*Naska*
Naska hastened down the hall with a grimace as the cold air found her wet skin. She was still damp from Ana's bath but didn't have time to dry, trying to get away as soon as possible. Already having spent more then her patience full dealing with the girl as it was.
"If she just stopped yapping." She'd have left sooner.
The wet fabric clung to her long legs with a sickening slurp each time she attempted to step, bringing a biting chill to her muscles as she pushed forward, her eyes fixed ahead. Her sandals slapped against the polished stone floor with hollow, echoing steps—a rhythmic mockery that seemed to laugh at her expense, each impact goading her as she traversed through Mykhol's wing of the palace.
The empty sound only echoed her situation, a cruel reminder that she walked these grand corridors as yet again a maid.
Nothing. Just another forgettable face.
But it will change. Naska held onto that promise tucked inside her heart. One day it would be different. It was only a matter of time—a maid today, but Mykhol's secret lover by night, and his wife someday. Her days of toil would fade.
And she couldn't wait for that moment. The chance to rub into their faces as she would take Mykhol's side, head held high, radiant in a gown far more beautiful than Ana's coronation gown. She'd show them, she'd make them eat their words, their snide remarks, their disapproving stares that marked her unclean, a ruined woman, a whore. She would show them all that she was always destined for more.
Bruno and I are destined for more. Her jaw clenched harder. Not just for herself. For Bruno. Her baby boy, who never once complained, even when the stones were cold or the food was poor. He smiled for her, always. He deserved more than this.
Winter's breath seeped through the invisible seams in the stonework, raising gooseflesh along her arms and back where the thin muslin of her tunic clung to her skin like a second, unwelcome layer. Her fingers were pruned and raw, the skin already cracking in the frigid air as they dried too quickly. Each gust of cold made her flinch, a burning sensation spreading across her damp skin like needles of ice being driven beneath the surface.
She reached up to brush away a strand of red hair plastered against her cheek, only to disturb more of the frazzled mess that hung in limp, wet tendrils down her neck and shoulders. But it was no use. She knew it was a lost cause. Once again, she looked like a complete disaster, running through palatial halls like some half-drowned servant. And the smell—
Naska could barely keep herself from gagging. That cloying, suffocating scent of sandalwood from Ana's precious hair oil clung to her clothes, her skin, and even seemed to infiltrate her pores. She hated that smell. The way it announced her lowly connection to the Empress, how she had to bow and simper to her. Just a maid.
But the worst was yet to come.
Ahead, she could make out movement; the hall filled with more attendants. Mykhol's wing was always more popular, with both servants and nobles. People, Naska immediately knew, she wished to avoid, as they shifted, heads tilting together, red eyes following her with undisguised contempt. Their whispers trailed her like poisoned daggers.
"Whore," came the hissed accusation from her left.
"Mother of a bastard," muttered another, not bothering to lower his voice. She wanted to scream back. He's still nobler than you'll ever be. But silence was safer. Mykhol, being the father, could never come to light until all was over.
Until then, such words stung, cutting through her ears. But Naska lifted her chin and straightened her spine, anger supplying warmth where there was none. She would not bend, even as her fingers cracked and bleed, and she reeked of Ana's damned oil. Naska refused to hunch against their scorn or her discomfort.
They know nothing. Naska squared her shoulders and quickened her pace, leaving their whispers to dissolve in her wake, rage burning in her chest like a small coal—one of the few comforts she allowed herself. They knew nothing. Nothing of the indignities she endured which would come to an end. One day.
And then they would have to be bowing to her.
One day, because Mykhol loved her—loved both of them—andfgvvvvv he would set things right. She just had to wait a bit longer.
Naska stopped in her tracks at the heavy oak door of Mykhol's study. The sudden silence of her sandals against stone amplified the thundering pulse in her ears. She lifted trembling fingers to her damp hair, smoothing down the unruly tendrils that clung to her neck like desperate vines. The wet strands sent a fresh rivulet of cold water trickling down her spine, making her suppress another shudder.
She drew in a deep breath, the frigid air burning her lungs as she tried to settle her nerves. The scent of sandalwood rose from her skin with the heat of her agitation, a mocking reminder of who she still belonged to officially. Naska swallowed hard, the click in her dry throat audible in the silent corridor.
Then she heard it—muffled voices seeping through the thick wood like water through stone. The low rumble of conversation, some familiar, some not. Grave tones, older voices with the distinctive clipped accents of nobility. Her hands froze mid-motion, fingers still tangled in her damp locks.
He's not alone.
The ache of disappointment bloomed in her chest, spreading outward to her limbs with a heaviness that made even standing difficult. He wasn't. The warmth she had been anticipating—Mykhol's private smile, his gentle hands, perhaps even a brief embrace—all evaporated like morning mist. In their place was a cold reality: more nobles, politics, and pretending.
Naska's shoulders sank a fraction before she caught herself. Her jaw tightened as she pressed her palm against the door, feeling the vibration of voices through the wood. The grain texture beneath her fingertips grounded her momentarily as her mind raced.
It had been so long since they'd truly been alone. It felt unfair. Since the coronation, Ana was endlessly demanding his attention, always there were meetings, plans, things she didn't even know yet, Mykhol had to be there for.
And now that weasel Sir Pendwick– Naska let out a low growl at the thought of the wimpy, fangless bastard. He hovered at the Empress's side, pecking and gnawing at her. Yes, she understood the necessity—Mykhol couldn't leave Ana unattended, not with that vampire whispering in her ear, trying to take what should have been rightfully his. Naska understood.
But understanding did nothing to soothe the hollow ache of longing in her chest—the bitter taste that once again, she would be pushed aside.
Naska closed her eyes briefly, feeling the weight of the cold droplets clinging to her lashes. She inhaled once more, this time drawing the chill deep into her body, letting it straighten her spine and cool her thoughts. When she exhaled, she released the disappointed lover and inhaled the future consort. If it all paid off in the end... if only…
It will. Naska vowed with certainty. She had been there to hold Mykhol as he cried. And she would be here still in the end.
With one final adjustment to her damp tunic, fingers brushing away the worst of the wrinkles from the thin fabric, Naska pushed open the door and stepped into the warmth and light of Mykhol's study.
A wall of heat from the roaring hearth struck her cold skin like a physical blow, drawing an involuntary gasp from her lips. Flames leapt and crackled, devouring seasoned oak logs with greedy orange tongues that cast dancing shadows across the room. The sudden warmth was both blessing and torment—her frozen skin prickled painfully as blood rushed back to her extremities, creating a thousand tiny needles of sensation across her body.
However, this would be the only warmth of a welcome she received.
Immediately, heads shot up at her arrival. Old, weary eyes of the Nobles and members of Ana's war council lifted their attention in guarded interest from the map on the table. The thick silence that followed her entrance hung in the air like smoke, punctuated only by the snapping of the fire behind her. She felt their gazes like physical touches—some curious, others suspicious, all of them measuring. The scent of sandalwood rising from her damp skin suddenly seemed vulgar in this room, and it smelled of leather bindings, aged parchment, and expensive pipe tobacco.
Lady Funda, standing to the right of Mykhol, scowled upon seeing her. The older woman's face contorted as though she'd tasted something bitter, her jeweled fingers tightening visibly around the edge of the table until her knuckles whitened.
"You stupid girl," she began, heat starting to grow in her voice as if to start shouting. Each syllable struck Naska like a lash. "What do you think you are doing?"
The familiar humiliation burned hotter than the fire at Naska's back. Her still-wet tunic clung to her frame, making her feel exposed and vulnerable before these nobility with their fine wool and fur-trimmed garments. She could taste the metallic tang of shame rising in her throat.
But then, a gentle hand on Lady Funda's wrist stopped her tantrum. Mykhol's smile was soft but measured as he leaned toward his mother.
"It's fine, Mother. Let her stay." His voice, smooth as aged wine, washed over Naska like balm. He looked over the rest of his supporters with an even measure, quietly letting them know to relax as well.
"She's loyal," Mykhol said, gaze lingering just long enough to make Naska's heart skip. "Let her stay."
Something about that sight made Naska's chest lift. The tight band of humiliation around her ribs loosened and dissolved. Again, it reaffirmed that their relationship had grown. Mykhol saw her, valued her. She could be trusted. She could listen in on more of their plans. The warmth that flooded her now had nothing to do with the fire—it radiated outward from her core, filling her limbs with strength.
Not just a maid. A confidant. Naska tilted her head an inch higher to match her new position. Her pride swelling at the moment before she caught sight of the soft motion in the corner of the room. Focusing on it, she could see the slight glimpse of observant eyes peeking out from behind a vase. Burgundy eyes blinked at her.
Bruno. He was tucked up into a small ball, hunched close to the floor again. His eyes seemed to glitter upon seeing her with relief, as if he had been waiting for her. The sight of her son hiding in the corner, trying to make himself invisible, sent a pang through her heart sharper than any cold she had endured in the hallway.
As if Mykhol could feel the exchange, he silently motioned for her to go. Naska nodded, moving with as much grace as she could afford, mindful of the men's stares that followed her path across the room. Their eyes burned into her back, evaluating every movement, every sway of her still-damp clothes. She held her chin high, refusing to shrink beneath their judgment, even as she felt droplets of water still trickling down her spine.
She met her son on the side to have him stand and huddle close to her leg. He didn't seem bothered that her tunic was damp. His little hands fisted bundles tight together as he winced.
A wince that did not go unnoticed. Naska could see the new bruise under his collar. Something dark blue forming against his pale skin, just before his fragile collarbone. It looked like someone had grabbed him by the neck, yanking him. The mark stood out like a blasphemy against his perfect skin—skin so like Mykhol's.
An instantaneous flash of new anger ran over her, hot and violent, obliterating all other sensations. The room, the nobles, even Mykhol faded to insignificance as she stared at that bruise. Her body temperature spiked, and the remaining dampness on her skin seemed to evaporate in the heat of her fury. Someone was hurting her son. Again. Her blood boiled at the thought.
Who would dare! Naska seemed to keep finding the bruises and scratches. She didn't know who. And Bruno never spoke about it. But someone was bullying her son.
And if she ever found out who did it, Naska did not hide the low growl escaping from her lips. Her fangs sharpened at the idea of putting whoever it was in their place, the points pressing against her lower lip with exquisite pain. The taste of copper filled her mouth as she accidentally pierced her own skin. No one hurt her son. No one.
It had to be someone petty. Vindictive. Maybe one of the maids—those haughty fat hens always whispering when they thought she couldn't hear. Or someone from the stables, rough-handed and bitter from being kept too close to nobility without ever becoming part of it. Even the kitchen staff—some of them had scowled when Bruno took in Ana's food, their expressions sour with judgment. Or perhaps one of the human donors, revolted by his illegitimate status, treated him like some stain upon their precious hierarchy.
The palace was vast. There were too many faces, too many places a child could disappear to without her watching. Bruno had a bad habit of disappearing to who knew where. But Bruno was hers. A child out of wedlock, yes—but noble in blood and precious beyond measure.
She would find whoever was doing it. And they would pay.
The metallic taste of her own blood only fed her rage, transforming it into something primal and dangerous. She could smell her son's fear—a subtle sour note beneath his natural scent—and it made her hands tremble with the effort of restraining herself from storming through the palace, hunting down whoever had marked her child.
Throwing a protective hand over Bruno's head, Naska held him tighter to her thigh. His small body trembled against her—or perhaps it was her trembling she felt—as she forced herself to focus back on the meeting. The gentle weight of his head against her leg was both an anchor and a reminder of everything at stake. She swallowed down her rage, though it burned in her chest like embers, ready to flare again at the slightest provocation.
Mykhol spoke again, pointing to the map, his expression focused again. His voice returned her to the meeting despite the protective rage still simmering in her blood.
"They will be setting up the surveillance camps in this area." Mykhol circled a spot on the map with his elegant finger, the gold signet ring catching the firelight.
Naska leaned forward slightly, trying to memorize the location without being too obvious. She couldn't read the words, didn't know how. But it looked ? near the border? She couldn't quite see from her position. The map was crowded with lines and little markings—too many of them. Her eyes flicked across the symbols with growing frustration. She hated these things. Everything was so small and cramped.
Why couldn't they just say where it was?
"So we will do the exchange with the Bulgeons here." He tapped the table decisively.
Naska nodded along, hoping it looked thoughtful. She wasn't entirely sure what was being exchanged—men, maybe? Or crops? Was this about trade routes? She didn't dare ask. She didn't need to, not really. What mattered was that she was here, beside him, important enough to be in the room.
The map crinkled softly under his touch, the sound somehow final and authoritative in the hushed room. Most, if not all, of the heads nodded, agreeing with the plan. The silent consensus rippled through the room like an invisible current. Save for one.
The vampire in question was a man in his mid-40s, with a stocky build, hard and thick arms, blushed-colored hair, and a ruddy complexion. She studied him carefully, noting how he stood apart from the others in appearance and demeanor. He did not look like a lord. His calloused hands and the way he carried his broad shoulders spoke of someone who knew work, labor. His tunic was too plain, made of coarser wool with no fur trim—a stark contrast to the finery adorning the other nobles.
But he was not lowly either, Naska could recognize that much. Gold chains—not just one but several—wrapped around his thick neck, nestled against the rough cloth of his tunic. The metals clinked softly against each other when he shifted his weight. He was not born into riches; she could tell by the way he wore his wealth so overtly. He had worked for it. Some kind of merchant or the like, she realized.
Or maybe a smuggler? The thought excited her. She had heard stories—well, gossip—about men like that. Dangerous, useful, and too clever for their own good.
When he spoke, it was measured, calm, but with an edge of caution. "Lord Mykhol, I still have my doubts about this." He began, a flash of concern darkening his features as he looked at the map. The muscles in his jaw tightened visibly. "Undercutting the supply order and creating falsified accounts is just—" He wagged his head with a deep exhale, the sound rumbling through the room like distant thunder.
Naska's brows lifted. Falsified accounts? That sounded important. Or risky. Or maybe both? She wasn't entirely sure, but she liked how it made the air shift in the room, how people sat straighter. A secret plan, clearly. That had to mean Mykhol trusted her. Why else would he let her stay?
The man's reservation caused a ripple effect. Naska watched as the others subtly stiffened, shifting their weight, exchanging glances. A look of shared concern fell over them like a shadow. But not Mykhol.
The young lord only narrowed his eyes at the vampire, something dark crossing his face—a flash of something cold and dangerous that Naska rarely saw—before flicking on a smile as if to cover it up. The transformation was so swift that she might have missed it had she not been watching him so intently.
Again, he looked handsome and collected, in control, but Naska had caught that momentary crack in his façade.
"I understand your concerns, Mr. Nimble," Mykhol's voice was smooth as silk, but with steel underneath. The soft cadence of his words seemed designed to soothe and subdue. "But I assure you, my father has the expertise to handle such little discrepancies." His hand gestured dismissively, as if brushing away cobwebs.
"You only need to order the number of weapons and put down the numbers we tell you. Your role in this does not need to be any more extensive. We just need you to do what we tell you to do. Nothing more."
Weapons?Numbers? Naska's ears pricked at the words, storing them away carefully. Whatever they were planning, it involved military supplies—perhaps diverting them? Falsifying orders? Her mind raced as she tried to piece it together. She recognized most of the words, but not the way they fit. She tried to imagine how it all worked—supplies, falsification—but the details blurred in her head. Still, she kept her chin lifted, feigning understanding. Nobles loved confidence.
She glanced back to Mr. Nimble. He thinned his lips but said nothing else. Whatever reservations he had, he seemed to keep to himself, though the tension in his body spoke volumes. The thin line of his mouth, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his hands formed loose fists at his sides—all betrayed his discomfort.
However, the fact that anyone would question Mykhol made Naska regard the man with suspicion. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she studied him. Friend or foe? Ally or potential threat?
She didn't understand the plan, but she didn't need to. All she needed to know was this: if Mykhol wanted it done, then it would be done. And if anyone stood in his way, they were standing in her way too.
Mykhol lifted his hand and signaled to the others that the meeting was over. The gesture was casual but unmistakably authoritative. They bowed, the rustle of expensive fabrics filling the room as they prepared to leave. Mr. Nimble was one of the last to go, and a silent look was exchanged between him and Mykhol, as if speaking in action more than words. The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension.
Whatever message passed between them, Mykhol's practiced smile remained to the very end as Mr. Nimble finally turned to leave. The door closed behind him with a soft click that somehow seemed to echo in the suddenly emptier room.
But no sooner did the door click closed than his mother stirred to life like a snake uncoiling.
"Damn that Mr. Nimble," she hissed, her voice venomous in the firelit chamber. The jewels at her throat caught the light as she turned her head sharply toward her son. "He keeps questioning the plan."
His father moved to start rolling up the map to put it away, the parchment making a dry, whispering sound as it curled in on itself. "Mr. Nimble has never been a fan of fudging numbers," Lord Charles spoke dryly, the words carrying the weight of experience. The lines around his eyes deepened as he added, "He takes his job quite seriously."
He held the rolled map out, his expression neutral, not caring who came first. The cylinder of parchment hung between them like an offering—or perhaps a baton being passed.
Wanting to be close to Mykhol, Naska eagerly took it first, leaving Bruno to his corner. Her fingers brushed against the parchment, feeling its texture, aware that it contained secrets she had only partially glimpsed. A soft, pained look crossed Bruno's face as she left him, but it didn't stay. His expression fell neutral, like the good boy he was. He crouched back down, pulling his legs into his chest, arms tight, as he kept his eyes watching the room with that unsettling vigilance that was becoming his habit.
Naska held the wrapped-up map in her hands, the weight of it seemingly greater than its physical presence would suggest. She lingered, feeling herself needing to ask out of curiosity, her voice carefully modulated to sound casual despite the intensity of her interest.
"This, Mr. Nimble. Who is he?" Naska asked, her fingers tracing the edge of the rolled map she held, trying to appear casually interested rather than desperate for information.
"He's in charge of Nochten's Armory," Mykhol answered, his nails lightly tapping the table. The sound—sharp, measured—punctuated the silence like a heartbeat. His vermilion eyes grew dark with some private thought, as if he were seeing something beyond the room. "And he seems to be an honest sort of man."
"I never liked honest men." His mother clicked her rings against the table's edge, the metallic sound grating in Naska's ears. Lady Funda's face soured further as she met Naska's gaze directly, her eyes cold and calculating as winter frost.
Naska only stood straighter, lifting her chin and meeting the look with one of her own. A silent battle of wills crackled between them, neither woman willing to be the first to look away. The damp cloth of her tunic suddenly felt heavier against her skin, a reminder of her servitude that Lady Funda seemed to relish.
"They have too many morals," Lady Funda continued, finally breaking their stare to look back at her son. The dismissal stung, but Naska refused to show it, keeping her shoulders squared and her face neutral. She'd grown practiced at hiding her hurts.
Mykhol nodded in silence, his eyes lost in thought, before he tapped the table once more with elegant fingers. "I suppose something might need to be done if he continues being a hindrance." The words were soft, almost gentle, but there was nothing gentle about the strange little smile that curled up his lips as he lifted his gaze. His father huffed softly while his mother only grinned back, her eyes glittering with shared understanding.
But Naska didn't understand. She blinked between them, feeling like she was missing something important—something obvious to everyone but her. The room suddenly felt too warm, the fire too loud, as she struggled to follow the conversation flowing around her.
"Do what?" she asked, trying to sound intelligent and engaged rather than confused. The question lingered for a moment before Lady Funda scoffed, the sound like a slap.
"See, this is why I said she should leave, Mykhol." Lady Funda tutted, her jeweled fingers gesturing dismissively toward Naska as if she were an inconvenient piece of furniture. "It's already enough that the bastard was here—"
"The what?" Naska instantly sharpened at the word, her blood running hot then cold as the insult registered. The map nearly slipped from her fingers as she stepped forward, her voice rising despite her efforts to remain composed. "What did you call OUR son?"
She stepped closer to Mykhol, as if seeking shelter in his shadow, drawing strength from his presence. Surely, he would correct his mother. How could she call Bruno a bastard like that? Of course, he would defend them both. They were closer now. Naska was important. Even more than ever.
So, of course, the same would go for Bruno. Naska held her breath, muscles tensing as she waited to hear Mykhol come to her defense. Expecting him to put his foot down at last at his mother's cruel remarks and—
"She already knows too much, Mother." Mykhol's voice was calmer than Naska would have expected. There was no heat, no anger, no offense at the insult to their child. Rather, he wasn't correcting his mother at all. It was almost like he was... simply not bothered by it.
The realization hit her like a blow to the chest. Something cold and heavy settled in her stomach as she stared at his profile, waiting for words that weren't coming.
She had imagined it differently. In her mind, he would stand, slam his hand against the table, and remind them all who Bruno was—his son, their future. But there was no thunder. No fury. Only that flat, unreadable tone.
And in the silence it left behind, something fragile inside her curled and withered.
Naska blinked, trying to keep her face still, but a tremor bloomed in her fingers. That small, foolish part of her—the one that clung to every tender glance and rare praise—fractured under the weight of his indifference.
Was she only important when he needed her? Was Bruno?
His vermilion eyes softened as they met hers, then, and despite everything, Naska felt her heart flutter treacherously.
Such a simple gesture, just a look— but look how quickly he could reach into her chest and twist her feelings back into shape.
"Naska can be capable on her own. She's proven so over the years."
His fingers brushed her ear, and her breath caught.
For a second, she forgot the room, his silence, and everything but the warmth of his touch. Her body leaned toward him before she could think better of it.
The doubt, just moments old, melted like snow under a spring sun.
Yes, he still wanted her. Of course he did.
My lord, she thought, already forgiving him of everything.
Yes, her time would come. She just had to wait.
The thought smoothed the rough edges of her doubt, quieting them into nothing more than a whisper.
"Help?" Funda huffed behind them, her eyes dramatically rolling. The fragrance of her pricy perfume—sweet and floral—hovered in the air as she waved dismissively. "My son, evidently a mere maid—"
"Wife, let's not argue on this again." Lord Charles was the one to cut her off this time, looking over the two of them with a slight wag of his head. Something like resigned disapproval shifted across his features, the lines around his eyes deepening. But where Funda would openly show her feelings, the portly vampire was quiet, his emotions contained behind a mask of aristocratic restraint. He only took her hand into his arm, ready to pull her from the room.
Funda didn't protest, but she pinched her lips with one last look at Naska. The maid smirked after her, shifting closer to Mykhol until her breasts pressed against his arm—a deliberate gesture of possession. The touch was enough to make the lady sputter before snapping her head forward. The elder vampires left the room, the door closing behind them with a soft thud.
This round was won. Naska brightened, a faint thrill of victory curling in her stomach. She remained pressed against Mykhol, savoring the warmth of his body through her damp clothes. But her sense of joy didn't last.
"You're getting me wet, Naska," Mykhol snapped lowly, his voice suddenly cold.
"My Lord, forgive me!" Naska immediately stepped back, brushing at his sleeves as if to dry them. Her hands trembled slightly, embarrassment flooding her cheeks with heat. "I didn't realize—"
Mykhol brushed her hand away, stepping around the table. "It's fine," He shook his sleeve with a flick, not even looking at her, as if she were a mess he'd stepped in. The rejection sliced through her euphoria like a blade. Naska flinched inward. She hadn't meant to upset him. She simply... forgot.
If she hadn't been helping Ana with the bath in the first place, she wouldn't be wet. Naska felt something bitter spiral up her chest, coiling around her heart like a snake. Yes, it was her Empress's fault.
If only she didn't have to—
"Tell me,"
Mykhol's voice broke her thoughts as he leaned back against the table, eyeing her with vague interest. The firelight played across his features, highlighting the sharp angles of his face, making him look almost otherworldly in his beauty.
"You were in there for some time, Naska," he said, gaze drifting from her wet hair to the soaked tunic clinging to her chest. His expression remained neutral, but Naska saw the way his attention lingered. Something in his scrutiny made her feel both desired and diminished. "I trust the bath went well?"
Naska scoffed. Bath? The very word conjured images of Ana's pale skin beneath the water, the delicate curve of her neck as she tilted her head back to let Naska wash her hair. The sickening sensation of having to touch those revolting silver locks–
"Well, it's not my fault," she huffed, letting her annoyance slip into her voice. "I would have come sooner, but Ana wouldn't stop talking."
Mykhol lifted a brow, something shifting in his expression. "She was talking?"
"More like wouldn't stop," Naska muttered, rolling her eyes. "How annoying."
"Did she mention me?"
The question stilled her, freezing the blood in her veins.
It was harmless on the surface—simple, curious—but it was how his voice softened after, how his vermilion eyes drifted to the hearth like he was remembering something fond. The firelight painted his sharp features in a warm glow that made him look almost...wistful.
And that ugly feeling—one she never let breathe too long—twisted in her stomach again. That whisper of doubt. That fear that perhaps Mykhol's interest in Ana wasn't merely political. The possibility that his eyes might linger on the Empress's face with something more than calculated ambition.
No, Naska cut the thought short, slicing through it before it could take root. She refused to see it. Refused even to consider it.
She loved him. And Mykhol—she knew he loved her. He had to. He always came back to her, didn't he? He sought her out that terrible day, when he broke down. He held her close when no one else could see.
He had chosen her.
"Ana talks more often nowadays," Mykhol said, almost to himself. A small, amused smile played across his lips, soft and intimate in a way that made Naska's chest ache. "It's nice."
"Nice?!" Naska nearly spat, the word bitter on her tongue. But Mykhol wasn't paying attention to her anymore; his eyes had wandered to Bruno, the boy still frozen in the corner like a frightened deer.
Perhaps he wants to see him? Naska brightened at the thought, turning to beckon Bruno forward. This was what she wanted—Mykhol acknowledging their son, showing him the attention he deserved. But Mykhol's gaze slipped away again, like Bruno had never been there at all, falling instead to the rolled map in her hands.
The dismissal of their child stung worse than any insult Lady Funda could hurl. Naska swallowed the lump in her throat, fingers tightening around the map until the parchment crackled in protest.
"You should put that away," he said easily, strolling toward the fire. He braced his hands on the mantel, a slow smile cracking his lips. "Not that there's much anyone can do to stop what's coming."
"What's happening?" Naska asked stiffly, her mind flashing to earlier conversations. She couldn't help her curiosity, desperate to prove herself useful, to be included in his plans despite her confusion. "My lord, what are you planning to do with the Bulgeons? You mentioned them at the table."
Mykhol laughed—a low, dark sound that somehow made the roaring fire feel colder. His smile only widened in the flames, a predatory expression that sent a shiver down Naska's spine despite her devotion.
"I'm helping, of course."
"Helping?" Naska frowned, feeling a small, warm weight settle into her hand. Bruno.
He had crossed the room without a sound, his warm fingers now curling into hers. His burgundy eyes, sharp and unblinking, were locked on Mykhol. There was something still in his face, too still for a child—something old, almost watchful. Like he was cataloging each word, filing it away.
It struck Naska as odd how quiet and stern her five-year-old could be. How his gaze didn't flinch when Mykhol laughed. How he listened, not like a child, but like someone waiting for a weak point to reveal itself.
But he's only playing at being serious. He's just a boy, Naska told herself, though her heart thudded harder in her chest. She squeezed his hand gently, reassuringly, though whether she was reassuring him or herself, she couldn't say.
"I thought you wanted Empress Anastaisia to stay on the throne," she said carefully. "Until you married her."
"I do," Mykhol answered simply. "I will marry her."
The words struck her like cold water, dousing the flame of hope she'd been nurturing. She swallowed hard, the sound loud in her ears, echoing in the hollow space suddenly opening inside her chest.
Bruno's small fingers curled tighter around hers.
She didn't look at him—couldn't. Her gaze stayed locked on Mykhol's back, on the broad silhouette framed by the hearth. The fire behind him snapped louder now, casting warped, shifting shadows across the stone floor. Jagged lines crawled up the walls, like claws inching closer.
He doesn't love her, Naska told herself fiercely. He's doing this for power. For control. It's not real, not like what we have.
She had reminded herself of this before. Again and again. Every time that soft voice crept back into her memory, the way he'd once said Ana's name, quiet, thoughtful, almost gentle. Like he was speaking it for himself, not for anyone else, a name said like that didn't sound like strategy.
But it had to be a strategy. It was always about the plan.
Because Mykhol needed the throne, and Ana came with it.
It's always been for the throne, she reminded herself. Anything else, Naska would simply endure. As she had always waited, she would wait for her time to come. For Mykhol to finally elevate her to her rightful place at his side.
"Then, my lord, I don't understand," she said, forcing steadiness into her voice despite the trembling in her heart. "Wouldn't this...hurt her?"
"It will." Mykhol's voice was low, almost thoughtful, as he watched the fire. The flames danced more violently now, throwing wild red light across his face. Twin pools of blood and fire flickered in his eyes, catching the flare of the coals.
Naska blinked in confusion, her mind struggling to follow his reasoning. "But—then why would you—"
He laughed. A single, sharp burst that cracked through the heavy stillness like glass shattering on stone.
Bruno flinched. His grip on her hand tightened again—this time protective, possessive. His small frame leaned closer into her side.
"Ana has every right to the throne," Mykhol said, his smile curving like a blade. "I'm not taking that from her."
He reached for the poker and slid it into the coals. The iron hissed against the burning wood, a slow, grinding sound that filled the room like a whisper through bone. Sparks flared upward in a frenzied swirl, illuminating his face in red bursts, twisting his features, elongating them, turning the angles of his jaw and cheek into something unrecognizable.
"But a ruler who makes mistakes—a ruler the court begins to doubt—that ruler becomes desperate."
He turned the poker lazily, the iron rasping against the grate. The scent of heated metal thickened in the room, sharp and raw. Sweat prickled at the back of Naska's neck despite the chill that sank into her spine.
"She's too sure of herself right now. Too full of her father's poison. She needs to feel the weight of failure—needs to see that even her best efforts crumble when left in her own hands."
His smile stretched thin, too sharp at the corners. There was no warmth in it—only calculation.
"When she has no one left to trust—when she's drowning in doubt—she'll turn to the one that's been waiting patiently all this time."
He drew the poker from the flames. The tip glowed molten red, pulsing like a heartbeat. As he held it up, the firelight shuddered across his features—now almost mask-like, inhuman in its flickering.
Bruno pressed tighter into Naska's side, his grip clamping down around her fingers in earnest now. Not just a child's fear, but something more urgent. Protective. Intentional. His small shoulders squared like he was bracing against something.
But whatever it was, Naska didn't ask. Her eyes were on Mykhol.
"The one she needs to learn," he said slowly, tilting the poker as if admiring it, "is the only one who matters."
His voice dropped to a murmur, reverent and strange.
"The only one who's always been there. Watching. Waiting. Knowing her better than she knows herself."
He stared into the fire as though it might speak back. The light from the coals carved deep hollows into his face, casting monstrous curves in the space beneath his eyes.
"Ana doesn't see it yet," he said, almost to himself now. "But she will."
His hand flexed around the poker, knuckles whitening. The fire cracked louder behind him, shadows crawling jagged and long across the floor.
"There's no more hiding behind her books. No more burying herself in scrolls and old laws. She has to face it now—the truth."
He turned slightly, the red light from the coals pulsing against the hard planes of his face.
"Even if she doesn't understand it yet…" A crooked smile tugged at his mouth, too slow, too fond. "She's already looking."