The next morning arrived with a soft, pale-gold light, the kind that made everything feel still—holy, almost. The ceremonial bath was to take place at the Taico River, as tradition demanded for every newly elevated consort.
By the time the ladies entered Mirha's chamber, they found her already awake. She sat quietly by the lacquered window, her hair partially undone, her expression serene but unreadable.
All four ladies bowed deeply.
"Your Highness," they greeted in unison.
Mirha simply nodded, rising from her seat. When she stepped forward, her bare feet met something soft—rose petals.
They were arranged in a flawless path leading from her chamber door down the hall and toward the waiting carriage outside.
The path of petals continued all the way to the ivory carriage, embroidered drapes drawn back as if welcoming her to the next chapter of her life. Mirha stepped inside, and the ladies followed in the second carriage.
At the Taico River
Morning mist drifted above the water like pale silk. The river was quiet, its surface smooth as glass. Priests in white stood waiting, heads bowed in reverence.
As Mirha arrived, attendants stepped forward to undo the delicate outer layers of her robe.
Her ladies kept their heads respectfully lowered as her clothing was removed one piece at a time, leaving only the ceremonial wrap.
Mirha stepped forward.
The moment her foot touched the cool water, the priests began chanting.
The river accepted her—a ripple, gentle, almost affectionate—spreading around her legs as she walked deeper.
Petals were scattered from baskets by the attendants.
They floated around her shoulders, her hair, her hands.
The head priest raised a small golden ladle, scooping water from the river and pouring it down her back in steady streams.
"This water cleanses the past," he intoned.
"This water blesses the present."
"This water binds the future you now share with the Emperor."
Mirha closed her eyes.
The water was cold, but she did not shiver.
Her expression remained calm, dignified—yet somewhere beneath it, she felt the enormity of the moment sink into her skin like the river itself.
When the final chant faded into the morning air, Mirha slowly rose from the water, droplets glistening against her skin as she stepped back onto the riverbank.
An attendant immediately wrapped her in layers of warm silk.
Her ladies bowed again, deeper this time.
For she was no longer simply Mirha—
She had been bathed, blessed, and accepted by tradition.
After the ceremonial bath, Mirha was escorted back to the palace. Her hair was still damp, wrapped in soft linen, her skin carrying the faint coolness of the river. The hallway to her chamber was lined with silence; even the guards kept their eyes respectfully lowered.
When she stepped inside, she paused.
Her attendants had prepared her new gowns—laid out with the utmost care on the low cedar table and silk stands.
They were nothing like the clothes she once wore.
These were gowns of high fabric, the kind reserved for the Emperor's chosen: rich silks, layered chiffon, embroidered patterns done with threads so fine they shimmered when touched by the light.
And unlike her older gowns—those modest, simple dresses that hid her neckline and kept her figure concealed—these new ones embraced a different intention.
Seductiveness.
Not vulgarity, but a deliberate, regal allure.
The dresses framed her collarbones, allowed the soft rise of her cleavage to show with elegant restraint, and flowed in shapes that celebrated her body instead of hiding it.
A reminder—quiet but unmistakable—of what the Emperor possessed,
and what no other man ever would.
Her attendants moved with calm devotion.
One of them held out a gown of deep plum silk, its bodice embroidered with tiny golden flowers. Another lifted the gold jewelry prepared for her: thin chains for her neck, delicate bracelets for her wrists, and a pair of earrings shaped like falling leaves.
"Lady Mirha," one whispered, "if you would lift your arms."
Mirha obeyed, her movements graceful, trusting.
They lowered the gown over her shoulders, smoothing the fabric along her waist and arranging the folds of the skirt.
Warm hands fastened the back, tied the inner ribbons, and adjusted the neckline so the silhouette sat perfectly.
Another attendant brushed her hair gently, releasing the last hints of river mist. They combed it into flowing waves down her back, adding small golden pins shaped like petals.
Gold touched her skin—neck, wrists, ears.
Then the sash, embroidered with the Emperor's emblem, was tied around her waist.
Mirha looked down at herself.
The authority of being chosen.
The beauty that could no longer be hidden.
The subtle power of a consort who belonged only to the Emperor.
"Your Ladyship," one attendant said softly, stepping back,
"You are ready."
And Mirha, for the first time, felt it too.
Mirha stepped out of her chambers, the morning light catching the gold threads of her gown. The attendants who had dressed her walked behind her in quiet formation, stopping once they reached the courtyard. From there, Mirha continued alone—just as tradition required—toward the ceremonial carriage waiting for her.
And beside it… stood Arvin.
He had arrived earlier than anyone expected.
Heman had noticed his restlessness; even the guards saw the way he kept adjusting his sleeves. Arvin told himself he came simply because it was protocol—yet the moment he saw her, all his practiced composure slipped.
Mirha walked toward him with graceful, measured steps.
Even from a distance, Arvin felt his pulse spike.
She's so beautiful…
More than he had even imagined.
Her scent reached him first—soft, floral from the ceremonial oils.
Then the gown… the gold… and finally the veil that hid her face just enough to make him ache with curiosity.
But it was her lips—full, soft, perfectly shaped—that he noticed even through the thin fabric. He swallowed. Hard.
Mirha stopped before him and bowed deeply.
Arvin stepped forward, slowly, as if he were afraid the slightest sudden movement would break the moment. His fingers brushed the veil and lifted it.
And there she was.
Mirha's face—gentle, delicate, radiant in a way that made the world quiet—was revealed. Her eyes met his, steady yet shy, and she offered him a small smile.
Arvin felt something inside him melt.
He returned the smile—small, controlled, but undeniably warm—and extended a hand to her. Mirha placed her hand in his, and he helped her into the carriage with surprising care, as if she were something impossibly precious.
He followed behind her and took his seat.
The announcer's voice echoed through the courtyard:
"His Majesty, Emperor Arvin, and Precious Concubine Lady Mirha!"
The court erupted in cheers, petals falling from the balconies as the horses began to move. Inside the carriage, just for a fleeting second, Arvin let his gaze linger on her profile.
And Mirha, quietly, felt her heart thump once—unexpectedly soft.
Moment after the imperial carriage departure
A carriage from the Imperial general pulled up
Princess Goya arrived breathless, her silk shoes barely touching the stone as she hurried through the courtyard. She had prayed—truly prayed—that the whispers she'd heard were nothing more than cruel palace jokes.
But the moment she stepped into the open square, all hope snapped.
Servants were rushing about with excitement.
Attendants were gathering petals left from the procession.
And a few ladies were still smiling to each other, speaking in hushed, thrilled tones:
"Lady Mirha… the Precious Concubine…"
"His Majesty himself came to escort her…"
"What a blessed day…"
Goya froze.
The celebration around her felt like a slap. Her stomach dropped so sharply it made her sway. She looked around desperately, as if the truth might somehow be different if she found the right person to ask.
But everything confirmed it.
Mirha—her Mirha—had actually been given to the Emperor.
Her face paled.
Her fingers trembled as she tightened her grip on her cloak.
A bitter, sharp chill wrapped around her chest.
It wasn't a joke.
It wasn't a rumor.
It was real.
And Goya suddenly felt as if the entire palace had shifted beneath her feet.
Goya went back to kilimah estate and burst into the Kilimah Estate doors like a storm—skirts swaying, breath uneven, fury burning so hot it nearly shook her voice. She didn't wait for permission, didn't wait for the guards. She pushed into Kain's study, the doors slamming against the walls.
Kain lifted his gaze from his desk, unbothered, expression cold and unreadable as always. But the moment he saw her eyes—wet with rage and betrayal—he flicked his fingers at his assistant.
"Leave. Close the door."
The room fell silent as the assistant slipped out, shutting them in.
Goya didn't hesitate.
"Is this how you people of Taico do things?" she snapped, voice trembling. "When were you going to tell me that Mirha was going to be made an imperial concubine? When? After the ceremony? After she was locked away? Why did you give her hope—why did you give me hope—that she could live a normal life with courtship and choices, when this is how it ends?"
Kain didn't flinch. He watched her meltdown with an unreadable calm, letting her words crash into him like waves.
He sighed softly.
"Sit, Goya."
"No."
"Sit," he repeated, firmer.
She sank into the chair—not because she wanted to, but because her knees were too weak to stand anymore.
Kain stood slowly, his tall frame casting a shadow across her as he moved to the front of the desk.
"First of all," he said, voice low but steady, "no one knew. Not even Arvin. The Empress simply decided it. Woke up, thought of her little schemes, and acted. Trust me—I only learned about it when I heard you had gone to the Imperial Castle."
Goya shook her head, blinking fast. "But the rumors—"
"Rumors," Kain cut in, "are not truth. Not until today."
She bit her lip hard—so hard it hurt—trying to keep her tears from spilling.
"It's not fair… Mirha doesn't deserve this."
Kain exhaled, and for the first time his expression softened, just a fraction. He stepped closer, and when Goya's voice cracked, he pulled her into his arms.
She collapsed into his chest, shaking with silent anger and heartbreak.
Kain's hand rested on her back, steady and reassuring.
"Don't worry," he murmured, low enough for only her to hear. "Arvin is a good man. He will not mistreat Mirha. In fact…"
He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.
"…I believe Mirha will be the happiest woman in all of Èvana."
Goya stared at him, searching his face desperately.
"Are you sure?"
Kain cupped her cheek with a gentle thumb, his voice certain—almost solemn.
"On my life," he said, "I'm certain."