*Ana*
"I have a letter?"
The words ring like a silver bell in the dull quiet of my study. For hours I've been hunched over reports and decrees, the metallic weight of my crown gradually becoming part of my skull. But now—now my entire body comes alive, head snapping up so fast the chains on my shawl jingle like tiny bells.
My aunt steps through the door, her heels striking the stone floor with precise rhythm—click-click-click—before softening to whispers against the plush carpet. The silver tray she carries gleams in the morning light, transforming into a pool of liquid sunshine that dances across the ceiling in scattered fragments.
Everything else falls away. The tedious documents. The constant worry. The crushing weight of an empire on my thirteen-year-old shoulders. For this breathless moment, I'm just a girl hoping.
"Who is it from?" The question tumbles out of me, too eager, too childlike. I hear the naked longing in my voice—the desperation barely contained—and quickly bite my lip.
Empresses must stay composed, I remind myself.But my heart races ahead of my training, pounding so wildly I fear my aunt might hear it from across the room.
I rise from my chair, pretending the motion is measured when really I want to leap up and snatch the envelope from the tray. The chains of my ceremonial shawl cascade into a symphony of delicate clinks, my crown shifting slightly with the movement.
My eyes fix on the envelope like it's the last star in a blackened sky. I'm searching—praying—for that perfect shade of blue wax. Dawny blue. Father's blue. Their blue. The color that matches their eyes, that reminds me of home and safety and being just Ana, not an empress.
But the harsh glare from the window washes everything white, hiding the truth until my aunt finally, finally reaches my desk.
I stand fully now, forgetting to breathe. My eyes strain so hard they water, desperately trying to make out the color through the glare.
Please. Let it be from Father. Has he finally written to say he's coming back now?
Or... Nicoli? The thought alone sends butterflies racing through my chest. I picture his messy handwriting, maybe another one of his silly bear drawings that always make me laugh when no one is watching. I love Father with all my heart, but a letter from Nicoli would be—
"Is it from the king?" Admiral Nugen's voice slices through my thoughts like a blade through silk. His face mirrors my own eagerness as he abandons the map-strewn table where he and Pendwick were working, closing the distance to us in three quick strides. His boots leave dull thuds on the carpet that seem to count the seconds of my anticipation.
A flash of annoyance crosses his weathered features, the dark crescents beneath his eyes making him look hollowed out, haunted. The news of Mr. Nimbles' murder has carved those circles deeper with each sleepless night. "Well?" he demands, the word sharp as a dagger.
My aunt's lips thin to nearly nothing, ruby eyes flashing. Indignation colors her pale cheeks with splotches of pink, as if someone had pressed hot coins against her skin.
"It is not," Aunt Funda says, each word falling into the room like stones into still water. She lowers the tray with the same reverent care one might use for lowering a coffin lid.
My hands move of their own accord, fingertips pouncing on the smooth envelope. Blood roars in my ears like ocean waves, hot and insistent. My heart pulses so violently I can feel each beat in my throat, behind my eyes, at my temples.
Please, please— A silent prayer rises as I steady my shaking hands, drawing in a breath that fills my lungs with the scent of ink and parchment. My eyes drop to the seal and—
Yellow?
I blink. Then again. But the color refuses to transform.
The seal is sunflower-gold. Hidi's. Almony. She's written.
It's not either of them—
The warmth in my chest collapses with the suddenness of a snuffed candle. The texture of the envelope transforms beneath my fingertips, no longer smooth but rough as sandpaper, scraping at my skin, burning like sunpoison. The disappointment is so acute it's almost physical—a hollow ache spreading from my sternum outward.
"Oh," I whisper, the word barely audible even to my own ears. "That's..."
I catch myself, feeling the weight of watching eyes. No one can know. No one can see that I am not—
"That's kind of Hidi," I force brightness into my tone, a smile that feels like it might crack my face. "She did say she would write." I uncurl my fingers with conscious effort, noticing for the first time the small crescent indentations where my nails had begun to pierce the paper.
"Yes, very kind of her," I add quickly, words tumbling out before either can discern the truth written in my eyes.
Empresses don't pout when things don't go their way, Ana. I tell myself that firmly. I won't let them see my disappointment—my childish hope for a letter from those who clearly have more important things to do than write to me.
They didn't write. But Hidi did. I press down the hollowness in my chest as I reconcile it is silly to be upset. And Hidi is my friend. I take a steadying breath. Keeping my features composed and together.
Admiral Nugen, however, has no such commitment to composure. He scoffs—a hollow sound like wind through empty branches—and turns to my aunt with frustration darkening his features like a gathering storm.
"That's all you have?" His words crack like a whip. His shoulders bunch tight, the tendons in his neck visible and straining as if physically restraining himself. "You don't have anything else? Are you sure?"
"Am I—?" My aunt cuts herself off with a scoff that mirrors his own, drawing herself tall as a spire. She towers over him by mere centimeters, but in that small space, she plants her flag of superiority.
Her eyes narrow to ruby slits, fangs slightly extended as she hisses, "I know how to do my job, Admiral." She curls around his title like it's a rotten fruit she's been forced to taste.
"Doesn't mean you can do it right," he threw back, not even hesitating. His straightforward, no nonsense nature cleary butting heads with my aunts proclivity towards more courtly manner like flint against steel, creating sparks neither can extinguish.
Aunt Funda's nostrils flare a deep crimson as she pulls back her shoulders, her voice dripping venom. "Are you suggesting that I can't—?"
"Thank you," I interject, my voice slicing between them like a cool blade. The last thing I need is a battle in my study moments before court. My gaze sweeps between them—a silent command wrapped in gratitude. Nugen bows his head slightly, acknowledging his momentary lapse, but my aunt's mouth remains half-open, the words of her anger still seeking release.
But not here. Not now. I cannot shoulder the weight of their conflict today. "You can go now, Aunt Funda," I state, my tone leaving no room for argument. "I will see you at court."
Funda lingers a moment, eyes narrowing on Nugen, but at last, she relents with a dip and stiff bow. "Yes, Your Empress." She pivots on her heel with military precision, each step announcing her departure like drumbeats. But not before casting Nugen a final glare sharp enough to draw blood, before the heavy doors close behind her with a definitive thud.
As the doors close behind her, I let out a slow breath and finally allow myself to look around the room.
The study is dappled in gold. Sunlight stretches through the tall windows, spilling warmth across my desk and pooling on the marble floor. The smell of sand warming–salt and earth, but softening now with hints of new grass and roses waking in the garden below.
Somewhere beyond these walls, everything is greening. Life presses forward, relentless and determined.
Inside, however, I remain trapped in winter. Frozen in place. Waiting. I return my attention to the letter, studying the golden wax that gleams like a small sun in my palm. A strange conflict twists in my chest—appreciation battling disappointment in a silent war. I should be grateful. Hidi wrote from genuine friendship. My first real friend outside of Nicoli.
So why do I feel guilty that I'm not…more appreciative?
You wanted it to be them. Father. Nicoli. The voice in my head is honest and cruel. Hidi can never measure up to them. The truth stings, but I force it down like bitter medicine.
Empress's don't sulk, Ana. I remind myself, straightening my shoulders. You must be better than that.
"Did Queen Hildenberg write to you?" he asked, tilting his head toward the letter. "Should we read it now? Like how we used to?"
His voice is warm, too warm. The familiar coaxing note. I almost drop the letter when his arm suddenly stretches, making me freeze, only to feel his fingertips graze my cheek as he brushes a loose curl behind my ear. A loose curl. That's all. Just a curl.
But his fingers tuck it behind my ear with a slowness that feels deliberate, like he wants to keep it there a moment too long before reluctantly pulling away. The action was simple and normal to him, as if it were nothing.
But it wasn't nothing. My breath catches in my throat with an audible hitch. My pulse flutters near my collarbone where my gown's neckline dips slightly. A quiet, traitorous beat.
I don't move. Can't move. My shoulders go stiff, spine pulled taut like a bowstring. My fingers are curled too tightly around the letter. The seal stares up at me—a searing yellow wax, so bright it almost hurts to look at.
Too bright. Too cheerful. Everything about it feels wrong. Like something ringing behind my ears. A bell of some kind that I don't want to listen to.
"Should I?" I murmur, though I don't know what I'm asking. My mind empties of all thought when he stands this close, his presence consuming the air around me until I struggle to breathe.
Mykhol gently takes the letter from my grasp, his fingers brushing mine in a touch that sends electricity racing up my arm. He taps the seal against his lips in a gesture both casual and oddly intimate.
He smiles—slow, almost predatory—as if he possesses a secret I don't. As if I've already confessed something without speaking a word. Something in my expression betrays me, lays me bare before him.
My eyes betray me. I can't stop myself from dropping my gaze. They linger too long on his mouth. The curve. The softness. The faint shine from the wax.
A phantom sensation tingles across my own lips at the memory of having felt his pressed against mine. I almost did again, back in the garden when he— Stop it!
I wrench my gaze away, heat flooding my cheeks.
Why am I thinking about that again?
"Cousin?" Mykhol's eyebrow arches quizzically. His gaze holds mine with uncomfortable steadiness. Too knowing. Too perceptive.
I hate the warmth that rises from my neck to paint my cheeks crimson.
"Yes—but after," I say more quickly than I intend, snatching the letter back from his hands. I place it atop the stack of documents with exaggerated precision, as if arranging it perfectly might restore order to my chaotic thoughts.
I avoid his eyes, focusing instead on the desk's edge, tracing the grain in the wood with my gaze. The faint crack near the corner. The small ink stain from last week. Anything but him.
My heart flutters against my ribs like a caged bird seeking escape. Nonsense. Nerves. It's just the weather. The season. The stress. The upcoming court session.
Not him.
Certainly not him.
I wish this strange tension—this sickening, fluttering sensation—would release its grip on me.
"Read together?" Admiral Nugen repeats, not bothering to hide his skepticism. "Since when?"
"It's our little tradition, you see," Mykhol answers for me, placing his arm around my shoulders with a practiced ease. His hand grazes the bare skin above my dress collar. Just a brush—but it's enough to sear. I feel like a spark. A brand.
"Ana used to always read her little letters with me. It was such a fun time. Right, Ana?"
"That—" I hesitate. It's not… not entirely true.
But Mykhol's vermilion gaze pins me like a collector's needle through a butterfly's wings. Waiting. Demanding my agreement with silent intensity.
"Yes," I say too quickly, heat flooding my face again as I drop my gaze to the desk. "We read together."
The lie tastes sour on my tongue. But it's easier than explaining. Easier than confronting him. Having to recount how this truly began—how Mykhol once threatened to share Nicoli's letters with the entire court. Back when resentment flowed between us like a poisoned river. Before things changed. Before Maddie's death. Before—
Lying was easier. Easier than facing the shift in Admiral Nugen's stare.
Mykhol beams, satisfied clearly that I played along.
"Is that right?" Admiral Nugen's voice could dry rivers, his steady gaze peeling back my facade. He's detected something—my hesitation, perhaps, or the slight tremor in my voice.
I can't respond. My focus narrows to controlling the fire raging across my skin.
"It is," Mykhol declares brightly before glancing toward the window where the sun has climbed higher. "The court will start any minute. It's time we went, don't you think?"
"Yes," I answer, maybe too eagerly. I exhale as he lifts his arm from my shoulders. The air against my neck is cool again—deliciously so. I didn't realize how stifled I felt until he let go.
Sir Pendwick rises from the long table with a quiet burst of energy, his chair scraping softly against the stone floor. "If you like, I can escort you." He offers his arm with almost too much formality, a smile tugging at his lips, earnest, tinged with nerves. A soft flush colors his cheeks. "It would be an honor."
"Thank you, Sir Pendwick," I respond, stepping away from the desk toward his outstretched arm. His sleeve is crisp and freshly pressed. His gloved hand waits, steady despite a slight tremor of anticipation.
But before I can reach him, Mykhol moves.
He steps in—quick, smooth, possessive like a hawk cutting the air, intercepting with precision. One moment, Pendwick's hand is waiting, and the next, Mykhol has captured mine, curling it firmly into the crook of his arm.
"Allow me," he states. Not a request. A claim.
"Cousin?" I blink. The gesture had been Pendwick's. "Sir Pendwick was just—"
I glance back. Pendwick still holds his arm out, stalled mid-motion, blinking as if unsure of what just happened. The flush on his face deepens, this time from embarrassment. His smile falters into something tight and apologetic before he drops his hand and takes a slow step back. His eyes lowered to the floor, every inch of him radiating polite retreat.
Admiral Nugen watches it all with a scowl, his jaw working as though biting back a remark.
What is Mykhol doing? That was— Bold. Rude. Unnecessary.
Just as I shift to withdraw my hand, intending to correct him, Mykhol leans closer.
"Indulge me," he whispers, his breath brushing the curve of my ear, sending a ripple of heat straight down my neck. Too warm. Too near. Too deliberate.
My body reacts before my thoughts can catch up—a curl of heat rising low in my abdomen, my spine stiffening, my throat tightening. His proximity steals the air from my lungs, leaving me light-headed. The slight brush of his arm against mine sends tiny, alarming shivers racing across my skin. Every nerve ending feels suddenly, painfully alive.
It's just a joke, I tell myself. Just Mykhol being Mykhol.
But the whisper had felt like something else. The edge of it—velvet and coaxing—left no room for misunderstanding. Mykhol knows what he's doing. The way his lips almost—but not quite—grazed my earlobe couldn't have been accident.
Still, the doors ahead begin to open. The court is waiting.
It would cause a scene. He knows that, too.
"That... very well," I manage, though my voice sounds strange and breathless, not quite mine. My fingers stay in place, resting lightly on his arm, even as every nerve hums that I should step back. The fabric of his sleeve beneath my fingertips feels too intimate, too warm with his body heat seeping through.
Behind us, I steal a glance at Pendwick. I half-expect to see pain, resentment—but he wears nothing but composed grace. If he's wounded, he hides it like a seasoned soldier. He merely falls into step behind us with Admiral Nugen.
Pendwick is mature. Respectful. He would never press like this.
Not like Mykhol.
Mykhol would. He always does.
And maybe that's my fault. I spoiled him. I gave in to him too many times before. Perhaps if I had set a line, boundary, something to establish limits, Mykhol wouldn't be so clingy.
And my heart wouldn't feel so strange—wouldn't hammer against my ribs like a caged bird. I swallow hard, my mouth suddenly dry. Again, I find my breath tight in my chest as the smell of his scent drowns me from being so close. My skin prickles with uncomfortable awareness wherever his body nearly touches mine.
"You seem down," Mykhol murmurs as we walk. His voice is softer now. Too soft. Just for my ears as if careful they can't hear us. "Something on your mind?"
So, he noticed. I wish he hadn't. But also—I'm glad that's all he noticed. Not the way my pulse jumps when he leans in, or how my skin flushes hot then cold when he looks at me too long.
That should be comforting, but instead, it tightens something in my chest.
"That? No." I force a small laugh, the sound brittle even to my own ears. My fingers fidget with the fabric of my sleeve. "I just have a lot to work on."
The lie tastes bitter on my tongue, but it's necessary. Because what else can I do? Complain? Demand Father return? Tell Mykhol I don't understand what's happening to my body when he leans in?
No. Those are useless thoughts. That would be greedy.
Even if it would have helped if he had been here, Father isn't. He has his kingdom. Who am I to ask more of him?
Mykhol makes a soft hum, a slight smile, not the courtly one, and not the one he makes for me when we are alone, pulls on his lips. He doesn't believe me. I can tell from the knowing glint in his eyes, the way his head tilts just so. But he nods all the same, his shoulder brushing mine in a way that seems accidental but can't possibly be.
"Anything I can do to help?" The question sounds innocent, but the way his fingers shift slightly against my hand resting on his arm is not.
"You already do so much," I deflect, but it is the truth. Even if Admiral Nugen thinks Mykhol could do me harm, I only see the good he does. Will do, I correct.
"It is nothing." I return, my voice steadier now as I focus on court matters rather than the confusing sensations his nearness provokes. "I am only concerned with the proceedings in court again. Nothing new has been found about the crossbows or the missing shipment." And I can only imagine this will not do well with the court.
"Yes, pity about that," Mykhol replies vaguely, looking forward. He tilts his head to slightly click his golden earrings as if in thought for a moment. Something crossed his mind. Then, almost idly, he leans in again. The warmth of him radiates against my side, making my heart stutter. "I like it better when you call me Mykhol."
"What?" My steps falter, making the chains on my head click and sway as I blink up at the abrupt confession. A flush creeps up my neck, warming my cheeks. "That—"
"I know," he cuts in, smiling. His teeth flash white against his lips, perfect and predatory. "You think it's improper. But perhaps when we're alone, you could?"
His gaze lingers on me. Too long. Too direct. His eyes track slowly from my eyes to my mouth, lingering there before meeting my gaze again.
"Just between us?"
"Cousin..." I try to laugh it off, but it comes out as a nervous, breathy sound. The request shouldn't feel intimate. But the way he says it, the way his voice dips low, makes my stomach tighten with something unfamiliar and unsettling. My palms grow damp, and I resist the urge to wipe them on my dress.
"It would make me very happy." His voice drops to a murmur, the words sliding like silk against my senses. "You want to make me happy, don't you?"
His words press close. His body does too, not touching, but near enough that I feel every inch of space between us crackle with dangerous electricity. The heat of him radiates through my thin court dress, making my skin prickle with awareness.
"That... yes. But—" I manage to speak, though my voice wavers as something curls in my stomach. The same strange sensations from when we were in the Rose garden, no, it's every time now when he gets too close. It's like I can't breathe. My throat constricts, my lungs seem to forget their purpose. I'm waiting for something to happen.
Waiting for... what?
I don't want to know.
I swallow hard to control myself. Push away these strange feelings again. I don't want them. They are confusing. And I can't think when he–
"It makes it feel like we are closer." His voice dips lower, a dangerous rumble that I feel more than hear. "I like to think we are. Closer, that is. Don't you want that?"
"We are," I answer reflexively, my voice too high. Mykhol is my cousin. Of course, we'd be close. It makes sense to be.
Yet this strange feeling, this want to be closer somehow...No, I don't have time to untangle whatever this is. The warmth pooling low in my abdomen, the tightness in my chest, the way my skin feels too sensitive beneath my clothes—none of it makes sense.
"But I think we can be closer," he says, and glances down at my hand, still resting on his arm. His fingers slide over mine, feather-light but deliberate, leaving trails of fire in their wake. "Let me be closer to you, Ana. More than anyone else. Just the two of us."
"Cousin," Again, I feel his body press against me. His arm slightly grazes the side of my breast, and I gasp, the contact sending lightning through me. I feel a spike jump up. It comes from below my stomach and makes me take a sharp, involuntary breath. Sensitive skin tightens beneath my bodice, an unfamiliar response that makes me want to cross my arms over my chest in confusion.
Stop it. Stop reacting like this.
But the heat rushes low, deep. Sudden. Unwelcome. Alive. Mykhol is too near, his scent—tobacco and pepper—too thick in the space between us. The smell of some kind of musk starting to waft up from his coat I hadn't noticed before.
"I wish I could just have you all to myself," he murmurs, voice like velvet drawn slowly across skin. Gentle. Coaxing. But something coils beneath it. A note too rich, too intentional. Something I can't name but that makes my insides twist with both alarm and something else—something darker and more primal.
He doesn't mean it like that, I tell myself. He wouldn't.
I try to say something, anything, to steady the tilt of the room. The words take effort, my tongue feeling thick and clumsy.
"Cousin, you can't just—"
But Mykhol interrupts, his fingers sliding over mine—slow and sure, possessive in their softness. His thumb finds the pulse point at my wrist, pressing lightly against the rapid flutter he finds there.
"If you let me," he says, thumb brushing the inside of my wrist in hypnotic circles, "I can show you exactly how close I want us to be after court is over."
"After?" My voice cracks like thin ice. My legs feel weak, suddenly unreliable. The pressure of his thumb against my pulse feels too intimate, too knowing.
His eyes—vermilion eyes—seem darker now, deepening toward burgundy as they fix on me. There's hunger there, not metaphorical. Not polite. It's raw and unmasked, making something deep inside me clench with both fear and a startling, unwanted curiosity.
I feel small suddenly, like prey. My body locked in his shadow, my will beneath the weight of his gaze. The air between us feels charged, heavy with something I've never encountered before but instinctively recognize as dangerous.
I should move. I should say something sharper. Why don't I? Why does my body betray me, leaning slightly toward him instead of away?
The world jolts.
Footsteps—fast, echoing, urgent—shatter the spell.
We both turn, and I breathe again without realizing I'd stopped. One of Admiral Nugen's men barrels down the corridor, cloak flapping, boots slapping the marble. Lieutenant Eras. Face flushed, barely managing a bow before thrusting a message toward the Admiral.
"Sir—it's urgent."
Mykhol scoffs, the sound slicing through the air like a blade. He jerks me closer with a possessive tug that sends my heart skittering against my ribs. "It couldn't wait?" His words drip with venom as he glares at the Admiral. "We are nearly at court." Each syllable falls like ice between us, his low hiss raising goosebumps along my arm where he holds me.
Nugen's jaw hardens to granite, the muscles there twitching with barely contained tension. He doesn't dignify Mykhol with a response, instead taking the sealed message from Eras with military precision. As he breaks the seal, the parchment crackles—a sound that suddenly seems deafening in the corridor's tense silence.
I watch Nugen's face transform as his eyes scan the page. First confusion, then disbelief, and finally something I've never seen before: raw, unfiltered dread. The blood drains from his weathered face, leaving it ashen and hollow. His fingers tremble almost imperceptibly against the parchment.
Few things can crack the Admiral's iron composure. That look—blunt and raw, stripped of all courtly pretense—sends ice cascading through my veins before he even speaks. No tact, no careful phrasing. Just bad news, aimed straight for the heart like a poison arrow.
"Admiral Nugen?" My voice emerges as a fragile thing, barely more than a whisper. The words scrape against my suddenly parched throat. "What is it?"
"It—" Admiral Nugen starts, his mouth working soundlessly for a moment before he thinks better of it. The hesitation from a man who never hesitates makes my stomach plunge to my feet. Without a word, he extends the note toward me, his hand uncharacteristically unsteady.
The message is brief. Brutally so. Yet each word hammers into me with physical force. I read it once, twice, the letters swimming before my eyes as though I'm viewing them through rippling water. My knees buckle, threatening to betray me as the ground seems to tilt beneath my feet. My spine fights to stay rigid, but my body—my traitorous, trembling body—begs to crumple into itself like burning parchment.
No.
Not this.
"Ana?" Mykhol's voice reaches me as if through thick fog, distorted and distant. His hand tightens on my arm, but I barely register the pressure.
My lungs forget how to draw breath. My heart forgets how to beat properly, instead thundering against my ribs in painful, erratic surges. The copper taste of fear floods my mouth as I bite the inside of my cheek until I taste blood—anything to keep from crying out.
I crush the paper in my fist until my knuckles blanch white, the material crumpling with a sound that echoes the shattering inside my chest. My fingers dig into my palm through the parchment, crescent moons of pain that anchor me to reality when everything else threatens to dissolve.
I want to drop it. Burn it. Pretend the words never seared themselves into my mind. Scream until my throat is raw and the walls crumble around me.
But that's not what Empresses do.
With excruciating effort, I force steel into my spine.. Even as my stomach turns to ash. Even as the corridor spins in a slow, cruel tide around me. Even as something vital and warm withers inside my chest.
The words on the parchment swim before my eyes: "Another Bulgeon attack. Eastern trade route. Three imperial guards dead. Shipment seized."
Second attack. The realization slams into me like a physical blow. Not an isolated incident anymore—a pattern. The careful diplomacy I've been building, the delicate offers of citizenship and integration into Nochten that I'd drafted with my own hand... it's all crumbling between my fingers like sand.
"Admiral Nugen," I manage, voice unnaturally steady despite the tremor in my hands. "When did this happen?"
"Just before dawn, Your Highness." Nugen's weathered face hardens, lines deepening around his mouth. "They knew exactly where the new trade route was moved."
I search his eyes, silently pleading for some explanation, some reason why everything keeps going wrong despite my best efforts. Nugen meets my gaze for a moment before looking away, his jaw tightening. There's something there—something he won't say in present company. His eyes flick briefly toward Mykhol before returning to me, laden with unspoken warning.
But I can't focus on Nugen's groundless suspicions now. He still has no proff Not with three more imperial guards dead and my peace initiatives crumbling.
Father would know what to do. The thought pierces through me, sharp and sudden as a blade. If he were here, his steady presence beside me, his decades of diplomatic experience... Even Hidi, with her blunt political mind, would offer some pathway through this maze. But they're both beyond my reach now, when I need their counsel most.
There is no hand waiting to catch me if I fall. No father's steady presence. No Hidi's strategic brilliance. Only the suffocating weight of expectation and duty.
It's just me now.
Alone, standing against a rising tide that threatens to swallow everything.
My heart hammers against my ribs like a prisoner begging for release. Copper floods my mouth—I've bitten my cheek without realizing. The taste of blood mingles with fear, metallic and bitter on my tongue. My breath comes quick and shallow, not enough to fill my lungs but just enough to keep moving forward.
And what waits behind those towering court doors? Ministers and nobles who never believed in my vision of citizenship for the Bulgeons, who saw only enemies where I saw future allies. They will use these deaths to force my hand toward the sword rather than the open palm of welcome.
Gods help me.
With each step toward the court, the crown digs deeper into my scalp—metal teeth gnawing at my skull. My vision blurs at the edges, the chains hanging from the royal headpiece swaying with my movement, each delicate link whispering a vision of unity that now seems hopelessly naïve.
Three more imperial guards. Dead. Their families will want justice. Retribution is what the court will demand.
My fingers tremble as they reach for the handle, the metal cold and unyielding against my skin. In this moment of terrible clarity, I already know—
I know but still, I must face them.
Empresses can't hide.