*Ana*
"It's time Lord Mykhol returns to the Academy."
The words slice through the room like a blade through silk, leaving behind a silence so absolute it feels solid—reverberating off the stone walls and settling into the marrow of my fangs. The grandfather clock in the corner stops mid-tick, or maybe that's just my imagination rewriting reality around this impossible moment.
For a moment that stretches like eternity, nobody moves. Nobody breathes. The only sounds are the soft crackling of dying embers in the hearth—each pop making me flinch—and the distant whisper of wind against the tall windows. A gust finds its way through a crack in the ancient casement, bringing with it the desert rock and tang of salt air mixed with the green sweetness of new grass and blooming roses from the gardens off somewhere below. The familiar scent should be comforting, an anchor in this moment that feels suspended between dream and nightmare, but instead it makes everything feel mockingly real.
I don't know who is more shocked—myself, or Mykhol, whose carefully constructed composure, finaly brought together moments before, doesn't just crack but shatters. Completely. Like a porcelain doll dropped on marble.
The color drains from his face so quickly I fear he might collapse. His alabaster complexion turns ashen, almost gray in the flickering candlelight, making the dark circles under his eyes appear bruised and hollow. His mouth opens and closes soundlessly, lips moving without breath, like a fish pulled from water and left gasping on a pier. His hands—those elegant, long-fingered hands that are always so controlled—begin to tremble visibly at his sides, claws twitching as if trying to grasp something that isn't there.
The perfect posture he's maintained throughout this entire encounter crumbles like a house of cards in a strong wind. His shoulders curve inward, defensive, as if he's trying to make himself smaller, less visible, less here. The proud set of his spine that I've known all my life dissolves into something hunched and frightened.
"The... the Academy?" he stammers, and his voice breaks on the words like an adolescent boy's, high and cracked and desperate. He opens his mouth again, but whatever words try to push through seem to dry out before they can form sound, like autumn leaves crumbling to dust. His vermilion eyes—usually so strong, so confident—fall to the worn Persian rug beneath our feet. They dart back and forth, jittery and unfocused, pupils dilated despite the warm glow of the candles.
For a moment, I think I see something glistening gathering at their corners. Are those… tears? Mykhol? Never once have I seen him cry. Mykhol, beloved by all, voice clear enough to cut through any argument in court, commanding all eyes to him, the spotlight like a second sking…was crying?
My cousin looks anything but the confident nineteen-year-old I've lived most of my life with. His courtly smile—gone. His perfect stance—broken. He looks young suddenly, achingly young, exposed in way that feels to raw. To…helpless.
The sight of him, so altered and stricken. alongside my own confusion at Father's sudden suggestion, compels me to speak, unable to endure another conflicting space of silence, though my voice feels foreign in my throat.
"The Military Academy?" The words slide from my lips like I'm tiptoeing over a frozen pond, careful and measured, testing each syllable to see if the ice will hold. My breath feels weighted mists slightly in the cool night air seeping through the windows. "Now? Why?"
I look up, taking in the sight of my father. His broad shoulders fill his travel-worn coat, the dark wool wrinkled from his journey and smelling faintly of horse and leather and the open road. He hasn't even taken the chance to rest, to wash the dust from his hands or change his clothes, yet he stands there grinning as if he's just delivered a well-earned joke he's been saving for years. His sapphire eyes dance in the candlelight, bright and pleased, full and blooming like the roses I can smell drifting in from the gardens outside.
But why? I don't understand. The question burns in my chest, hot and insistent.
My tongue runs across the roof of my mouth, feeling the familiar ridges there. The words erupt from me with no restraint, driven by utter bafflement. "But Father, why would I need to send Cousin back to—"
"Daughter." I get an instant, gentle tap on the nose—his calloused fingertip warm against my skin. His eye winks at me as if to say Papa, Ana, it's Papa, not Father. The familiar correction should make me smile, but my stomach is too twisted with confusion.
Just as quickly, Father's attention returns to Mykhol, his eyes flicking up to take in the sight of my unnaturally still and diminishing cousin with something that might be satisfaction. There's a glint in his gaze—something pleased and knowing that dances there despite the confusion and chaos he's just created between us.
Father straightens to his full, impressive height, his presence filling the room like a force of nature. His hand moves to adjust my shawl where it had slipped from my shoulder, the touch tender and measured—the careful attention of a father caring for his child. His rough, sword-work hardened hands are remarkably gentle as they scoop up my silver braid, but instead of tucking it behind my shoulder as I instinctively expect, he brings it forward, over my collarbone where it catches the firelight.
A look of quiet pride dances across his weathered features, as if he's pleased to have my cursed hair brought forth into the light, on display rather than hidden away like I've grown so accustomed to doing over the years. His bronze fingers, scarred from years of sword work and travel, seem so much darker against the argentate strands before he lets my braid rest against my chest. His warm hand moves instead to settle on my shoulder, the weight of it grounding and sure.
When he speaks, his voice carries that edge of familiar warmth I've relearned to recognize as his manner, at least with Nicoli and me.
"Because Lord Mykhol said it himself, didn't he?" Father's head tilts slightly, expectantly, as if cueing Johan to deliver his lines.
"His lordship has admitted inexperience," Johan adds, his voice more collected but no less pointed. The elderly advisor's pale eyes seem to gleam in the low light. "You did not finish your schooling, if I am correct?"
The question stands with surgical precision. A single note, a question wrapped in a truth, a fact deceptively soft—yet Mykhol reacts as if it were a curse, a physical blow. He flinches. Just barely. But enough.
The shift in his weight. Something quick and fleeting flashes behind his eyes. A look of realization. As if seeing a piece moved on some game board, that catches him by surprise enough to falter. Unexpected like a rule was changed. Or simply, not considered.
There's a pause—fractional but enough to weigh between us all–before Mykhol speaks.
"Your Majesty, please—" He begins, voice polishing out again, controlled, chosen with care. Slow. Not the raw and lost look that shadowed his expression just a moment before—but the careful recalibration of someone skilled in the art of recovering control. His tone dances delicately on the line between admission and defense.
He straightens his spine slightly, flicking an invisible speck from his cuff, as though reasserting his composure physically will lend him back the narrative. The golden hoops in his ear catch the light as he turns his head, drawing subtle attention to the practiced angle of his face.
"I know I've made mistakes," he admits, voice reasonable, agreeable."But surely," he presses, tilting his head toward father now, tone modest but marked with something controlled, focused like speaking to the hard head Lords at court, reasoning with them," we can address them here, through additional oversight or—"
Mykhol's lips move, trying to form the next word, but it dies before it can take shape. The silence stretches, heavy and uncomfortable, until someone explodes into laughter from across the room.
It's Admiral Nugen, of all people. The usually stern, no-nonsense man is barely able to contain himself, his weathered face creasing with mirth. Bursts of strangled chuckles and full-bodied laughs spill from his lips, making his attempts to maintain composure flush his sun-worn skin to a deeper pink. The scar that runs from his eye disappears temporarily in the web of smile lines with each new laugh.
"The military academy?" Nugen chokes back another laugh, all formality and military bearing fallen by the wayside as his hand drops away from his sword hilt to clutch his sides instead. "Is that what you two were planning all this—gods! This is too rich!"
Tears gather at the corners of his brown eyes as he wheezes between fits of laughter. I've never seen him so thoroughly amused, so completely out of character. His usually rigid posture has dissolved into something loose and delighted.
"Nugen, please." Johan's reprimand carries the severe air of a teacher dealing with a particularly disruptive student. His tone is sharp enough that Admiral Nugen waves his hand apologetically before covering his mouth, though the gesture does little to muffle the sound. He continues to laugh, his shoulders shaking, his eyes bright with mirth as he looks at Mykhol with something approaching pity or something close to it.
Mykhol stiffens at the mockery, his jaw clenching so hard I can see the muscles working beneath his skin. He swallows hard, his throat bobbing with the effort, and slowly tries to piece his composure back together like gathering scattered glass.
When he speaks again, his voice is more controlled, though I can hear the tremor underneath. "Your Majesty, I don't need to go back—"
"The Academy has an excellent program for remedial education," Father continues relentlessly, each word deliberate and final. "Very thorough. Very... comprehensive. I think a few years there would do you a world of good."
A few years? The words hit me like a physical blow. I stare at Father in shock, the scope of what he's proposing finally becoming clear. Mykhol gone? For years?
I try to imagine it—the empty space where he usually stands, the silence where his voice should be, the absence of his presence that has been as constant as breathing for most of my life. He's always been there, by my side, taking my hand when I was frightened, speaking for me when words failed, a steady presence I took for granted like the rising of the sun.
But Mykhol, gone? The thought leaves me hollow, uncertain.
"Ana?" Father's voice draws my attention back, warm and patient. "Isn't that true? Lord Mykhol has yet to finish his schooling, correct?"
I blink, trying to focus through the strange buzzing in my ears. "Yes, you are correct." I nod slowly, the motion feeling wooden. "It was true. Cousin never finished." The memory surfaces clearly now. "He came back here without graduation. Cousin thought it better to stay at court."
Before I can elaborate, Mykhol seizes the pause like a lifeline.
"Yes, technically, I did not finish the full course at the Academy," he says, his voice regaining some of its usual smoothness as he steps into the moment as if it were made for him. "But I chose, my parents chose, to have me return early—strategically. We believed it was more valuable to assist Her Empress directly. To offer her my skills in the field of court management, military logistics, and diplomacy. Experience, after all, is not confined to the classroom."
The words are calculated and structured. Polished. But his fingers betray him—one hand curling ever so slightly into a fist before relaxing again.
"And I'd argue," he presses, tilting his head toward Alexander now, tone modest but marked with resistance, "that my time in Nochten's court has taught me lessons I would never have learned behind Academy walls."
He lets the implication settle: I've been doing the work. I'm already in it. Why uproot me now?
"It was better," he says, his voice regaining some of its usual smoothness as he steps into the moment as if it were made for him. "She needed someone by her side." His gaze flicks past me toward Father, and something sharp enters his tone. "Since someone else... wasn't."
The air in the room sharpens, becoming knife-edged and dangerous.
The words hit me low in the ribs, scraping past my breath and lodging somewhere deep in my chest. My hand drifts unconsciously to my shawl, fingers curling around the frayed stitching at its edge—a nervous habit that grounds me when everything else feels unsteady. That silence—five long years of silence—floods my mind again like a tide I can't stop. Five years of believing I was unwanted, abandoned, a monster too terrible for even my own family to love.
I clench a fistful of the rough, faded fabric, using the familiar texture to anchor myself as I push down the familiar wave of guilt and shame that threatens to drown me.
Father goes very still beside me, his jaw clenching with quiet force. Something dark ripples across his expression like storm clouds gathering, and the light in his sapphire eyes dulls beneath whatever emotion he's struggling to contain. The temperature in the room seems to drop several degrees.
"Yes, I was there when others... couldn't be." The truth sounds sharper, twisted somehow from his lips. It making Father's eye twitch. Heat flashes across his features—something dangerous and paternal and protective that I don't fully understand, but something in Mykhol's expression grows firmer in response, as if he's moved his piece on the invisible gameboard they're playing without words.
Mykhol takes the opportunity to step closer, his body's warmth reaching toward my suddenly colder skin. I feel his presence before I fully register the movement—that familiar heat that has always meant safety and comfort pushing back against the chill that's settled over me like a shroud. He's always been so good at that—timing when to be closer. Always knowing exactly when to be near.
"It's true," he admits, his voice smooth as honey over warm stone, rich and persuasive. "I never completed my military training. But that doesn't mean my time here has been wasted."
He speaks to the room, but his eyes keep finding mine, drawing me in with their familiar warmth. "I've been helping her, Empress... assisting her. Learning the intricacies of court, navigating the alliances that matter..."
His voice lowers slightly, becoming intimate, meant only for me despite the audience. "Protecting her, when it mattered most."
I feel that familiar pull—the gravity of his words threading into the guilt that lives permanently in my chest. He has been here. He did help me when I thought no one wanted me, when I felt shunned and monstrous, when Father was silent and the letters piled up year after year under my growing certainty that none of them mattered—just practice for Nicoli.
Meanwhile, this whole time, both Father and Nicoli wanted me back…
But Father's voice cuts through my spiraling thoughts like thunder, sudden and heavy with barely restrained fury.
"I think you know too much about that particular aspect." Father's eyes sharpen as he speaks, his voice darker with some weight that makes even me shift uncomfortably. I look up, but Father is staring directly at Mykhol with a silence so loaded with meaning that words wouldn't be sufficient to carry it all.
The shift of Nugen's feet breaks the tension slightly, his armor clinking softly, followed by Johan clearing his throat with deliberate authority.
"Indeed, his lordship has... assisted her Empress until now." The oldest man in the room maneuvers his voice with careful distance, like someone walking through a minefield many times over. Skilled but weary. His pale eyes and deeply wrinkled face peer over all of us with equal attention before meeting my father's gaze. Something passes between them—some kind of understanding that seems to lift the worst of the dark expression from Father's features.
"But that was then, and this is now." Johan's voice grows firmer, clinical as a physician delivering a terminal diagnosis. "The merchant in question—one Marcus Thorne—specifically recommended for the position by Lord Mykhol, despite having no prior business relationships with our court and no verifiable references from other noble houses, has cost her Empress time, money, and men. A mistake that could have been prevented..." Johan pauses to nod toward Nugen.
"Prevented if a certain someone had stayed long enough to learn proper vetting procedures, you mean?" Nugen cracks a sharp smile. "A child's mistake, really."
The words sting visibly. Mykhol shifts on his feet, a flash of heat radiating from him that even I can feel from where I stand. His scent changes subtly—the usual rich warmth turning sharp with anger and humiliation.
"I said it was a mistake—" Mykhol's voice starts to drip with uncommon venom, as if a nerve has been struck and is now bleeding, but before he can truly begin, Father cuts him off with the finality of a judge's gavel.
"So that settles it." Father nods as if the matter is decided and done. "Send him back."
"Send?" The word leaves my lips as barely a whisper. The room spins around me, the candle flames blurring into streaks of gold. I think I might fall if not for the gentle pressure of Father's hand on my shoulder, that steady warmth spreading through me as I find sapphire eyes looking down with all the love and certainty in the world.
"It's for the best." Father's words reach my ears just before he gives my shoulder one last reassuring squeeze, his voice growing softer, warmer. "Trust me."
Trust. The word catches in my throat. Trust he asks. The word so explosive in my ears as I find myself blinking up at him.
Send Mykhol away? The thought has never occurred to me before this moment. I can't even begin to imagine what that would mean, what life would look like without his constant presence.
Mykhol not here? But he's always been here. I can't remember anyone else being by my side for so long, so consistently. When others weren't—no, that was a mistake, my fault for not understanding.
But Father says to go back to school. Father asks me to trust him.
The thought makes something twist in my stomach—not quite pain, but a conflict I have no experience navigating. Even as studied and prepared as I thought I was to be an Empress, this is a problem for which I have no knowledge, no precedent.
Trust…because he is my father…and Father wants Mykhol to go. Do I trust one family member over another. What do I do?
I don't mean to fall into silence, but I do, and the quiet stretches longer than it should—long enough that Mykhol moves toward me in with a nervous step, his usual grace abandoned for desperate urgency.
"No, that's—I can't." His hand flies to his chest, pressing against his heart as if trying to keep it from escaping. He laughs, but it's not right, the sound cracks like thin ice under pressure, brittle. Wrong. The edge of something thins and bleeds through every syllable. "I'm needed here. You all know that."
He tries to chuckle again, a teasing tone to the sound, as if to find thisis a joke. But it chokes on the way up his throat, dying before it can fully form.
His poise—the careful control he always maintains—is disintegrating before my eyes like sugar in rain. Droplets of perspiration bead at his brow despite the cool night air. His golden hoop earrings knock faintly together with each tiny, involuntary tremble of his head as he shakes it again and again in denial.
"No," he mutters, low and sharp, as if speaking the refusal aloud can somehow erase the reality of what's happening. "Her Empress won't send me away. Not now."
His voice lifts, pitching upward with a note of genuine panic. "Not when I'm finally—when everything is just beginning—"
His scent, usually something rich and subtle that I associate with safety and home, turns sharp and sour with fear-sweat and desperation. Something fundamental has shifted in him, and my body recognizes it before my mind can process what's wrong. My skin prickles with unease. My chest grows tight with something that might be dread.
I try not to move, not to react, but every instinct is screaming for something I don't understand.
"I'm necessary," he breathes, the words coming out shorter as if he is finding the air to thin in the room. "Important." His eyes—those warm, molten eyes that have always found in every room, trailed after me with every turn—widen into perfect circles, pupils dilating until they're black pools that seem to swallow light.
And they lock onto me with an intensity that makes my breath catch.
"Isn't that right, Anastasia?"
The way he says my name stops me cold. Not the familiar warmth of "Ana" or even the respectful "Cousin," but my full name spoken like an incantation, like a claim.
His smile stretches too thin. It's hungry. Unwell. Like the moments before one his tantrums, insistence that I pay attention to him, put up with his need to touch, be touched. His voice trembles with that greediness, that not-so-hidden demand and the promise of something darker beneath it that makes my stomach grow tight and painful.
"Ana, I can't leave," he says, stepping forward with movements that are both graceful and predatory. "You need me here. I know you do."
He reaches out. Not a command, but something more intimate. Desperate in a way that's different to every other time. The gesture feels wrong in front of all these people, wrong in a way I can't name but feel in my bones.
"You were finally starting to—" His fingers hover in the space between us, trembling like autumn leaves. "With me—"
And then his claws—just the very tips, sharp and pale—brush against the skin of my wrist.
Just barely. The lightest whisper of contact.
But I feel it like lightning, like something fundamental has been violated. Those strange bells, that strange fear of Mykhol. Looking back at the stranger instead of the cousin I know. A man–
A single step. That's all it takes. Father pulls me back just half a step, but it breaks whatever spell Mykhol was trying to weave completely.
Mykhol stops. Freezes like a statue. His eyes snap from my hand to my face, then up—toward my father's face, reading the deadly calm there.
He realizes what just happened. Realizes he's overstepped in a way that can't be undone.
And for a flicker of a second, something—fear? rage? heartbreak?—fractures across his features like lightning illuminating a storm.
But Father doesn't speak to him directly. He speaks to me, his voice warm and grounded and absolutely certain, like solid earth beneath my feet.
"Lord Mykhol will not be of proper service to you without the appropriate education," he says, as if the decision has already been made and sealed. He places his hand gently on my shoulder and draws me closer, close enough for me to smell the cedar and pine on his traveling coat, the familiar scent of his shaving soap and old parchment and something indefinably him that I've missed so desperately. It's comfort and safety and home all wrapped together in a way that makes my chest ache with how much I need it. Wished for in our months apart.
"It would benefit you greatly if he completed his schooling properly," Father continues with unshakeable logic. "I'm certain you can see the wisdom in this."
I do see it. And that realization stings more than I expected.
Because he's absolutely right.
It's logical. It's good for Nochten. It's sound advice from someone who sees clearly where I've been blind. It would help to send Mykhol back to finish his education properly.
I look at Mykhol—really look at him—and I see the trembling just beneath his skin. The way he stands too still, like a deer sensing hunters. His fists clenching and unclenching behind his back. His throat working in slow, uneven swallows as he tries to maintain some semblance of control.
This isn't the man I thought I knew. Not exactly.
And yet... he's still Cousin. Still Mykhol. Still family.
But so is Father.
And it's Father who isn't unraveling in front of me right now. Father who speaks with calm authority instead of desperate panic. Father who has traveled here through the night to help me navigate problems I didn't even know I had.
I press a hand to my stomach, where that strange twisting sensation continues to build. Why does making the right choice… feel so much like betrayal?
Still, I find myself speaking, slowly and carefully, each word measured like precious coins.
"If Cousin Mykhol were to return to complete his education..." The words land soft but firm in the heavy air.
My gaze flickers back to Father. He nods, assured and certain. No panic in him. No desperation. Just crystal-clear clarity and paternal love.
And for the first time tonight, I begin to see this situation clearly too.
It is logical. It is correct. It's what an Empress would do.
Mykhol should go.
But as the final syllables leave my mouth, I watch his expression crack completely—like a mirror struck dead center, spider-webbing outward from the point of impact.
"I think that—" I begin, but the words barely leave my lips before a thunderous crash of heels echoes down the stone corridor. A stream of creative curses follows, and I recognize the voice too late as the door slams open without so much as a whisper of ceremony.
"No! Absolutely not!" Aunt Funda explodes into the room like a force of nature, a blur of maternal rage and ruffled silk. Her nightrobe is half-tied and askew, revealing a white cotton nightgown beneath, and her graying hair is wrapped in small curlers that bob wildly like tiny soldiers arriving too late for battle. Her face is blotched red with fury and disbelief, her eyes wild with the desperate panic of a mother protecting her young.
Behind her, Uncle Charles stumbles through the doorway, one velvet slipper missing entirely and his wire spectacles sitting crooked on his nose. He blinks around the room like someone who fell out of bed and directly into a battlefield, which, I suppose, is exactly what happened.
Naska trails just behind them, her face carefully unreadable, though something flickers in her dark eyes that I can't identify. Bruno—small and silent as always—slips into the corner like a shadow, going unnoticed by everyone but me. He watches everything with those observant burgundy eyes, taking in every detail.
"You can't, Your Empress!" Funda cries, her voice already fracturing with emotion. "You can't send Mykhol away!"
Uncle Charles lifts a trembling hand—more plea than authority. "Your Empress, surely this... is this wise?" His voice wavers with uncertainty, his gaze darting nervously between my father and Mykhol like a small animal caught between predators.
"It's so late," he adds, his voice catching. "His Majesty has only just arrived after such a long journey. Perhaps... perhaps we should sleep on this decision? Such important matters shouldn't be decided in the middle of the night when we're all overwrought."
He attempts what might be a diplomatic smile, but it lands crooked and desperate.
"Why not reconvene in the morning?" he tries again, hope creeping into his voice. "Present it properly before the full court, gather all perspectives—"
"Sleep on this?" Funda whirls on him, tearing her arm from his gentle grip with enough force to make him stumble. "The answer is obvious!" Her wild eyes lock onto mine with desperate intensity.
"You can't even think of sending him away." Her voice breaks completely, catching like a sob in her throat. She raises trembling hands to her collarbone, where her pulse flutters visibly beneath pale skin. Tears begin to spill down her cheeks, cutting tracks through the powder she hadn't fully removed before sleep.
"Not my son. You can't take my son from me. Mykhol needs to stay—he belongs here with family, with people who love him."
The room grows tense as wire, everyone holding their breath.
"And since when," Admiral Nugen interjects, his voice like cold steel sliding from its sheath, "does an Empress require permission from a lesser noble, Lady Funda?" His earlier amusement has sharpened into something more dangerous, more cutting.
The insult hits its mark perfectly. Funda whirls on him, her face contorting with rage as her fangs extend fully and her claws emerge. "You filthy human—"
Father's voice cracks through the room like a thunderclap. The sound ricochets off the stone walls, silencing every voice mid-breath. Even the fire in the hearth seems to recoil, shrinking back with a sputter as the room goes impossibly still.
It's like the very air has thickened.
No one dares move.
He sweeps a hand through his hair, tired and impatient, though his spine remains taut with unspoken frustration. "This is exactly why I wanted this matter handled quietly." His tone is lower now, but edged—like a blade sheathed too tightly.
He throws a look at Johan, who merely lifts one snowy brow in serene amusement, as if enjoying the spectacle a bit too much.
Admiral Nugen, less inclined toward grace, scoffs under his breath. "It wasn't me who spoke out of turn," he mutters, glancing sharply toward Naska.
I follow his gaze to her just as she looks away, pink flooding her cheeks. Her muslin tunic is rumpled and partially untucked, her thick red hair disheveled with strands clinging to skin that's still damp with perspiration. She looks like someone who's just been roused from deep sleep—or something else entirely.
Where was she until now? I remember waking alone in my chambers to find Admiral Nugen waiting, with no sign of Naska anywhere. She must have been sleeping deeply to have missed all the commotion until now.
I tuck the suspicion away. I'll deal with it later. Now is not the time. There are more pressing matters demanding my attention right now.
Because now, the entire room has turned to me.
I feel it. The weight of their stares. Their unspoken pleas. Aunt Funda trembles behind Mykhol, her hands wringing a handkerchief so tightly the lace tears in her fingers. Uncle Charles gently places a hand on her shoulder, but even he looks too tired for the storm she's stirring.
"Perhaps the court should weigh in," he says carefully once more, not meeting my eye. "It's a matter of precedence. A public decision might—"
But I shake my head. Already imagining that idea and where it would go. The court will side with tradition. They always do. They'll keep Mykhol exactly where he is.
And yet, across the room, Admiral Nugen crosses his arms with grim satisfaction. His smile is all teeth, though his eyes remain locked on Mykhol like a hunter who knows the prey is slowing. He wants this. Has wanted it for months. His suspicions about my cousin, even now, still hold.
Johan stays still as a stone at Father's side, unreadable save for the faint twitch of amusement at the corner of his mouth.
Even Bruno, still curled in the corner, says nothing. But I feel his gaze on me. Wide-eyed. Waiting. He doesn't make a sound—but something in his small, solemn stillness speaks volumes.
And Mykhol—
Mykhol looks like he's dying beneath his skin.
He stands with a rigidity that screams tension, his shoulders locked, breath shallow. His mouth twitches like he's holding back words he knows he can't say aloud. That thin smile has long since vanished. What remains is something rawer. Angrier. More afraid.
There is sweat at his hairline. The golden hoops in his ears tremble with the smallest movement as he shifts his weight just slightly toward me.
"Ana," he murmurs, just once. A breath, not a plea. But I can feel it. That unspoken invocation. His belief that I will choose him—because I always have.
However, I am not just Anastasia anymore. I was Empress. The Empress in me knows what must be done. Nochten must come first. That is the vow I made when I accepted the crown.
But the girl in me—the one who used to look for Cousin in the halls, who leaned on his presence like a pillar in the storm—she hesitates.
Do I keep Mykhol here, safe and familiar? Or do I send him away to complete the education that will make him truly useful?
Both options make me take a shallow, careful breath. I close my eyes and try to think past the emotional chaos, to weigh the practical considerations like a proper ruler would.
And still, they all watch. Everyone is waiting for my answer, watching my face for any sign of what I'll decide. The weight of their expectation settles on my shoulders like a heavy cloak.
I open my eyes at last to find everyone still frozen in place, waiting. My gaze drifts to Mykhol, who seems to be holding his breath, his entire body rigid with desperate hope and growing dread.
But for once, I don't let him speak for me. No, I won't let anyone speak for me. Not Mykhol, not my aunt and Uncle, even my father–
This is my decision—and Empress's choice.
I know what I must do. Have to do.
I step forward, my heart hammering inside my ribs so hard I fear they'll crack under the pressure. I lift my chin, chains lightly clinking against my silver crown like a distant reminder of what I am. What I'm striving to be.
"Whether to send Mykhol back or to remain,"
I look directly at him as I speak, needing him to see the resolution in my eyes, even if he can't understand it.
"I have made my decision."