*Ana*
I try not to run.
My silk slippers whisper against the ancient stone floors like secrets shared in darkness, but my heart thunders loud enough to wake the dead—a violent percussion that drowns out everything else. Each footfall echoes through my bones, a staccato rhythm of desperate anticipation. The palace breathes around me in its midnight slumber, torches guttering low and casting writhing shadows that dance across centuries-old tapestries. The flames flicker like dying stars, throwing ghosts of light against the vaulted ceilings and empty halls that stretch before me like a labyrinth of memory.
I should be in bed. The hour is ungodly—even for a vampire—and Admiral Nugen's sudden appearance at my door had earned my groggy annoyance, his weathered face stark with urgency in the candlelight.
Until he said one word.
"Your father."
The words still ring in my ears like a bell struck in the dark. They chase me down these corridors, nipping at my heels with their promise and their weight.
I reach the sitting room and pause just beyond the door, my breath catching in my throat like a fish hook. My fingers tremble—actually tremble—as I place them against the wrought iron handle. The metal is cool beneath my skin, but my palm burns hot and damp with anticipation that tastes of copper and hope.
I want to fling it open. I want to rush in headlong and damn propriety.
I want to see him. It's been months without him. Months of doing everything on my own without him, of making decisions that carve pieces from my soul, of lying awake staring at the ceiling and wondering if I'm failing him, failing everyone. How desperately I've missed him—hearing his laugh boom through the halls, seeing his warm smile crinkle the corners of his eyes, feeling safe in the shadow of his presence.
Papa.
The door creaks as it swings inward, revealing a warm chamber lit by the golden glow of the candles. This room is different from the formal court halls or the stark war chambers—it's intimate.An ancient Persian rug covers the stone floor, its deep burgundies and midnight blues faded in spots but still richly woven with a pattern of crescent moons and trailing vinework that seems to shift in the candlelight.
A circular arrangement of high-backed chairs surrounds a low mahogany table where someone has left an untouched plate of plump dates glistening like jewels and a pitcher of cool water that sweats condensation in its silver tray. The tall windows are shuttered tight against the night, but the heavy curtains sway with a draft that carries the ghost of roses from the garden below and the musty sweetness of old leather from the books lining the walls in floor-to-ceiling shelves.
And there—at the far end, by the fireplace where embers glow like dragon's eyes, standing with his back to the dying hearth—
"Papa." His name escapes me before I can stop it, breathless and eager and cracked at the edges like ice under pressure. The word hangs in the air between us, raw and vulnerable.
He turns.
His eyes find me instantly—sapphire blue and impossibly kind, even though his face is more weathered than I remember. New lines map the territory around his eyes, carved by sun and worry and time. His beard is fuller, streaked with silver threads that catch the candlelight, and his dark brown hair shows more gray at the temples than before. The travel-worn cloak draped over his shoulders is dusty with the residue of long roads and foreign kingdoms, but beneath it, he is still him. Solid as mountain stone. Familiar as my own heartbeat. Home made flesh.
My composure threatens to shatter like spun glass dropped on marble. Just seeing him standing there—real, breathing, here—brings a flood of emotions I didn't think I was capable of anymore. Tears prick at my eyes with the sharp relief of finally drawing breath after drowning, as I realize how much more I've missed him than I even dared admit to myself. How these months have carved hollow spaces in my chest that ache with his absence. Not just to advise me or stand beside me in court, but to simply be there—my father, my anchor, my safety in a world that feels increasingly like quicksand beneath my feet.
At last, he is back! It's like a dream. It feels like waking from a nightmare to find the sun streaming through my windows. I have the sudden, overwhelming urge to cry right here in front of everyone. To run into his arms and weep and weep until I've wrung out every drop of loneliness and fear I've been hoarding like a miser.
But no. I catch myself, barely, before I can make such a spectacle. That would not be proper.
I must restrain myself. I am an Empress now, after all. I have responsibilities, appearances to maintain. Empresses do not hug on a whim, no matter how desperately they might want to. Even if he is my father—especially because he is my father—I must pull myself together like gathering scattered pearls back onto their string. I am not a child anymore, no matter how much I feel like one in this moment.
So instead, I do my best to appear calm and collected, arranging my features into what I hope resembles imperial composure. It's two monarchs meeting each other, after all. I need to start practicing acting more maturely, showing him that the crown hasn't been wasted on me. My voice, however, despite my desperate desires to the contrary, cracks with barely contained excitement.
"Papa." I force myself to step forward with all the grace I've practiced in endless hours before mirrors, back held straight as a sword blade, chin lifted with what I hope looks like dignity rather than stubborn pride. Each step is measured, deliberate. I am Empress now. I remind myself of this with every careful footfall across the worn rug. Empresses don't launch themselves into their fathers' arms like little girls who've scraped their knees. Empresses receive guests with grace, they don't leap at them like eager puppies.
Still, my lips betray me with a slight tremble as I try to arrange them into a gracious smile that feels as fragile as butterfly wings.
"I didn't receive word you were coming." My voice wavers despite my best efforts, each word a struggle against the tide of emotion threatening to sweep me away. I hate how young it sounds, how small and uncertain. I swallow hard, fighting the burning sensation in my throat that threatens to dissolve into tears. "I would have come to greet you properly had I known. I would have—" The words rush out in a torrent before I bite down on my lower lip hard enough to taste copper.
Calm yourself.
I take a quiet breath, forcing my lungs to expand slowly, deliberately, trying to slow the hummingbird flutter of my racing heart. Try again. This time, more composed.
Calm. Steady. Regal.
Show your father how much you've matured, Ana. Show him you are capable—that you are ready for this crown he placed on your head.
"I would have arranged a proper ceremony and—"
"No, no ceremonies," he interrupts gently, though there's a firmness in his voice that tugs at something deep in my chest. The corner of his mouth quirks up in a way that's achingly familiar. "I didn't come all this way just for a bunch of strangers to bow and scrape."
But even as he speaks, I see it—the way his gaze moves over me with careful assessment. He's watching me, really studying me, and for a heartbeat that feels like eternity, I recognize the look. It's not the warm, indulgent expression of a father seeing his beloved daughter after months apart.
It's the measuring stare of a king. Another monarch taking stock, weighing my posture, my words, the way I carry myself. Cataloguing my strengths and weaknesses with the practiced eye of someone who understands the burden of a crown.
A flicker of what might be pride crosses his weathered features, but it's tempered, held in check. As if he's not ready to offer praise, only to assess and evaluate. The warmth I remember is still there, but banked now, controlled. Professional.
It feels... distant. Formal. So different from the unreserved affection I remember, the easy laughter and gentle teasing that made me feel cherished rather than judged.
My heart stumbles in my chest, and I find myself clutching at the silk of my robe. I know I wanted to be seen as mature, as capable—but actually experiencing it, seeing that analytical distance in his beloved eyes... it's like a door closing between us.
But perhaps this is how it must be now. Perhaps this is what growing up means—that even our most precious relationships must shift and change, becoming more measured, more careful.
Yes, it must be. Father is here, and he's seeing me as a ruler first, daughter second.
I swallow hard against the sudden weight pressing against my ribs like a stone. I asked for this, didn't I? I wanted to greet him as an equal, to be seen as someone competent and worthy of respect. But now that he's looking at me this way, now that I have what I thought I wanted... why does it feel so cold?
I keep my expression carefully composed, smoothing away the flicker of disappointment that dares to rise. If this is what being Empress means—if this is the price of being taken seriously—
A soft chuckle from the corner of the room shatters the moment like a stone through glass.
Johan's wrinkled features pull up into a grin that's anything but quiet, his weathered face creasing with barely suppressed mirth. The sound is sharp and dry like the first crack of thunder before a long-awaited summer storm, cutting through the formal tension with surgical precision.
"I'm impressed," he says, stepping forward just slightly behind my father with the careful gait of old bones and older loyalties. His voice carries the weight of decades of service and just enough irreverence to make me blink. "Truly, Sire. That's the longest I've ever seen you go without grabbing her."
Papa chokes on what might have been a breath or a laugh, caught completely off-guard, and then breaks into rich, unguarded laughter that shakes through his broad shoulders and spills out into the room like sunlight flooding in after a storm. It's the sound I remember from childhood—full and bright and completely, utterly genuine. His carefully maintained composure crumbles like ancient parchment touched by flame, and he turns toward me with eyes no longer sharp or assessing, but soft and shining with something that makes my chest tight with recognition.
The expression I know him best for. The one that makes me feel like I'm the most precious thing in his world. The one that means father instead of king.
"Oh, come here already," he says, arms opening wide, voice rough and hoarse with barely contained affection. "Gods above, I can't do this formal nonsense for another second."
I don't remember deciding to move.
One moment, I'm standing there like a proper ruler with perfect posture and imperial dignity, and the next—I'm flying across the space between us like I have wings. My composure doesn't just crack. It collapses entirely, crumbling to dust.
"Papa!" The title bursts out of me with a gasp of pure joy as I throw myself forward, all restraint forgotten in an instant. My silk skirts tangle around my legs as I run toward him like a girl half my age—like the child I apparently still am in his presence, no matter how many crowns they place on my head. He catches me like he always does, with those solid, strong arms and a laugh that rumbles from deep in his chest, lifting me clean off the ground like I still weigh nothing at all, like I'm still small enough to perch on his shoulders during festivals.
The world narrows to the circle of his embrace, to the warmth of his body and the steady thrum of his heartbeat against my ear. I clutch at his shoulders with something that feels ferocious, desperate, like he might disappear if I don't hold tight enough. His beard is scratchy against my temple and smells faintly of soap and salt air and wood shavings—achingly familiar scents that transport me right back to Dawny as if I was just returned.
His heartbeat thuds steady and strong against my cheek, a drum of reassurance that drowns out every doubt and fear I've been carrying. My arms tighten around his neck with something that borders on violence, as if I could somehow absorb him, keep him with me always.
"My little star," he murmurs into my hair, his voice breaking on the endearment like waves against stone. His embrace tightens around me with equal desperation, as if he too doesn't trust this moment to last, as if he needs this connection just as much as I do.
We don't speak. We just hold on, clinging to each other like survivors of a shipwreck. His arms are strong and sure around me, and for the first time in months—months—I feel truly safe. Not watched or judged or weighed against impossible standards. Just held. Just loved.
I breathe him in like air after drowning, his familiar scent wrapping around me like the warmest blanket. The steady rhythm of his heartbeat gradually slows my own racing pulse, and I feel something that has been wound tight in my chest for months finally begin to uncoil. I hadn't even realized it was there—that constant tension, that readiness for the next crisis—but it must have been waiting for this moment, for his return.
No, I have been waiting. I close my eyes and allow myself to forget everything else—the weapons shortages, the budget problems, the endless parade of people who question my every decision. For this moment, none of it matters.
I just focus on his warm, comforting scent and the firm strength of his arms holding me just as tightly, as if he never wants to let me go again.
I have been waiting for him to come home. And finally, finally, he has.
I nestle closer, pressing my forehead against his collar where the fabric is soft with wear. When my voice finally returns, it shakes with the weight of everything I've held inside.
"Papa," I breathe, thick with unshed tears. "I was... I missed you so much."
He stiffens slightly—just for a heartbeat—but then his hand moves to cradle the back of my head with infinite gentleness. His fingers stroke through my hair with the same tenderness he showed when I had cried and he only held me.
"I'm sorry it took so long," Father murmurs, his voice rough like wind over gravel, like he's been swallowing stones. There's something caught deep in his throat—grief, maybe, or regret—lodged too far down to dislodge. He holds me tighter, his worn tunic rough against my cheek, his large hands spanning my back as though they could shield me from every hardship I've faced in his absence.
"But I'm here now." His breath is warm against my hair, trembling with a quiet, furious vow that seems to resonate in his bones. "And I'll never be away that long again. Never again."
I don't want to let go. I want to stay like this forever, safe in his arms where the world can't touch me.
His voice rumbles in his chest like distant thunder, every word wrapped in something heavy and immutable, like an oath carved into granite. His heartbeat thuds steadily beneath my ear, strong and grounding, the most beautiful sound in the world. I press closer, trying to memorize everything—his warmth, his scent, the strength in his arms, the way safety feels when it's wrapped around you like armor.
Then the door creaks open behind us.
The sound slices through our perfect moment like a blade through silk, and both of us turn, my head lifting reluctantly from the safe harbor of Father's shoulder just in time to see Mykhol step through the threshold. Admiral Nugen trailing behind him like a storm cloud.
For a heartbeat that stretches like eternity, everything stills.
Mykhol freezes when he sees us—truly freezes , as if he's walked into an invisible wall. His foot halts mid-step, his weight caught awkwardly between movement and stillness, making him look uncharacteristically ungraceful. His vermillion eyes flash wide—too wide—and for just a split second, the practiced charm that usually cloaks him like expensive perfume slips completely.
It's like he's walk right into a swords edge.
Or worse—something real that he wasn't prepared for.
I watch, fascinated despite myself, as he seems to catch himself falling. He exhales a careful breath, his chest rising and falling with deliberate control, and forces his usual easy smile back into place. The same one he uses in court to make noble ladies flutter their fans and powerful lords lean in closer. But even from across the room, I can see the sharp edge to it now, pulled too tight at the corners.
Something is wrong with his smile. It doesn't reach his eyes.
"Cousin," I say, stepping back from Father just enough to compose myself, though my arms still tingle from his embrace. "I didn't expect to see you at this hour as well." My eyes flick to Admiral Nugen, curiosity sharpening my voice. "I wasn't aware you'd sought him out too."
"Ana, hello," Mykhol responds, his voice smooth as silk as he moves into a graceful bow directed at Father. "I hadn't realized you were receiving visitors at this hour."
But then his gaze slides upward and truly focuses on the man standing beside me, and I watch something fundamental shift in his expression.
The change is subtle—so subtle I might have missed it if I weren't looking directly at him. His usual smile falters for just an instant, his posture stiffening almost imperceptibly. The mask of easy charm doesn't fall, exactly, but it... flickers. Like candlelight in a sudden draft.
It's only for a heartbeat—so brief I might have imagined it. Then his training reasserts itself.
"King Alexander," he greets with a deeper bow, his voice carrying all the proper notes of respect and welcome. "What an unexpected pleasure. I had no idea you'd arrived."
His tone is perfect—warm but appropriately deferential—but his hands give him away. I notice them now, curled slightly too tight at his sides, the knuckles showing white through his pale skin. There's a tension in the rigid line of his wrists that speaks of carefully controlled nerves.
Father doesn't move to acknowledge the greeting.
He regards Mykhol with a silence that stretches just a beat too long, heavy as winter fog. His jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, shoulders squaring with the subtle shift of a predator assessing potential threat. The warmth that had wrapped around me like a blanket cools—not gone, but banked like coals ready to flare.
"No," he says at last, voice clipped with surgical precision, almost conversational in its deadly calm. "You wouldn't have."
The words fall into the room like stones cast into still water, sending ripples of tension through the air.
I glance up at Father, puzzled by this sudden shift in atmosphere. The easy warmth of our reunion has been replaced by something thicker, more charged. The room feels smaller somehow, the shadows deeper, like storm clouds gathering overhead.
But Father's expression smooths before I can analyze it further. The sharp edge that had crept into his voice vanishes, replaced by that familiar paternal warmth I've missed so desperately. He turns to me, brushing a strand of hair from my brow with gentle fingers, as if to sweep away all the heavy thoughts gathering behind my eyes.
"Yes," he says softly, voice returning to its normal timber. "I'm sorry to be so late arriving. But I had some pressing matters to address first."
"Matters?" I look up at him, my brow furrowing with immediate concern. "Did something happen in Dawny? Is Nicoli alright?" The questions tumble from my lips in a rush as my chest tightens with familiar anxiety.
But he doesn't answer immediately. The question hangs in the air between us like incense, heavy and unanswered, and when I follow his gaze, I find that his posture has shifted again—his back straighter, his jaw set with grim purpose. He isn't looking at me anymore.
He's watching Mykhol with the focused intensity of a hawk circling prey.
"Lord Mykhol," Father says, voice deepening with cool authority. A stillness creeps into the room like a fogbank rolling in, quiet and cold.
"Your Majesty," Mykhol replies smoothly, every inch the polished courtier. He flashes that brilliant smile like burnished brass—bright and gleaming and just slightly too forced, like armor hastily donned. Not even the late hour seems to dull his practiced charm, though I notice the way his usually immaculate hair has begun to shift from its careful arrangement, red strands falling across his forehead in wayward lines.
"I'm so glad you've made it safely,"he adds, inclining his head with another measured bow. "I'll inform Mother and Father you've arrived. They will surely want to also welcome you back after so long–"
"No need to wake them, just yet They'll hear about my arrival soon enough." Father cuts him off with a clipped wave of his hand, dismissive as a blade. Let's dispense with the pleasantries, shall we? Admiral Nugen?""
"Aye, Your Majesty." Admiral Nugen's voice is gravel and fire as he steps forward, ledger in hand. The leather cover is starting to wear from the handling, fraying slightly at the edges from the constant hands.
"I understand quite a lot has happened in my absence," Father says, his eyes locked on Mykhol with predatory focus. "Care to explain?"
"Father, that—" I start to interject, hoping to smooth things over, but he silences me with a simple shake of his head. His attention never wavers from my cousin.
It's not me he wants to hear from. And looking around the room, I realize he's not the only one. All three men are staring at Mykhol with the same expectant intensity, like judges waiting for a defendant to speak.
What's happening here? The weight of their collective stare makes the air feel heavier, thicker, harder to breathe.
"Father, what is-"
"Ah, you know better," Father taps my cheek, breaking out of his mood. The gesture is tender, but it's the only softness in his expression. The moment passes quickly, and he turns back to Mykhol with that same granite hardness.
"Well?" Father's stare could cut glass. "What do you have to say for yourself, Lord Mykhol?"
Mykhol, still composed despite the mounting pressure, nods with gracious humility. "Yes, it's true. We encountered some unfortunate setbacks—"
"Johan, if you would?" Father motions to his manservant without taking his eyes off Mykhol. Johan regards my cousin with something that might be satisfaction before accepting the ledger from Admiral Nugen.
"With pleasure, Your Majesty." Johan's voice carries the weight of judgment as he opens the book with deliberate ceremony. His words fall like the blade of an executioner's axe as he begins to read.
"Supplies missing from the armory. One bookkeeper found dead under suspicious circumstances. A merchant proven treacherous and in league with enemy forces. Soldiers going without proper medical supplies while gold lines corrupt pockets. Enemy forces successfully intercepting crucial weapons shipments from our allies."
Each item on the list hits the air like a physical blow, making my heart sink deeper with every revelation. The scope of it—the systematic failures, the betrayals, the lives endangered—it's staggering. But not one of the men looks to me for explanation or reaction. Every eye remains fixed on Mykhol as if he alone holds the answers to these disasters.
"Yes," Father notes with deceptive calm, his voice dropping to something cool and immutable as winter stone. "Quite a lot has happened in my absence." His emphasis on the possessive makes my skin prickle. "Anything else worth noting?"
Admiral Nugen gives a small shake of his head, but his eyes remain fixed on Mykhol like flint ready to strike spark. "Not yet, Your Majesty."
"Johan?"
Johan closes the ledger with a finality that echoes through the room like a tomb sealing shut. "Quite enough, I'd say. It's left quite a substantial dent in the budget, Your Majesty."
"Hmm." Father exhales slowly through his nose, a sound of careful calculation that makes the hair on my arms stand on end. "Quite the series of unfortunate events, Lord Mykhol."
"Yes, they were most regrettable." Mykhol's smile tightens incrementally, the corners faltering like a rope beginning to fray under weight. "I see you've been thoroughly briefed, prior."
He flicks a glance toward Admiral Nugen—quick and sharp as a thrown dagger, there and gone in an instant. "I wonder who I have to thank for such detailed intelligence."
Admiral Nugen merely smiles in return, the kind of smile that wolves show just before they pounce—all teeth and predatory satisfaction.
But Father reclaims the room's attention with quiet, commanding authority. "And you admit that these... incidents occurred because of decisions you made?" His voice is deceptively light, conversational even, but every word is honed with deliberate precision. "That you personally selected the merchant who betrayed us?"
There's a flicker—barely perceptible, gone almost before it registers—but I see it.
Something tightens behind Mykhol's eyes, a shadow of tension that ripples through the careful composure of his features. His throat works as he swallows, the motion visible in the pale column of his neck, but he smooths the reaction away with practiced ease. Still, I catch the slight hitch in his breathing, the way his tongue darts out to wet his lips.
He breathes deeply, gathering himself like a man preparing to dive into deep water, and when he lifts his head again, his features are carefully arranged into that same wounded elegance he wore during his court testimony.
Then comes the bow of his head—measured, humble.
"Yes," he says softly. His voice spills with sorrow again, rich and low, just like in court. "I take full responsibility."
"I never meant for any of this to happen," he continues, but now—subtly, almost imperceptibly—his gaze shifts. Not to Father, not to the other men watching him like circling sharks, but to me.
The look he gives me is devastating in its sincerity. His eyes swim with remorse, deep and golden in the candlelight, and I can see the weight of guilt trembling on his dark lashes as if he's barely holding back tears. The corners of his mouth tug downward in an expression of such profound regret that it makes something ache in my chest.
It's the same look he wore during the court hearing—the one that left no doubt about his genuine remorse, his innocent mistake, his determination to make amends for trusting the wrong person.
Just like before, I feel that familiar tug of sympathy.
His hand lifts slightly from his side—barely perceptible, but I catch the motion. He wants to reach for me, to seek comfort in my presence, but seems to think better of it with Father standing so close like a sentinel. Still, I can read the longing in the gesture, the unspoken plea threaded through his fingers. The message is clear: I need you to understand. I need your forgiveness.
And despite everything—despite the tension crackling through the air, despite the way the other men are watching him—I feel my heart soften. Cousin looks so tired. So regretful. My chest tugs before I can stop it. He's still holding the guilt of this. He is just trying to make amends, trying to explain. He looks so genuinely tormented, so burdened by guilt over mistakes that weren't entirely his fault.
His eyes remain fixed on mine, intense and pleading, as if I'm the only person in the room whose opinion truly matters. Not Father, not Admiral Nugen or Johan. Only me.
Beside me, Father maintains his watchful silence, but I can feel the coiled tension in his stillness. His arms cross over his chest, and though his posture appears relaxed, there's something in it that reminds me of a cat preparing to pounce.
I look back at Mykhol, trying to offer him a small, reassuring smile—something to let him know that I believe in his good intentions, that he's not facing this alone.
"I know," I say quietly, almost more to myself than the others. "I know you didn't mean for it to go this far."
Something flickers behind his eyes—relief, perhaps, or gratitude. His shoulders relax fractionally.
"Father," I continue, stepping slightly between them in an attempt to bridge the invisible divide that seems to separate them. "We've already addressed these issues in court. Mykhol acknowledged his mistakes publicly and accepted responsibility." I glance toward Admiral Nugen for confirmation. "Isn't that right?"
"It's true," Nugen confirms, though his tone suggests he finds the acknowledgment less than satisfactory. "He did make a public statement."
But even as he agrees with me, I notice the way his jaw remains tight, his eyes tracking Mykhol's every movement like those of a seasoned hunter who doesn't trust his prey to stay down.
Why doesn't that make me feel better?
"I don't see why we need to continue this—" I begin again, but Father lifts a hand to silence me.
"I understand what you're trying to say, Anastasia," he says gently, though there's steel beneath the kindness. "That these weren't malicious acts. That they were simply the result of inexperience and poor judgment."
"Exactly." I nod eagerly, relieved that he seems to understand. "Mykhol was doing his best under difficult circumstances. That's all any of us can do, isn't it?"
"That is correct," Mykhol agrees, offering me a grateful smile before turning back to address the others. "I made poor choices in selecting personnel. I should have been more thorough in my vetting process. But I assure you, moving forward, I will exercise much greater caution."
"As you should," Father replies, his tone giving nothing away.
"I do learn from my mistakes, Your Majesty."
"Learning can be expensive," Johan murmurs, not bothering to look up from the ledger.
Admiral Nugen makes a sound that might generously be called a scoff.
The small noise hits Mykhol like a physical blow. I see his jaw clench, a muscle jumping beneath his pale skin. His nostrils flare with what looks like barely controlled anger, and for just a moment,I see it—just a crack in the mask. something sharp and on edge. Just for a second.
"Again," he starts, smoothing his tone, "I admit I—"
"This conversation is going in circles," I interrupt gently. "Can we not save this for court tomorrow? It's late, and you're both worn from the journey."
Father considers this, then slowly nods. "If that's what you prefer, daughter." But his eyes never leave Mykhol's face.
"I simply thought Lord Mykhol might prefer to preserve what dignity he can."
"Preserve dignity?" I repeat, confusion making my voice sharp. "What do you mean by that?"
Mykhol's composure finally cracks. His shoulders lift with a sharp inhale, and when he exhales, there's an edge to the sound—frustration or fear or perhaps both. "Yes, what exactly do you mean by that, Your Majesty?"
I turn to look at him—really look—and something in his expression makes my stomach drop.
He's... different. I can't name what's changed, can't put my finger on the shift, but it's there like a discord in a familiar song. The light catches the sudden tension in his jaw differently, throws new shadows across features I thought I knew by heart. His smile—that constant, practiced expression—twitches at one corner as if it's fighting to maintain its hold.
His eyes dart between Father and Johan and Admiral Nugen with quick, calculating movements, reading the room, measuring threats, recalculating his position. The easy confidence that usually radiates from him like heat from a fire has been replaced by something more brittle.
His hands are still behind his back, but I notice the subtle shift of tension. One knuckle turns white. Then releases.
He's trying hard to stay calm.
"Your Majesty," he says, and though his voice maintains its velvet smoothness, there's a hairline crack running through it now. "I'm afraid I don't understand what you're implying."
I look to Father for clarification, but his expression has shifted into something I don't recognize. There's anticipation there, and satisfaction, and something that looks almost like... enjoyment?
"Yes," Admiral Nugen chimes in gruffly. "What's so urgent that it couldn't wait until morning?"
His arms cross again, the kind of gesture that signals irritation, or maybe warning. He glances to Johan as if expecting an answer there too, but Johan stands perfectly still beside Father, but I catch the subtle changes in his posture—the way he's holding himself like a man trying not to laugh at a private joke. He keeps glancing at Father with looks that clearly say don't give it away yet, like two conspirators struggling to contain their mirth.
Father's shoulders shake with barely suppressed something, and to my complete bewilderment, he's smiling. Not the warm, gentle expression he wore for me earlier, but something sharper. Hungrier.
Triumphant.
What is happening? The air feels thick now, charged with electricity like the moment before lightning strikes.
Father clasps his hands behind his back, rocking slightly on his heels like a man about to deliver news he's been waiting to share for a very long time.
"Because," he says, his voice bright with barely contained delight, "I have something to propose."
My heart skips a beat. "A proposal?"
But even as I ask the question, my attention drifts back to Mykhol, and what I see there makes my blood run cold.
He hasn't moved—not really. His posture is still straight, his face still composed in lines of aristocratic dignity. But there's something in his absolute stillness that feels wrong, like an animal that's been cornered and is deciding whether to fight or flee.
His breathing has gone shallow. His skin has taken on a waxy pallor that makes the candlelight slide off it strangely. And his smile—that perfect, practiced smile—has frozen into something that looks more like a grimace.
He looks like a man who's just realized he's walked into a trap and can't see the way out.
What is this? What am I missing?
The silence stretches between us all, taut as a bowstring, and I can feel my pulse hammering in my throat as I try to understand the undercurrents swirling through the room like invisible smoke.
Father turns back to me with a cheerfulness that feels earned, as if he's just solved a puzzle that's been tormenting him for months. His eyes practically sparkle with satisfaction.
"Daughter," he says, his voice warm with paternal affection and something else—something that makes the hair on my arms stand up. "I have what I think is an excellent idea."
I glance between them all again—Father radiating quiet satisfaction, Johan barely containing what looks like glee, Admiral Nugen watching Mykhol with the focused attention of a man witnessing an execution, and Mykhol himself, frozen in place like a deer that's just caught scent of the wolf.
Something monumental is about to happen. I can feel it in the way the very air seems to hold its breath.
My gaze returns to Mykhol one final time, taking in the slight tremor in his hands that he can't quite hide, the way his throat works as he swallows repeatedly, the sheen of perspiration that's begun to gather at his temples despite the cool night air.
Father's smile widens, bright and sharp as polished steel, and he delivers his final words with the satisfaction of a chess master announcing checkmate.
"It's time Lord Mykhol returns to the Academy."