The early morning breeze whispered softly through the treetops beyond the palace wall. Moonlight faded as dawn’s first glow brushed the horizon.

Beneath the eaves of the old temple near the market, three figures sat together in a quiet corner.

Kham-In, dressed in modest clothes with a pale cloth loosely wrapped around his head to obscure his face, sat cross-legged opposite Pen Duean, cloaked in gentle indigo, and Supimpa, in a silk patterned with serpent motifs.

None of them spoke for some time. Only the sound of the temple bell marked the stillness. Eventually, Kham-In broke the silence—his voice soft and slow.

"Do you think it’s… strange, for a man to love another man?"

Supimpa turned to him, eyes glowing with quiet warmth.

Pen Duean smiled faintly and answered first.

"Not strange at all… Some people are born simply to love someone. Gender… doesn’t matter, Kham-In."

Kham-In lowered his eyes, tracing the edge of a fallen leaf beside him with his finger. Then he asked a question even heavier than the last.

"And… what if he stands far above me… so high I shouldn’t even lift my eyes to him?

Is there still… fate enough to love him?"

His voice faded to nearly a breath.

Supimpa gently reached out and took his hand.

"We’re princesses, yes… But even as daughters of noble blood, we don’t always marry the ones our hearts choose. It’s our ‘duty’—to serve our kingdoms, our parents, our lands."

Pen Duean nodded.

"Sometimes, we want something… but it’s simply not ours to have. But that doesn’t mean we must forget our feelings. Keep them close to your heart… and do everything you can, with love."

Kham-In gave a trembling smile. Tears welled in his eyes before he even realized it. He brought his hands together in a wai.

"Thank you… both of you… You’re the first I’ve ever spoken to about this."

Supimpa stood first and offered her hand with a grin.

"Then get up already, little one! Don’t look so glum. We promised to visit the market today, remember? Still want to go?"

Kham-In chuckled softly and accepted her hand.

Pen Duean led the way through the narrow alley connecting to the morning market behind the temple.

"What kind of sweets do you want?" Supimpa asked playfully.

Kham-In smiled shyly. "I’ll eat anything… if you’re buying."

Pen Duean laughed.

"Then let today be a treat—for a brave soul who dares to follow his heart."

The three walked together with light steps.

Around them, the market slowly stirred to life: the scent of grilled bananas, floral water, and warm pastries drifted through the air. Children ran past bolts of fabric, while vendors waved off flies and sang their wares.

Kham-In quietly watched the world around him as the two women laughed beside him.

"I need a new headscarf for the Rain Robe Ceremony," Pen Duean said.

"What about you, Kham-In?" Supimpa asked, arching an eyebrow. "How about this airy indigo cotton? I think it would suit you."

Kham-In smiled but didn’t answer. Yet the warmth in his eyes was unmistakable.

Today… was not a day of competition.

It was a day when a burdened heart could breathe, could speak, could open—and once it did, the thread inside him felt ready to weave again.

…

That afternoon, a gentle northern breeze carried the scent of sandalwood from the palace shrine into the Sala Sirarom.

A crimson silk stretched across the loom, gleaming under soft sunlight. The pattern was beginning to emerge—graceful, alive.

Buakes, dressed in deep red silk with a sheer scarf over her hair, entered the north pavilion silently.

She stood still for a moment, staring at the nearly finished cloth with an unreadable expression.

"This… is what you've made? Or are you trying to compete with my fate?"

Her whisper was laced with envy—for even to the unknowing eye, the fabric’s beauty far exceeded what her own hand could create.

She reached out and touched the edge. The silk was still warm—freshly woven.

"If I weren’t bound to present this cloth to Prince Rajasihavong..."

"I would tear it to shreds and burn it to ash."

She turned to leave the pavilion.

But then—

The powerful sound of footsteps ascended the stairs. A tall figure in deep blue robes stood beyond the sheer curtain.

Prince Rajasihavong.

"Lady of Phapang…"

"I have come once more."

His voice was deep and warm—gentler than ever before. His gaze passed through the thin curtain with calm familiarity.

His servant stepped forward, holding a slate board upon which a short poem was inscribed in the Prince’s elegant hand.

“Though threads may tire from endless strain,

My heart still longs—unchanged, unfeigned.”

It was a tender greeting—as always, delivered to the “lady behind the curtain” of the northern pavilion.

As the servant reached the steps and held the board toward the curtain, a hand emerged… and took it.

The Prince waited patiently. The breeze moved the curtain slightly, but no pencil marked a reply, no hand returned the slate.

Instead, the curtain parted.

A woman in blood-red silk and a long veil stepped out with poise.

Prince Rajasihavong frowned slightly.

Before he could speak, Buakes approached with a demure voice.

"Your Highness… your poem moved me greatly."

He paused, glancing at the slate in her hand—still blank, no response written.

"Why… no reply in verse today?"

His voice was soft, but edged with doubt.

Buakes smiled at the corners of her lips, tilting her head coyly.

"I wished to reply from the heart… more than with words."

She cradled the slate gently. In that moment, the Prince felt it—a change.

His gaze held still. His heart beat quietly… but his mind spun with questions.

“The scent of these verses… not the same.

The voice… not the one whose words once reached my soul.”

Buakes stepped closer. Her eyes glinted strangely.

"Every time I read Your Highness’s poetry, it soothes my heart."

"And today… I wished only to respond with presence."

The Prince did not retreat—but nor did he respond.

He turned slightly, speaking with formality.

"I must visit the royal tutor now. I’ll take my leave."

Buakes curtsied sweetly, unaware that his once-genuine smile now felt distant.

He turned, and as his foot touched the first stair, a single thought echoed within him:

“The one behind the curtain… always answered in verse.

So why has it changed… today?”

…

His footsteps faded.

Buakes stood with the slate in her hands, smiling softly—like one who truly believed she had won his heart.

"My Prince… you must truly care for me now."

She whispered to herself, turning back toward the pavilion.

Still, her slate remained blank.

No poem. No response.

Just silence.

…

That evening…

Buakes stormed into the residence, still clutching the slate, a smile on her lips—but suspicion brewing beneath.

The moment she crossed the threshold, her eyes met Kham-In, quietly preparing silk threads in the corner.

"Kham-In."

Her voice rang sharp—measured, but cutting.

He jumped slightly, quickly rising with hands folded in wai.

"What, exactly, did you write to Prince Rajasihavong?"

She did not mince words.

Buakes stepped closer, her eyes blazing.

Kham-In hesitated. Fear flickered in his eyes, but at last he drew a breath and answered softly:

"I… only replied with verses… to keep His Highness from suspecting who was truly behind the curtain."

"He… seemed pleased by the poetry."

Buakes paused, scrutinizing his face for deceit.

"Is that true?"

Kham-In nodded.

"He said… the words were beautiful. That he was… very pleased, my lady."

For a moment, her bitter expression melted into a curious smile—almost unreadable. Her eyes flicked to the loom.

"Hmph… the cloth you’ve woven… it is beautiful."

Her voice was smooth—but heavy.

"The threads lie elegant… like me."

Kham-In bowed his head.

Buakes gave a satisfied look, her voice low and firm.

"I will win this competition. Without fail."

He remained still, palms folded quietly… but inside, it felt like his own threads had been pulled tight—ready to snap.

"You heard me, Kham-In?"

She turned as she departed.

"I will become his consort—no matter who else stands in my way."

…

Beneath the lamplight

Kham-In stood motionless, his fingers resting on the silk still stretched on the loom.

Moonlight touched his hands faintly… but his heart was heavy.

He had never intended to deceive anyone. Yet his words… had misled someone else entirely.

…

The next morning, a chill crept through the training yard behind the palace.

Prince Rajasihavong sat silently beneath a great tree, holding the old slate close to his chest—the one bearing his previous poem.

"Today… no answer."

He whispered.

His gaze drifted toward the Sala Sirarom, barely visible in the distance.

Footsteps approached quietly.

"You’re brooding again, Ai."

It was a familiar voice—Prince Wihokrat, always appearing with a half-grin.

"Wihokrat…"

The elder Prince lifted his head.

"There’s something I’ve been wondering…"

Wihokrat tilted his head.

"About the cloth? Or the one weaving it?"

"The one…"

His voice was low, but firm.

"The person behind the curtain of the north pavilion… the one who replied with poems. The one who wrote: ‘I shall weave cloth worthy of you.’"

Wihokrat chuckled softly.

"You feel it, don’t you? That the woman you saw yesterday… isn’t the one who wrote those verses."

The elder Prince was silent a moment, then nodded slowly.

"I knew it. From the first reply. Those words… could never have come from Buakes."

"You love him, don’t you?"

Rajasihavong gave a faint smile.

"I didn’t choose to love. It just… happened."

Wihokrat gave a wry chuckle.

"Then guard your heart well, brother.

Because I won’t lose this battle so easily."

"A battle between brothers? Or of love?"

"Both."

Wihokrat smirked playfully.

"But if, in the end, Kham-In chooses you… I will yield. With a true heart."

Prince Rajasihavong looked at his brother in silence, then said quietly:

"But I won’t yield to anyone—

not even you."

…

Beneath the great tree, cicadas sang softly.

No vow was spoken aloud.

But the fire in Prince Rajasihavong’s eyes burned clearer than the morning sun.

His heart… had made its choice.

Kham-In—was the one to whom he wished to dedicate his entire life’s weave.

…

Evening crept in quietly.

The air cooled with the season. Insects hummed faintly beneath the grass—like a lullaby for the night.

In the north pavilion of the Sala Sirarom, by the light of two flickering candles, under swaying shadows—

Kham-In sat alone at his loom.

Crimson and gold threads stretched tightly across the frame.

His slender hands touched the fabric gently… as if soothing something deep within himself.

"Just one more section…"

he whispered.

His voice barely louder than breath.

So many nights had passed—nights when the silk nearly stained with blood and tears.

And now… it shone more beautifully than any cloth he had ever touched.

Every line, every motif… was a feeling unspoken.

Tonight… he would begin the final binding: the last “matmee” motif.

The one he had carried in his heart all along.

"The twin tigers…"

He spoke softly.

His once-shaking hands were now steady.

He loosened the knots of the silver thread one by one, revealing a pattern of two tigers—facing each other, standing side by side. Behind them, a full moon rose—like a stage lit by fate.

The breeze stirred the cotton curtain.

The scent of perfumed water drifted from a nearby golden bowl.

"One tiger… stands above the earth.

The other… is me, lowly, but loyal with every breath."

He smiled faintly, eyes glistening—but his gaze was sure.

His weave was no longer for victory.

But for truth—for the one who once said:

"I only wish to be your Ai… for one night."

…

Moonlight fell across the threads.

The loom creaked gently as silk passed through wood.

But tonight… no sound was more beautiful than the silence weaving two hearts together.

And the cloth…

was nearly complete.

…

Threads pulled tight as if stitched by vow,

Time itself woven with each bow.

Matmee tigers drawn side by side,

Beneath the moon where fates collide.

One is a Prince, bold and divine,

One a servant who quietly pines.

Yet through each thread, their feelings run—

Binding two souls…

Until they’re one.

…