't look at him. "Just once. Before it's done."
He gave a slow nod. "Of course."
Goya squeezed his hand once, then stepped back. Her shoulders squared. She was ready to walk out the door, but Kalan couldn't let her leave without saying one more thing.
"I'm sorry," he said. "I should have found another way."
She paused, hand on the door. Then glanced back at him, a soft smile on her lips.
"You're my brother, Kalan. You always find a way. Even when it hurts."
And with that, she left, leaving behind a prince drowning in silence, and a study too quiet to bear.
The room was quiet, but it was not peaceful.
Mirha sat on the edge of her cushioned window seat, the folds of her pale blue robe cascading softly around her feet. Her hands were planted on her knees, steadying herself as she inhaled slowly—deep into her abdomen—then exhaled through her mouth with measured calm.
Breathe. Inhale hope. Exhale pain.
It was a ritual she'd learned as a child, watching her mother press two fingers to her chest whenever the burden of life seemed too cruel to carry. Back then, the practice had seemed odd—now, it was all Mirha had to keep herself from shattering under the weight of everything that had happened.
The scent of jasmine tea still lingered in the air from the breakfast she hadn't been able to finish. Her appetite had fled the moment she arrived.
"Good morning," Kanha had said sweetly, though the glint in her eyes was anything but soft.
Mirha had looked up from her tea, a polite mask already forming. "Good morning, Lady Kanha."
She was about to rise—anything to remove herself from the same space—but Kanha had been faster, her movements swift and purposeful. She took the chair across from her like a lioness settling into position.
Kanha's lips curled slightly. "What did you do to my brother last night, Mirha?"
There was no mistaking her tone now—sharp, pointed. A blade wrapped in silk.
Across the terrace, Gina—another lady-in-waiting—stiffened, her eyes flickering toward them, but she wisely stayed silent.
Mirha didn't flinch. She folded her hands in her lap, her posture measured, poised. She didn't answer, and that silence only seemed to sharpen Kanha's anger.
"I know what he did was wrong," Kanha continued, her voice low and tight. "But let's not pretend you've never made mistakes. Holding a grudge over something that wasn't his decision to make isn't fair. It was Father who rejected you. Hosha was just as blindsided as you."
Mirha's fingers twitched faintly. She blinked once—slowly.
"You know his heart," Kanha pushed. "He's always been kind. Too kind. Fragile. You're angry, I understand, but don't make him carry that too. He's ashamed enough."
Mirha stared at her quietly. She was good at quiet. It was what people mistook for obedience.
Kanha leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper that sliced deeper than a shout. "If you can't forgive him, fine. But then stay away from him. Don't dangle hope if you're just going to twist the knife deeper."
She stood abruptly then, smoothing out the front of her gold-embroidered gown with delicate fingers. Then without another glance, she walked off, her heels clicking against the stone terrace, leaving Mirha alone with the weight of her words.
Silence fell, heavier than before. Gina quietly excused herself, sensing the shift in atmosphere, and soon Mirha was alone again—alone with her tea, her trembling hands, and the ache behind her ribs.
---
Back in her room, Mirha sat motionless, her breathing now slow and deliberate. Her fingertips trembled, but only slightly. The sting of Kanha's accusations clung to her skin like smoke. What hurt more was not the venom in her tone—but the truth she used as her weapon.
Mirha had loved Hosha. She hadn't meant to, but love, like fire, often began with the tiniest spark. And now it felt like she was choking in the smoke of it.
She closed her eyes.
Inhale. Exhale.
The door creaked gently.
"My lady?" came a quiet voice—Suni, her personal maid. Always soft-spoken, always tiptoeing like the palace walls had ears.
Mirha didn't open her eyes. "Yes, Suni?"
"You haven't left the room since breakfast," Suni said, hesitant. "Would you like to step out… get some fresh air?"
Mirha let out a dry laugh—soft and bitter. "You know I can't. I'm not permitted to wander freely."
Suni shuffled in, her tone lightening conspiratorially. "That's true… but the maids can."
That earned a glance. Mirha raised an eyebrow. "And?"
Suni stepped closer, lowering her voice. "If you dress like one of us—no one will notice. We move in and out of the main palace every day. There's a garden you've never seen. Beautiful, especially in the sun. I'll go with you. Just for a short while."
Mirha was silent. The suggestion was reckless, inappropriate, forbidden.
And yet…
Right now, after everything—after Kanha's verbal assault, after the memory of Hosha's eyes, after the ache that clung to her ribs like grief—she needed to breathe.
She stood slowly, her eyes locking with Suni's. "Get the robes."
Suni grinned, a little mischievously, and rushed to the wardrobe. Within minutes, Mirha's elaborate silks were replaced with the plain linen uniform of a palace maid. Her long hair was pulled into a modest braid, tucked beneath a modest scarf. Gone was the noble lady. In her place stood a servant girl with downcast eyes and humble grace.
They slipped out the eastern palace, ducking past guards and busy attendants, weaving through corridors with Suni in the lead. The palace was a maze of sandstone and ivory, but Suni navigated it with ease, guiding them toward the western gardens where the nobles often strolled.
And then they emerged.
The sun touched the garden like a lover's kiss—warm, golden, patient. Flowers bloomed in brilliant reds and soft lilacs, stretching toward the sky. A breeze rustled through the tall hedges and the scent of fresh jasmine and wet earth filled the air.
Mirha inhaled deeply. The air smelled like freedom.
She smiled for the first time that day.
"This is what the night hid from me," she murmured.
Suni nodded. "It's different in daylight, isn't it?"
They walked slowly, savoring the moment. Mirha paused by a fountain, trailing her fingers in the cool water, and for a brief, fragile second, she forgot who she was—forgot the palace walls, the shame, the politics.
Then a shadow crossed their path.
"Wait."
The voice was low and unfamiliar.
Mirha turned—and her heart froze.
Lord Fahit.
Tall, sharp, his eyes glinting with idle cruelty. He looked her over, his lips curling in amusement.
"How come I haven't seen you before?" he asked, stepping closer.
Mirha bowed her head. "I'm sorry, Your Grace. I came with the royal family. I serve only temporarily."
He tilted his head. "So… you're just a maid?"
"Yes, Your Grace."
He smirked. "Very well then. I shall have you in my chambers tonight."
Mirha's breath caught. Suni paled beside her.
"Your Grace," Suni said quickly, stepping forward. "She belongs to the royal household. She cannot leave her post."
"I didn't ask you," Fahit snapped, voice sharp as glass. "Be quiet, peasant girl."
Just as his hand twitched—perhaps to gesture, perhaps to grab—another voice cut in, playful and sharp.
"Oooh, cousin Hiti…"
Fahit turned, and both Mirha and Suni froze.
Princess Goya.
She strolled toward them with the effortless grace of a woman who knew the room bent to her. Her expression was light, eyes dancing.
"You look awfully happy. What creature did you find this time?" Lord Fahit asked sarcastically.
Goya scowled. "You."
Goya smirked at his irritated face and added. "I can't believe you're harassing the royal family's servants. That's beneath even your standards."
He looked at her, his pride clearly bruised, then turned on his heel and walked away.
The moment he was gone, Suni and Mirha bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Princess," they said in unison.
Goya gave a small nod, her gaze still fixed on Mirha.
But something in her expression changed.
There was a flicker of recognition, a soft ache blooming behind her eyes. Goya didn't say a word, but as Mirha and Suni turned to go, she murmured softly to herself:
"So that's the woman you love…"
She remembered the look in Hosha's eyes last night—the rawness, the vulnerability. He had become a man she didn't recognize, someone stripped of every princely layer.
He had become a man for her.
Mirha.
Goya watched her disappear into the garden shadows, and for the first time since her meeting with Kalan… she felt the cold ache of fate wrapping around her, binding tighter.
The hallway to the east wing was silent, save for the soft echo of Goya's slippers brushing against the tiled floor. Her breath was steady, measured, but her heart rattled within her chest like a caged thing. The sun poured in through the windows, casting long shadows across the corridor, but none reached the quiet ache building in her chest. She reached the door to the study where Hosha often retreated. Her fingers hovered near the handle, then closed into a fist.
She knocked once. "Hosha."
The door opened slowly. He stood there, dressed in soft grey robes, his expression unreadable. His eyes searched hers, always calm, always guarded. But today, he looked tired. He stepped aside and let her in without a word.
Books lined the shelves behind him. The scent of parchment and ink mingled with the subtle musk of sandalwood. Goya took a step forward, then another, until she stood before him.
"I won't take long," she began, her voice trembling despite her effort to steel it. "I only came to tell you that I've accepted General Kain's offer."
Hosha's eyes didn't flinch. There was only stillness in his face. Not surprise, not outrage, not even sorrow. Just a heavy silence.
"You did well," he said quietly, like a judge offering a verdict he neither celebrated nor condemned.
Goya's shoulders twitched. A breath she'd been holding escaped her.
"That's it?" she asked, the words brittle. "That's all you have to say?"
He looked away then, gaze flickering to the floor.
"I knew it would come to this. I just hoped… I don't know. Maybe I hoped you wouldn't ask."
She took a step closer. "I need to know."
He looked up. The light caught the golden flecks in his brown eyes, but they held no warmth.
"Need to know what?"
Her voice cracked slightly, but she pressed on.
"Do you love her that much, Hosha? So much that you could never get over her? Did you ever see me… ever… as someone you could love?"
The room was suffocating. The air hung thick with unspoken things, as if the walls themselves waited for his answer. She saw the ripple in his throat as he swallowed. Hosha looked at her for a long, harrowing moment.
"I loved her," he said finally, each word drawn from somewhere deep. "I loved her so much it became a part of me. Something I could neither carry nor set down. But it can never happen. It should never have happened. And I wish I didn't know why."
Goya's mouth parted slightly. The ache of jealousy and pain stirred violently in her chest, but she forced it down. She waited. She had to hear the rest.
"And me?" she asked. "And what about me?"
Hosha's eyes softened.
"The way I see her now," he said, stepping closer, "is the way I see you now. I care for you, deeply. I admire your courage, your fire, your kindness. But I don't love you like that."
The words came like knives. Goya's knees buckled slightly, but she caught herself. Her composure wavered. Her lips trembled. And then the tears came.
He stepped forward, his expression twisting into something sorrowful. His arms wrapped around her, holding her as her sobs broke free. Her body shook against him, grief uncoiling like a storm.
"I'm sorry," he whispered.
She didn't answer. Couldn't.
He grabbed the handkerchief from his robe and gently wiped her tears, careful and tender. She felt the tension in his arms as he held her. Felt the weight of everything that was and wasn't.
He guided her gently to the armchair nearby, and she sank into it. He lowered himself beside her, then lifted her with surprising ease and set her on his lap. The way his hands steadied her waist, the way her head found the crook of his neck—every movement was laced with bittersweet intimacy.
Then he kissed her.
Not a fleeting peck or a chaste farewell, but a long, deep kiss that startled her to her core. His lips pressed against hers with the quiet desperation of someone trying to give everything in a moment that would never return. His hand cradled her jaw, the other curled around her back, drawing her in as though he could imprint his sorrow and gratitude into her skin.
Goya's eyes fluttered open in surprise, then closed again as her body trembled. When he finally pulled away, her breath hitched. Her eyes searched his face.
"Why did you—"
"This is my last gift to you," he said softly. "For everything. For being here. For loving me even when I couldn't return it the way you deserved."
Then he rose, gently setting her back on the chair. He stood tall, regal even in his sorrow. He bowed his head once.
"Thank you, Goya."
And then he turned and walked away.
Goya watched him until the door closed behind him.
Her knees gave out. Her body sank forward, and the tears came again. Not the sharp, anguished sobs from before, but a quieter sorrow. A sorrow tinged with relief.
She buried her face in her hands and wept. Wept for what could have been. For what had never been. For what was now lost.
But under the tears, there was something else—something warm. A fragile peace. A glimmer of gratitude for the kiss, for the honesty, even for the heartbreak.
She cried, and the room held her. The silence no longer mocked, but cradled. Her bittersweet fate stretched before her like an open sky—vast, uncertain, but real.
And in the deepest part of her heart, she whispered goodbye.