*Ana*
Ana.
The call snaps my head up so quickly my crown nearly falls back, pulling my shawl and chains with it in a dull clink. The weight, heavier than it once was, presses cold metal into my temples with sharp discomfort.
Absently, I adjust it back into place, tucking my braid firmly inside where it belongs. My fingers trace the intricate metalwork, the edges worn smooth from countless such adjustments. The familiar action calms my nerves, but not completely.
Something still lingers in the back of my mind. Something I know is impossible.
A chill drifts across my skin despite the fire's warmth. The sensation of being watched prickles at the nape of my neck, raising fine hairs beneath my collar.
I know it must just be in my head. It has to be. But still, my eyes slowly scan the room, roaming from one shadow-draped corner to the next.
No one is here but me. The room is dead silent, save the scratching of my quill against parchment—each stroke echoing like fingernails on stone. An occasional crackle emits from the fireplace, the embers shifting and settling with soft, whispering hisses as ash falls to the hearth. The rhythmic clicking of the clock over the mantel counts the moments of my solitude, each tick a tiny death of time.
My study is the same as it ever was—the leather-bound books lining the walls, the scent of ink and parchment mixing with woodsmoke and beeswax. Nothing has changed.
Well, save maybe, it's the first time in a while that I've been left alone. Completely.
Naska must have slipped out while I was working, I realize with a soft frown. She has been doing that much more as of late.
I'm sure it's to attend to her other duties with Mykhol. But I think I will need to have another talk with her.
"At least tell me when you are going," I sigh aloud, my breath briefly visible in the chilled air despite the fire's efforts.
My fingers find my discarded quill, still wet with ink. As I lift it, the nib gleams in the firelight like a tiny black talon. My mind is already falling back to the present, to the ledger before me—anything to keep myself busy. I need to be, especially today.
Because it's Nicoli's birthday today.
And another birthday I must miss—
A sharp pop of ember and pine sap immediately flashes up from the fireplace, filling the room in an unexpectedly bright burst of light. The sudden illumination blinds me momentarily, casting everything into a wash of orange before plunging back into semi-darkness. I blink back the afterimage and observe the fire dance, seemingly revived by some mysterious force, just before it occurs again.
A whisper—not quite a word, not quite a voice. It slides into the back of my mind. Filling the space behind my very eyes like cold silk against bare skin. I hear it.
I do hear it this time.
"Ana."
I freeze. But how?
That voice—
My quill, still poised in hand, drips wet ink from the tip in soft thudding drops, staining the ruined white parchment. The spreading stain resembles a flower blooming in reverse, darkness overtaking light. But I can't bother with that right now. My breath feels suddenly weighted in my chest, as if the very air resists my lungs.
My brows furrow, eyes narrowing into the hearth, searching the flames as if I can read their meaning in the unsettling silence.
It can't be the logs—those had long since settled into embers, just gray ash bones of timber—but it must be something. Some kind of trick? A draft, perhaps, or my mind playing cruel games on this day of all days?
Otherwise...my breath stills as the fire's orange turns colder, a breathless moment, the fire glows blue at the center, just a flicker, like the shimmer of someone's eyes that I can never forget.
It's his blue. Nicoli's blue. The exact shade that I both so much wish but know I can't see now.
It makes the hairs on my arms lift beneath my sleeves as I suddenly realize this isn't the first time. My skin prickles with recognition, a memory of sensation rather than thought.
Another phantom, again?
It happened weeks ago, right before Hidi and Father left. I felt something like this. A pull. A flutter beneath my ribs, as if my heart can recognize what my mind can not comprehend.
As if...I can feel him reaching out across the very desert.
His voice calling out to me against the silence, against any reason. Not in a physical voice, but something deeper. Something immaterial yet fully real, like the very voice of wind.
Nicoli.
I almost forgot it ever happened, that previous whisper. No, I had buried it beneath paperwork and court, convinced myself it was nothing. Just wishful thinking.
But now… I find myself longing for it to be real, like I could actually hear him, across the distance. Like some kind of thread could actually run that far, like our little cup phones last summer. I remember the rough twine against my fingertips, the way his laughter would travel through that simple connection, making the impossible possible.
Nicoli reached out to me then. Desperate to reconnect when he should have been afraid of me. It did nothing. He found a way.
Was that what was happening now? Like a voice calling through the other end of a red cord ending in darkness below.
The soft flutter stirs me back. I feel it. Something has shifted in the air, strange and potent. Energy coiled that only comes before a storm.
As pulled by that same force, it guides me to where it wants. I turn slowly to find my eyes widened at the most fantastic sight of all.
There, perched on the narrow sill, sits the bird. A small, sleek little thing, impossibly out of place. Its feathers shimmer violently against the stark ashen clouds visible through the frost-laced window, as if defying winter itself. Refusing to bow to its bleak and somber authority. Each feather catches what little light filters through the clouds, transforming it into something more vibrant, more alive. They glint with an iridescent blue, exactly the shade of Nicoli's eyes—that particular hue I've never seen anywhere else, the color of deep water touched by sunlight.
And as if it were his very embodiment, the bird seems unaware of how it needs to be, how it should never be in such a dry and harsh place. Or maybe it's because of it, it chooses to. Its spirit is too free, too strong, despite its size, despite its fragility in the empire of vampires. Such a little thing, so untamed yet beautiful in its own right. I can almost hear Nicoli's laughter in the way it shuffles its wings, adjusting its position with a confidence that borders on foolish.
The bird tilts its head, blinking once, as if recognizing my gaze. Watching me watch it. One glossy obsidian eye reflects the firelight, creating the illusion of flame captured within darkness.
Mesmerized by the very presence of such a creature, I can not resist. I rise from my chair, the legs scraping against the stone floor with a sound that would normally make me wince. My knees creak slightly, stiff from sitting too long. I move slowly, carefully, not wanting to startle it. Not wanting to break from this little illusion, this impossible visitation.
"You don't belong here." I mutter between amazement and warning. No, this bird could not be.
Such a pretty and sweet birds can not survive here.
The hawks would rip it apart, their talons tearing through those delicate feathers like paper. Snakes would catch it in their jaws, crushing those hollow bones. No, this lovely and soft thing can not live in the harsh sands of our desert. Nothing gentle survives here—not for long. Despite how anyone would wish it were different.
I've known this truth since childhood, felt it carved into my own heart.
"You're not safe here." I warn, drawing closer to the window, my breath fogging before me.
But still, it sits there. Watching me. Both defiant and yet...trusting. Its tiny chest rises and falls with rapid breaths, but it makes no move to flee. The blue of its feathers seems to pulse with each heartbeat, as if lit from within.
Like him.
My heart tightens at the familiar feeling once more, a bittersweet ache that spreads through my chest like mulled wine—warm but with a spiced edge that catches at the back of my throat. It's foolish. Impossible. Yet something inside—some buried instinct or forgotten tether—aches with a certainty that overpowers logic. The sensation is so strong I nearly gasp from it, this knowing that defies explanation.
Nicoli?
My hand reaches to touch the glass, fingertips lightly grazing against the frozen surface. I already feel the cold radiate through and bite my fingers, stealing away what little warmth I possess, numbing the skin until I can barely feel the texture of the glass beneath. The window is clouded with my breath, obscuring my view for a moment before clearing again.
Yet this bird still stays. Looking after me with a steady gaze, as if waiting for me—
Just like that, the bird blinks again, awakening like the wild thing it is. It shakes its head once, a gesture so familiar my heart clenches. It turns, wings opening to reveal their full splendor, and beats them in rapid fire, the sound like distant drumming. It takes for the sky again, a blue dash cutting through the grey clouds, soaring higher and higher with confident strokes.
Eventually disappearing where I can no longer see it, swallowed by the vast ashen sky. Its presence is as sudden as its departure, leaving nothing but a single azure feather spiraling down to rest against the outer ledge. The only sign it was ever there.
Leaving me lost, standing alone, left behind. The cold seeps deeper now, settling into my bones. The room feels wider than before, and the silence is heavier.
"Nicoli?" I whisper, my voice barely audible even to my own ears.
Was that you?
"Ana?"
I nearly screamed at the answer, jerking back so violently my shoulder struck the window frame. Pain lances through me, but it's nothing compared to the shock. I spun around in time to see it was none other than the small boy.
His little stature suddenly appeared by my hip, silent as a shadow. His burgundy eyes reflected against the frozen glass when I looked down, catching the firelight in a way that made them seem to glow from within.
Calm yet focused, as if he's been watching me this entire time.
"Bruno?" I struggle to catch myself, heart thumping wildly in my chest like a caged bird.
How did he get so close to me? I didn't even hear the door open and close, not a single creak of hinges or shuffle of feet across the stone floor. My hands tremble slightly, adrenaline still coursing through my veins.
He's so quiet. I breathe out, uncoiling my shoulders, which had tensed up to my ears. The sudden release sends a cascade of tiny pinpricks down my spine.
No, it's my fault. I was distracted. My eyes steal a glance back at the window, searching the empty sky, the barren sill. But the bird is good and gone, leaving behind nothing but questions and an inexplicable sense of loss that sits heavy in my stomach.
"I didn't mean to scare you," Bruno says honestly. His small voice carries a gentleness that somehow makes my embarrassment worse. "You looked... far away."
"Did I?" I quickly rub my eyes, feeling the grit of fatigue beneath my lids. The cold has left them stinging, or perhaps it's something else entirely.
I must have been so absorbed in looking out the window again that I lost track of myself. That is starting to become a bad habit for me, these moments where reality seems to slip sideways and something else—something impossible-takes its place.
I blink, adjusting once more to the dimness of the room. My hand leaves the glass, fingertips lightly numb from the cold, tingling as warmth returns. The sensation travels up my arm like tiny needles. The fire is back to its usual crackle—no flickers of blue, no whispers to hear. Just ordinary flames consuming ordinary wood.
I smile faintly at Bruno, but it warms as I return to him fully, pulling myself back from wherever my mind had wandered. His presence helps ease this void I feel in my chest, this hollow ache that expanded when the bird vanished. Secretly grateful to him, his presence helps anchor me back to the present by demanding my attention. "It's alright. I was… thinking."
Bruno doesn't press. But his eyes linger on my face, burgundy depths seeming older than his years. His gaze is steady, unflinching, as if he can see I'm not being truthful. However, that's the only thing he can see—not the reason. Yet what he does say surprises me, as it's not that far off from a guess.
"You look sad." The boy's voice is clear, not in question, but a statement. I flinch a little, the words striking something vulnerable within me. He's right. How very perceptive of such a young boy. I've always thought Bruno was smart. But sometimes it does surprise me by how much he notices, how he cuts through pretense with the directness only children possess.
But still–
"I'm not sad." I touch my eyes to return dry fingers to him. "See, look. No tears." I press on a soft smile to ground in the fact that I am alright, or at least, I should be alright. The muscles in my face feel stiff, unpracticed.
But the boy only blinks at me, his expression unchanged. His disbelief is palpable, hanging in the air between us. Not believing my story at all, and making no attempt to hide it.
"You don't need to cry to be sad," Bruno remarks, busying himself with lifting the silver tray in his hands. Or try to. It wobbles as he tries to rise on his tippy toes to push it onto the desk. The cup of fresh blood, my minimum ration for the day, just enough to keep me from growing any colder,nearly toppled over in the jerky motion. The metallic scent wafts upward, rich and coppery, reminding me of how long it's been since I've fed properly.
"Yes, you're right." Unable to refute him, I was again struck by his rather astute wisdom for someone so young. The truth of his words settles in my chest, another weight to carry. But just as quickly, I forget myself as I see the glass clatter, nearly tipping over. The crimson liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim.
"Careful–"I almost reach out to help him, but stop myself as he throws me a hard look, his small features set in determination.
That's right. Bruno doesn't like it when I help. He wants to be strong and do everything on his own.
He keeps insisting on being like a proper knight. I remember him with a tempered smile, like I'm some sort of princess he has to protect from one of our stories.
I suppose a princess and an Empress aren't that far off from each other. Though I feel far less like royalty and more like I still have much more to learn. Even after studying all those years alone, I'm constantly reminded that there is never an end to the work. The duty.
But I am trying. I still have to.
So, I am mindful to play along with him. It takes some effort, squeezing my hands tighter so that I do not fall and go to help, but I try.
And I quickly find it's worth it when Bruno's triumphant smile breaks out when he finally gets the tray over the desk. His burgundy eyes glittered against the fire and candles. A true look of pride in his own work. It's quite infectious.
I'm sure Nicoli is making that same face right now at the party. I can imagine. The thought comes unbidden, bringing with it a fresh wave of longing so intense it feels physical, like a hand squeezing my heart. Another celebration that will go on without me.
"Today was Nicoli's birthday."
"Oh," Bruno cocks his head, his smile shrinking a little for thought. "You mean Prince Nicoli?" He turns to look at his portrait hanging on the wall.
My eyes followed it to shift into a bittersweet smile. For right now, his painting is the only thing I will have to see for his smile. The artist captured his features well—the mischievous tilt to his mouth, the spark in his eyes—but paint can't capture how his laugh sounds, how his presence fills a room. The portrait is both comfort and curse, reminder of what I have to restrain from.
Even if I want to see the real thing, but I push the thought aside, the small hollow in my chest slightly aching, but I still find a reason to smile. For Bruno's sake, if nothing else.
"Yes, Bruno," My hand reaches to pat his head. A job well done that he remembers. "And my brother will be turning –"
"The prince is turning ten today."
Again, I am in pleasant surprise. Bruno remembered even that much?
"Yes," I turned back in surprise. "What a smart boy you are!" I moved to ruffle his shaggy hair, which was starting to grow longer. He was covering his eyes at this point if he didn't comb his hair. The strands slip through my fingers like silk, reminding me of when Nicoli was younger– no, still is unruly. I smile, remembering how the pomade never seemed to keep the curls down against the summer heat.
Maybe I should braid his hair, too? The thought strikes me as a little funny. I have been getting better at it. And it might be easier on someone else.
But I certainly am not near Hidi's or Maddie's level.
The pain of thinking of her is over now, mostly. Just small moments when I do remember her, the rare times, make me stall. I remember how gentle her hands always were, how she would hum softly as she worked, and how the scent of sandalwood mixed with her soap as she worked each curl smooth.
"Are you sad again?" Bruno's voice breaks my thoughts, cutting through memory with the precision of a blade.
"What, no," I laugh a little, being startled at how easily he can pick up my mood. He's almost as good as Nicoli. I should be better about my expressions.
"No, I was just thinking of a good memory, Bruno." I, instead, give him praise, deflecting his concern. My hand returns to his head, fingers gently combing through the tangled strands. "But it's amazing how much you can remember."
If Bruno is already this quick at five, imagine how far he would go when older and with a good education. Bruno would excel. The thought blooms with possibility, a rare brightness in these dim and grey winter days now. "Perhaps I should start thinking of putting you in the academy?"
However, I can imagine there will be pushback from the nobles. Bruno is not nobility. They will stick up their noses at that. But where he may not have the pedigree, he still has something I can not have. He is a boy. He can go, unlike me. The truth of it stings anew, a familiar wound that I still grapple with. Between the tradition of what was and how clearly things could be changed.
Everyone should be allowed an education. Gender or not. Class or not. Even Bruno.
I'm sure I can think up some reason to send him off. Some new kind of act as Empress. I could create some kind of scholarship program or–
"No, please don't!" Bruno grabs my hands. His eyes suddenly flashed with urgency."Don't send me away. Please."
It stuns me how quickly he looks like he is about to panic. His breath comes in quick, shallow gasps, his chest rising and falling rapidly beneath his thin shirt. I can feel the racing of his pulse where his wrist presses against mine. The fear rolling off him is so palpable it nearly chokes me, almost making me forget to speak. "Bruno, I was only—"
"Please, don't send me away. I need to stay here! I have to protect you." The boy goes on frantically. "Ana needs to have a knight! She doesn't know who is trying to–"
"Bruno? " I look after him. " I was only suggesting. I won't if you don't want to." I didn't mean to affect him like this. But the boy seems to grow quiet. His hands were still clenching around my fingers in a vice-like grip.
His expression darkens as if he has a thousand secrets behind his lips. Things he won't tell me but at the same time is desperate to keep. Shadows pool in the hollows of his cheeks, beneath his eyes. In this moment, he looks both older than his years and terribly, vulnerably young.
"Who is trying to what, Bruno?" I finally found my voice, softer, cornered. The words taste like fear on my tongue. What was he going on about? I've never seen him break and be so frantic, so scared.
I move to touch his head to reassure him, my fingers trembling slightly. He flinches—a quick, instinctive movement—and I can see the faint print of some purple around his neck, partially hidden by his collar. My lips turn downward, the sight landing like a blow. Another bruise. Someone got to him again. The knowledge ignites something fierce and protective within me, heat rising to my face.
Is the person hurting him, maybe the one he thinks he needs to protect me from? The thought is chilling. I am about to ask before he speaks over me. His voice is low, quiet, but heavy for his age. The words seem to age him before my eyes.
"I vow to always protect you Ana. As a knight. With valor and honor. Like the ones in our stories." Bruno's voice speaks gravely. When he tilts his head his eyes are cast firm on mine, steady and unwavering despite the tremor in his small frame. "I will protect you. Both of you. Mama and Ana."
My breath escapes me at the sudden confession, something weighing deeper on me as if this meant more than just a child's game. He looks serious. Meaning every word.
"Bruno-" The sound splits the tension between us like lightning through a storm cloud. I feel Bruno's hands tighten once more before reluctantly letting go, leaving behind small red marks where his fingers had pressed.
When I bid them entrance,I find Admiral Nugen barging in first, his heavy boots striking the floor with authority. Nasaka quickly darts in after him in a mix of huffing and annoyance, her skirts swishing around her ankles as she hurries to keep pace with him.
"Your Empress!" Admiral Nugen bows, but his tone is urgent, a blade of tension cutting through the room. Unlike Naska, who is grappling and complaining behind him, his voice carries the weight of immediate danger.
I look between him and her, the contrast striking—his military rigidity against her disheveled state. "What is the meaning of this?"
"He just charged past me," Naska snaps, pointing her finger accusingly. Her face flushed as if she were running from somewhere. The faint red stain of blood shows on her muslin collar, spreading like a blooming flower against the white fabric.
Was someone feeding from her again? I frowned, noticing the telltale marks on her neck, but the thought left me as the human charged into the room, his boots squeaking across the stone floor as if unstoppable. The sound was harsh, yet it was alerting me to something serious.
"Because it's urgent, you damn fool." He spits back at Naska, his tone hard, making her still as he halts long enough to extend the letter over. The parchment trembles slightly in his weathered hand, betraying the gravity of its contents.
"What is?" I begin before my eyes catch the first few lines of the report. My stomach immediately drops as if the floor has fallen away beneath me. My eyes dart up to him in disbelief, the words swimming before me.
"How did this—" But one look up at the stern human is all I need to know he's not here for questions. The grim set of his mouth, the tension in his jaw—he is here for action. And I know I have to be as well. Time is of the essence.
"Gather everyone." I take a shallow breath, forcing my face to stay composed as the news rattles me. My heart beats irregular, thrashing in my ears anew as this is the last thing I need. The room suddenly feels too warm, too close, despite the chill from the window.
But I need to be calm. I need to be orderly. The mantra repeats in my head like a ward against panic.
Empresses don't panic.
I bite my lip to steady myself, tasting copper as my fang breaks the skin. I wait until I can trust my voice again, swallowing the metallic taste of my own blood. "We need to hold a meeting."
"Right now? It's almost—" Naska goes looking at the clock, her protest half-formed as she glances at the late hour.
"Right now. Go." I turn sharply snapping my braid like a whip, throwing my chains with a soft clatter in the motion. The weight of the crown presses down harder as I force my head to stay upright, my neck stiff with the effort.
I can't show fear. Not now. Not ever. Everyone will be watching me, judging every flicker of emotion, every hesitation. I must act correctly.
Because there is going to be an uproar in court. I know with a sinking feeling, cold dread pooling in my stomach like ice water. They didn't like my plans before. But the pushback then was nothing compared to what's coming. I can already hear their voices, see their faces contorted with outrage. The phantom sounds of their dissent already ring in my ears—a cacophony of protest before the first word is even spoken.
If this report is true, I know their outrage will be deafening. The weight of it threatens to crush me before they've even assembled.
The parchment crinkles under my grip, the report's words seared into my mind, a refrain growing louder with each step.
The Bulgeons have attacked.
Not a skirmish. Not a misunderstanding. An outright attack. On both sides.
And with it, my fragile foundation to build relations is beginning to crack beneath my feet.
"How did this even happen?" My voice is barely more than a breath as I push into the hall. The shadows along the corridor stretch unnaturally long in the low firelight, cold and grasping.
Admiral Nugen is close behind me, his steady footsteps a counterpoint to my racing heartbeat. His presence right now may be the only one standing by my side.
My palm stings where the parchment's edge has cut it. I don't loosen my grip. The sting helps keep me anchored. Because the words are burning in my head on repeat, each repetition more shrill and cutting than the last. They echo like screams in an empty chamber, making everything feel all the more shattered as I find myself yet again forced to confront that my plans for peace, for civilized diplomacy, are once again under scrutiny.
And this time... they might not be wrong.
I'm trying everything I can to avoid bloodshed. Using every piece of advice, every tidbit of knowledge gleaned from those rulers before us. To build something better, smarter. Something for the future of Nocthen. But this report slams like a nail into a coffin. The soft thud of finality.
It will not matter what I say. The court will rise like a tide of teeth. I can already see them—fangs bared, eyes gleaming with bloodlust barely suppressed as it was.
And I don't know if I can stop it. The realization settles in my chest like a stone, cold and immovable.
For a flickering moment—just one—my mind drifts again to the fire. To that impossible blue spark. To the whisper I thought I heard. The memory feels impossibly distant now, as if from another life entirely.
"Ana."
I had almost believed it.
I see his eyes again—Nicoli's eyes—reflected in a bird that shouldn't exist, in a moment that shouldn't have happened. The vivid blue that somehow managed to pierce through the gray shades that must color my life right now. I imagine the party, the warmth, the candles, and the laughter that I will never be part of. The cake with ten candles, the presents wrapped in bright paper, the songs, and the smiles. All of it beyond my reach, separated by more than just distance.
As much as I longed for it—to have been there, to be simple, to be his sister and just that—I am not.
I am Empress.
And this is the price. I press the report tighter to my chest, forcing the ache down where no one can see.
The court will demand blood for this. And if I cannot hold the line… I may have to give it to them. The thought makes bile rise in my throat, but I swallow it down. There is no room for weakness now.
I have no more time to wish for dreams.
Only war.