*Ana*
As I enter the courtroom, the air feels thick with tension. The pressure was palpable, clinging to my tongue and nearly choking me with its intensity. The once-bright and spacious room now seems cut off and cramped. Everything is now cast in shadow, the dying embers of the fire pits providing weak light where the candles flicker.
Long shadows dance across the room, stretching out like long, thin tendrils, casting everyone present into a veil of darkness and ominous hues of orange and red. The air hangs forzene, weighted with a silence I know will not hold long. Like a dam holding back the raging sea, the cracks were already forming in their foundation.
It's this brief moment before the storm that I find small refuge and gather what little resolve I can have. But the sensation of red eyes on me, all judging eyes, makes me all the more aware of how lonely sitting on the throne feels right now. More so, among the small crowd that has gathered, not a single person looks at me kindly.
Oh, how I long to see a pair of sapphire eyes gazing at me now, offering encouragement and strength. But Father is not here.
His absence cuts just a little deeper as I must tread these unforeseen waters without his aid or advice.
I must act as Empress. Unprepared– yet, I must act.
No one speaks as I take my seat. My hands immediately moved to grip the armrest. Pressing my claws into the dark wood as I peer over the room, taking in the small group. The meeting is small due to the emergency. Only the essentials are here.
But I know word of this will break by morning. And with it, the gossip. The maids will wag their tongues, the Lords will laugh, the Ladies will sneer. They will start questioning my authority. Again.
Putting doubt in those who would want to support me, to think again. Support, I still need.
A shiver runs through me, causing my chains to rattle traitorously above my head, the silver crown shifting against my red shawl. No. I cannot appear weak. Not now.
I straighten my spine, molding my posture into that of a ruler, not just a thirteen-year-old girl all alone, fighting against a sea of doubters.
I'm not completely alone. I remind myself.
Spying his brown eyes first. Below the dias, Admiral Nugen takes his usual spot alongside his men. His back straight, his gaze firm. But it's not harsh, rather, aware, alert.
That small assurance fills a crack in my resolve, allowing me to breathe more evenly, to sit taller. Calmer. And I hope it will give me enough strength to act accordingly without faltering.
I clear my throat, the sound echoing against the walls like a bird smacking into glass. My breath hangs in the air as I begin.
"How did this happen, exactly?" My words ring out across the room, steady, but underneath, I can feel my stomach coiling. A mixture of pain and disbelief, of resentment and frustration, starting to blend together. It only grows more potent as my council fails to respond.
Some members exchange glances of open defiance, as if my question were beneath consideration. Others maintain carefully neutral expressions, caught between duty and their private judgments. Only Admiral Nugen and his military men regard me with something approaching respect.
The continued silence cuts deeper than any blade. My jaw tightens as the first sparks of anger begin to replace my fear.
"I said, why was there an attack in the first place?" I raise my voice, the edge of frustration now overtaking my earlier nervousness. "What went wrong?"
A scoff breaks the silence—Sir Bevill, one of the younger council members who gained his position through his father rather than merit. He tilts his head with unearned confidence, clearly presuming to speak for all present.
"This is war, Your Empress," he replies, his gaze lingering on the loose strands of hair escaping my shawl. A momentary curl of his lip reveals a flash of fang before he masks his disgust. "These things happen."
"These things?" The words escape me in a breath of disbelief, my initial fear now completely eclipsed by growing outrage at his casual dismissal. "These are not just things, Sir Bevill, they are people—"
"People?" Another lord interjects with a sneer. "They are just humans."
A ripple of chuckles spreads through the gathering, eyes now regarding me with open contempt.
Just human?
The words strike me like a physical blow. My unease vanishes entirely, replaced by honest anger. My claws dig deeper into the wood as disgust fills me—not just at their words but at the ease with which they laugh about bloodshed, at how quickly they dismiss lives lost as inconsequential. Human or not.
No, it's worse. There shouldn't be any distinction.
A life was a life.
I sit up. Finding rage takes place over the very idea. The fact hardened by their frivolity, their smiles, and their quick dismissal as if this were to be expected. But it wasn't. Not to me.
"I don't care who they are. This is not WAR." I thought I made myself clear, how that is not what I had wanted. And yet here they are again, insisting on using violence.
"We are not at war with the Bulgeons. This is–" Just as my voice begins to rise, the soft shift in the air takes my attention.
A side door, a servant's door, opens from the side before a quick flash of red darts out. It clings to the side, quiet enough that no one notices. But I do with a surprised brow to find the small boy.
I blink. Bruno?
I watch him curiously slip from the side, keeping low to the ground. His small frame doubled over as he found a pillar to tuck behind. In a moment, his whole body disappeared behind the massive block. It's like he was never there. Only gives away his spot when he peeks out. Burgundy eyes immediately find mine before darting back to the safety of the fixture.
What is he doing? I linger on him, but no one else seems even to notice he was here.
Another voice cuts through the tension—older, measured, deceptively reasonable. It belongs to a Lord with graying hair pulled into a tight ponytail. His eyes, though not as openly contemptuous as the others, hold something perhaps more dangerous—pity.
"I understand you are upset, but Her Empress is too sensitive." He speaks with calculated precision, each word placed like a chess piece. "But this is why women shouldn't be involved in war. You lack what only a man can offer—"
Before he can finish, Admiral Nugen surges from his side, the scrape of his boots against stone like thunder in the silent chamber. His hand flies to his sword, the metal singing as it slides partially from its scabbard—a sound that freezes the blood of everyone present.
"Care to repeat that, Sir Frush?!" Nugen looms over the nobleman, shoulders hunched to enhance his already imposing height. His voice drips with naked aggression, the kind that promises violence rather than merely threatens it. "What does our Empress lack?" Each word is a blade as he advances, hand white-knuckled on the hilt, eyes blazing with a fury that makes even the bravest council member flinch.
Sir Frush's face crumples at the sight of imminent violence. He bows his head with a hasty apology, but can't resist one final barb.
"Forgive me, I was just saying that as a woman, she will never be..." His voice trails off as he meets Nugen's gaze again, thinking better of finishing the thought. He retreats to the back of the group, but the damage is done—the sentiment hangs in the air like poison.
Their momentary silence gives me precious seconds to collect myself. I force my face into a mask of imperial calm, though beneath it, the words cut deeper than any blade.
Never be what? Strong enough? Respected enough? Worthy enough? These doubts have been my constant companions since taking the throne, but I cannot—will not—let them see how they wound me.
I just need to prove myself.
Then they'll see. My claws lightly scratch at the wood of my throne, releasing the soft scent of cedar that cuts through the oppressive smell of smoke. The clean, sharp aroma steadies me, anchoring me to the present moment rather than the vortex of self-doubt threatening to drag me under.
"My command was for a camp of surveillance and delegates to set up in the trade passage," I say, my voice deliberately even. "It was meant to be a peaceful occupation. So why did that change?"
I draw in a sharp breath, tasting the freezing air on the back of my throat. It burns like old blood—thick and clotted—but I remain outwardly impassive. The silence stretches as I refuse to break eye contact with my council.
"Why does the admiral have reports of casualties? On both sides. Bulgeon and us?"
My gaze sweeps across the council members, watching them shift uncomfortably under my scrutiny. What I see is a tapestry of barely contained resentment—flashes of anger and defiance that ripple through the group like wind through tall grass. Yet there are also more subdued expressions, eyes darting nervously toward Nugen as if calculating whether rebellion is worth the risk. The seditious energy that crackled in the air moments ago has dampened, though I can feel it still smoldering beneath the surface, waiting for the slightest breeze to reignite.
As if sensing this precarious balance, Nugen lifts his head, the jagged scar across his eye catching the ember-light as he glares over the assembled nobles.
"Your Empress asked you a question," he repeats, each word a hammer striking iron. His voice carries the weight of his position—and the threat of his sword.
"Watch it, human," someone hisses from the back. The slur is hurled like a stone, revealing the bitter resentment that festers within my court—not just toward me, but toward any human who dares claim authority. Several muttered curses follow, but they quickly die away as cooler heads prevail. Even the most belligerent among them recognize this is not a battle they can win. Not here. Not now.
When at last someone breaks the stalemate, it is the shortest councilor in the group. His hands clench and unclench at his sides, betraying his agitation as his gaze darts between Nugen and me.
"We did as you ordered, Your Empress," he begins, voice tight with suppressed emotion. "But they were ready."
I furrow my brows, confusion momentarily displacing my anger. "Ready? What do you mean?"
"They were waiting." Another lord steps forward, voice sharp as a blade's edge. "They had arrows and crossbows."
"What?" The revelation strikes me like a physical blow. My eyes snap to Admiral Nugen, seeking confirmation or denial, but his expression mirrors my own shock.
"I had no reports of them owning such weapons," Nugen shakes his head, visibly processing this new information. "All their attacks are close range. Just swords of iron. Hand-to-hand combat—"
"You calling me a liar, Admiral Nugen?!" A lord lunges forward, voice rising with the collective indignation that suddenly resurfaces throughout the chamber. The dam breaks—mouths moving rapidly, fangs flashing as the revelation emboldens them. The noise builds to a feverish pitch that explodes outward, voices colliding and overlapping in a cacophony of outrage and accusation.
"They had arrows! Crossbows!" Lord Coolidge cries, his fangs fully extended, as he looks to his fellow members for support. His cries are met with a chorus of agreement, the anger palpable.
Sir Anders slams his fist hard into his chest. "It was a bloodbath! They were walking into a trap!"
"A trap?" My mind spins with the implications, the floor seeming to tilt beneath me. Was that what happened? The image forms unbidden—horses carrying more delegates than armed soldiers, officials dressed in formal regalia, prepared for peaceful negotiations... only to be met with a rain of arrows from the shadows.
A visceral shiver races up my spine as I imagine their final moments—the confusion, the panic, the fear they must have felt as they realized too late what was happening. Sent to die. By me.
Because I insisted on trying to start with peace? To be diplomatic? To try something new, something different from the endless cycle of violence?
The thought cracks open like an egg, spilling hot, bitter despair through my chest. My claws dig deeper into the wood of my throne, the satisfying crunch doing nothing to drown out the voice now screaming in my head.
Because of me. Because of me. Because of me.
"Your Empress, we had no choice but to attack." Lord Sasin steps forward, his robes swishing as the others fall quiet, his seniority among the counselors commanding immediate attention. His voice carries the weight of decades of experience—experience that even Admiral Nugen acknowledges with a grudging respect, his hand finally dropping from his sword.
Lord Sasin doesn't look at me with the same naked contempt as the others. His anger runs deeper and more controlled—anger that this happened at all. That this could have been prevented. He doesn't need to say it; I can feel the accusation in his weighted stare.
This happened because of me.
"What's done is done, Your Empress," Lord Sasin continues, his voice even, setting him further apart from his more volatile colleagues. But his measured tone strikes deeper than their shouts, like a knife slipping between ribs. "What we need to do now is plan what to do going forward. What is it you want us to do?"
His words hang in the air, the question loaded with implications. The council's eyes return to me like predators tracking wounded prey. They wait, watching for any sign of weakness, any tremor that might confirm what they already believe—that I am too young, too female, too human in my empathy to lead them through the blood and fire of war.
And somewhere deep inside, a terrible doubt begins to take root for just a moment: what if they're right?
A gentle but deliberate pressure on my right shoulder stirs me. It's Mykhol, who has come up to my side now. His presence was warm against the freezing room. My body was unintentionally leaning towards it like a flower to the sun.
His smile is soft, not the one for court, but for me. He keeps his hand on my shoulder, fingers splayed, not possessively, but purposefully grounding. The touch soothes... but awakens something else in my chest. An ache I don't fully understand.
"What do you want, Ana?" He asks, almost whispers, just for me to hear. But it's so quiet in the large spacious room, even his voice can carry to the very shadows that fill the corners.
He leans in, brushing a loose strand of hair behind my ear. A gentle motion. One he's done before, though rarely here, in front of so many others. It doesn't feel inappropriate, just… noticeable.
His eyes hold mine, steady and warm, like he's trying to remind me I'm not alone. And in this moment, I welcome it. No.
I need it.
"Do you want to stay with your plan?" he murmurs again, voice smooth. "To still try to make the Bulgeons citizens? Even after this?"
The question strikes something real. I turn it over in my mind, the meaning layered, the cost shifting.
Still–My tongue presses to the roof of my mouth, but the answer comes at last.
"The plan doesn't change. We are still going to work on peaceful negotiations. I will not have more bloodshed." If I can help it, I answer.
Immediately, a snap of disgruntled voices rises from the council.
"How can you still want to–They've killed our men!" A lord growls.
"Your Empress, don't be foolish!" Another cries.
"Just accept it. Your supposed plans have already failed. We need to retaliate and–"
"Her Empress has spoken," The voice booms beside me, but it's not Admiral Nugen. It my cousin's. He straightens to his full height, his hand still resting on my shoulder. Firm, but not forceful. As though holding the space around me still.
"We continue with the plan until she says otherwise."
He looks across the room, meeting the eyes of each man who'd raised his voice. Quieting them not with volume, but with certainty. His words backing mine.
A quick flicker of confusion falls over some of the men, but it soon disappears. Heads nod. If anyone were to question me, they don't seem to for Mykhol.
The change in behavior does not go unmissed, but I pushed it to the back of my mind for now. More important things are coming to mind. Things that need to be answered now.
"We will continue as I planned." I repeat again, "But I will have more men armed. We will have tighter security." I swallow then, as I feel yet another fracture in my original plan. Another pushback, but it will have to do for now.
I can still fix this. It's just going to take more work. But I'll figure it out.
It's just a daunting task that is made harder because I don't have Father here. His advice, his insight. I am without even Hidi's guidance.
But I'm not all alone– My eyes lift to Mykhol. His smile has grown to something between the practiced one he always makes and the one just for me. It was strange in between, an act for them, but support for me.
And it is helping. I see, finding the councilmen still watching, listening. I must take it.
"That will be all." I lift my hand to signal they may go. "Court dismissed." I see the men nod, be it, with still heated looks at me before bowing out. They leave quietly out the door. Their footsteps echoed between the soft crackle of the fire and the air still heavy with the aftermath.
I, however, do not move.
Still seated on the blue cushion, the pain is only now noticeable. Dull and throbbing in my hands. I'd clenched them too tightly, for too long. With effort, I uncurl my fingers, each crack of movement sharp and stiff. Deep crescent moons have been carved into the polished wood beneath them. A quiet testament to my failure.
My first real one.
I trace the dents with trembling fingertips, following the shallow grooves like graves I've dug with my own hands. Each indentation represents a person who will never return home, never laugh again, never see another sunrise. The weight of this realization threatens to crush me.
Mykhol hasn't moved far. He's still beside me. Still here. That familiar scent—tobacco and pepper—softly wraps around the air between us. It pulls something down from where it had been hovering too high. Grounding, in a way. Not enough to clear my thoughts, but enough to keep them from tipping entirely.
I don't look at him. I can't. To meet anyone's eyes now would shatter what little composure I have left.
I swallow down the thick knot rising in my throat, feeling it scrape like broken glass, and shift my gaze toward the high windows. Outside, the light is gone. Night has crept in, veiling the sky in a darkness that mirrors the hollow emptiness expanding inside my chest.
Nicoli's birthday is long over now.
A day that should have been filled with laughter, with cake and stories and brightness—with the innocent joy that I, as a thirteen-year-old girl, should still be allowed to feel. Instead, it's been stained with blood I can never wash away. The contrast squeezes my heart until I can barely breathe, each inhale a betrayal of those who will never draw breath again.
"Your Empress?" Admiral Nugen's voice pierces the silence. He's watching, but not me—Mykhol. His eyes flick to the hand still resting on my shoulder, a flicker of something unreadable behind them before he continues, measured. "Shall we return?"
"Yes, that—" The words die on my tongue like ash.
Return? The thought of walking back to my bed, to my safe, warm room—it suddenly feels obscene. How dare I seek comfort when there are people who will never return to their homes? People whose last moments were terror and pain, while I sat protected behind these walls?
Because there are people who will never do that again.
Because their blood is on my hands.
Something fractures inside me—a dam holding back emotions too vast for my small frame. A violent tremble runs through my body, rattling my bones and my crown. For the first time in a long time, I feel completely weak. The tears well up, hot and stinging, as that final tether of control snaps.
"No, I don't—" I turn away, instinctively hiding my face, shame burning hotter than the tears threatening to fall. Empresses do not cry. They don't break. They bear the weight with dignity and grace.
They don't shatter like this.
I need to control myself. I have to be strong. I need to–
A shadow falls before me. Mykhol stands between me and their prying eyes. I didn't even have to ask—he already knew. Of course he does. He's witnessed every moment of my struggle to become what everyone demands I be.
"I want a moment with my cousin first," Mykhol excuses easily, his practiced smile already on for them. "I'll take her back to her room after."
"Your Empress?" Admiral Nugen's voice stiffens, but Mykhol doesn't move. He stands there, a shield protecting me from view, from the humiliation of being seen with eyes that glisten with unshed tears—a weakness unforgivable in an Empress.
"If I may, I'd rather stay-"
"No, it's getting late." I manage, my voice thin and shaking, the tears already pushing at the corners of my eyes."Go ahead. You should rest. Humans need to sleep around this time."
The attempt at humor falls flat, but they hear what I mean.
Admiral Nugen hesitates a moment before exhaling lowly. "Then, if I can't, then Sir Pendwick-"
"Yes, I can stay." Sir Pendwick steps up with eagerness, "I can walk you back–"
"What's with you two?" My voice cracks, betraying the control I don't have. "I don't need someone else. It's only my cousin."
That silences them. Long enough that, eventually, Admiral Nugen bows, and Sir Pendwick nods before both leave the room.
And no sooner than they do, does the last of my strength crumble. My tears burn down my cheeks like acid, carving paths of shame and guilt. They fall heavy and laden with the weight of lives lost—lives I was responsible for protecting. No one is meant to see this collapse. No one.
Because Empresses don't cry. Empresses don't fail.
Soundlessly, Mykhol's hands move before I can stop them—cupping my face gently. Brushing my hair, his voice soft and gentle as he hushes and soothes me. He kneels before me. His thumbs are smooth as they rub at the tears that just keep coming.
My skin prickles at his touch, but I don't dare think to move away. No, I draw closer, starving for comfort. My body falls forward like a wounded animal seeking shelter, trembling as I continue to weep bitterly. Each sob tears from my throat, stealing my breath and leaving me gasping.
"Why did people have to die, Mykhol?" My words choke up between tears. "No one was supposed to–"
Mykhol's lips press against my temple. He is leaning over me, tilting my chin up as he looks down at me. His grip was firm but not painful. A strange, soft smile, something different, one I've never seen, pulls up as he takes me in.
"War and love never go as we expect, Ana." His voice is soft as his vermilion eyes look down on me. A warmth in them that feels familiar yet strange at the same time. "I would know."
"You—" But the words vanish, swallowed by his warmth as he presses another kiss to my temple. His hands running over my face, my arms, touching everything. Spreading fire through my frozen core, melting the ice that had formed around my heart. Warmth that I didn't realize I needed.
Starved for it.
I can't help but lean into him. My need to be held, to be comforted, is greater than my logic or my pride. Mykhol is the only one I can ask this of. The only one I won't have to worry about pushing me away. The only one who has been here through the years when no one else was.
My hands cling to his robes, fingers curling into the fabric as if I might drown if I let go. In this rare, unguarded moment, I allow myself this weakness. Just this once. These tears that burn paths down my cheeks—I permit them now, in the darkness, where only Mykhol can witness.
But never again, I promise myself even as I sob. This is the last time I will fail so completely. The last time death will claim what is under my protection because of my decisions. I will learn from this. I must.
I am Empress. There is no room for failure when lives hang in the balance. No space for the luxury of tears when an empire looks to me for strength.
Tomorrow, I will be better. Harder. Wiser. I will wear my crown without faltering.
But tonight, just tonight, I am a thirteen-year-old girl who had the weight of an empire thrust upon her shoulders.
*Bruno*
Bruno stayed squished in his hiding spot long after the two finally left. His fingers felt like icicles, all tingly and sore from the cold air. The firepits that were once glowing orange and red had turned to sleepy gray, all but burnt away, leaving him to stand in the dark.
But the dark was better for hiding. Nobody ever looked in the dark places. No need to hide.
Bruno wiggled out from his secret spot, his whole body crying from staying still for so long. His knees made crackly noises, and his arms felt like when his foot falls asleep—all prickly and weird. But he pressed his lips together tight-tight, not making even a peep. Didn't want to be heard. To be found.
It would be better if he did go unnoticed, especially now, when everything was starting.
It's going just as they said it would. Bruno frowned, remembering the meeting. Their plans.
Feet, quite as he stepped into the glowing embers left in the fire pit. His hands reached for warmth. But the cold was nasty. It bit into his skin, down to the bone.
It was sharp like the pointy fangs and claws of the monsters in Ana's stories. Cutting like Ana's cries.
Bruno stiffened, remembering the awful sound. The sight burned into the back of his mind. Ana was in tears. She was crying.
They made her cry. His princess was in trouble. He needed to save her.
But what could he do? Bruno froze, not sure. What would a knight do? The boy had to think.
Knights had swords to fight dragons. But Bruno had no sword. He couldn't even lift one.
But could he do something else? He had to think. Knights were smart, after all. They could outwit the mightiest wizard and the greediest troll. They could answer every witch's riddle.
If he were just to be that smart, like all the knights in Ana's books–
"A book!?" Something suddenly sparked across Bruno's mind. A strange event that happened not too long ago. It was when Lord Charles got angry with him. The one time he ever did.
It had to do with a book. Bruno could remember. He had found a book, but it was odd. It didn't have words. It was full of lines and numbers.
Never having seen such a funny book before, he asked what it was. But Lord Charles' face immediately grew dark red, and he told him not to touch it. And then snatched the book away. Throwing it in the safe and spinning the lock.
Only important things were in the safes. Bruno knew that for sure, 'cause he'd peeked when the safe was open before. It was filled with sparkly jewels that made rainbows on the wall and heavy bags that clinked with gold coins. Things grown-ups didn't want sitting around because bad guys might take them.
Whatever was in that book … maybe it was related to what they were planning? Bruno lingered as the logs shifted with a low crackle. His burgundy eyes glowed up in the shock of ember before falling to almost black again as his eyes shifted back to the now-empty throne. The one where Ana had cried.
The sounds. They were just as hurtful as Mama when she cried, when the bad man hurt her.
Bruno reached into his pocket to touch the stitched heart. The touch eased his mind, but it also built his courage. It was Ana's magic charm.
Like in the princess story, where the beautiful lady gave her knight a special handkerchief to take to battle for good luck.
He was Ana's knight. He promised her. He promised.
The book was probably still inside that safe. He didn't know the secret code—what did they call it again? The combo? Yeah, that. But he could figure it out. He just had to watch. And wait. And be ready.
Because Ana cried. And knights don't let princesses cry.
Not ever.
Bruno squeezed the little heart, then let it go. He slipped from the room like a shadow, quiet and quick.
He'd made his vow.
Now it was time to start saving his princess.