Under the flickering light of an old oil lantern in the middle of a weathered kitchen hut, Bua-gets sat, staring blankly out the window. Her gaze was fixed on the distant Supimpa Pavilion, swallowed in the silence of night.

She muttered to herself, voice trembling with bitterness.

“He’s just a servant… a lowly servant who knows nothing of heaven or earth! How dare he reach for both the elder and the younger brother… Hmph! I hate him!”

Beside her, Nang Kaew looked uneasy before speaking softly.

“But… when did those two fall in love? Didn’t we all see Kamin spending time with Prince Wihokrat so often? Maybe he’s just a go-between?”

Bua-gets scowled and turned sharply.

“If that’s true… then the one who gave him the jade bangle was the eldest—Prince Rachasiwong?”

“And now he’s clinging to him constantly… until he won his heart! That wretched thing is a curse upon mine!”

Her jaw clenched, eyes flashing with envy. She suddenly stood and opened a small wooden chest beneath her bed, pulling out a wooden doll wrapped in a scrap of crimson silk.

Nang Kaew reached to stop her.

“My lady, don’t! Black magic isn’t a toy… One wrong step, and it won’t just ruin minds—it’ll kill. Please…”

“But what if it works?”

Bua-gets’ eyes narrowed.

“I’ll get what I want—Prince Rachasiwong’s love. And it shall be mine… mine alone.”

“Please, don’t, my lady!”

Nang Kaew’s voice shook with fear, but Bua-gets ignored her. She drew a small blade and pricked her fingertip, letting a drop of blood fall onto the doll. Strange words in a forgotten tongue slipped from her lips.

“Your soul shall belong to me…”

“Your heart… shall long for me endlessly…”

“And once it succeeds… I’ll offer fresh blood in return…”

The kitchen filled with an unnatural breeze. A sense of ancient magic stirred in the air.

Nang Kaew bowed her head and prayed softly to herself.

Bua-gets clutched the doll to her chest, eyes shut tight, pouring hatred, love, and desire into the tiny wooden figure—until none remained within her but obsession.

Shortly after that dark, forbidden ritual on a rain-soaked night… Prince Rachasiwong’s condition began to change.

At first, it was only a mild fever.

But by dawn of the following day, his body burned with a strange heat. His skin flushed red. Sweat beaded across his face in unnatural waves.

Guards panicked, summoning the royal physician at once.

The physician pressed trembling fingers to his wrist, his brow deeply furrowed.

“Jungle fever… surely…”

“But why… do no remedies work?”

He muttered as he mixed turmeric, wild herbs, and antidote roots into the fire. Yet no matter how much he tried—nothing cooled the Prince’s fever.

With each passing day, Prince Rachasiwong grew quieter. Once firm in command, full of fire, he now lay pale and listless.

And sometimes, in his feverish delirium… he mumbled the name of a woman—soft, slurred, unclear. But the yearning in his voice echoed emptiness.

Servants whispered through the night, chilled by what they saw.

“No one’s ever seen the Prince like this…”

“Matters of the heart… can be more fatal than war…”

Their murmurs drifted through the thin walls of the residence, though the Prince heard none of it.

He lay still in his darkened chamber. The windows were shut. Gray curtains draped low, allowing only the dim light of a lantern and the faint scent of herbal remedies.

On some nights… those passing by could hear his low murmurs. Whispered dreams void of reason.

Yet, among all the names spoken in fever, one name was never uttered—Khamin.

That name… was gone from his lips. As if some unseen force had sealed it from his heart.

Morning wind slipped through the cracks of Supimpa Pavilion. Though sunlight had barely breached the horizon, the servant’s quarters felt colder than ever.

Mae Khamlaa lay still upon her old reed mat. Her thin, calloused hands held her son’s tightly. Her once-strong figure had dwindled to little more than a shadow of what she’d been.

Khamin sat beside her, unmoving, eyes red-rimmed and dry. Like a child terrified of letting go.

A dry cough broke the silence.

Mae Khamlaa struggled to open her eyes. Her pale lips quivered before she whispered—

“...In… my child…”

Khamin leaned in, voice trembling as he forced a smile.

“Don’t say that, Mother… I’m right here. Please don’t…”

She shook her head faintly. One frail hand lifted to touch his cheek.

“Next life… may I be born with fortune… with power… with enough grace…”

“To love you properly… to care for you better than I ever could…”

“This life… I had so little to give… I couldn’t walk with you to the very end…”

Her breaths grew shallow. Still, she held his hand tightly.

“Protect yourself… protect your heart, my son…”

Khamin shut his eyes. Silent tears slipped down onto her fingers—fingers that had held him since birth, that had toiled so he could eat.

“Mother… I’ll live a life worthy of everything you gave me…”

“Don’t worry… please…”

Mae Khamlaa smiled—a soft smile of peace and eternal love.

Then, her eyes gently closed.

Her final breath passed with the morning wind, carrying the scent of fresh rice fields far away. As if she had departed with the memory of home.

Khamin sat still.

Even the birds ceased their song.

Supimpa and Phenduern approached quietly.

They knelt beside Mae Khamlaa’s lifeless body and bowed in prayer.

Supimpa placed a hand gently on Khamin’s shoulder.

“Go prepare yourself, Khamin… we’ll help you arrange her funeral properly…”

He nodded silently.

And later that day, beneath a tall tree behind the servants' wing, Mae Khamlaa’s funeral was held—simple, humble, yet full of love.

Bamboo poles formed a raft. Incense burned slowly. Two noble daughters and a few faithful servants did all they could.

Even Prince Wihokrat came, dressed in a muted cloak.

He bowed deeply, voice soft.

“My brother… he’s gravely ill. The royal physician says it’s jungle fever.”

“I begged him to come… but he had no strength left to bid her farewell.”

Khamin pressed his palms together and closed his eyes.

“It’s alright… He has his own burdens to carry.”

“I understand…”

In Prince Wihokrat’s embrace, Khamin finally rested. The fire crackled gently as Mae Khamlaa’s body returned to ash, her love lingering in every breeze.

Late morning sun cast shadows across the palace floor.

No one spoke as Prince Rachasiwong’s voice—soft but firm—was heard from within his chamber.

“Lady Buaketh… come in.”

Bua-gets smiled faintly, victorious. She smoothed her sleeve and stepped inside.

The room was filled with the scent of perfume. White curtains drifted in the wind. On a carved wooden daybed, Prince Rachasiwong sat—eyes closed, face pale, spirit absent.

She approached slowly. As he stirred, her heart raced with anticipation.

“My Prince…”

He opened his eyes—once deep and commanding, now dull and hollow.

Suddenly, he reached for her wrist.

“Buaketh…”

His voice was rough, but aching with longing.

Her cheeks flushed as he pulled her into an embrace. She lowered her gaze, hiding her smile of triumph.

He clutched her as if afraid she’d vanish.

Under the white canopy, her eyes gleamed. She followed him to the bed.

His hands held her gently—but with the fire of lust, not love.

The servants outside glanced at each other, but none dared speak.

That night, the chamber was still.

The thin curtain trembled faintly—like the sound of silk threads woven by midnight hands. Breaths mingled. Soft whispers escaped, borne not from affection, but from sorcery.

Not love… but a spell.

Night breeze danced softly.

A silk curtain swayed in silence.

Khamin followed Prince Wihokrat quietly, fingers gripping his sleeve, heart pounding.

“Are you sure… it’s alright for me to see him now?”

“I… I’m not sure I should…”

Prince Wihokrat gave a reassuring smile.

“He won’t turn you away… not when he sees it’s you.”

Khamin swallowed hard, glancing at the quiet palace.

All the usual movement was gone. Only a dim lantern remained in the hallway.

Prince Wihokrat pointed toward the large door.

“He’s in there…”

Khamin nodded and stepped forward. His fingers touched the wooden door.

He knocked. Once. Twice.

No reply.

Only cold silence from within.

“Your Highness… It’s me… Khamin…”

“May I come in?”

Still no answer.

He furrowed his brow and gently pushed the door open.

It creaked softly.

Then he froze.

Behind the sheer curtain in the royal bedchamber… two figures lay entangled—bare, exposed.

Khamin’s hand trembled.

He saw it clearly.

Prince Rachasiwong… smiling softly in sleep, arms wrapped around Bua-gets, whose long hair spilled across the pillow, face content and victorious.

Khamin bit his lip.

Tears welled.

Not from heartbreak—but from devastation.

He turned without a word, stepping back. His hand trembled as he closed the door.

Prince Wihokrat saw his face and understood.

“Khamin—”

But Khamin didn’t stop.

He ran.

Through the corridor, past the courtyard, back toward Supimpa Pavilion—fleeing what he could not bear. Fleeing the image seared into his soul.

His wooden sandals echoed louder… until only silence remained.

And in that silence, Khamin’s heart shattered—utterly and completely.

...

Wounds deepest are those unseen by light,

When love turns cold before your sight.

A soul once bright now drifts apart,

Leaving only faith... in the ruin of heart.
...