After losing La-Orchan, Phiengwad spent every waking moment drowning in grief.
.
.
Every night, she clutched the golden ring adorned with its deep red ruby—the last keepsake of her beloved—against her chest. Her body grew frail, her once-radiant face now pale and hollow. Her eyes, once filled with light, were distant and empty. Tears welled up the moment she closed them, and sorrow slowly consumed her, piece by piece.
The entire household watched over her with concern, afraid to leave her alone, afraid that the weight of her sorrow might crush her entirely.
Lord Krai and Lady Dao-Rueang, her parents, looked on with deep worry. Each time they saw their daughter withering away like a wilting flower, their hearts ached with helpless sorrow.
Sir Det-Wijit, Phiengwad's elder brother, was not only her silent guardian—he also stood firmly against their father's wishes, doing everything in his power to convince him to abandon the idea of arranging a marriage for her.
"She has yet to heal from her grief, Father. Please, do not burden her with anything else."
His voice was calm but unwavering—firm with the resolve of a man who would protect his sister at all costs.
"Phiengwad is your daughter. She deserves the right to choose her own path. Even if her choices are different from what society expects, that does not make her any less worthy. You know better than anyone the kind of person she is. You raised her, Father. You know she understands right from wrong."
Lord Krai remained silent.
Sir Det-Wijit took a steady breath before speaking again.
"What matters most is her happiness, is it not, Father?"
His words hung in the air, weighty and undeniable.
The old man looked at his daughter—the only child he had left—her face now marked by unbearable sorrow.
At last, he let out a long, weary sigh and nodded in reluctant acceptance.
He would no longer force his daughter into marriage.
She had won back her right to choose her own life.
But at what cost?
For the freedom she regained—
She had traded away the one love of her life.
And no freedom could ever fill the void of that loss.
.
.
Night after night, Phiengwad remained consumed by sorrow.
Grief had wrapped its cold, merciless hands around her heart, refusing to let go.
She gazed at the same golden ring that had once adorned La-Orchan's finger—the ring that now rested in her palm, lifeless and cold, just like the one who had once worn it.
A delicate garland, once carefully woven by La-Orchan's hands, lay preserved inside a wooden box. It had been kept with the utmost care, yet time had drained it of life, leaving behind only a withered remnant of what it once was. Much like Phiengwad's own heart—dry, brittle, and empty.
She was drowning in the weight of her thoughts.
The echoes of La-Orchan's laughter, the memory of her smile—they lingered, whispering through Phiengwad's mind as though she were still near.
But each time she reached out—
There was nothing.
Only silence. Only emptiness.
When Gulab, her loyal maid, entered the room, she was met with the same heart-wrenching sight. The untouched meals, the fading figure of her mistress wasting away in solitude.
"Lady Phiengwad… please, eat something," Gulab pleaded softly, her voice heavy with concern. "You mustn't do this to yourself any longer, my lady."
She watched her mistress with anxious eyes, fearful that one day, Phiengwad might choose to follow her beloved into death.
But Phiengwad said nothing.
She simply clutched the golden ring to her chest, holding it as if it were the last fragile thread connecting her to La-Orchan.
The only thing keeping her in this world was the belief that taking one's own life was an unforgivable sin.
Without that thought to anchor her, she would have long followed La-Orchan into the abyss.
For she knew—
From this moment forward, she would have to endure the rest of her days drowning in an ocean of grief.
A life without hope.
A life without love.
…
While Phiengwad was consumed by grief, La-Orduen, in stark contrast, felt an odd sense of relief.
With La-Orchan—her twin sister, the source of both her love and her torment—gone, it was as if a thorn that had lodged itself deep in her heart for her entire life had finally been pulled free.
She no longer had to endure the sight of La-Orchan taking everything from her.
Standing before a grand mirror in her chamber, La-Orduen gazed at her own reflection, adorned with the golden necklace that had once belonged to their mother—the very necklace La-Orchan had once begged to keep as a memento.
Everything that had once been stolen by her twin was now returned to her.
Everything—except for Phiengwad.
But with La-Orchan gone, La-Orduen was certain that winning Phiengwad's heart would no longer be a struggle.
As for the secret of that fateful night—
It would remain a secret.
She had made sure of it.
La-Orduen had threatened both Saiyood and Saibua, warning them that if they dared breathe a word to Lord Noradit about what had transpired, she would ensure their deaths. The fear in their eyes was enough to confirm their silence. Neither of them dared to so much as whisper of what had happened.
Yet every time La-Orduen looked into the mirror—
The reflection staring back at her was not that of a victorious woman.
It was the image of a heartless wretch.
A woman who had stood by and watched as her twin sister drowned before her very eyes.
The memory haunted her.
La-Orchan's desperate struggle in the dark, icy water—her hands clawing for life, her eyes pleading—
It would not leave her.
She had not pushed her into the river. That much was true.
But she had done nothing to save her.
And that—
That was a sin she could never deny.
La-Orduen tried to silence the guilt with reason.
Even if she had pulled La-Orchan from the water, her sister would have died from the snake's venom all the same.
Her death had not been La-Orduen's doing.
It had been fate—punishment for breaking a sacred oath.
She buried the weight of her guilt deep within herself, convincing her own heart that she had done nothing wrong.
That she was not to blame.
That she was innocent.
…
After losing La-Orchan, Lord Noradit lived out his remaining days in silence and emptiness. The once-strong man was now consumed by grief, far more so than when he had lost his wife.
In his mind, all the misfortunes that had befallen his family were a consequence of La-Orchan's love for another woman—an abomination against tradition, a disgrace to their bloodline. And for that, she had met a tragic and untimely end.
He never once acknowledged his own role in her death.
And now, he was about to inflict the same suffering upon his other daughter.
Determined to uphold his plans, he decreed that La-Orduen would marry Sir Ramdecha in La-Orchan's place—a decision that would lead to the ultimate fracture between father and daughter.
"You were the one who suggested this marriage between Sir Ramdecha and La-Orchan. But now that it's you who must take her place, why are you resisting so stubbornly, La-Orduen?!"
His voice thundered through the halls, echoing off the wooden walls. The gathered servants lowered their heads, not daring to look upon their master's wrath.
La-Orduen inhaled deeply before answering, her tone steady yet laced with restrained anger.
"This marriage should have been voided the moment La-Orchan passed away. Why must I be made to take her place? I am not a replacement for my sister!"
Lord Noradit's brows knitted into a deep frown, his gaze sharp as ice.
"Sir Ramdecha does not object. He is willing to honor this union, and I approve of it. Do not be foolish, La-Orduen—this marriage will proceed!"
La-Orduen lifted her chin, meeting her father's gaze with unwavering defiance. She could feel the weight of his authority pressing down on her, but the fire in her heart burned stronger.
She clenched her teeth before replying.
"I have no desire to marry, Father. Please understand that."
"You dare defy me?!"
His roar shook the very air around them, his anger igniting like a flame.
La-Orduen's lips pressed into a thin line before she spoke again, her voice laced with both pain and bitter amusement.
"Now that La-Orchan is gone, I have suddenly become visible to you."
A humorless chuckle escaped her lips, sharp and cutting.
"If you wish for me to marry Sir Ramdecha, then let me be clear—I will not. Because I do not love men. I love women."
A heavy silence fell over the room.
Lord Noradit's expression contorted as if he had been struck. The words pierced through him like a blade, the weight of their meaning slamming into his chest with unforgiving force.
"You… you are just like her…!"
His voice trembled, his eyes burning with rage and disbelief.
"You both have become a disgrace to this family!"
"If I am a disgrace, then you are a narrow-minded father!" La-Orduen shot back, her voice ringing with defiance.
Her father's fury exploded.
"La-Orduen, you wretched girl!"
The next moment, his hand struck her across the face.
The force of the slap sent her stumbling, pain searing through her skin, but it was nothing compared to the storm raging inside her.
"I will not allow such filth to stain my family's name!" Lord Noradit bellowed. "No matter what, you WILL marry a man! You WILL obey me!"
La-Orduen's hand trembled as she touched her stinging cheek, but her resolve remained unshaken.
For the first time in her life, she had been struck by her father. For the first time, he had called her something so vile.
And for the first time—
She refused to kneel.
A burning rage surged within her.
She lifted her head, her voice cold and unyielding.
"Even if I have to die, I will never marry a man."
Lord Noradit staggered, his face paling in shock.
The surrounding servants rushed to his side, steadying him as his strength wavered.
La-Orduen watched him—her gaze devoid of warmth.
She forced herself to swallow the bitter sting in her throat, to hold back the curses that threatened to spill from her lips.
Instead, she spoke with quiet finality.
"If you force me, then you are no longer my father."
And with that, she turned on her heel and walked away—
Leaving the servants scrambling to tend to the man who had once called himself her father.
...
Saiyood carried a terrible secret—the truth about La-Orduen standing by as La-Orchan drowned.
Fear of La-Orduen's threats kept her silent, but the weight of that silence gnawed at her soul. Every night, she lay awake, tormented by grief over the loss of the mistress she had so faithfully served. The injustice of it all burned inside her, fueling her pain and resentment.
Time and again, she had confided in Saibua, her cousin and fellow witness to that fateful night. But Saibua was too afraid of her mistress to even consider speaking the truth.
Saiyood had tried, at first, to shut her eyes to the truth—to be like Saibua, to pretend that silence was the only way.
But she couldn't.
The injustice weighed heavier than fear.
She didn't know if Saibua's silence came from terror or something else—perhaps true loyalty to La-Orduen, a devotion so strong that she would rather protect the guilty than expose the truth.
But Saiyood felt no such loyalty.
To her, La-Orchan had been the only mistress she loved and served with her whole heart.
She refused to let La-Orchan's death be buried beneath silence.
Phiengwad deserved to know the truth—no matter how painful it might be.
Finally, Saiyood made her choice.
She left for Phiengwad's residence, her heart pounding with every step. When she arrived, she sought out Gulab, the maid closest to Phiengwad.
"P'Gulab… I have something important to tell Lady Phiengwad," Saiyood whispered, her voice trembling. "It's about the night Lady La-Orchan drowned."
Gulab frowned in confusion but nodded. Without hesitation, she turned and knocked lightly on the door of Phiengwad's chamber.
"My lady… Saiyood is here to see you."
From within, Phiengwad—frail and weak from grief—lifted her head. Her hollow eyes, still clouded with sorrow, blinked slowly before she gave the smallest nod.
"Let her in..."
Gulab opened the door, stepping aside to let Saiyood enter. But before leaving, she cast one last glance at her mistress, her eyes filled with concern.
Then, without another word, she stepped out, closing the door behind her.
…