The bell above the carved mahogany door chimed softly as the ladies stepped inside.
At once, their breath caught.
The shop looked as though heaven itself had spilled into it — walls draped in gauzy silks, delicate threads of gold and silver glinting in the lamplight. Dresses in hues of plum, rose, sapphire, and ivory shimmered beneath crystal chandeliers. Ribbons fluttered gently from high beams, and fragrant petals — jasmine and camellia — were scattered across the tiled floor.
For a moment, none of them spoke.
Gina, Kiara, Kanha, and Mirha stood still, their eyes wide and jaws parted, their reflections glowing faintly in the mirrored walls.
In the center of the room stood a dignified woman, her silver hair coiled neatly beneath a lace veil. She was dressed in deep burgundy silk and pearls that gleamed faintly against her warm skin.
Madame Mori, the legendary seamstress of Lamig.
Her attendants bowed gracefully before the newcomers, and Mori herself stepped forward, her voice smooth and lilting.
"Welcome, Your Highnesses, my ladies. It is an honor to receive the jewels of Taico in my humble atelier."
Goya's face lit up like a child's.
"Oh, Madame Mori! They love it — look at their faces!" She turned to her friends, clasping Mirha's hand and practically tugging her along. "Mirha, you must see her new spring collection! I swear it's made just for you."
Mori's laugh was soft, filled with the warmth of someone who'd seen generations of nobles come and go.
"Now, now, Princess," she said, amused. "Let us be gentle with our guests. They've only just arrived."
Kiara smiled, sweeping her gaze across the atelier. "Oh, no, Madame Mori, this reaction is well deserved. This place is… splendid."
Mori turned toward her, studying her attire and poise with a seamstress's eye.
"Thank you, my Lady. You must be Lady Kiara Taiyun?"
Kiara's lips curved with quiet pride at hearing her husband's name. "Indeed," she replied softly.
Mori inclined her head, then turned to Kanha, her tone respectful yet knowing.
"And you, the beautiful Lady Kanha Varin, Lord Hosha Varin's sister and— Her Majesty the Empress's own cousin. Your elegance precedes you."
Kanha smiled gracefully, dipping her head in acknowledgment.
Finally, Mori's attention shifted to Gina, her gaze kind but sharp with recognition.
"And you must be Madame Misha's daughter… Gina, yes?"
Gina blinked, surprise and delight mingling across her face. "You know my mother?"
Mori's eyes twinkled. "Who in the fashion world does not know Misha? Her name is stitched into the history of our craft. And you —" she reached forward, brushing a lock of hair from Gina's shoulder — "you look exactly like something she would create. Radiant, refined, and impossibly poised."
Gina's cheeks flushed with a shy smile.
But by then, Princess Goya and Mirha were already halfway across the boutique, giggling as they brushed their fingers against silks and lace, lost in the sea of color. Goya was holding up a soft blush-pink gown with embroidered tulips, insisting it matched Mirha's complexion perfectly.
Mori laughed quietly at the sight. "Ah, to be young and dazzled by beauty."
She turned back to the others. "Please, my ladies, browse as long as you wish. Today, my atelier belongs to you — pick to your heart's content."
The boutique was alive with laughter. Silks shimmered in motion as the ladies twirled before the mirrors, gowns rustling like petals in bloom. Gina and Kiara exchanged teasing remarks over which shade best suited them, while Kanha pretended to maintain her regal composure, though even she couldn't hide the delight sparkling in her eyes.
Princess Goya was radiant — she flitted from rack to rack, pairing fabrics with jewels, offering playful advice to everyone. And Mirha, usually so composed, had color in her cheeks for once, shyly admiring her reflection in a soft blue gown that Goya insisted she must wear.
Their laughter filled the atelier until the soft jingle of the bell above the door broke the spell. A royal guard entered, bowing low.
"Your Highness, my ladies — the carriages are ready. His Majesty requests your return to the palace."
The air shifted slightly — their lively afternoon had come to its end.
Madame Mori stepped forward, her hands clasped gracefully in front of her. "My ladies," she said with a warm, motherly tone, "it was a joy to have you here. I have taken your measurements already. Everything you admired — and a few surprises besides — will be delivered to your chambers before your departure to Taico."
The women thanked her with soft smiles and curtsies.
Before they turned to leave, Mori's attendants entered, each carrying a carefully wrapped gown. The fabrics shimmered under the afternoon light — emerald, ivory, coral, and sapphire.
"These," Mori said proudly, "are for tonight's farewell banquet. Wear them well — Lamig silk carries the spirit of the mountains it's woven from. Let it make you shine."
Goya clasped her hands together like a child given sweets. "Madame Mori, you've outdone yourself again."
Mirha and the others echoed her gratitude, and with one last look at the breathtaking shop — the scent of jasmine still in the air — they stepped out into the warm light of the street, their arms full of Lamig's finest treasures.
The banquet hall glimmered under soft golden light. Candles lined the walls, their flames flickering against crystal chandeliers that cast delicate prisms across the polished marble floors. The tables were arranged in long, elegant rows, covered in deep crimson cloths embroidered with gold thread. Fine porcelain and silverware glinted in the candlelight, and floral arrangements of white lilies and pale roses added understated grace.
Unlike last night, the hall was serene — the laughter restrained, the air heavy with poise and decorum.
Seating arrangements reflected the careful order of nobility:
Gina was beside Duke Rnzo, her posture elegant yet relaxed.
Tando sat next to his wife, his hand lightly brushing hers beneath the table in a quiet, private gesture.
Mirha and Kanha were beside Queen Mother Raina, taking in the scene with soft smiles.
Princess Goya sat next to Kain, her eyes bright, though flicking occasionally toward the empty chair that should have held her father.
Kaisen was across the table from her, beside Arvin, with Heman opposite him, silent and alert as ever.
King Kalan shared a table with Hosha, their expressions measured, while Lord Fahit maintained his usual emotionless demeanor. Nearby, governors and attendants filled the room, their subdued chatter adding a gentle murmur to the background.
The dancers began their performance, moving gracefully across the polished floor. Each step, each turn, was choreographed with meticulous precision, captivating the audience without overwhelming it. The room seemed to breathe with their rhythm.
As the first courses of the banquet were served — delicate soups, roasted meats, and colorful seasonal fruits — Goya's eyes swept the table instinctively, seeking the familiar figure of her father.
He was not there.
Her brow furrowed. She turned subtly toward Kain, lowering her voice.
"Where is my father?"
Kain's expression darkened ever so slightly. "He… left for Palvi Duchy," he said, the words heavy with quiet finality.
Goya narrowed her eyes, suspicion flickering across her features, though she did not dwell on it too long. There was no point in making assumptions here, not amidst the eyes of nobles and royalty. Instead, she even knew worrying about her father would be useless because that man loves himself more than anything.
Later that evening,
The banquet had ended in a haze of laughter, music, and glittering lights, but by the time the royal entourage began returning to the castle, the air had softened into a gentle calm. The corridors were quiet now — lined with tall lamps that burned low, their golden glow flickering across the polished marble. The faint scent of roses lingered in the air from the garlands that had adorned the hall.
Princess Goya walked beside Kain, her gown whispering softly with each step. The night's merriment still shimmered faintly in her eyes, though weariness had begun to settle into her shoulders.
"Your Highness," she murmured, glancing at him with a tired smile, "that was a beautiful banquet… but I'll be happy to sleep for a week."
Kain's lips curved slightly, that quiet, unreadable smile of his. And he said. "There's something waiting for you in the Eastern Palace."
She frowned lightly, curiosity stirring. "Something?"
He only nodded and gestured ahead. "Go to your chambers. You'll see."
Goya hesitated, trying to read him, but his calm gaze revealed nothing. So she turned and began walking down the familiar corridor that led to her rooms — her footsteps echoing softly against the walls.
But the moment she rounded the corner, her breath caught.
Standing by her chamber door — small, trembling, but unmistakably real — was Miru.
Her maid.
Her companion.
The girl she thought she would never see again.
"...Miru?" Goya's voice broke before her mind could believe it.
Miru's eyes welled instantly, her lips quivering as she bowed deeply. "Your Highness—"
But Goya didn't let her finish. She ran — the skirts of her gown flying behind her — and threw her arms around Miru with a choked sob.
"Miru! You're here— You're really—"
She couldn't finish. Her body trembled as if months of tension, loss, and confusion were dissolving all at once. Miru was crying too, her small hands clutching the princess as though afraid to let go.
"I thought I'd never see you again," Goya whispered, her tears soaking into Miru's shoulder. "I thought you were gone forever."
"I'm sorry, Your Highness," Miru murmured between tears. "I wanted to tell you… I wanted to—"
But Goya only shook her head, still holding her tight. "No. You're here now. That's enough."
When she finally pulled away, her face was streaked with tears — but her eyes were bright, alive again in a way they hadn't been for days.
She turned then, realizing what this meant.
Kain.
He had brought Miru back.
Without a word, she turned and ran — down the corridor where he had disappeared, her footsteps echoing in the still night. She found him just before he reached the staircase to his chambers.
"Kain!"
He turned, startled, and before he could speak, Goya flung herself into his arms, sobbing.
"Thank you," she whispered over and over, her voice trembling, raw. "Thank you for bringing her back—"
Her body shook against his, but Kain only held her, one arm around her shoulders, the other gently cradling her head against his chest. His voice was low, steady — a whisper meant only for her.
"Shh... It's alright, Princess. You've had enough pain. Let this one night be peace."
She tried to speak, but her breath came out in broken sobs. "You don't understand, Kain… she— she's all I had before you—"
He hushed her softly, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Then it's only right she's back with you."
Her knees nearly gave out, but he caught her before she fell, holding her closer, his chin resting lightly atop her head. The torchlight behind them cast their shadows long across the marble floor — two figures intertwined in quiet gratitude and unspoken affection.
For the first time in days, Goya felt safe. The ache in her chest softened, replaced by warmth — by something wordless and deep that lingered between them.
Kain didn't say another word. He didn't need to.
He simply held her there — until her trembling slowed, until her tears ran dry — in the still corridor of the Eastern Palace, under the watchful glow of a dozen golden lamps
Goya finally drew back, her tears drying in fragile trails down her cheeks. Her lips parted as though to speak, but the words faltered, caught somewhere between gratitude and something deeper. Kain brushed his thumb lightly against her temple — a silent promise more than a gesture — before guiding her toward her chamber door.
"Go rest now," he said softly. "You've had enough of sorrow for one lifetime."
She nodded, her voice faint. "Goodnight… Kain."
"Goodnight, Princess."
He watched her disappear down the corridor, her gown trailing like a pale whisper in the golden light, until the last echo of her footsteps faded. For a long moment, Kain remained where he stood, his hand still half raised, his chest heavy with something he dared not name.
A faint smile tugged at his lips — weary, tender, almost bittersweet.
"What a night," he murmured to the empty hall.
The torches flickered once, and he turned away, his cloak brushing the floor as he walked toward his own chambers. Outside, the wind stirred through the gardens, carrying the soft scent of spring blossoms — and with it, a quiet peace neither of them had felt in a very long time.
The ladies walked down the quiet corridor of the Eastern Palace, their laughter dimmed now to soft murmurs as the weight of the evening settled over them. The torches burned low, casting long, honeyed shadows across the marble floor.
Gina, who walked between Mirha and Kanha, brushed a stray curl behind her ear and said casually, "Oh, Mirha—Lord Kaisen was looking for you earlier."
Kanha stopped mid-step, her silk hem whispering against the floor. "He was?" she asked, glancing between them.
Mirha froze, just for a heartbeat, before turning with practiced calm. Her expression was gentle, her tone even. "Yes… I met him earlier. He wanted me to deliver something to Queen Mother."
Kanha nodded, accepting the explanation without question, but Gina's gaze lingered. She knew the lie — she'd seen the timing, the sequence of their return. Mirha had arrived long before her carriage, long before Kaisen.
The tension hung for a moment, delicate as spun glass, before Mirha smiled faintly and moved ahead. "Goodnight, ladies."
Kanha followed soon after, her footsteps quiet against the polished stone. Gina remained behind for a few seconds, watching their retreating figures disappear into the dim corridor. Her heart pulled uneasily — concern flickered in her eyes, not born of jealousy or gossip, but of instinct.
She exhaled softly, straightened her gown, and whispered to herself, "Tomorrow, then…" before finally turning toward her own chamber door.
The hall fell silent once more, leaving only the faint rustle of silks and the distant hum of the palace at rest.