Exhaustion settled in slowly, like the tide pulling back after too much joy. They lay side by side on the warm sand, chests rising and falling, hair damp, laughter still lingering in the air.
Mirha spoke first, her voice soft, almost reverent.
"This place… it's so beautiful."
Gina turned her head to look at her, a familiar smirk tugging at her lips.
"Are you jealous?"
Mirha didn't even pretend. She smiled, eyes half-closed, and sighed.
"I can't even lie—of course I am."
Their laughter followed, quieter now, shared and easy, carried away by the lake breeze.
Eventually, they pushed themselves up, brushing sand from their clothes and tying their hair back. The horses waited patiently, as if they, too, had given them this moment.
They mounted and rode back toward the palace, the sun lowering behind them, Magili glowing softly—beautiful, calm, and for now, forgiving.
When they arrived back at the palace, still flushed from laughter and the ride, they were met with an unexpected sight.
Princess Goya was seated comfortably at the table, already eating.
Gina stopped in her tracks and turned slowly to Mirha, narrowing her eyes.
"Why didn't you tell me Princess Goya was here?"
Mirha blinked, just as confused.
"I didn't know either."
Goya looked up at them mid-bite, completely unapologetic.
"What? I was hungry. And since you two decided to marry the lake, why should I starve?"
For a heartbeat there was silence—then all three burst into laughter, loud and unrestrained. Not the delicate, court-approved kind, but the kind that bent them over and stole their breath. There were no men, no nobles, no expectations pressing down on their backs—just them.
Mirha and Gina joined the table, pulling out chairs, reaching for food without ceremony. Between mouthfuls and jokes, the room filled with warmth, clinking dishes, and the rare freedom of women allowed to be nothing more than themselves.
Then they went to the bathing chambers together.
Steam curled lazily around the room as they slipped into the wide stone tubs, the warm water easing the ache from their limbs. They leaned back against the edges, shoulders submerged, hair darkening as it soaked. For a while there was only the sound of water shifting and quiet sighs of relief.
Eventually, Goya spoke softly, staring at the rippling surface.
"I wonder how Nailah is doing."
The name settled heavily between them.
Mirha felt a familiar wave of guilt rise in her chest, slow and unwelcome. She closed her eyes briefly, letting the warmth ground her.
"I think about her too," she admitted. "More than I should."
Gina hummed thoughtfully, tracing idle circles in the water.
"It's complicated," she said gently. "Nothing about this was simple."
Mirha nodded. The guilt was there—but it was tangled, not clean. Nailah had been the one to place her in the Emperor's path, the one who made her a concubine to her own husband. Mirha hadn't asked for this life, yet she was living it all the same.
"I know I shouldn't carry all of it," Mirha said quietly. "Some choices were made long before I had any say."
Goya reached out, flicking water lightly toward her.
"You're allowed to feel conflicted," she said. "Anyone who isn't would be lying."
The tension eased, replaced by something softer—understanding. They soaked in silence again, letting the warmth, the steam, and each other's presence wash away what they could, if only for a little while.
Then they drifted into the chambers, the night settling comfortably around them. Lamps glowed softly, and the bed became their refuge—silks loosened, laughter easy, the world momentarily distant.
Mirha sat before the mirror, absently combing her fingers through her hair, her back to the others. Gina, stretched out on the bed, caught sight of the faint marks along Mirha's shoulder and collarbone. Her brows lifted.
"Eeh," Gina said, half scandalized, half amused. "The Emperor is doing too much."
Mirha startled, then gave a nervous smile, quickly pulling the fabric higher to cover the bruises. "It's nothing," she murmured, cheeks warm.
Goya snorted. "Gina, it's all of them."
Both Mirha and Gina turned to her at once.
Gina blinked. "All of them? You?" Her lips curved knowingly. "Did you—"
Goya waved her hands frantically. "Aaah—no! I mean—yes, but no—just kisses!"
Mirha gasped and covered her mouth. "You've kissed him?"
Goya grinned, utterly unrepentant. "Not once. Not twice. Not three times. A lot."
Gina collapsed back onto the bed, giggling helplessly. Mirha followed, laughter spilling out as the tension finally broke. The room filled with their voices—soft, conspiratorial, unburdened—three women sharing secrets, teasing truths, and the warmth of knowing they were not alone.
Mirha laughed, a little too loudly, the warmth of wine loosening her tongue. She raised a finger in mock warning, swaying slightly as she spoke.
"I took an oath," she declared, solemn as a priestess and just as unsteady, "never to speak of what happens in the Emperor's chambers. So don't ask me what it's like."
The girls burst into laughter.
"Oh please," Gina scoffed, reaching for her cup. "That only makes it worse."
Goya leaned closer, eyes bright, voice slurred just enough to be dangerous. "An oath? To silence? Now that is suspicious."
Mirha shook her head, curls bouncing. "Ask me about estates, jewels, politics—anything. But that?" She crossed her lips dramatically. "Sealed."
Gina groaned and threw an arm over her eyes. "Cruel. Absolutely cruel."
They were drunk now—properly drunk—words tumbling over one another, laughter spilling without care. The room smelled of wine and soap, of comfort and sisterhood. For once, there were no titles that mattered, no courts listening, no men to impress or disappoint.
Just them—tipsy, honest, and glowing—laughing until their sides hurt, while the night held their secrets kindly.
Gina lifted her cup with a wicked little grin, eyes half-lidded from drink and mischief.
"Well," she said, stretching the words, "I have no oath. I can tell you this much—the Duke is a beast in his chambers. I can't keep up."
There was a heartbeat of stunned silence.
Then the room exploded.
Mirha nearly choked on her wine. Goya shrieked with laughter and fell back against the pillows, clutching her stomach. Even Gina laughed at herself, covering her mouth far too late.
"Gina!" Mirha gasped between laughs. "You're shameless."
"And honest," Gina shot back, wagging a finger. "Very honest."
Goya wiped tears from her eyes. "Is this what marriage does? Because if so, I fear for my future."
Gina smirked. "Fear is appropriate."
They laughed again—loud, unrestrained, scandalous laughter that would have horrified any court lady who overheard. Wine sloshed, pillows shifted, and for a fleeting moment, grief, duty, and crowns were forgotten.
It was just women speaking too freely, hearts a little lighter, secrets spilling safely into the night.
Mirha was the first to drift away.
Her breathing evened out quietly, lashes resting against her cheeks, the long day finally claiming her. Goya followed soon after, fighting sleep with half-open eyes, her head tilting closer to Gina's shoulder each time she blinked.
Gina, however, was still murmuring—words slurring, thoughts loose and wandering, voice soft with drowsiness.
"…you know," she said suddenly, staring at the ceiling as if it held secrets only she could see, "Kaisen is coming soon."
Goya hummed, barely awake. "Mmm… coming where…"
"To Èvana," Gina murmured. "He wrote. Or… someone told me. I don't remember."
The room fell quiet again, the weight of her words lingering heavier than she seemed to realize.
Mirha slept on, unaware.
Goya's eyes finally closed.
And Gina, after one last sleepy sigh, turned onto her side—thoughts of the past and what was approaching folding into her dreams as the night settled gently over Magili.