The morning air hung cool and weighty with promise. A hush had settled over the training yard, as though the palace itself held its breath. Then came the first sound—leather boots against stone, rhythmic and heavy. One by one, they emerged in formation.
The soldiers of the royal guard, trained to perfection and dressed in deep green uniforms, stepped forward with synchronized discipline. The fabric of their coats shimmered in the sun, adorned with brass buttons and black belts crossed tightly across their chests. Each man wore a curved sword strapped at his hip, their hilts engraved with the emblem of the Southern Crown—a phoenix rising from flames.
Dust rose in muted clouds as they lined up row by row. Among them, horses stamped and snorted, their dark manes braided with silver thread. The scent of steel, sweat, and oil hung in the air like a silent omen.
And then, from the palace's northern wing, General Kian appeared.
He rode on a tall, black stallion—elegant and proud. His armor was tailored and commanding: royal black trimmed in gold, the signature of his title. His chestplate bore the golden phoenix in full bloom, and a dark cape billowed behind him with every step his horse took.
He didn't speak at first.
Instead, he rode past his soldiers slowly, eyes scanning the ranks like a hawk assessing its flight. The men straightened at his gaze. No one dared shift.
Then he turned his mount, facing them.
The silence grew deeper. The soldiers leaned into his words.
"The roads to Lamig are ours to cleanse. I expect discipline. I expect honor. I expect your swords to stay clean until they must be bloodied."
He raised his gloved hand and unsheathed his own blade—a gold-handled saber that gleamed in the morning light.
"No mercy for those who prey on the weak," he finished. "By the Emperor's command and my seal, we march."
The soldiers drew their swords in a synchronized motion, the collective shink of steel slicing through the air. Then came the chant:
"For the Empire. For Èvana. For the Crown!"
The palace watched them go—nobles from balconies, servants from windows, children clutching the hands of their caretakers.
And General Kian led them out.
The gates opened, and the green wave of soldiers began their march. Their boots struck the earth in cadence, dust rising beneath their heels, banners fluttering high above their heads—each one painted with the Phoenix of House Kilimah.
As they disappeared beyond the palace walls, the silence left behind was somehow louder.
The dust had barely settled from the soldiers' boots when Duke Rnzo emerged from the shadow of the southern portico, dressed in his signature navy blue tunic trimmed in silver, a small crest of his duchy pinned near his shoulder.
He wore a familiar smirk, one that to most could pass as arrogance, but to General Kian, was a cue—a prelude to mischief.
"Well, well," Rnzo drawled, descending the stone steps with slow leisure. "And here I was, sent to deliver a message—only to find the mighty General Kian already two steps ahead. Again."
Kian turned his horse slowly, looking down at him with amused patience. "If you're going to pull my leg, at least offer something stronger than praise disguised as complaint."
Rnzo chuckled, tilting his head. "Wasn't praise. It was jealousy. You get the blade. The glory. The loyal men. I just get the errands."
"You're a Duke. You get the taxes," Kian said, sheathing his saber. "And offering marriage proposals."
Rnzo's smirk faltered just slightly. "Yes, well. One proposal in particular. The only one that matters."
Kian dismounted then, dust rising around his boots. He handed his reins to a nearby guard and walked toward Rnzo with the gait of a man who didn't mind confrontation—so long as it stayed interesting.
"She still hasn't told you anything, has she?" Kian asked.
Rnzo didn't answer at first. He looked out past the courtyard, where the dust cloud from the march had all but disappeared into the road to Lamig.
"She will," he said finally. "Eventually."
Kian studied him with a quiet expression. "You know, most men wouldn't notice if a girl let them win at something. You, though... you notice everything."
"She didn't just let me win," Rnzo muttered, jaw ticking slightly. "She threw it. You can feel when someone gives up."
Kian nodded slowly, folding his arms. "And you hate being handed anything??. Even love."
Rnzo's gaze flicked back to his friend, darker now. "Especially love."
The air between them thickened. Not with animosity, but with the kind of tension that exists only between two men who have seen battle, loss, and the quiet weight of things unsaid.
Kian broke it with a grunt, half amused. "Then earn it."
"Don't sound so wise. You're still single."
"By choice," Kian replied.
"Sure," Rnzo snorted. "We all say that until someone ruins it."
They both laughed then—low, rough, and knowing.
Behind them, Kilimah Estate stirred again, the morning slipping into motion.
Rnzo clapped his hand against Kian's shoulder. "Keep the road safe, brother. I'll meet you in Lamig. Try not to look too heroic before I get there."
"And you," Kian returned, "try not to mess up your engagement before I get a wedding invitation."
With a lingering smirk, Rnzo turned and strode back inside, his navy cloak fluttering behind him.
And Kian watched him go, expression unreadable, before calling for his horse once more.
The palace courtyard gleamed under the golden morning sun, polished marble catching the light like glass. A fleet of ten carriages—each one a masterpiece of dark wood trimmed in gold filigree—stood in waiting, wheels freshly cleaned, horses perfectly groomed. The royal banners of Taico fluttered in the breeze: deep crimson with a golden phoenix, the symbol of rebirth, resilience, and reign.
Queen Mother Raina stepped out from the grand entrance in flowing silver silk robes, her cloak a rich wine red lined in velvet, trailing regally behind her. The delicate pin in her hair, shaped like a lily in bloom, shimmered with tiny opals. Behind her, several attendants followed in hushed formation, carrying ornate chests—each brimming with gifts for Empress Nailah.
She walked slowly, not from age, but from intention. Every step was steeped in grace and quiet authority.
Lady Mei, her chief lady-in-waiting, whispered beside her, "Your Majesty, all is prepared. Do you wish to review the gifts one last time?"
Raina didn't glance her way. "I packed them myself. Nailah deserves no less."
A group of guards bowed deeply as she passed. One of them, young and stiff with nerves, dropped his gaze in reverence. Raina offered a small nod of acknowledgment. She wasn't fond of grand shows, but she never ignored respect when it was properly given.
At the main steps, Arvin appeared. "Mother," he greeted, voice warm. "You don't have to go yourself. Nailah will understand."
Raina smiled gently. "And I want her to understand. A mother does not love only when it's convenient."
Arvin's shoulders relaxed, his respect for her deepening.
"I will return before sundown," Raina assured, reaching to adjust the hem of her sleeve. "This is not a state affair—it's family. And I will not send carriages of gold without my love wrapped inside."
He kissed her hand. "Safe journey then, Mother."
She stepped into the main carriage, its interior lined with cream satin and rose-scented cushions. As the footman closed the door, she gave Arvin one final glance.
"Tell the others I expect them to behave. Especially Rnzo," she added with a playful quirk of her brow.
Arvin chuckled. "I'll try my best."
The trumpets signaled departure. With a coordinated snap of reins and a rumble of wheels, the convoy moved. The courtyard echoed with the strength of hooves and the rustle of silks as Queen Mother Raina departed toward Malaka, her heart set on seeing her daughter-in-law—even if just for a few hours.
The palace had quieted after the Queen Mother's grand departure. Sunlight spilled through the arched windows of the eastern wing, where the ladies had gathered in a private garden veranda reserved only for the royal inner circle. The scent of blooming jasmines drifted through the air, mingling with the warm spice of midday tea.
A round marble table sat beneath a silk canopy. Mirha, in a soft lilac gown, was arranging fruit into a bowl while Gina sat beside her, slicing pomegranates with delicate precision. Kiara, always fidgeting when nervous, tapped the edge of her teacup.
"She didn't come down for breakfast," Gina murmured, her voice low but steady.
"She hasn't been out since yesterday," Mirha added, glancing toward the corridor.
"Maybe she's still resting," Kiara offered, but the tightness around her eyes betrayed her worry.
Mirha stood. "Let's call for her. She needs the sun. And us."
Just then, a soft knock preceded Kanha's entrance. She walked in slowly, her frame delicate under a pale blue dress. Her usual bold posture was replaced by something softer, almost ghostlike. But she smiled—tired, yes—but a real smile.
"Thank you," she said, almost shyly, as she sat between Mirha and Gina. "I didn't realize how much I missed this."
Mirha immediately reached out, placing her hand atop Kanha's. "You scared us yesterday."
"I know." Kanha's voice cracked for half a breath. "But I'm alright. I promise."
Gina studied her closely. The shadows under Kanha's eyes, the way she held her breath for a second too long before speaking, the faint shakiness in her fingers—they spoke of pain, not yet named. But Gina said nothing of it. Instead, she reached for the silver pot and poured her a cup of warm, honey-laced tea.
"Drink this," she said calmly. "It'll settle you."
As Kanha sipped, Kiara brightened the conversation. "We were just talking about dresses. And how Madam Kamari insists on silk blends this season."
"I hope you like lavender," Mirha added with a grin. "Because we may have picked something for you."
Kanha blinked, touched and surprised. "You... did?"
Gina finally smiled, her first real one that day. "Of course. You're going to Lamig. You need to look better than every woman there."
A warm laugh slipped out of Kanha. The air around the table softened, tension melting away with every sip of tea and every kind gesture.
But beneath it all, Gina's eyes lingered on Kanha's—watchful, quietly protective. She didn't mention Misha's cruel words. She didn't mention the way Kanha had been shrinking in her own skin. But her thoughts remained sharp.
This wasn't just a moment of weakness. This was a wound. And she knew who might've wielded the knife.
The early afternoon air carried the scent of fresh roses and faint incense as soft footfalls echoed down the marble corridor of the eastern wing. A gentle knock landed on the carved wooden door just as Gina reached for her hairpin.
A young maid stepped in, bowing lightly. "My Lady... Lady Misha has requested her departure be announced. She will be leaving for Bukid within the hour."
Gina's face remained composed, but her eyes flickered—quiet relief, tinged with tension. Before she could respond, a voice behind her sighed, barely above a whisper.
"She's leaving..." said Kanha, who had been sitting nearby on a cushioned bench, holding a half-read letter in her lap. Her posture relaxed slightly, like an invisible weight lifted from her shoulders. But then, as if remembering something, her smile faded.
"She won't leave without saying something," Kanha's thoughts went, more to herself than anyone else. "She always does."
Gina noticing her panic expression turned to her. "You don't have to come."
Kanha shook her head. "No. I won't. She already late. Greet her for me...., i also have some unfinished business. "
Without another word, she slipped away toward her chambers, her silhouette dissolving into the sunlit corridor—graceful, but burdened.
---
Outside, in the main palace courtyard, the air buzzed softly with motion. Mirha, Kiara, and Gina stood in a semi-circle near the gilded carriages. Silk drapes billowed lightly in the breeze. Servants hurried with trunks and scrolls while guards mounted their horses.
Misha, radiant in a deep maroon gown, approached the carriage like a queen returning to her throne. Her dark hair glinted in the sunlight, swept back into an elegant twist. Though time had touched her features, her beauty had sharpened with it—regal, untouched, and deeply feminine.
She turned to the three girls, eyes softening at the sight of her daughter.
"My darling," Misha said, her voice a velvet hush as she cupped Gina's face, drawing her closer. "You shine more each day. I'll be back before your wedding."
She kissed Gina's forehead, lingering for a beat, and for a moment Gina stood completely still.
Something itched at the back of her mind—a name, a face, a whispered voice trembling in the garden.
Did she do something to Kanha?
The question swirled up from the pit of her stomach, burning the back of her throat. But Gina remained silent.
"I love you," Misha whispered. "Don't forget who you are."
"I won't," Gina replied quietly.
As Misha turned toward the awaiting carriage, a tall figure stepped forward—a palace guard in deep green bearing the golden emblem of Magili Duchy on his cloak. He bowed low and extended a hand to help her into the carriage.
Misha paused, a satisfied smile tugging at her lips. "Magili Duchy... fitting."
The carriage door shut gently, and with a flick of reins and a rhythmic clatter, the caravan pulled away, disappearing past the garden wall and down the polished stone road toward Bukid.
Gina remained where she stood, wind gently brushing through her loose curls, her face unreadable. Inside, though, the silence was loud.
The golden afternoon light filtered through the palace courtyard, turning the stone pathways a warm hue as the women stepped out from the inner halls. The fragrance of lilies and sandalwood lingered in the air, and the sky had begun to shift—preparing itself for dusk.
Lord Tando, dressed in a relaxed forest-green robe with a sash of midnight blue, waited at the edge of the garden. His presence was hard to miss—not just because of his towering height but the quiet joy in his eyes as he saw his wife among the group.
He bowed slightly to them all, then turned to Kiara, his smile deepening.
"My lady," he said warmly, offering his arm, "forgive the interruption, but I've come to steal you for a moment... and to deliver some news."
Gina smirked knowingly. "It must be important if it drew you away from your books, my Lord."
Tando chuckled. "I'm insulted—but it is important. The departure to Lamig has been finalized. The procession will leave tomorrow at dusk."
"Tomorrow?" Kiara blinked. "But why so late?"
"Strategic," Tando explained. "The journey takes four days, and traveling by night gives us cooler air and an early arrival into Lamig at dawn—just as the city stirs. Fewer risks. The Emperor prefers it."
"How very... precise of him," Gina remarked, raising a brow. "I should've guessed."
"There's more," Tando added, a playful twinkle in his eyes. "The carriages have arrived. Would you like to see them?"
Before he could finish, Mirha had already begun walking toward the palace gates, the hem of her soft rose-pink dress trailing behind her.
The others laughed and followed.
When they reached the outer court, the women stopped in awe.
Before them stood an entire fleet of opulent carriages, each one more extravagant than the next. The frames were sculpted in dark lacquered wood, trimmed in gold and silver, with doors engraved in fine swirling patterns of phoenixes, dragons, and celestial vines.
The wheels were so polished they gleamed like mirrors in the light. And the horses—gods above, the horses! They were larger than any common breed, with muscles like stone, manes tied in silken ribbons, and hooves that echoed like drums on the cobbled path.
Mirha gasped so loudly that everyone turned.
She stepped forward, staring at one of the stallions with wide eyes, then blurted in Madish—the language she practically grew up speaking ;
> "Hai! Hawan chirèe akun!"
Her voice carried like a song in the wind.
Everyone turned to her, startled by the sudden outburst.
Gina blinked—then burst into laughter, nearly tripping on her hem.
"She said—she just said, 'Hai! These horses look like gods!'" Gina translated between wheezes.
That was enough to send everyone into fits of laughter.
Even Tando chuckled under his breath, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Mirha," Kiara said, wiping a tear from her cheek, "I haven't heard you speak Madish in moons."
Mirha blinked, still mesmerized by the horses. "I didn't even think. My mouth moved before my mind did."
"I was too shocked!" Mirha added, still in awe. "What kind of horse eats like this? What do they feed them? Clouds?"
"I'm starting to believe the Emperor might ride with angels," Gina teased, nudging her gently.
Mirha gave a dreamy sigh. "If I go missing, just check under the wheels. I might've laid down in one of those carriages."
"And she calls me dramatic," Kiara quipped, drawing another round of laughter.
As the sun continued to lower, casting long golden shadows across the courtyard, the mood among the women lightened—a shared moment of excitement and wonder, laced with youthful giddiness.
It was the calm before the storm, though none of them knew it yet.
The palace gates opened with a low groan as the Queen Mother's convoy rolled in under the silver hush of night. Ten carriages trailed behind her, laden with silks, jewels, herbs, oils, and letters—gifts for the Empress and tokens of gratitude from Malaka's nobles. The horses, tall and proud, were guided silently by riders in green cloaks, their boots striking the stone in rhythm with the quiet breath of the night.
Raina stepped down from her carriage, her fingers lifting the hem of her midnight-blue cloak lined with fur. Her eyes were tired, but not weary. There was something peaceful about her countenance tonight, a soft glow as if her heart had been reassured.
She had seen Nailah—the Empress, her daughter-in-law, her child in every way that mattered. And Nailah had looked well. Healthy. Peaceful. Happy.
She had laughed again.
And Physician Yadid, the soft-spoken healer with eyes like calm riverbanks, had explained every remedy, every improvement, with care. Raina had liked him.
Yes, she was glad she went.
But not everything settled her spirit.
Her thoughts drifted to her son—the Emperor, Arvin. The boy she once called Vino. He had not looked the same. He held his wife's hand, yes. Kissed her forehead, yes. But behind his smile, there was something missing. Something hollow.
She sighed and made her way inside the palace.
The hallways were hushed; even the guards walked with lighter steps in her presence. The ladies-in-waiting had retired hours ago, and the only glow in the west wing flickered from the study.
She turned that way instinctively.
Pushing the door open slowly, she peeked inside—and her heart both softened and clenched.
There on the couch was Arvin, fast asleep, his arm draped lazily over his eyes, mouth slightly parted from exhaustion. A fur-lined book sat on the ground by his feet. Nearby, slouched over a desk, was Heman—faithful as ever—his quill stilled mid-sentence, eyes barely closed.
Raina stepped in quietly, her hands folded in front of her. The fire crackled warmly.
But even the softest movement stirred Heman, his eyes blinking open quickly.
Before he could rise fully, she lifted a hand gently.
"Stay seated, child."
He paused, obedient but watchful. She stepped toward Arvin first, kneeling slightly as she undid her scarf—a rich violet silk woven with gold vines—and tenderly laid it across his chest. Her hand hesitated, then smoothed his hair from his face.
Her eyes dimmed as her heart whispered:
> Where did you go, my Vino?
The one who painted with ink-stained fingers,
Who sneaked into the kitchens for sweets.
Where is the laughter?
Where is my storm of joy?
Tears welled in her eyes, but she did not let them fall.
Behind her, Heman, silent and ever-present, rose and picked up a nearby blanket. He stepped forward but waited. She turned, accepted the blanket, and laid it over her son's legs.
Then, unexpectedly, her eyes met Heman's.
He did not speak. He didn't need to.
But his gaze said: He'll find himself again.
And hers replied: I pray you're right.
She offered a faint, tired smile. A silent thank you.
With one last look at her sleeping son, Raina took a breath, straightened her shoulders, and walked toward the door. Just before leaving, she turned her head and whispered, more to herself than anyone else:
"Good night, my sons."
And then she was gone—her footsteps swallowed by the silence of the palace, leaving behind the scent of lavender and a heart full of quiet sorrow.