The first gentle light of dawn unfurled across the rooftops of Wiang Phasorn Nakorn. The resonating gong that marked the opening of the city gates had just faded, as a black horse quietly made its way across the stone courtyard into the royal palace.

Prince Rachasriwong gazed at the familiar rooftops, but a strange emptiness stirred in his chest. If not for the need to escort Kham In safely back to his mother, he might have stayed in the forest by the stream for another night… or two.

—

In front of a small house in the outer court

A middle-aged woman rushed out, crying aloud. “In! My son In!”

The weeping voice of Kham Laa stirred the heart of the young man standing silently nearby.

The Prince watched the tearful reunion of mother and son, then turned away quietly and walked into the shaded royal garden.

—

Soon, he arrived at his private chamber. The room was quiet, filled only with the soft scent of aged sandalwood and filtered morning light streaming onto the sleeping platform.

Prince Wihokkarat was already there, silent and unusually pensive. When their eyes met, the Prince sighed deeply.

“My brother…” he said softly, though steady.

“What would you say if I… chose none of the five royal daughters?”

Prince Wihokkarat hesitated, sitting beside his elder brother without answering at once.

“You know we have no such liberty.”

“If you refuse, the King will deem it a dishonor to the royal treaty.”

“But what if I… chose not to marry any of them, and instead chose only one—of my own will?”

Prince Rachasriwong’s gaze shifted toward the sleeping platform. At its end lay a piece of ancient black silk, bearing a sacred Singha pattern—the very cloth Queen Inthranil once wove for the King in his youth.

That cloth… had endured until now. And still, it held emotions—woven deep into its threads.

His slender hand reached out to gently touch it.

“If a piece of cloth… could truly carry a person’s heart—”

“Then perhaps I could delay things… by asking them to ‘weave their hearts’ into it.”

Prince Wihokkarat began to understand, a small smile forming on his lips.

“You intend to announce… a weaving competition?”

“Yes,” the Prince nodded. “Whoever weaves the most beautiful cloth… shall be the one I choose. And only her.”

—

The room fell silent again, the only sound being the soft flutter of silk curtains. Yet within the Prince’s heart, something had been tightly wound—unspoken.

For beneath the reason of the competition… lay another.

—

Late that morning

Three ceremonial gongs echoed from the grand palace courtyard. Royal scholars, ministers, nobles, and the four royal daughters already residing in the palace filed into the throne hall.

King Silawet sat on the royal throne. Beside him, Queen Inthranil bore her usual serene expression, though her eyes glimmered with curiosity.

Prince Rachasriwong had requested an audience outside the regular court session—and his presence was firmer than usual.

—

“With all due respect to my father and my mother,” said the Prince, bowing deeply before the throne.

“I have a proposal. One that will allow my marriage to proceed without coercion.”

The King paused, his eyes sharp.

“Coercion? Do you not understand? These five daughters represent the vassal states. If you do not marry them, I lose my honor.”

The Prince raised his head.

“I understand… But if I choose only one—based on ‘skill and merit’ instead of lineage—it will show that the royal house of Wiang Phasorn selects by virtue, not bloodline.”

—

“Hmph… And how do you propose to decide that?”

The King still sounded skeptical.

The Prince stood tall. His eyes were so resolute that even the surrounding ministers turned toward him.

“I request a royal weaving competition. Whoever can craft the most beautiful cloth—one that reflects both skill and sincerity—she shall be the one I wed.”

Whispers stirred throughout the hall. Some agreed. Others found it improper. But then a soft voice rose from beside the throne.

“I support this proposal.”

Queen Inthranil smiled gently, her sandalwood fan resting on her lap.

“Once, when I was but a young lady from the northern lands, I presented a sky-blue silk cloth to His Majesty. And it was one of the reasons I now sit beside him.”

The King paused again. Then he looked down, raised a hand—and said nothing more.

The royal scholar caught the signal and stood, bowing his hands in respect before proclaiming:

“Let the daughters of all five vassal cities be informed! From this day forth, a weaving contest shall be held in the royal palace, to determine which lady shall be chosen as the bride of Prince Rachasriwong!”

The four daughters stood together at the front:

Lady Supimpha. Lady Pen Duean. Lady Kantra. Lady Wilawan.

They bowed gracefully, each pair of eyes lit with determination.

Only one had yet to appear—Buakesa.

The latest to arrive. The most temperamental.

Unaware… that her fate had already been rewritten by threads now beginning to weave.

—

The soft clinking of crystal bells rang out as the curtain of the inner chamber was pulled aside. Servants leapt back just in time as a tall figure in blazing red silk stormed in.

"What?! I have to compete?!"

Her voice thundered, startling even the doorkeepers.

One maid bowed low and murmured, "Yes, my lady… It's a direct royal decree."

"A decree?! A daughter of Phapang's royal capital like me—should be received in a golden carriage, not forced to weave cloth with those mountain-town girls!"

She seized a nearby clay pot and smashed it on the floor. The crash echoed loudly, silencing even her closest attendants.

Buakesa panted hard. Strands of her hair fell from her once-neat bun, but she didn’t care.

“I haven’t even seen Prince Rachasriwong’s face! Whether he’s handsome or hideous, I don’t know—and now I’m expected to weave for him? Absurd!”

“But…”

A soft voice came from the far corner of the room.

It was Kham In, the young weaver’s assistant, bowing respectfully.

“If my lady wishes to prove her worth… this might be a chance to show your skill.”

Buakesa snapped her head toward him, eyes flashing in humiliation.

“Skill?”

She laughed sharply.

“I—Buakesa of Phapang—sit down and weave?”

She stormed toward Kham In, jabbing a finger into his chest.

“You will teach me. I want results in one month.”

“If my cloth turns out beautiful, you’ll be rewarded. But if not—you and your mother won’t live comfortably in this palace again.”

Kham In bit his lip and bowed his head, though quiet resistance shimmered in his eyes.

Buakesa swished her robes with fury and swept out, leaving the scent of perfume and lingering rage in her wake.

—

When her footsteps finally faded, Kham In exhaled wearily. The tension in the room began to lift. Some of the maids glanced at him with pity.

But Kham In merely lowered his eyes and quietly turned toward the weaving room. His slender hand gently touched the wooden loom. The white silk threads had not yet formed a pattern—but already, his heart was being woven with uncertainty.

—

The late morning light filtered through the lattice windows, casting golden shapes upon the terracotta tiles. In the palace’s inner weaving room, only the footsteps of maids could be heard as they moved in and out, arranging silk threads and wooden shuttles with care.

Kham In sat quietly, placing cotton fibers onto the shuttle. His slender fingers moved with practiced grace, arranging the weft with the gentleness of a prayer. Beside him—

Buakesa lounged upon a cushioned seat draped in gold-embroidered silk. One hand toyed with candied fruit; the other fanned herself idly. Her face displayed open boredom.

“How many days must I sit here before I see any proper pattern?”

“If my lady weaves regularly, she may finish half a length in a day,” Kham In replied respectfully.

“But we must first create a steady base. If we rush, the threads will break and the pattern will warp.”

Buakesa raised an eyebrow, chuckling.

“You think I’m a peasant woman, spinning thread at a loom from dawn till dusk?”

She reached out and scattered the silk threads atop the loom with disdain. Then she rose, her silk hem trailing behind.

“I—Buakesa of Phapang—must weave with my own hands? How disgraceful!”

Kham In looked up.

“But if my lady wishes to present that cloth to Prince Rachasriwong with honor…”

“Honor?”

Her laughter rose sharply.

“I don’t want honor—I want to become the rightful Queen. The silk and cotton—you shall make them beautiful for me by the next new moon!”

She marched back to Kham In, pointing a finger near his face.

“You will make me Queen.”

Kham In bowed deeply without protest. But inside… he burned with unease.

—

That evening

Under the dim glow of a clay lamp in the outer kitchen, Kham In sat beside his mother, who was stirring rice flour over the fire.

“Mother…” he whispered.

“I don’t know if what I’m doing is right. I’m teaching her to weave, but her heart… is never with the cloth.”

Kham Laa paused, turning gently to look at her son. Her eyes held the calm of a woman who had seen the world.

“My dear… even the finest thread is fragile. But with a focused heart, even the most difficult strands can be woven true. Yet if the heart wanders, no pattern will ever hold.”

Kham In nodded slowly. He wasn’t yet certain… but he began to understand:

A cloth is not born from skill alone—

—it is born from the heart within each thread.

—

Meanwhile, in another part of the palace, the other daughters had begun their work:

Supimpha carefully laid bamboo threads one by one. Pen Duean dyed her hands indigo. Kantra’s palms grew raw from practicing the loom. Wilawan chanted old floral patterns aloud from ancient scrolls.

And when Buakesa learned of their progress…

Her irritation turned into worry.

And that worry began to weave a plan of its own—a plan to meet Prince Rachasriwong before the day of judgment arrived.

—

As the afternoon sun began to dip, its golden rays spilled across the terracotta tiles lining the inner royal grounds. A dry breeze carried the scent of falling Inchan blossoms, rustling gently over the hedges.

The heavy footsteps of a royal daughter echoed along the stone walkway.

“Take me to the training grounds,” Buakesa ordered coldly to Kham In, who followed silently behind.

“I heard Prince Rachasriwong trains the soldiers every afternoon.”

Kham In paused.

“My lady… that area belongs to the inner sanctum. Without royal decree, entry is forbidden.”

Buakesa turned to him, her eyes flushed red with frustration and pride.

“I am the daughter of the greatest of the five kingdoms. If I wish to meet the Prince, how many guards must I answer to?”

“And if we are caught—”

“Then you will take the blame.”

Kham In pressed his lips together and bowed slightly.

—

Their footsteps softened as they approached the worn wooden walls of the old military quarters. Buakesa wore a muted cloak over her inner gown, dressed as a common palace maiden.

Kham In led quietly, avoiding eye contact with every passerby. They slipped past the shade of trees, past the royal kitchens, past the chambers of consorts long gone… until they reached the outer edge of the Prince’s training ground.

—

“I see only an empty pavilion,” Buakesa said, scanning the area. From behind the courtyard, the sound of soldiers training rang through the air—but there was no sign of the Prince.

“He may not have arrived yet, my lady,” Kham In answered, keeping his head low.

Buakesa paced impatiently.

“Should I stand here swatting at mosquitoes until dusk?” she muttered. “I’m returning to the palace. You stay and watch. The moment he arrives—you come tell me immediately!”

She turned and stormed away, her frustration trailing behind her like the ends of her silk shawl.

—

Left alone beneath the shade of the same tree, Kham In hesitated. He wasn't sure whether he should wait… yet his legs refused to move.

And then—

The sound of hooves.

A horse approached from the far side.

Prince Rachasriwong appeared in dark training robes, his hair tied up high. He dismounted without ceremony, alone.

Kham In slowly looked up. His heart pounded—for reasons he couldn’t name.

The Prince paused when he saw the young man under the tree. Then a gentle smile crossed his face.

“Kham In.”

Just hearing his name made Kham In lower his gaze instantly.

“I… I did not come to spy, Your Highness.”

The Prince walked closer, removing his gloves slowly. His breath was steady.

“You came… in her place, didn’t you?”

Kham In lifted his gaze just for a moment, then quickly looked away.

“I only wished to prevent someone from breaching the inner sanctum, Your Highness.”

The Prince watched him. Though the young man’s words were humble, his eyes were sincere—just as they had been that rainy night… beneath the same cloak.

A soft smile curled at the corner of the Prince’s lips.

“Thank you… for remembering what is right and what is not. You may return now, Kham In.”

He turned away and stepped silently into the training ground, leaving Kham In standing still—his heart racing.

Yet something warm bloomed quietly in his chest.

As if those few simple words… were the first golden thread

in a cloth he never believed he’d be allowed to weave.

—

Prince Rachasriwong lingered for a while under the Pa-yom tree. The evening wind rustled his robes gently. Shouts from the soldiers rang out in the training pit, but his eyes… followed only one silhouette.

Kham In walked away with graceful steps, unaware that his back… had seared itself into the Prince’s memory.

The Prince’s lips lifted ever so slightly—

A smile never shown before.

Subtle. But deep.

He slipped his gloves over one wrist, turned, and began to follow.

Not calling out. Not making a sound.

Only walking—

Far enough not to be seen.

Close enough never to lose sight—

Until Kham In vanished around the curve of the corridor.

There, the Prince stopped beneath the tree’s shadow and looked up at the twilight sky.

In his eyes… something shone.

The look of someone unsure if he was already in love—or merely hoping… to finally fall.

—

As twilight draped the sky, like a curtain drawn gently across the heart, a quiet feeling began to drift.

Though he said nothing, restrained by caution,

his heart… followed the other’s path.

—