The warm Lamig sun filtered gently through the silk-draped windows, casting soft gold patterns on the polished floor. The fragrance of jasmine and crushed lavender filled the room—burning softly in the corners in carved incense dishes. Princess Goya sat still, cross-legged atop her cushioned bench, her long dark hair fanned around her shoulders like a curtain of night. Her chambers, once vibrant with the echoes of siblings and court chatter, now echoed only with the rustle of silks and the soft murmur of her maids moving purposefully about.
Today was her last day as only Princess Goya of Lamig.
Tomorrow, she would become General Kain's wife.
The realization had settled over her gradually these past two days, not with dread as she had feared, but with a surprising calm. After her final meeting with Hosha—after his gentle, bittersweet kiss on her brow—she had wept in solitude. But the pain hadn't lingered like she imagined it would. It was as if that moment had given her the closure she needed. He had loved her in his own silent, distant way. And now, she could move forward.
Goya was startled from her thoughts as soft fingers tilted her chin. One of her senior maids, Lady Sanmi, smiled gently and began applying a fine dust of rose-tinted powder to her cheeks. "Your skin is already glowing, Your Highness," the woman said kindly. "We're only giving the glow a little nudge."
Goya offered a faint smile. "I don't feel as nervous as I thought I would."
Lady Sanmi exchanged a look with another maid across the room, who was gently folding silks into a travel chest. "Because you're ready," she said simply.
"I wonder if I am," Goya whispered, watching herself in the mirror. "I've been raised to become someone's wife my entire life. But now that it's here—it feels like I'm stepping into the unknown. Like… like I've been reading about something in a book and now I must live it."
There was silence for a moment. Only the soft sounds of combs working through her hair, fabric rustling, oils and perfumes being gently opened and closed.
Another maid, a younger girl named Teya, finally spoke. "You'll be living in a palace still, won't you, Your Highness? And marrying a man who is as powerful as he is handsome."
Goya's lips curled faintly in amusement. "Is that how the court girls speak of him?"
"Oh, yes," Teya blushed, her eyes wide. "They call him the Iron Flame. Some say he's so intimidating even the moon won't shine on him directly."
Goya laughed—a soft, melodic sound that had her maids pausing, all smiling at the rare sight. "The moon must be braver than I, then. I haven't even had a full conversation with him."
Lady Sanmi chuckled. "You will. And I think… I think General Kain will surprise you."
Goya tilted her head, curious. "Why do you say that?"
"Because men like him… they're quiet, but they're not unfeeling. They're like rivers beneath ice—still and hard on the surface, but full of movement beneath."
Goya considered that. "Still," she said softly, "it would be easier if we were in love."
"It's rare for love to come first, Highness," Lady Sanmi replied, adjusting the lace on her inner robe. "But it's not rare for it to come later."
Another moment of silence passed. The maids resumed their work, some gently steaming her gowns with pressed herbs, others polishing the jewelry to be worn during the ceremony. The chamber felt sacred, like a still sanctuary before a storm of change.
"I wonder if he's nervous," Goya murmured.
"Men don't show it when they are," Lady Sanmi said, smiling. "But I think even the Iron Flame is capable of a few flutters in the chest."
Goya leaned back, her gaze drawn toward the window. Outside, the courtyard trees were blooming with pale yellow flowers. She remembered running through those same gardens as a child, trailing ribbons, giggling with her brother. It felt so distant now. She wasn't the girl who clung to Hosha's sleeve anymore, nor the one who wept when her mother died. She was becoming something else entirely.
"Do you think I'll be happy?" she asked, the question so soft it barely stirred the air.
Lady Sanmi didn't answer immediately. She came to sit beside her, taking Goya's hand.
"I think you'll be many things," she said. "Sometimes happy. Sometimes not. Sometimes uncertain. But I also think you're strong enough to carry them all."
Goya's eyes prickled. "And if I'm not?"
"Then we'll carry you until you are."
There was a quiet strength in that promise. And for the first time, Goya didn't feel quite so alone.
The rest of the day passed in a gentle flurry. Garments were fitted. Jewelry sets chosen—delicate bangles of opal and gold, a forehead chain that glimmered like the sun had been caught in its center. Her wedding attire—an opulent gown of ivory and ocean silver, embroidered with tiny threads of blue and gold—was displayed for final approval. She touched it only once, fingertips grazing the fabric like it might whisper a prophecy back to her.
As evening fell, her maids lit lanterns around the room. The soft golden glow washed everything in amber warmth. Her hair was braided, then unbraided, then styled again into a simple regal crown—a nod to both her royal blood and her new journey.
Dinner was light. Goya couldn't eat much, her nerves making a small garden bloom in her stomach. The maids, sensing her quiet, didn't press her to speak. Instead, they hummed old Lamig lullabies while they cleaned, folded, arranged. It was peaceful in a bittersweet way.
When it was finally time to rest, the others began to take their leave. One by one, they bowed and curtsied.
Lady Sanmi lingered at the doorway. "Shall I stay with you tonight, Highness?"
"No," Goya said gently. "I want to be alone."
Lady Sanmi hesitated, then bowed. "If you need me, knock twice."
And then she was alone.
Goya moved to the balcony, wrapping a light shawl around her shoulders. The air was cooler now, and the stars had begun to claim the sky. Somewhere in the distance, she heard the sound of guards changing shift. It all felt so normal. And yet, everything would change tomorrow.
She leaned on the railing, her thoughts drifting toward Kain. She barely knew the man. But she had watched him once—during a military inspection, standing beside her brother. He was calm. Unmoved by ceremony. Eyes sharp, back straight, commands clear. There was no cruelty in him, but neither was there warmth. He was… measured.
She wondered what he'd see in her.
Would he try to understand me? Would I understand him? she thought.
But no more questions came. Just a quiet acceptance that life was already moving forward. She could either chase the past or walk with the future.
Goya whispered to the stars. "Goodbye, Goya of Lamig. Tomorrow… I'll be someone else."
And with that, she turned back to her chamber, letting the curtain fall behind her as the lanterns flickered and the final night of her old life drifted into silence.
The first light of day filtered softly through the silken drapes, but Goya did not stir immediately. She had risen long before the sun, awakened not by anxiety, but by resolve. The palace around her slept still, its stone corridors hushed, but inside her chambers, the quiet hum of movement had already begun.
Maids whispered as they folded and packed delicate garments, wrapped porcelain trinkets, and polished golden clasps. Soft linen was laid over lacquered trunks, and already three large cases were full by the time Goya sat upright in her bedding. Her shawl had slipped in the night, revealing a shoulder kissed by the faint chill of dawn. She adjusted it with a careful hand and looked to the glowing embers still faintly burning in the incense bowls near the door.
There was no fluttering in her chest, no tremor in her fingers. Just a firm steadiness that surprised even her.
Today, she was leaving. Not in the morning, but in the soft glow of evening, when the sun would set and the sky would turn the color of the Lamig silks—dusky violet with gold edges. It was fitting, she thought. A symbolic crossing from one world into another. And she would not cross it hesitantly.
She would cross it prepared.
"Good morning, Highness," came a gentle voice.
It was Aru—the governor's daughter, only seventeen, all bright eyes and unfiltered wonder. Her long braid swung like a pendulum behind her as she hurried to Goya's side, arms full of folded silks and ribbons.
"You're up early," Goya said softly, offering her a smile.
Aru's cheeks flushed. "I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about what today must feel like. I tried to imagine myself in your place, but…" She sat beside Goya, breathless from her hurry. "I'd be terrified."
Goya let out a quiet laugh. "I thought I would be. But I'm not."
"No?"
She shook her head, her eyes fixed on the soft morning light glowing along the edges of the balcony curtains. "I'm determined. I keep thinking… I may not know him yet, and he may not know me. But I will be the best wife General Kain could ever ask for. I won't give him reason to regret this union."
Aru tilted her head. "Is that what you want? To please him?"
"I want to make this life mine. To shape it with my hands and heart. If that means beginning with being a good wife, then yes. That's what I want."
Aru leaned her chin into her palm, studying her with thoughtful admiration. "You don't speak like other princesses. Most would be thinking about the size of the palace or whether they'll miss the musicians or which earrings match which gown. But you… you're always thinking deeper."
Goya smiled at that, her gaze drifting to a folded silk gown near the corner—her mother's favorite, passed down before she died. "The palace… the comforts… I've had all those. But happiness won't come from gold walls. It'll come from how I live inside them."
There was a knock at the door, and two maids entered carrying trays of fruit and honeyed bread. Aru rose quickly to help them set the breakfast table near the window. The room smelled of pear blossoms, warmed oils, and something soft and spiced from the kitchens.
"Come, eat," Aru urged, handing Goya a slice of bread and a small dish of clotted cream. "You'll need energy today."
"I'll try," Goya said, though she took only small bites. "What will you do after I leave?"
Aru shrugged. "Maybe cry," she teased lightly. "But mostly… I'll miss you."
Goya reached for her hand. "You've grown into such a spirited young woman, Aru. I hope you continue to speak boldly and love honestly. It's a rare thing in a place like this."
They ate in companionable silence for a time, the hum of preparations around them like a gentle current. As the sun rose higher, more attendants arrived—one to check on the jewelry, another to inventory the trunks, two more to adjust the measurements of her outer robe.
By midday, the chambers had transformed into a controlled chaos. Goya had been dressed in two different trial robes, each more elaborate than the last, before finally settling on one chosen by Lady Sanmi—a deep ivory brocade with a high collar and gold stitching along the hem, meant to signify both nobility and humility.
Aru remained by her side, helping to pin her veil when needed, brushing loose strands from her forehead, straightening the sleeves of each trial ensemble. Though the age gap between them was nearly five years, they had developed a quiet sisterhood over the past year.
In a quieter moment, Aru placed a carved wooden box into Goya's hands.
"What's this?"
"A gift," Aru said. "I carved it myself. Open it."
Inside was a small charm: two phoenixes carved from ivory, wings overlapping as if caught in flight. The chain was a simple silk cord, dyed the color of twilight.
"I thought…" Aru hesitated. "You're like that. Reborn in fire. But still beautiful. Still whole."
Goya's eyes pricked with tears. She reached forward and pulled Aru into a hug. "Thank you. I'll keep it with me."
Later, as the sun began its slow descent, the atmosphere shifted. Lanterns were lit in preparation for the evening procession. Musicians arrived to rehearse soft farewell songs. A formal tray of parting gifts from her brother, the Crown Prince, was brought in—scrolls, fine tea leaves, and a sealed letter Goya wouldn't open until later.
One by one, her trunks were moved to the front court. Her wedding attire was hung delicately on the frame, its weighty folds waiting patiently for the hour to arrive.
Aru helped Goya wash her hands with water scented by rose petals. Then she braided Goya's hair, weaving in golden thread and pins shaped like falling leaves.
"You're so quiet," Aru whispered.
"I'm listening," Goya said.
"To what?"
"To the end of something. To the beginning of something else."
Lady Sanmi returned to adjust the bridal veil—silver netting with pearls that shimmered like morning dew. When she stepped back, a hush fell over the room. Everyone paused, and even Goya stilled.
She looked at her reflection in the standing mirror.
It wasn't the girl who clung to childish dreams anymore. It wasn't the girl who waited for love to come rescue her. It was a woman—composed, brave, and ready.
"Is it time?" she asked.
Lady Sanmi nodded. "Soon."
They moved together toward the doorway. The air outside her chambers was thick with the scent of lotus oil and soft woodsmoke. Courtiers were gathering, whispering prayers and blessings. Goya's brother was waiting at the end of the corridor, dressed in his ceremonial robes.
Aru stepped aside, her face wet with tears. "I'll see you again, won't I?"
"Of course," Goya whispered, embracing her tightly. "But until then… remember what I said. Speak boldly. Love honestly."
Then she stepped into the corridor, her veil lowered, the long train of her gown carried by two court attendants. The sounds of drums began to echo faintly in the distance, a rhythm that matched the slow beat of her heart.
As she walked forward, her mind held no fear. Only one thought repeated, calm and unwavering:
I will be the best wife he could ever dream of. I will not let fear or distance define us. I will build something worthy.
By the time she reached the front court, the sky had begun its descent into dusk. The first star was visible, blinking shyly above the courtyard gate.
Goya turned once, her eyes scanning the palace that had been her home—its tiled roofs glowing gold in the last light, the garden walls echoing with the laughter of a girl who no longer lived here. She didn't say goodbye aloud. She didn't need to.
This was not the end of something.
It was only the beginning.
The sound of hooves echoed like thunder across the courtyard stones.
Goya stood at the top of the ceremonial steps as the royal carriages rolled in, flanked by the elite guards of General Kain. Their armor was polished to gleam like obsidian under the setting sun, swords at their sides, their posture rigid and proud. The lead guard dismounted and gave a respectful bow.
"We've come to escort our future mistress," he said, voice clear and reverent.
Goya inclined her head with practiced grace. "You're welcome."
Three carriages stood ready—one for Goya, one for her dowry gifts, and a third for her ladies-in-waiting who would accompany her to the General's estate. The horses were adorned in velvet crimson, gold tassels dancing in the late breeze, their harnesses echoing softly as the steeds pawed the ground. Behind them, banners bearing General Kain's insignia swayed—sharp silver against dark navy.
It should have been a moment of pride.
Instead, it was a quiet storm.
From the palace doors came the slow, deliberate steps of Queen Samara and King Ren. The Queen's gown shimmered like falling frost, and her hair was pinned with white jade combs, her expression solemn, though her eyes were rimmed red. The King, by contrast, walked with indifference, eyes bored, mouth pulled into a slight sneer, his ceremonial robe draped carelessly across his shoulder.
They came not as parents, but as monarchs.
Goya turned toward them as protocol demanded. She bowed low.
"Your Majesty. Your Grace," she greeted, her voice even.
Samara flinched—ever so slightly. She opened her mouth, but no words came. Her hand hovered as if to reach for her daughter's cheek, but Goya had already turned away. The Queen's hand dropped like a petal severed from its stem.
"You look…" Samara began again, trying to gather composure. "You look beautiful, my child."
"I am honored by your words, Your Majesty," Goya said gently, but distantly. "Thank you for attending."
Ren scoffed under his breath. "Let's not drag this out. There's enough pageantry as it is."
A beat of silence followed. Samara's hands trembled at her sides.
Goya did not look back at them again.
Instead, she turned toward those who truly mattered—those who had come not for spectacle, but for love.
Governor Sun approached first, his ceremonial robes tight at the shoulders, his face graver than usual. His wife, Yusa, was beside him, her eyes already brimming with tears. Behind them stood Lord Zuko's wife, Isa, a picture of quiet elegance, and their daughter Aru, her hands clutching a bundle of silks wrapped in string.
"Princess," Governor Sun said with a bow, "it has been an honor. The General is a lucky man."
Yusa stepped forward and took Goya's hands in hers. "We watched you grow like our own daughter. You have such strength in you… Please don't ever forget how dearly you're loved."
Goya's composure softened. She reached forward and embraced Yusa warmly.
"I won't forget. And I will write when I can."
Yusa began to cry, her shoulders shaking as she buried her face into her sleeve.
Isa wrapped a comforting arm around her, her own voice quiet. "Let her go with joy in your heart, Yusa. Goya is a jewel—they'll see that soon enough."
Then came Aru, cheeks pink, her eyes brimming but no tears falling yet.
"I… I made you something." She handed over a pouch of hand-dyed scarves and a tiny sachet of pressed flowers. "For your new chambers. To remember the garden… and me."
Goya smiled, truly this time, and pulled Aru into a long, firm hug.
"I will think of you every morning. Be brave, Aru. You have so much fire in you—don't let anyone dim it."
Aru nodded against her shoulder, clinging tightly for a moment longer before stepping back, eyes glistening.
From the rear came two young men—her brothers.
First was Hosha, ever the quiet strength of the family. He bowed with a soft smile. "I hope your marriage brings you peace, sister. You deserve it."
Goya squeezed his hand. "Thank you. You've always been kind to me."
Then came Kalan, the Crown Prince. His steps were slower, more hesitant.
"I… came to apologize," he said, his voice low. "For not doing more. For not protecting you the way I should have."
She paused for only a moment, then reached forward and adjusted the edge of his royal sash with the ease of a sister who still remembered his childhood tantrums.
"I have no regrets, Kalan. And as the future king of Lamig, neither should you."
He laughed, a breath escaping. "Still as sharp as ever."
They shared a quiet look—not full reconciliation, but peace, perhaps. A truce in a lifetime of unspoken wounds.
Then the final bell tolled. The hour had come.
Attendants began to stir. The guards shifted into formation. One of her ladies held out the step stool for her to enter the carriage.
"Farewell, Princess," murmured Isa.
"Go with our hearts," Yusa added through quiet sobs.
Queen Samara took a single step forward, her voice nearly breaking.
"Goya…"
But Goya had already lifted her gown and stepped into the carriage.
She did not look back.
As the door closed gently behind her, the scent of lotus blossoms and ink drifted past, curling into the air like the final whisper of an old story.
The wheels creaked, the horses stirred, and the carriages began to move.
Lamig Palace grew smaller behind her, its tall spires bathed in golden light, its cold walls finally fading from view.
Inside the carriage, Goya sat tall, her hands folded, the phoenix charm Aru had given her tied around her wrist.
No fear. No regret.
Just the steady, unwavering voice in her heart:
I will be the best wife the General could ever wish for.
And outside, the stars began to rise.