*Ana*
The courtyard is quieter than I expected. Or is it only me who thinks that? I smile sadly to myself.
I knew this day would come. Just like winter—it always does.
And winter has indeed arrived at last, pushing the last embers of autumn to the wayside. It comes not with a grand display, but with a silence that makes the very stones feel older. A hush lingers under the charcoal sky, heavy with clouds that threatened snow. Never will. And the air carries that clean, sharp scent of ice, mixing with the smell of sand.
The wind is low but pressing, demanding as if it needs somewhere to go. It finds the seams of my cloak soon enough, eagerly slipping past the silver clasp at my throat and brushing cold fingers against my neck.
I shiver and burrow deeper into my robes for warmth.
I wore my warmest clothing this morning—a grey cloak lined with soft mink, thick gloves, fur-lined boots. But still, I don't feel warm. Not truly. I felt cold in a way that settled in places thicker than my skin. Taking residence somewhere within and around my heart.
But I am Empress. This is my duty—to see them off properly.
Just breathe, Ana. I tell myself, glancing across the pathway. I take in those who came—or rather, those who remain.
Not many.
The turnout is smaller than I had hoped, though not surprising. Most who came for my coronation have already gone, quick to retreat to their own estates. The celebration was over. With their duty done and no more games or feasts to entice them, there was nothing left for them here, not with winter creeping in.
Even Lord Zaver, with his flamboyant silks and ever-changing entourage, vanished days ago. No letter. No goodbyes. Just gone, sometime in the twilight hours before dawn. I wonder if I should be upset or relieved by the sudden departure. They were more of a hindrance than a help, really, what with lingering in the halls, disrupting what little routine I had left.
They moved through these halls like perfumed ghosts.
Now they're gone. I can finally breathe again. Return to what I know.
Usual faces like Admiral Nugen, his quiet but steady posture, who stands with his men. Save for a few new faces like Sir Pendwick and his grandfather, the venerable Sir Celbest, both standing a short distance off. Now, here to help my father. Behind me, my aunt and uncle give me space. Or pretend to.
Only Mykhol remains close, a quiet presence. As if he knows how hard this is for me. To say goodbye.
They're off to Dawny for Nicoli's tenth birthday—a proper celebration, no doubt, filled with warmth and song.
A celebration I—
I clench my gloved hands. I can't let the thought finish.
As if reading my mind, Hidi turns to me one last time, her long blonde hair plaited in thick coils that bounce slightly as she walks. Her smile is still bright, unaffected by the wind, and she is no doubt not even feeling the cold. She doesn't even seem affected by the gravity of goodbyes.
"Are you sure you don't want to come?" she asks, reaching for my hand with an airy laugh. "You could leave everything and ride in my carriage with me, ja?"
I try to laugh back, but the joke is so off-center. I could never. "Leave everything?" I echo, blinking. "No. I… I can't do that. I still have a lot of work to do here. Now that I've been crowned, I need to stay on top of things. There's too much that needs attention."
She says it like it's simple. Like I could just leave. As if duty were something I could shrug off, too. Is that how she did things? Again, it makes me wonder just how seriously Hidi takes her crown.
She was a queen. She certainly had the attitude of one. Herself bold, opinionated, charging in with her own beat. Loud and strong like any giant would be.
Yet, I still get the lingering impression that there is something rather childish about her approach. She seems to have no interest in the less glamorous portion of being a ruler. The paperwork she needs to go through. The meetings she needs to attend.
She simply does as she likes. Leaving her mother and others to pick up the pieces.
Something about that doesn't completely sit right with me. But perhaps her ruling style was different. Easier. Or just... freer.
And maybe, just for a moment, I wish I could have that kind of freedom too.
But I can't. I'm not just a woman on the throne—I'm half vampire, half human. A reminder of a union this court would rather forget. My silver hair makes sure no one ever does.
To them, I'll always be something unnatural. A compromise. So I have to work twice as hard, be twice as good, just to prove I belong here. That I can rule.
And I will.
I suppose we all have our way of ruling.
"Thank you, but no thank you, Hidi. I want to make sure things go well. It's too soon to go." My breath curls in the air as I speak, each word briefly visible before the wind steals it away.
Hidi shrugs, brushing invisible dust from her sleeve with a flick of her wrist, nonchalant as always. "If you say so."
She paused, just for a breath, but something shifted in her eyes—something amused and strangely soft.
"I'll give Nicoli your love, then."
Your love— My heart gives a small, unexpected tug of guilt.
Stop it. There will be other birthdays. Nicoli will understand that I can't leave now.
"He'll be so green once I see him," she added with a wide grin, "I got to spend all this time with you, and he didn't. I can't wait to tease him."
"Hidi," I scuff at her in disbelief. "That's terrible."
The giant, however, only shrugs again, but I can recognize what she is doing. She is trying to cheer me up.And it helps.
I smile, small but real.
Hidi nods before shifting her gaze over me, to look behind, her gaze moving in a lazy overview of the small gathering. Her eyes regard my Aunt and Uncle distantly before lingering on my cousin. He smiles with a soft bob of his head in respect.
Hidi clicks her tongue with a sigh. "Though it has been fun and I wish I could stay longer." She drawls, with a slight pout, a pout, however, changes into something that made her pause. Her wide lips crack into a wicked grin. "But, I see you are in good hands."
"Good hands?" I repeat, blinking. I follow her gaze and find it fixed—unmistakably—on Pendwick.
The boy immediately straightens next to his grandfather. A flush spreads over his freckled cheeks, blooming red like he's been caught in a lie. His hands rise to his chest, fluttering aimlessly before he catches himself and clamps them awkwardly at his sides.
He's dressed almost too well again. Midnight blue cloak pulled tight at the neck, the clasp shining like polished silver. His red hair is neatly pleated and tucked behind his ears, boots buffed to a high shine— he looked like he was about to deliver a speech or propose a treaty.
It wasn't the first time, either. He had looked just as polished—if not more—on the day my father reintroduced him with that strange formality, as if I hadn't already known who he was. As if Pendwick had been preparing for something important.
Something more than just a visit.
Even now, standing quietly beside Sir Celbest, he seems poised for something I can't quite name. The clothes, the posture, the carefully smoothed hair—it's all too purposeful. Too considered.
Does he have somewhere important to be after this? Or is he always like this now?
I wonder, distracted, before a soft scuff draws my attention. It's Hidi. Her peridot eyes are practically glowing.
"Gods, Ana," she says, voice syrupy with amusement. "You aren't even trying, and you've gone and gotten yourself another one."
"Another what?" I ask, confused. My gaze flickers back to Pendwick, who quickly lowers his eyes with a sheepish smile and flushes even darker.
A short, delighted chuckle bursts from Hidi's throat. "You really don't see it?"
"See what?"
She tilts her head at me, exaggerated in disbelief. "Oh, Ana. You are painfully oblivious sometimes." Her shoulder nudges mine with playful force. "Though it is fun to watch. Who doesn't love seeing a desperate man unravel?"
"Desperate?" I echo, baffled. "Who are you—"
But Hidi only grins, giving me the most maddening shrug of her life.
Then, without warning, she sweeps me into a hug.
She's overwhelming with heat—her body warm and solid as she pulls me close, the contrast stark against my cold cloak.
The press of her warmth seeps through the velvet, through the frost-touched layers I wear.
She smells like lemon and sage—sharp, fresh, and grounding.
I stiffen out of habit, then let myself rest in it. For just a moment. For just a count.
"Visit me in Almony as soon as you can," she whispers near my ear. Her voice is low, but there's weight to it. "You promised you would."
I laugh softly, surprised she remembered. "Of course, Hidi. When I can." However, I don't know when that will be.
Almony. I try to imagine what it might be like—the Kingdom of Giants, the land of mountains and snow. It feels distant. Unreal.
Even though Almony shares a border with Nochten, it is a world away. Women are expected to rule there, without question or doubt.
How nice that must be.
"But until then, you'll write?"she asks suddenly, pulling me back to the present.
I nod. "I will."
She narrows her eyes, not buying it. "I mean it." Her fingers reach up to pinch my cheek.
"If you don't—"
"I know," I say, swatting her hand away. "I'm sure you'll come storming up my door."
"Ja, then you do know me," she says, tapping the tip of my nose. Her breath fogs slightly in the chill, and her chest rises with a gust of exhale.
Her expression turned serious for half a breath—too fast to grab—but it vanished behind her usual grin. "You really should pay more attention to things, though little Ana." Her voice lingers a moment as her eyes gaze over the Palace one last time. "As advice from one queen to another."
Hidi turned toward the carriage, calling for someone to fetch her gloves—then remembered they were already on her hands.
"Right," she mutters, turning back to flash a great grin at me. "Tell Pendwick he looks nice. You might knock the poor boy over."
"Knock over?" I blink, but she's already laughing again, her voice echoing off the stone like a chime of mischief. I watch her go, not sure if I've just been teased… or warned.
And just like that, she is off. Her heels crunch against the limestone path, quick and carefree. I watch her climb the carriage ladder with practiced ease, turning only once to throw me a bright, exaggerated wave—like this was nothing at all, like she wasn't about to travel a week's journey away.
Hidi is so strange. So bright, so light.
Even now, as she leaves, she turns it into some kind of performance—one final laugh before the curtain closes. I can't help but feel swept into the whirl of her presence, even if just a little.
But as her carriage door shuts and the latches click into place, the quiet rushes back.
And with it, the weight of the real goodbye.
The one I've been dreading all morning. My smile slips, the amusement hollowing into something else. Something heavier.
Because now it's my father's turn.
And judging by how slowly he begins to approach me, hands clasped behind his back, I can see it in him too. The same heaviness. The same reluctance.
This is the goodbye neither of us wants to make. But a goodbye we must.
There is a stillness between us—longer than there should be. Heavy and quiet. And for a moment, all I can think about is how not so long ago, I ran to him in the rose garden. Tears on my cheeks. Arms thrown around his neck.
He held me without hesitation, pressing me close like he could make up for all the years he hadn't.
I had cried then. I always seemed to cry around him. He brought it out of me—this aching, unfamiliar softness.
And now, here I am again on the brink of tears. But this time, I won't let them fall. I can't.
Because I have already been greedy, I turn to face him. My mouth opened to speak, but the words failed me as the soft, low wind billows faintly to shift my shawl. My gold chains rattle against my silver crown. Some loose strands are breaking free from my braid as I stand. We stand just gazing after each other.
For a moment, I can't tell if the sting in my eyes is from the cold or something else. Father seems to be struggling with the same mysterious pain, but in the end, he can manage to speak first.
"It'll just be a few weeks," he starts softly, taking both my hands in his, "But I swear I will be back as soon as I can, Ana."
His hands are warm and soft, the heat piercing right into my chest. Make me feel that phantom tickle in my eyes again. But I will not cry. I cannot.
I'm older now—an Empress—and Empresses cannot afford tears.
Already, the cold feels sharper, as if even the sun is preparing to follow him. I let it pass. Not because I don't feel it—but because I must.
So I won't. Instead, I put on my best face and nod. Trying my best to be mature about this.
But my hands grip a little tighter than I mean to. "No, Father. You are the King of Dawny. I'm sure you will have much to do. Take care of your kingdom first."
He frowns at that, bushy brows tugging together with that same expression he wears whenever I say the wrong thing. And I must have because he goes on. "Ana, you are too considerate for your own good. I wish you could be a little more greedy."
Greedy? No, I can't. I want to say it aloud, but I don't. I'm already getting more than enough, even if it hurts to see him go, even if part of me wants to ask him to stay. Just a bit longer.
I know I can't. I don't have the right. Empresses do not ask for more. We give. We endure.
It's not my place to ask for more. I squeeze his hands once more before letting go to step back. My back is straight with my head held high. My face is perfectly composed like a true ruler.
"Safe travels, Father."
For a moment, Father hesitates with hands still out. He looks like he wants to say something more, but instead, he decides against it. He just nods, sapphire eyes scanning my face and maybe memorizing it, maybe wondering if I truly meant what I said. I did. Or I want to.
Either way, the words are out, and I can't take them back.
He finally turns, pivoting to Pendwick, who stood off to the side, immediately stiffening to the point it almost looks painful as he leans over. Father claps a hand onto the boy's shoulder, not hard, but firmly enough to drive a point. Pendwick almost jumps. His face goes pale, then red, then pale again with some hidden meaning exchanged between them. My brows lift slightly.
"Work closely with her," Father says, voice cheerful and carrying. "She'll need someone she can count on."
Pendwick nods once. Just once. But it's like he's trying to put every ounce of devotion into that single nod.
Then my father leans in, just a fraction, voice dipping low—but not low enough. "And Pendwick?" he adds, still loud enough for me to hear the edges of it. "Don't disappoint me. This is a very important job. Treat it like your life depends on it."
Pendwick swallows so loudly I hear it from where I stand. He gives another frantic nod, then blurts out something close to, "Yes, Your Majesty. Of course, Your Majesty. I won't—Sir, I mean—yes, I—"
Father claps him once more on the back, a little too cheerfully. "Good lad."
The look Father gives him, though—it's more than just an instruction. It's a reminder. Of something important. Something they both understand.
I watch Pendwick's spine stiffen, his shoulders drawing taut under the weight of something I can't name. So I don't try. I simply nod, as if this is all perfectly ordinary.
"I'm sure Sir Pendwick will make a fine attendant, Father. You have nothing to fear." I offer Pendwick an encouraging smile.
Pendwick startles slightly, as if he hadn't expected the compliment. A deep flush climbs his neck again, blooming high across his cheekbones. "Yes—I will do my best, Your Majesty."
His voice wavers a little, but he bows smartly. Behind him, his grandfather gives a single approving nod. Father's eyes sweep over both of us, lingering just long enough to make my skin prickle.
"Good," he says. "Glad to see this is already starting off nicely."
He sounds almost pleased—but there's something sharpened beneath it. Not quite pride. Not quite satisfied. Like he's made a bet and likes the way the first cards have landed.
Pendwick stands stiff beside him, posture so straight it looks painful once more. He glances at me again—just a flick of his eyes—then quickly away, like the sight alone might give him away.
I nod again, serene and practiced. This all seems perfectly normal to me.
Because for me, it is. And I expect the goodbye to wrap up here, and by the look of it, so does Father as he half turns on his boot to go. But something shifts in the corner of my eye.
"Farewell, Your Majesty." Mykhol's voice cut across the courtyard. I turn just in time to see him step forward, his posture perfect, courtly smile already on. His fangs beaming white against the dark skies as he takes his place beside me. "We hope you have a safe trip."
"How courteous of you." Father manages a smile, but it doesn't meet his eyes. It looks oddly strained, as if swallowing bitter wine. "But I will be back."
"No need to rush," Mykhol says brightly. Perhaps a bit forced? It sounds oddly cheery considering how I feel at the moment. Some light gleams in his vermilion eyes as if a bit too eager. Almost happy that he is going. But how can that be?
I wag my head. The idea is too silly. No, I'm sure I'm just seeing things again.
Mykhol reaches to rest his hand on my shoulder. "We can handle things from here."
Father narrows his gaze on that same hand.
"I doubt that very much with you here," Father murmurs, so quiet I almost miss it. But just as quickly, he physically turns away from Mykhol altogether. His smile came up again for only me. A quiet signal. This is it.
I square my shoulders. I can do this.
"Goodbye, Your Majesty," I say it softly, folding everything I want to say into the curve of a smile—warm, restrained, dignified. The kind of smile an Empress should give.
But something cracks anyway.
"Honey."
The word escapes him, hoarse and unraveling at the edges. Before I can brace for it, he pulls me into his arms, and I'm swallowed by the familiar scent of soap and woodchips. His embrace tightens, solid and trembling all at once.
"It's Papa," he says thickly, "not Your Majesty."
The words are a small collapse, and I let out a soft shudder, not quite a sob. He holds me too tightly, like he's afraid I might vanish if he lets go. For a single heartbeat, I let myself believe I'm still small enough to be carried away.
But I'm not. I won't ever be again. And he knows that.
Still—he holds on like he doesn't. And I don't correct him. Because this is enough.
"Yes, Papa. Goodbye." I step back carefully, folding my hands in front of me with slow precision, like that small act might help keep everything inside. My spine straightens. The ache knots behind my ribs, but I don't let it show.
"Tell Nicoli I wish him a happy birthday."
"I will." His voice catches, raw and rough, and then he turns, moving toward Johan and the carriage ahead.
I stay still, watching as they cross the courtyard. The carriage was waiting like something final, a line being drawn between what had been and what would come next. Johan opens the door with a good creak, stepping aside as Father climbs up before pausing at the edge.
His hand lingers on the doorframe a moment too long, eyes scanning the courtyard again—not at Pendwick or Admiral Nugen, but past them. His expression changes. Just slightly, but enough to notice. Something like tension curls at the corner of his mouth. A flicker of something unreadable dashes and darkens his eyes.
But then it passes. When he finds me again, his sapphire gaze softens. The love in it makes my throat burn. I give him the smallest nod. The kind that says I will be fine. I must be.
The door closes. The wheels churn. And as the carriage begins to roll across the courtyard, his face appears in the window. His hand presses against the glass. One last goodbye.
I stay long after they're gone. Watching as the yellow hills swallow them whole. The sand along the path is scattered and broken, the wheels and boots having scraped deep. But the sound is already gone.
What remains is silence. Heavy. Settling like dust in a place newly emptied.
I exhale through my nose and grip my shawl tight across my shoulders. The ache swells, sharp and quiet beneath my ribs. But it must be.
He will be back. Eventually.
I turn. Mykhol is still beside me. His vermilion eyes on the horizon, though I feel the shift in his attention the moment mine meet his.
"And there they go," he speaks lightly, stepping in closer that I must lift my chin to keep his face in view. His voice is smooth and casual, and its edges soften now that the audience has left. That practiced smile still plays on his lips, but something behind it relaxes when he looks at me.
"Lord Mykhol. Your Empress." The nobles and servants bow as they pass us, already drifting back to their duties. Their lives. Everything is already slipping back into place.
It's all returning to normal so quickly as it should. I know. Even if it feels just a little wrong. But life, as they say, does go on.
I will return to my usual life, and I'm lost in the thought when he moves again, and I startle—just slightly—as his hand suddenly reaches for mine. Mykhol, of course, acts like it's the most natural thing in the world.
"Ana," he says gently, his voice warm and close. "Would you like to get started on the plans?"
"That—That-oh. Of course." I blink, glancing down at our hands. His fingers are curled around mine, firm and possessive. It's been a long time since he's touched me like this. Not since I returned from Dawny.
Was he in another one of his strangely touchy moods again? He goes through phases, sometimes clingy, sometimes distant.
Or maybe I've just been too busy to notice.
For a moment, I consider pulling away. But... I don't. It's comforting, I decide. Familiar. And I could use that right now. The weight in my chest hasn't quite gone away, but the pressure of his hand in mine makes it feel... more bearable.
"I would like that," I say softly. Work sounds good. Work makes sense. It will make me feel productive. Something that is more familiar than the weight in my chest.
I step forward, expecting him to release me. But he doesn't.
Instead, he laces our fingers together—tightly, deliberately. The contact draws heat up my arm, and my breath catches faintly in my throat. My face warms. I shift, slightly unsure why my pulse feels louder in my ears.
He beams. Not just smiles—beams—like something important has just been claimed.
"Then, shall we?" he asks, voice sweet, but his eyes are not on me. He's smirking now, gaze focused just past my shoulder.
I follow it and spot Admiral Nugen and Pendwick watching us. The Admiral's jaw is set like stone, and Pendwick... he looks uncomfortable? Stiff. Wide-eyed.
Pendwick's gaze flickers to our joined hands and then darts away like he's touched something too bright. Nugen leans down to whisper something sharp in his ear. The boy nods quickly, too quickly, his face tense.
I frown slightly. What was that about?
"Not so brave now, are you?" Mykhol mutters under his breath, dark satisfaction curling around the words.
"Cousin?" I blink and turn toward him. "Did you say something?"
"Nothing, cousin," he replies lightly, with a soft laugh and the smile he reserves just for me. "Just mumbling."
Before I can ask again, he tucks my arm into his and begins leading me toward the entrance. His grip is gentle, guiding, assured—like it's his place to do so. His hand only leaves mine to reach beneath my shawl. I flinch.
Just slightly.
He's merely pulling my braid forward, freeing it from where it's snagged at my back. That's all. Yet, the brush of his fingers at the nape of my neck sends a tight jolt down my spine.
I stiffen, unsure why. It's just a braid. Just Mykhol.
Still, my chest feels too tight, warmer than before.
"You'll catch a cold," he murmurs, his voice hushed as he brushes his knuckles along my jaw and readjusts the shawl over my head, securing it more snugly.
"There," he says, almost too gently.
I swallow, feeling my throat dry up instantly. My face heats up once more, flushed. It must be the weather.
"Um, I'm fine," I reply quickly, my voice softer than intended.
"You always say that," he replies with a knowing smile, patting my arm like I've said something foolish and dear.
We reach the steps, and I think maybe that's the end of it. But he fusses again. Fingers smoothing down my collar. Tugging at the hem of my shawl. His touch lingers far too long—knuckles brushing against the base of my throat with slow, deliberate care, like he's adjusting something only he can see.
Today, he seems extra touchy. I can't help but notice. It's really striking. But I choose not to stop him, once again.
Because Mykhol has always had this way about him, since I could remember, he loves to touch and hover. His smile growing soft just for me.
But today feels a bit different. Is it too much? Or is it…not enough?
I feel odd. My body feels excessively warm. My chest remains tight, and my breath is catching more often than it should.
Perhaps I just need to escape the cold. That must be it.
We arrive at the doors. He opens one for me, offering a slight bow. Not as a guard. Not like a cousin. But something different.
His eyes sparkle as I walk by. Then, almost under his breath, he murmurs something tender.
"Finaly. You're mine again." His tone is gentle. Almost teasing. Like he's trying to be playful. Almost.
What?
My steps falter. I glance back, unsure if I heard him correctly. But he's already smiling—warm, familiar, and completely unreadable.
Behind us, the great glass doors close with a low, echoing thud.