The midmorning breeze at Wiangphasorn Palace still lingered faintly with incense from the Lent ceremony, yet a different scent had begun to spread—
The scent of rumor.
Of whispers.
“Prince Rachasihwong escorted Lady Buakesa back to her quarters himself.”
At the palace kitchens, hushed voices passed between maids peeling fruit by the window.
“They say His Highness wiped her blood with his own hands…”
“Are you sure it wasn’t just a scratch? Maybe she faked frailty to gain sympathy.”
“Shh—don’t say that. Everyone knows she’s the fairest among all the daughters.”
In the weaving hall, the clatter of looms still rang… but some hands slowed as hearts wavered.
“I saw it with my own eyes. He held her and walked her home…”
“They say he even wrapped her wound… with his own sash.”
It wasn’t just the servants. The rumor reached the four pavilions.
In the East Pavilion, Supimpha placed her shuttle down without comment.
Pen Duean remained calm, eyes unchanged—but there was something almost… pleased.
Kantra clenched her fist tighter, pulling her thread taut.
Wilawan simply exhaled, then returned to her golden embroidery without a word.
Until finally—
Whispers became action.
The four daughters—each dressed in their finest—approached Queen Inthranil that afternoon. Some came of their own will. Others were urged forward by the whispering of their maids.
The atmosphere of the royal court, once serene, now buzzed with quiet tension hidden behind smiles.
“Your Majesty,” Kantra spoke first, bowing deeply,
“We mean no offense… but we wish to ask something openly.”
Queen Inthranil turned slowly to face them. Her eyes, as always, calm.
“Speak, daughters. If it is a matter worth voicing, I will listen.”
“We’ve heard,” Pen Duean said,
“That His Highness visited and cared for the daughter of Phapang—closely.”
“We understand this may stem from kindness,” Kantra added,
“But since this is a competition to choose a consort… fairness must remain above all.”
Queen Inthranil was quiet a moment, then spoke gently—her voice soft, but resolute:
“You speak fairly. I will not allow favor to disturb destiny.”
She gave a short command:
“From this day, Prince Rachasihwong shall visit each pavilion—one per day.
He shall greet and inquire from behind the curtain. No more than one hour.”
This decree was recorded in the royal ledger and delivered to Prince Rachasihwong that same afternoon.
When he heard it, he simply sighed and told the Royal Guru:
“If this will bring peace to the palace… I shall obey.”
But deep in his heart, one question echoed louder than any other:
“The one behind the curtain… is she truly the daughter of Phapang?”
Late morning light flowed through the cotton curtains of the Sirarom Pavilion. Though winter approached, the palace winds remained strangely warm—like someone’s breath… returning to visit.
Footsteps echoed softly along the wooden corridor.
Then—he arrived.
Prince Rachasihwong stood before the North Pavilion. The veil of cotton draped all four sides, but he did not hesitate. He gently tapped once on the wooden post.
A single knock—just enough to be heard inside.
“Lady of Phapang,” he said softly,
“I come as commanded by the Queen.”
His voice was low, steady—yet tender. He stood still, patiently waiting for a reply.
Inside the pavilion—
Kham In, still disguised as Buakesa, sat frozen before the loom. His face veiled behind gauze, heart pounding so fiercely it nearly leapt from his chest.
That voice.
Even in a dream, he would know it.
His hand trembled as he reached for the slate and chalk. Slowly, he wrote a few lines and slid the board through the curtain’s small opening.
“The stars shine bright in silver skies,The moon’s soft glow does not disguise—
I seek no friend to keep me near,But thank you for your presence here.
Too close is kind, but still too near…I only wish to be alone.”
The Prince read the poem in silence. His lips curled into a faint smile—not at rejection, but at the gentle tone hidden in each word.
He picked up the chalk and wrote in reply:
“If solitude shall calm your soul,Then I’ll retreat and not take hold.
But if your heart should tire one day,I’ll stand and wait… not far away.”
The slate returned.
Then emerged once more, with a new verse:
“Your kindness lingers like blossoms near,Your words like dew—so bright, so clear.
Though these small hands grow weak with pain,I’ll weave this cloth with heart unstained.”
And so it began.
A silent conversation in verse.
Poem by poem.
Line by line.
Heart… to heart.
Until Kham In sent one final piece:
“Grateful am I for all you’ve said,But let our voices rest instead.
The threads await—they must be true.This cloth I weave… must be for you.”
The Prince read it quietly.
His hand caressed the edge of the slate.
Then he wrote one final time:
“If this is where the words must end,Still know my thoughts shall never bend.
I’ll wait to see your woven art,And hope… you’ll hold me in your heart.”
And with that, he turned and walked away—silent, composed…
Though inside, his heart raced no differently than the one hidden behind the curtain.
The light of an oil lamp flickered gently in the small kitchen at the edge of the servants’ quarters. The scent of dried tea leaves hung faint in the air, mingling with the damp trace of evening rain drifting in from the outer porch.
Kham In stepped inside quietly, exhausted from another night of weaving in the North Pavilion.
But as soon as the lamp’s glow caught the outline of a figure beneath the eaves… he froze.
“Mae… you’re still awake?”
Kamlaa, his mother, looked up with a soft smile. One hand clutched a thin shawl across her lap. Her eyes bore the weight of long thoughts, yet they carried the same gentle warmth Kham In had known his whole life.
“Just waiting for you, that’s all…You’re home late again, In.”
Her voice—gentle and quiet—carried such tenderness that Kham In felt a sudden sting behind his eyes.
He knelt beside her, folded his hands, and bowed his head to rest on her lap. Her rough hand reached out, stroking his hair the way she had when he was a child.
“Mae… I…”
He paused. Swallowed.
“I don’t know if what I’m doing is right… or wrong. I just want you to have medicine.
To live in comfort. To get better before I… choose my own path.”
Kamlaa smiled faintly. Her gaze—tender yet unyielding—settled on her son.
She stroked his head once more and spoke slowly:
“You’re doing something your heart didn’t choose, just because you’re afraid.
Afraid others will hurt. Afraid I won’t get well. Afraid of what people might say.
But rem ember, In…One day, you must choose with your own heart. Don’t live only to run from fear.”
Kham In’s eyes shimmered.
His slender hands reached to clasp hers tightly.
“I promise, Mae…I’ll protect you with everything I am.And when that day comes—I’ll choose what my heart knows is right.”
The two sat in silence.
Only the sound of the wind brushed against the slats of the old wooden wall…
And the quiet breath of two hearts Still living for one another.
The first bell of dawn echoed across the palace, as the morning light cast slanting shadows over the line of shops in front of the city temple.
The market stirred with life—vendors calling for customers, the aroma of freshly baked sweets and grilled fish filling the air.
Kham-In, dressed in plain cotton trousers, slipped deftly through the crowd, a basket in hand. He was on a mission to find wild honey, just as Lady Buakes had instructed.
"She wants fresh wild honey, not the bottled kind those merchants usually sell... It must have a rich scent, clear texture, and no sediment."
He repeated her words silently, not forgetting a single detail. He headed straight to a familiar merchant’s stall, but before he could make his selection, a commotion broke out from the other side of the market.
"Thief! Thief!! That boy snatched my coin pouch!"
A woman’s voice rang out, drawing startled looks from the crowd. Kham-In snapped his head toward the sound and caught sight of a small figure darting through people—a boy in tattered clothes, sprinting as fast as he could.
"That’s Pen Duean’s pouch!"
Another voice shouted—Supimpa, who had been walking beside him, immediately gave chase.
Kham-In didn’t hesitate. He dashed after the boy, weaving through a narrow alley beside the market. Thanks to his years of physical labor and training in housework, he quickly caught up and tackled the child before he could leap into the canal.
"Hey… no need to be scared. I… won’t hit you."
He held the boy by the shoulders, his voice gentle. One hand retrieved the coin pouch, the other brushed the boy’s hair softly.
"You’re just a kid… Don’t go stealing like this, alright? It’s not the right path. You’re worth more than that..."
Panting footsteps approached.
Pen Duean and Supimpa arrived, pausing at the scene in front of them, momentarily speechless.
"You’re…?" Pen Duean began.
Supimpa looked closely, then spoke with uncertainty.
"...Buakes’ servant, aren’t you?"
Kham-In froze, his expression shifting slightly. He offered the pouch back to Pen Duean and bowed politely.
"I am Kham-In, servant from the Royal House of Phapang."
Supimpa frowned.
"But… I remember clearly. That day when I had stomach cramps and couldn’t weave—the food delivered smelled odd. I still remember… it smelled like the Phapang kitchen..."
Kham-In fell silent, his lips tightening. Then he slowly knelt and placed his hands together in apology.
"I beg your pardon on behalf of my lady."
Supimpa looked mildly surprised. Yet in her eyes, there was no anger—only pity.
"I won’t hold it against you. You probably had no choice either…"
Pen Duean gave a faint smile and offered kindly,
"Then… let’s just leave this be. We’ve met by chance today, after all. Want to grab something to eat together? My treat."
Kham-In looked up, hesitating, but when he saw their smiles—the gentle warmth he had never received from anyone in the Phapang residence—he nodded slightly.
And so the three of them walked to a small ginger tea stall tucked into the market’s edge. They sat and talked about weaving, about the kitchen, about the palace—like old friends long acquainted.
Kham-In laughed for the first time in days. At one point, he glanced up at the sunlight filtering through the market roof… and suddenly remembered.
"Oh no! I have to bring the honey back to the residence!"
He leapt to his feet, holding the bundle of cloth tightly.
"Lady Buakes… she’s waiting."
The two women chuckled softly, sending him off with warm smiles. Pen Duean called after him,
"If you have free time… come talk again, Kham-In."
He nodded once before disappearing down the line of frangipani trees. Inside him… something had begun to shift, like a heart once sealed, now opening to a breeze from someone outside the walls he knew.
…
By late afternoon, Kham-In hurried back to the Royal Residence of Phapang, clutching a wrapped bundle. Inside was the freshly bought wild honey, its soft sweetness faintly seeping through the cloth.
A smile still lingered on his face from the conversation with Pen Duean and Supimpa, but as he crossed into the estate—everything changed.
Buakes sat beneath the open eaves of the pavilion, a crimson shawl draped lightly over her shoulders. Her face, however, was dark with irritation from having been left waiting.
"Did you lose track of time while out enjoying yourself?"
Her voice was cold—like a needle’s point.
Kham-In halted, folded his hands, and bowed deeply.
"I beg your pardon for being late, my lady."
Buakes raised an eyebrow, narrowing her eyes as if to search for someone else's shadow in his gaze.
"Or… were you out playing with that man? The one who gave you the bracelet?"
Her tone laced with mockery.
Kham-In said nothing, merely lowered his gaze in silence, letting the quiet speak for him.
Buakes clenched her jaw before flicking her hand dismissively.
"Go prepare the honey. Don’t act mute before me… I see through you."
He gave a subtle nod and obeyed. With delicate hands, he poured the honey into a small cup and presented it carefully.
She took a sip, then fixed him with a piercing stare again.
"And… the cloth you wove last night? How did it turn out?"
Kham-In met her eyes only for a second before replying softly—but firmly.
"I managed to weave only a single wa* of length, my lady. But I hope to make this piece… the most beautiful I can possibly create."
(*wa = traditional Thai unit of length)
Buakes paused for a moment, then slowly smirked—a smile filled with vanity and an almost desperate determination.
"Good, Kham-In… Because I must win."
She whispered like a vow.
"No matter the method… I will become the Prince’s consort of this city!"
Kham-In lowered his gaze once more. A chill crept into his heart, despite the sun still casting its light. Though the honey was sweet on the tongue, the shadows of suspicion… were bitter inside.
He stood silently in the shadows—unable to speak the truth, unable to walk away from his ties. And at the same time…
Buakes still clung to her dreams—woven into every thread.
With a heart that longed for one thing alone…
"Victory… no matter the cost."
…
“Silk drawn taut with threads of spite,
Like rivers wept through sorrowed night.
Each woven strand both love and dread—
Who shall rise… and who’ll bleed red?”
…
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