*Ana*
They should both be back by now. My gaze escapes to the arched window behind me, allowing my thoughts to drift from the others' conversation during this short break. Beyond the glass, my rose garden stands a skeleton of her former self–only dried, brittle bushes remain. It's bare from both flowers and people, the guests are now all gone from my coronation. No one wanders in the labyrinth, almost like it never happened in the first place. Just a memory of a time that feels so far away, but was not so long ago.
Winter clouds hang oppressively low, without break, transforming my world into endless shades of gray. They gather and swell overhead, teasing me with the promise of snow I know will never grace our yellow sands. Only blowing harsh cold winds to cut right into our bones. A week has passed since their departure, and as one would expect, the palace has settled back into its' familiar rhythms—almost.
My fingers curl slowly into my palms, and I feel the light press of my claws against tender flesh—not enough to break skin, just enough to ground me in the moment. A sudden tightness grips my chest, making each breath shallow. My shoulders curve inward as if sheltering something precious and fragile. The weight of absence. His absences.
Father.
How funny that I should feel so lost like this. How did it cut me so deeply?
I went years without him—without either of them. No laughter echoing down the hallways, no warm arms pulling me close. Just cold stone and silence. It was a complex and bitter time in my life then, and not so far ago. I survived it. I taught myself how.
I buried the ache of being forgotten beneath hours of reading, drowning myself in dusty histories and dense treaties until the words blurred into lullabies. I mapped out futures in the margins of old books. Dreamt of being the kind of Empress who didn't need anyone. Not a father. Not a brother. Just strength. Just knowledge. I convinced myself that solitude was a kind of virtue. That if no one came to love me, I would make them respect me.
But now…
Now, the weight of Father's brief return has carved such a deep void in me that it's like finding a hollow where I thought I was solid. His warmth, his laughter, the way his sapphire eyes lit up—for me. I had never expected that. And Nicoli, too—his bright smile, the way he called my name without hesitation. I had grown used to their presence faster than I cared to admit. I depended on it. I expected it.
Perhaps that's why his absence feels like some anchor? How now that I can have both him and Nicoli in my life, having them not here, not in sight, is weighing down on my chest with each breath? Almost heavier than the crown I'm still getting used to wearing.
But even then, I remind myself. Father will return.
He will celebrate Nicoli's tenth birthday and come back after. It won't be long. I will survive.
I always have.
And until then, I can't afford to linger on these thoughts. These feelings of loneliness. Empresses do not feel lonely. They work. They perform their duties. They do not grow distracted.
Neither can I. I know and stiffen in my chair. It's time I stopped daddling. Yes, let's focus now, forget this feeling. Work is what I can do best–
And then, my mind flashes to the excitement I'm sure Nicoli will be once he opens my present. If only I could be there in person to see it. How bright his face will light up.
If only I didn't have to stay here and work–
"But there will be other birthdays," I mutter softly again, reminding myself that missing another one won't be a terrible sin—no, not a sin but regretful. I sigh lowly, more to myself than everyone in the room. But I guess I was too loud against the silence, because the rustle of his tunic comes before I feel him. His heat radiates through my clothes as he stands just a little too close.
He's been doing that more lately. More than usual. I noticed. But then again, this is Mykhol. My cousin has never been one for boundaries. He is touchy and needy even when he is so much older. I suppose he has yet to grow out of it. But I'm sure he will. Eventually. Nothing odd, just slightly inconvenient at times.
What is odd, though, is me. My breath catches just slightly as I catch scent of him–tobacco and pepper, filling my senses, like a thick, heady cloud. It makes my head spin a little, in a way that's… uncomfortable. Or is it? I feel my heartbeat quicken. But that's just the air, the heat, too many layers, probably. I have to focus.
And then I glance up. His vermilion eyes are already watching me.
How long has he been staring? My throat tightens. I swallow, feeling something stir underneath my skin—familiar, but strange. Not unpleasant, but… unsettling. The way he stands too close, that presence pressing in like the weight of a storm building in the distance.
"Ana?" Mykhol asks smoothly, his voice soft but not unkind. That practiced court smile of his starts to melt, softening into something warmer. The kind he saves for me. The one I think I like more than I should.
For a moment, I can't seem to focus on anything but the curve of his lips. I stare at them a bit too long, my own lips starting to tingle at the memory of them—those lips on mine, just before the coronation.
No. No, stop it. You're getting distracted, Ana! There is no time for such strange thoughts. I told myself I was done with this.
"Sorry," I snap my head forward, eyes locking on the map. Focus, Ana. Everyone is here for a reason. Be present.
I straighten my spine, claw tapping a precise point on the atlas. "As I was saying, we will patrol the route here."
The others lean in, attention sharpening with mine. The air shifts—business now.
Adnimral Nugen is the first to stand back, his stoic expression breaking in rare form to give the barest of smiles as if he approves of it.
"It's a good spot, Your Empress." His voice has the barest lift, as if he were proud of my good thinking. "We can survey while maintaining authority of the trade route without blocking anything."
I smiled, hearing his approval. His opinion, though I do appreciate Mykhol being here just as I do with Sir Pendwick standing besides Nugen, the humans' insight has the most weight. His experience and expertise have already proven themselves enough for me to trust his word.
And if he thinks it's the right place to set up camp, my chest lifts a little more at the accomplishment.
"I will announce this at the Council meeting later. But it would be better to alert your men now, so they will be ready to deploy within the week."
If I thought Admiral Nugen was slightly proud before, his brown eyes practically glow now as he nods.
"I will do just that, Your Empress," Admiral Nugen nods, his voice low and firm, as Sir Pendwick steals a step closer.
Once again, the thin vampire is overdressed for the occasion. His finely tailored tunic of deep russet glinting in the candlelight, hair carefully pomaded and combed. We are only here to go over the trade route and the Bulgeons, but he is dressed as if it is some formal event. But he dresses as if he expected more people to be here, like it were in court. But there is no one save for us three and Naska. I wanted the meeting to be small, just to discuss things before the official council meeting later.
It was meant to be a simple affair, yet he's taken to dressing so finely.
Perhaps he likes to dress well, like my cousin? I consider comparing them both.
Of course, Mykhol is dressed to the utmost, not shocking. His deep forest-green tunic fits close to his frame, trimmed in soft rabbit fur that accents the breadth of his shoulders, the defined cut of his waist. His golden hoops glint even without movement, and though he stands a pace behind me, his presence is the most palpable in the room.
My cousin has always dressed well, but now I notice the difference isn't just in fabric or cut. It's in how they wear it. Pendwick wears his new threads like armor, stiff and unsure. Mykhol wears his like a second skin.
Where Pendwick fidgets with his sleeves, Mykhol folds his arms behind his back, exuding calm control. Where Pendwick shifts his weight from foot to foot, Mykhol remains still, watching, always watching.
Pendwick seems to be on edge for some reason whenever Mykhol is by. And Mykhol has been by nearly as much as Pendwick has. Helping me during this time with Father gone. The two become a strange little constant in my life.
Pendwick's currant-red eyes flit to the map, his hands tentatively tracing a trade route.
"I didn't realize you were such a strategist, Your Empress," he says, voice soft, sheepish. A hint of pink color on his pale cheeks is something I've noticed happens often when he speaks to me.
I can't say why. I used to wonder if it was sun sickness, but that would be impossible now.
There isn't even a trace of blue in the sky, let alone the golden sun. My gaze flicks to the window as if to verify the grey overcast. No sun. No blue. Just cold. Father really took the warmth with him when he left.
I know it's a childish thought, but I feel it anyway—that strange hollow ache. I must push it down quickly in order to pay attention again.
"I thought it was just the most logical of choices by way of the trade route." I return, though, there is a part of me that lifts a bit more at the compliment. Even though I shouldn't take it to heart, I turned back to the map. Where else would I have chosen? I studied the maps. Had to.
"Anyone would have picked the spot if they just studied the trade routes." I go. "It was nothing particularly special."
Pendwick, however, wags his head, a slight furrow of his brow. "No, Your Empress. You're being modest. My grandfather said the same, and he's not easy to impress."
Something flickers across his face then, like in pain at some thought. His hand lifts absently to rub his arm, his thumb brushing a spot just beneath the sleeve mindfully, as if something were wrong.
But when he catches me watching, he quickly drops his hand. Smile pulling up to show both his fangs, the real and false one. He wore the fake one again.
"You're great at everything," Pendwick blurts, his voice brightening. "You—"
A sharp clearing of the throat slices through the room.
Mykhol shifts closer. His arm brushes mine as he moves to pocket his hands into his woolen pants. The fabric is coarse against my sleeve, textured and scratchy—but what lingers is not the feel of the cloth, but the weight of him. As most accidental touches do, I expect the contact to pass, but he keeps his arm there. Still. Pressed deliberately against mine, like he needs the contact. Like it grounds him.
A shiver stirs at the base of my spine, curling upward in a quiet, unwelcome spiral. My breath catches, stolen without permission. I try to stay still. I try not to notice the way the room has suddenly grown smaller, or how my skin hums where his arm touches mine. It must be the tension in the room. Or nerves. Yes. That would make sense. There's too much going on—I'm tired. That's all it is.
But my body doesn't listen. It's reacting again to him. And I don't know why.
He doesn't look affected at all. He's just standing there, unbothered, unreadable, like always. Mykhol is simply being Mykhol. He's always been too casual with touch, always hovering too near, always pulling me into the gravity of his moods. This isn't new. It shouldn't mean anything.
And yet, Admiral Nugen notices. His sharp brown eyes flick to the point where our arms are pressed together. His jaw tightens—just slightly, but enough for me to catch it.
"Oh, do you, Sir Pendwick?" Mykhol says it is smooth and velvet, but the undercurrent is steel. "Quite the fan of my dearest Ana, aren't you?"
Dearest Ana? I even started out with the newest pet name. Mykhol's never used that pet name before. And I am not the only one to notice.
A subtle flinch of Admiral Nugens's scared brow as Pendwick seems to pale. His hands rise to his chest, nervously toying with his gold chains. The links clink together—an uneven, jittery sound.
"I…I just think Her Empress works really hard, is all," he mumbles, his eyes cast down, his face growing pale under Mykhol's stare. His voice is quiet, tempered.
Mykhol scuffs. "She always does. But you wouldn't know that, would you?" Something darker fluttered across his eyes to make them almost black. "You haven't been HERE like I have."
Pendwick flinches, his shoulders curling inward. His silence is telling. Admiral Nugen stiffens beside him, his hand twitching near the hilt of his belt. His brown eyes glaring after Mykhol as if he had said something.
Something just happened. Something thick and charged. But it flies right over my head.
Before I can ask, Mykhol leans in. His fingers brush a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The movement is slow, too practiced to be incidental. His fingertips graze my temple, the barest contact—but it lingers. The warmth of it crawls across my skin like a spark.
My breath stumbles. Again. I hate that it does.
I'm used to this. I've always been used to him. His nearness. His touch. He's always been this way with me—overly familiar, sometimes clingy. It's just Mykhol. That's all it is. He isn't doing anything wrong. He's always been affectionate.
"You really do have a talent for this, Ana," he says gently, his voice as smooth as wine. "A pity you weren't born a boy. You would've loved the Academy."
The Academy? My heart lifts at the thought.
The military academy, the one place barred to me by nothing more than my gender. Mykhol got to go, even if he didn't finish. But he still went. If he says I would've liked it…
Did he really mean that? A warm kind of pride rises in me, but it's tangled with something sadder, heavier. Something I will never get to experience. I would never go. Not as a woman, an unchangeable fact that both burns and cools me at once.
"Yes," I say softly, trying to smile but not quite managing it. "I would have." I look down at the map, not really seeing it. "I would have loved to go to the library."
The grand library of Nocthen's military academy is renowned for its plethora of books. My heart aches for it. I want to be able to go there and read the old tomes, untouched by women like me.
Pendwick stirs back to life.
"The library?" Sir Pendwick reanimates, his voice trembling slightly. "You like reading?"There's a light in his eyes now—earnest, bright. "So do I! I—I have a book I think you'd really love. It's called The Secret Language of Roses and Love—"
"Me, personally, never liked reading," Mykhol interrupts smoothly, his voice curling like smoke. His fingers tug at a loose strand of my braid. He twirls it slowly, looping it around his fingers like he's toying with a string that connects us.
Possessive. Intimate. Deliberate.
Pendwick falters mid-sentence. Admiral Nugen's lips draw tight.
"I prefer sword fighting," Mykhol continues, "and psychological warfare."
"Psycho—?" I echo faintly. I shiver when he tugs the strand of hair once, slow, languid, then lets it fall. I swat at his hand lightly. It's a reflex. A flimsy gesture, more for my sake than his. I need to breathe. To think.
But Mykhol doesn't stop. His hand drops instead to the back of my neck.
He is not going to stop touching me, is he?
The skin there goes hot, too hot. My thoughts scatter like leaves in a windstorm. My posture stiffens, but he doesn't seem to notice—or care.
Across the table, Admiral Nugen's lip curls. Pendwick has gone still again, as if caught in ice.
"Psychological warfare, Your Empress," the Admiral explains, voice clipped like a blade, "is when one manipulates their opponent's behavior by targeting the mind. Emotions. Intent."
He looks at Mykhol then. His gaze sharpens.
"I've never had much taste for it."
"Neither do I," Pendwick says, his voice thin but clear. He dares a glance toward me. "I don't think it's… honorable."
"Honorable?" Mykhol laughs, low and pleased. His thumb brushes the base of my neck in a small, rhythmic motion. Enough to make me shiver again. "Honor doesn't win wars. I like results."
"Mykhol—" I turn to him, ready to say something. Anything. But my voice comes out too soft, and I don't even know what words I meant to use. His hand on me short-circuits my thinking. It always does.
Admiral Nugen growls, low and dangerous. "There are better ways to do things."
There's weight in his voice. Enough to still even Mykhol. But not for long.
Mykhol just shrugs, light and unbothered. "Is that what you tell yourself?"
But he lets go then. Finally, he seems to be done with his strange mood.
Relief floods in, cold and sudden. I can breathe again. I rub the back of my neck, trying to erase the shape of his fingers. The heat of his touch lingers like a brand. I hate that I notice it. Hate that I almost missed it.
"What say you, Ana?" Mykhol turns playful. There's something underneath the tone. A dare.
"Me?" I blink, caught. His smile shifts, eager. Almost too eager.
"I've not come across this before," I admit. "But it sounds… interesting. I would like to learn more. Maybe read about it?"
His laugh sounded low and warm this time. It rolls through the room like smoke, soft and curling at the edges, and for a moment, I think it's directed at the idea, not at me. But then he looks at me, only me, and there's something too fond in his eyes. Or maybe I'm just imagining that part.
"Why don't I just teach you?" Mykhol says, his voice dipping, smoother now. His smile softens into something quieter, easier. Before I can answer, his hand grazes mine—barely a brush, but the contact makes my skin go hot, like something sharp and sudden sparked there.
It's just… a hand. His hand. He's touched me before. Hasn't he?
His fingers linger a little longer than they should. Or maybe they don't. Maybe I'm just noticing it more.
"We could have private lessons," he adds, voice low enough that the fire seems to crackle louder in response.
Private? The word hovers in the air, odd and too heavy. My stomach does something tight and restless, and I can't quite name the feeling. We've been alone together before. Plenty of times. I know that. This shouldn't feel like a new suggestion.
But it does. It really does.
Is it because of the way he's looking at me? Or the way my hand is still faintly tingling where his touched it? I don't pull away. I tell myself there's no reason to. I'm overthinking. He's only offering help. That's all this is.
"That would be—" I start to say, my voice thinner than I expect, but a knock at the door slices through the room.
Naska groans in annoyance, rising from her spot by the hearth. She throws her embroidery down without care, muttering something under her breath.
I'm grateful for the interruption. Or I would be. I think.
When she opens the door, her tone shifts with polished sweetness. "Oh. Hello, Lady Funda." But my aunt brushes past her without a flicker of a glance.
Her gaze lands on Mykhol—and then shifts to me, to how close we stand. Her face pinches, something sour flashing behind her eyes. It disappears as quickly as it came, replaced with stiff formality.
"I assume the meeting is not over?" she asks, eyes flicking to the clock.
I blink at the time. How had it gotten so late?
"No, we are wrapping up," I say, firmer than I feel. I already made my decision. There's no reason to go back over it. "Please, everyone. Go and take your afternoon baths." I gesture to the room, dismissing them. "We are done for today."
"Of course," Mykhol's voice is soft again, warm like a final brush of heat before a door slams shut. And then—it's gone.
The moment he steps away, the chill creeps in. It's subtle at first, just a draft curling in through the windows or maybe from under the heavy stone walls. But it bites at my sleeves and prickles my arms. I didn't notice how warm it was near him until he was no longer there.
It's not important.
But my skin misses that nearness. Not in a way I want it to. More like how you miss the heat after stepping out of a bath too early. It aches a little, low in my chest, and I rub at my arm, pretending it's just the cold. It must be.
Still, I can finally breathe again. My lungs fill deep, slow, like something invisible has been pulled off my shoulders.
Why was it so hard to breathe before?
I must be tired. That's all. I've been standing too long. Thinking too hard. It's the air, maybe—Nochten's winters are sharp, and the fires haven't been stoked in a while.
Yes. That must be it.
Mykhol takes his mother's arm and turns toward the door. Just before he leaves, he glances back.
His eyes find mine. There's something… different in his expression. A quiet smile. Not the smug, polished kind he puts on in court. This one seems almost real.
I swallow. I'm probably reading too much into it.
But then, as if remembering himself, his gaze shifts upward to Pendwick. The warmth disappears from his face as fast as it came, replaced by something cooler. His smile sharpens, and Pendwick flinches before he even says anything.
"And, of course," Mykhol says, smooth again, "Sir Pendwick will be going too. To bathe, yes?"
"Er, oh, yes," Pendwick is up with a flush in his cheeks. He immediately moves to bow, suddenly realizing he might have made a mistake. " Your Empress, please enjoy your rest."
Pendwick fumbles, hesitating at the door with his sleeve before bowing again. "Good afternoon, your Empress."
"Goodbye, Sir Pendwick." I watch him leave, following Mykhol and my Aunt. Mykhol casting one last look at me.
"I'll be back soon, Ana." He vows, something heavy in his voice. Making me stiffen as he darts his eyes to Admiral Nugen, a slight smirk on his face. Before he, too, leaves the hall.
Only the admiral and I remain in the room afterward. The fire crackles steadily from the hearth, each snap of wood splitting through the stillness like a warning. Naska returns to her place beside the flames, but even her presence does not warm the strange quiet that has taken hold.
It stretches longer than it should. Long enough to feel wrong.
Admiral Nugen is not the sort of man who lingers without purpose. Seasoned, efficient, always in motion—his silence now feels like a rupture in routine, an interruption in the rhythm of someone who never stands still. And yet, he does. Unmoving. Wordless. His stillness seems to tighten the air.
I glance at him. His brown eyes are fixed on the door Mykhol exited through, his expression shuttered, as if he's weighing something dangerous. Something heavy enough to keep even a man like him rooted.
"Admiral Nugen?" I ask, reaching out without thinking.
My fingers brush his wrist—just lightly. The contact is brief, but something about it feels strange. Not wrong, just… unfamiliar.
I don't usually touch people. Not because I don't want to, but because I've learned that people didn't want to touch me. The way they'd flinch from my hair. The way they'd bow too quickly, never too close. I trained myself not to expect warmth. Not to risk closeness.
So I don't even realize how much of a risk I'm taking now until I see his eyes.
Admiral Nugen blinks hard, as if I've startled him. Not with my voice, but with the touch. He doesn't move, but there's something rigid in his stillness. His eyes—so steady in war councils and cold autumn battles—now flicker with something else entirely. Pain? Regret?
Whatever it is, it cracks through his usual composure. Like I've pulled him from somewhere far off. For a moment, his face is raw, unguarded in a way I've never seen. Then he clears his throat, retreating behind a familiar mask.
"It's rare to see you like this," I say gently, offering a faint smile.
"Yes, I'm fine," he answers.
But the words feel off—too heavy, too slow. His eyes shift, and a breath leaves him, tired and worn.
"No," he corrects himself quietly. "I don't think I am." He answers, making me lift my brow in surprise, before he turns to me. "I'm not so sure Lord Mykhol should be attending this meeting."
My mouth drops at the suggestion. "What, why?"
The man's expression darkens as he looks back at the door. He does not speak, or rather, it doesn't look like he knows the right words to start. So I do.
"Is this because my cousin is still young?" I volunteer. "You don't think he can be helpful because he doesn't have the experience?"
"Yes…there is that." Admiral Nugen goes, but he swallows. "But you should be mindful of him, your Empress. Your cousin is already a favorite at court. You've seen it."
"Yes, I'm aware."Though Father and Hidi had pledged to support me, most of the court still turned to Mykhol. They waited for his answer before mine—even after I took the crown.
They still want a man on the throne. A pureblood.
But that's only because I haven't had the time to prove myself. I will. I must. Once they see what I'm capable of—see that I can lead, not in spite of being half-blooded and a woman, but because of it—they'll come around.
The whispers will quiet. The stares at my silver hair will stop.
They'll see me as I am.
Because I am Empress. My mother's blood runs through me. I was born for this. There is no other path.
"I'll earn their support, Admiral Nugen. I have to. Even if they look to my cousin now, that will change."
My voice felt steadier than my thoughts.
"They'll follow me once they see what I can bring—diplomacy, innovation. Not more blood, but a future. Like the rulers who built legacies, not graves. I'll show them."
This is my purpose.
To be the Empress Nochten deserves.
"Besides," I continue after a thought. "Mykhol is family. He has always been at my side. I can trust him."
Beside me, Admiral Nugen doesn't answer right away. I feel his gaze more than I see it—steady and warm, but laced with something else. A quiet shift, like a shadow passing over stone. His mouth draws into a faint, unreadable line, and for a heartbeat, he looks not like an officer, but like a man remembering something lost.
There's a flicker of pain in his eyes, quickly buried. A softness that doesn't belong on a battlefield, something almost tender in the way he watches me.
When he finally speaks, his voice is low and weighted.
"I understand family means much to you, Your Empress." Each word feels carved out, slow and deliberate, as if he must chip away at something inside himself to say them.
"But families are not guaranteed to act on their own intentions."
He presses his hand flat against the table, the wood creaking under his weight. Something invisible shifts in the air, like the tension before a storm.
"I suggest you keep Lord Mykhol at a distance. For your own protection."
My protection? The word strikes somewhere sore and strange. Why would I need to be protected from Mykhol? This was Mykhol.
He speaks as if Mykhol might harm me. But that could never—
Something coils low in my stomach. A thought I don't want.
No. Mykhol wouldn't.
Mykhol is only ever here to help. I'm just being… strange.
"I appreciate your good intentions," I say as I turn away, motioning for Naska to come and help me prepare for the baths. My hand flicks toward him, dismissive. "But still, my cousin stays. He is here to help."
He was not our enemy.
"Your Empress," Admiral Nugen bows—but I catch a strain around his eyes, a faint tightening in his jaw.
As I walk away, I feel it again—his gaze, warm and mournful, aching with something unspoken like he's watching someone walk toward a cliff, too far gone to call back.
But I won't press it. He means well. That's all it is. Admiral Nugen is just worried about the court's preference for him. But that will change. I just need time.
They will see I am Empress. And Mykhol will be by my side, supporting me all the way. Loyal and true as he always was. And if there was a flicker of something else in his eyes lately—
Something almost possessive, almost proud—
Maybe I'm imagining it. Perhaps I'm the one being strange.
He's never left me. Even when I was alone and forgotten, Mykhol stayed with me. Spoke to me. Didn't curse at my hair with disgust like everyone else. It was Mykhol.
If anyone were to betray me… It wouldn't be him.
So if my chest tightens when he stands too close, or my thoughts stutter when he smiles like he knows something I don't, that's nothing. That's just me.
My breath falters, my palms pressed together to still the tremor in my hands. A soft rustle sounds—like the faint, metallic shift of my chains against my shawl, barely audible but somehow louder in the silence.
I trust him. I have to. He is my family.
And family would never hurt their own.