*Ana*
"I have made my decision."
The words hang in the air like a sword raised over a still throat. They hang suspended in the space between us, heavy with finality, while the dying fire in the hearth spits and crackles its last defiant protests against the encroaching darkness. The scent of burning cedar mingles with the metallic taste of tension that coats my tongue—a familiar flavor that always accompanies moments when power shifts and settles into new configurations.
My heart hammers against my ribs with the force of a war drum, each beat echoing through the supernatural stillness that seems to hold the very air hostage. The sound is deafening in my enhanced hearing, a thunderous rhythm that I'm certain everyone in this room can detect. But I force my shoulders back, spine straight as a blade, feeling the weight of the crown's authority settle around me like armor forged from necessity and sacrifice.
This is my choice. The decision of an Empress. I must be firm.
I must act.
I lift my chin and look directly at Mykhol, needing him to see the resolution in my eyes, even if he can't understand it. My eyes search his, willing him to meet my gaze, to see not just 'Ana'—the frightened girl who once clung to his steadiness like a lifeline while cruel hands pulled and yanked at her silver hair with malicious laughter—but the Empress who stands before him now. The one who must chose for the Empire over herself.
The crownlight catches the firelight and throws it back in fractured rainbows, gleaming against the deep crimson of the shawl draped over my silver hair. My braid still hangs heavy over my shoulder, each strand seeming to glow with its own internal light in the dying flames of the hearth. My hair, the undeninable marker that I am half, as other—silver among the sea of copper and rust and wine-dark red that flows through every other person in this room, making all the more clear of how much more I have to prove.
Will prove. To be seen the same. Worthy.
Because this is what it means to choose the crown.
To place the Empire above comfort. Above the familiar warmth of shared glances and inside jokes and the easy intimacy of family who have known each other since childhood. Above the safety of keeping those we love close enough to protect.
Above family.
The words taste like ash in my mouth, bitter and final. Even though I can still feel the phantom warmth of his hand reaching for mine across years of shared secrets, even though my throat constricts with the memory of every moment we've shared—every late-night conversation, every conspiratorial whisper, every time he made me laugh when the weight of expectation threatened to crush me—I cannot take it back.
I will not take it back.
My voice emerges steady and clear, but I can feel how each syllable is forged in iron, tempered by resolve and sharpened by the knowledge that some wounds are necessary. "Cousin shall return to the Academy to complete his education."
The silence that follows is not relief.
It is the sharp, clean break of something precious shattering. The kind of silence that follows lightning in the split second before the sky remembers to thunder, when the world holds its breath and waits for the inevitable crash that will shake everything down to its foundations.
Mykhol doesn't move. Doesn't even blink.
For one suspended heartbeat, I think perhaps the words haven't reached him through whatever thoughts occupy his mind. That the weight of what I've just decreed hasn't yet settled into the spaces between his ribs where it will live and ache for however long it takes him to forgive me—if he ever does.
But then I see it.
The subtle shift in his posture, the way his spine goes rigid as though someone has just driven a blade between his shoulder blades. His jaw tenses with such force that I can hear the grinding of teeth even from across the room, a sound that sets my own nerves on edge. A muscle jumps and flutters at the corner of his mouth like a moth caught against glass, desperate and erratic.
And something behind those vermilion eyes—those eyes that have always been so clear, so certain of their place in every room we've ever shared—something fractures.
Not surprise. This goes deeper than shock or confusion.
Something is shattering.
Mykhol's gaze locks onto mine with the desperate intensity of someone reaching for a lifeline that's just been cut, and I see the exact moment when understanding blooms behind his eyes like blood spreading through water. That flicker of comprehension, followed immediately by pain that roots itself so deep I can practically watch it burrowing into his bones, ancient and personal and devastating.
It's as though I've just undone something…I didn't know was sacred. Shared. Some unspoken promise or understanding that existed in the space between us and something more complex, something I don't have a name for. But he did.
His mouth parts on what might be a breath, might be the beginning of my name, might be a plea—but whatever sound wants to escape catches in his throat and dies there, stillborn and unuttered. Instead, a strange stillness takes hold of him, settling over his features like a mask.
But this isn't the controlled composure I know so well. This is vacancy. Emptiness. Like a thread has just snapped inside him and whatever held him upright—whatever dream or secret certainty he'd been living in, whatever future he'd been building in the quiet spaces of his mind—has simply vanished into nothing.
His vermilion eyes, always so sharp and aware, turn dull. The light that usually dances behind them—that quick intelligence, that wicked humor, that warmth reserved only for family—gutters and dies like candles snuffed by a sudden wind.
I've never seen him look like this.
He looks… lost.
Not wounded, not outraged, not even angry.
Lost.
Like someone who built castles in the sky only to find the wind blow each away. Never meant to last, falling through space with nothing to catch them and no idea where they might land.
The golden hoops in his ears catch what little firelight remains, sending tiny flashes of warmth across his pale skin, but the light doesn't reach his eyes. It might as well be reflecting off marble for all the life it reveals. His fingers flex at his sides in movements that have none of his usual fluid grace—awkward, uncertain gestures that speak of a mind so shocked it's forgotten how to direct the body it inhabits.
His hands curl into fists, but not from fury. From instinct. From not knowing what else to do with limbs that suddenly feel foreign and unmanageable, like a soul that's been abruptly severed from the flesh still trying to process what it just heard.
I watch his throat work as he swallows once, twice, the movement slow and labored. Each breath seems to be a battle he wasn't prepared to fight, as though the simple act of drawing air into his lungs requires conscious effort now that the automatic rhythms of certainty have been disrupted.
My chest tightens until it feels like iron bands are constricting around my ribs. Did I—
I didn't mean to hurt him. Not like this.
I thought he would understand. I thought he would see the political necessity, the wisdom of it. I thought he might nod with that sharp intelligence of his, or scoff and make some cutting remark about the Academy's tedious curriculum, or argue with me about the timing. I thought we might have the kind of heated discussion that I've come to know as his tantrums or dramatics when we disagreed.
But this?
This hollow stillness? This awful, yawning silence where his voice should be?
I didn't expect this. I didn't prepare for the possibility that my decision would reach inside him and tear something vital away, leaving behind this terrible emptiness where my cousin used to be.
He doesn't speak. Doesn't argue. Doesn't plead or bargain or demand explanations.
And somehow, that makes it so much worse than any outburst ever could.
I draw a shaking breath, tasting the metallic edge of my own guilt. I want to say his name, to reach across the chasm I've just carved between us and—what? Apologize? Explain that this isn't punishment, that it's protection, that sending him away is… necessary?
My lips part around the shape of his name, the syllables balanced on my tongue.
Almost.
I almost do it.
But then—
"What!" The room explodes into chaos, voices erupting like a dam bursting, overlapping and clashing in a cacophony of shock and outrage that makes my enhanced hearing ring with discord.
My aunt gasps as if I've physically struck her, the sound raw and wounded. Then she's rushing forward with the desperate grace of a mother animal protecting her young, throwing her arms around Mykhol's shoulders like she could physically anchor him to this place, to this life, through sheer maternal will.
"No!" The word tears from her throat like something bleeding. Her head falls back in anguish, exposing the pale column of her neck, and tears begin streaming down her cheeks in silver rivers that cut through her splotchy and reddening pallor. Her voice fractures completely, each word emerging jagged and broken. "You can't—don't take away my boy—please, Your Empress, he's all I have —"
The scent of her distress fills the air—fear and desperation and the kind of grief that threatens to consume everything in its path. It mingles with the fading cedar smoke and creates something cloying and oppressive that sticks in my throat.
"Everyone, please—" I start to speak, hoping to restore some semblance of order to the emotional chaos, but another voice cuts through the mayhem like a blade through silk. A voice that stops my heart mid-beat because I never expected to hear it raised in such desperate supplication.
"Please, Your Empress—don't!"
It's Naska.
She drops to her knees so suddenly and with such force it's as if her legs have simply given out beneath some unbearable weight. Her fingers twist desperately into the fabric of my nightgown, her grip trembling and urgent.
Her face is completely transformed—pain raw and unfiltered, like someone whose world is ending. Tears stream down her pale cheeks, leaving tracks of devastation in their wake, and when she speaks, her voice comes out hoarse and breaking, barely able to contain the emotion that threatens to tear her apart from the inside.
"Don't send him away."
"Naska?" I breathe her name, completely stunned by the intensity of her reaction. My mind scrambles desperately for context, for any explanation. Why would she care this deeply? I expected this level of hysteria from my aunt—she was his mother, I've read maternal love makes people do desperate things. But Naska?
She isn't family. She's never seemed particularly close to Mykhol, at least not that I've ever observed. She has been working as my personal maid, yes, and I would expect some reverence extended to Mykhol, as a noble. But her reaction is so far beyond what that relationship would warrant.
But the way she's clutching at my skirts, her entire body shaking like a leaf in a storm... it's as if her very survival depends on this moment.
Naska lifts her face to mine, and for just an instant I glimpse something in her dark eyes that makes my breath catch in my throat—sheer, absolute devastation. And something more, something deeper.
A truth trying desperately to claw its way out of her chest, fighting against whatever bonds keep it locked away.
"You don't understand," she whispers, her voice barely audible above the continuing chaos of Funda's sobs and the general murmur of distress. "He—he can't go. He can't leave." Her voice drops into a tremor that seems to come from her very soul, vibrating through her bones and into mine where she still grips my gown. "He needs to stay, not just for the court or for the Empire—he..."
She stops abruptly, so suddenly that it's like watching someone slam into an invisible wall.
The words sit balanced on the very edge of her tongue, suspended in space like a held breath. Her eyes widen with the sudden realization that she's said far too much, revealed something she never meant to expose. She sucks in air sharply, a sound like a sob or a gasp, and lowers her gaze, hiding behind the curtain of her rust-red hair like a child seeking shelter from a storm.
"He just can't," she repeats more softly, almost to herself now. Her voice has gone hollow, empty of the desperate fight it carried just seconds before, leaving behind only the echo of something broken.
I blink in complete confusion, utterly at a loss for words or understanding. Her sudden collapse, her near-confession, the way she'd looked at me like I was about to destroy not just Mykhol's future but something precious that belonged to her as well—none of it makes sense. My chest tightens with unease as I search her downturned face for answers, but she won't meet my eyes. Her body continues to tremble, and her hands slowly slide away from my gown, fingers curling inward as if she's trying to hold the pieces of herself together through physical force alone.
What secret is she carrying? What truth was she about to reveal? And why does the thought of Mykhol leaving affect her like this?
Father's voice booms above all the emotional chaos, slicing through it like a blade through silk, bringing with it the scent of authority and finality that makes every vampire in the room instinctively straighten.
"The matter is decided." He speaks with the absolute authority of a king delivering final judgment, each word weighted with the kind of power that brooks no argument. "Lord Mykhol will return to the Academy to complete his education."
Funda reels back as if Father has physically struck her, but I catch the spark of desperate hope that suddenly flares in her red-rimmed eyes. "But—but the enrollment processes!" Her voice takes on the quality of someone grasping at straws, clutching at any delay she can imagine. "It will take weeks, months to arrange—the paperwork, the applications—"
"The Academy," Johan intones with grave satisfaction, stepping forward like an executioner approaching the block, "already has accommodations prepared for His Lordship."
The color drains completely from Mykhol's face, leaving him marble-pale in the firelight. His lips part in shock, and for the first time since I spoke, he seems to truly focus on something outside his own internal devastation.
"You..." he breathes, his voice hoarse and quiet, frayed with disbelief. "You contacted them already? Before even speaking to me? Before…speaking to Ana?"
His gaze lifts—not to me, but to Father, and something unspoken passes between them. Not rage, not accusation—something sharper. Quieter. Mykhol's voice, for all its restraint, trembles at the edge of something raw. It lands heavier than any shout might have.
Father doesn't answer right away.
He just looks at Mykhol. A long, unreadable look. Not cold. Not warm. Just… precise. His expression barely shifts, but I see the tiniest curve of his mouth, the faintest change in posture. Lke a curtain pulled back just enough to let in a wind I can't see.
Father finally speaks, voice smooth and composed. "I trust you will make the most of this opportunity."
The comment earns another rasp of dry, delighted laughter from Admiral Nugen. "And please," he adds with a smile that shows all his teeth, "take your time with your studies. Be thorough."
Mykhol doesn't respond immediately. His mouth stays pressed into a tight line, his jaw clenched so hard I can see the muscles jumping beneath his skin. A vein throbs visibly near his temple.
When he finally looks at Nugen, his glare is unmistakable—pure, concentrated hatred burning in those vermilion eyes like coals in snow.
"Now that the matter is settled..." Father stretches with exaggerated casualness, his yawn almost comically theatrical after all the drama. He leans down to press a gentle kiss to my forehead, his lips warm against my skin, and for just a moment I'm reminded of being small and safe and certain that my father could fix anything.
"I'll see you in the morning, my dear one," he murmurs, and there's approval in his voice, pride in the way I've handled this difficult moment. The warmth of his regard settles over me like a blanket, a reminder that I've chosen correctly. A choice of my own. Not any one elses. One a leader should make.
He motions to Johan and Admiral Nugen, both of whom follow him toward the door with the satisfied air of men who have accomplished exactly what they set out to do. Nugen pauses in the doorway, his scarred face creasing with amusement as he surveys the emotional wreckage left in their wake.
"I believe the rest of you should seek your beds as well," he adds, his tone brooking no disagreement. The spring air from the corridor carries the faint scent of rain approaching, and growing things like my roses, a promise of dawn still hours away. He pauses deliberately before Funda and Uncle Charles, his meaning crystal clear.
"Bedtime," he says again, that sharp smile returning—directed specifically at them.
Funda snarls like a cornered animal. Her fangs fall out into full display as she takes the bait. "You insignificant little—"
"Come, dearest." Uncle Charles is already gently but insistently pulling her toward the exit, displaying a rare moment of backbone. His voice carries the edge of his own distress, but also determination—the resolve of someone who knows when a battle is truly lost. "We should go."
The door closes behind them with blessed finality, though Funda's voice can still be heard echoing down the stone corridor, hurling increasingly creative curses at anyone within earshot. The sound fades gradually, leaving behind the soft whisper of spring wind through the windows and the dying crackle of the fire.
But Naska remains kneeling on the Persian rug, motionless as carved stone.
Her thick russet hair hangs like a veil over her face, obscuring her expression completely, but I can smell the salt of her tears and something else—something deeper and more complex that I can't quite identify. Her breathing is shallow and rapid, as if she's fighting not to hyperventilate, and her scent carries the sharp edge of barely controlled panic.
"You too," Admiral Nugen notes, his attention turning to the remaining stragglers with obvious impatience. "Time to go." His voice has lost its earlier malice—now it simply sounds tired, like a man who's had enough drama for one evening and wants nothing more than his own bed.
But Naska doesn't rise. Doesn't even acknowledge that he's spoken.
She stays frozen in place, staring at the intricate patterns in the rug as if they hold the secrets of the universe. Her eyes are vacant, unfocused, as if something vital inside her has simply... stopped working.
"Naska, here—" I kneel beside her, reaching out with gentle concern, but she slaps my hand away before I can make contact. The strike isn't born of anger—no, it's nothing like that. The sharp pang of pride dances across her shoulders like a trembling flame, as if needing to stand on her own, as if help would only humiliate her further. Would undo her.
Without word, she staggers to her feet in a movement that seems to cost her everything, her legs trembling like those of a newborn foal. Each step toward the door looks like agony, as if she's walking through deep water that threatens to pull her under with every movement.
Bruno peels away from his corner like smoke given form. He pauses just long enough to catch my eye, and for a moment those strange burgundy irises meet mine with something that looks almost like... pride? Joy? Relief? As though he approves of what I've done.
He almost smiles—just the faintest upturn of his lips—then there's something else—softer. A quiet, almost mournful flicker behind his eyes as they flick up to Naska. As if part of him aches. But the expression vanishes as quickly as it appeared. Without a word, his gaze drops, and he turns, trailing after his mother with a solemn grace that feels far too old for five years.
I watch them leave, my heart heavy with questions I don't know how to ask and answers I'm not sure I want to hear. Naska's breakdown, her desperate plea, the secret she almost revealed—none of it makes sense in the context of what I thought I knew about the relationships in this room.
But the raw emotion in her voice, the way she looked at me like I was destroying something precious and irreplaceable, the way Bruno seemed to understand something I'm completely missing…
What am I missing? What truth lies buried beneath all this family drama?
But I don't have time to unravel mysteries right now. There's still one person left in the room, and I can feel his presence like a storm front approaching—all pressure and electricity and the promise of lightning.
"And you—" Admiral Nugen begins, turning toward Mykhol with obvious intent to clear the room completely, but I hold up my hand to stop him.
"No." My voice carries more authority than I expected, the sound of an Empress who has found her footing again after the emotional chaos. "I want a moment alone with my cousin."
Nugen bristles, his military instincts clearly warring with his desire to respect my wishes. The scent of his concern fills the air—sharp and alert, like a soldier who senses danger but can't identify its source. "Your Empress, given the circumstances, perhaps it would be wiser—"
"It will be fine, Admiral." I give him what I hope is a reassuring smile, though my stomach churns with uncertainty and my enhanced hearing picks up the rapid flutter of my own heartbeat. "I need to speak with him privately."
Nugen's weathered face shows his reluctance clearly, every line and scar speaking of battles fought and hard-won experience that tells him when something might be dangerous. But he nods with military precision, though his eyes fix on Mykhol like a hawk watching a snake—full of warning and promise.
"I'll be just outside the door," he states clearly, his meaning unmistakable. "One step away. One sound that I don't like, and I come through that door ready for war."
Again, Mykhol lifts his eyes with that same eerie stillness, expression completely blank. No fear, no acknowledgment, no reaction at all. Just emptiness where a person used to be.
"Thank you, Admiral Nugen." I dismiss him as graciously as I can manage, watching as he reluctantly withdraws, his boots making soft sounds against the stone as he takes his position just beyond the threshold.
The moment the door clicks shut, the silence becomes a living thing—thick and oppressive, pressing against my skin like the humidity that builds before a thunderstorm. The room feels larger somehow, emptier, with just the two of us remaining among the flickering shadows cast by dying candles and the last few flames struggling in the hearth.
Or perhaps it's just me, suddenly hyperaware of every sensation now that we're alone. I press a hand to my chest, feeling the strange tightness there, the way my ribs seem to constrict around lungs that can't quite draw enough air. My heart hammers against my breastbone in a rhythm so erratic and loud I'm certain Mykhol can hear every frantic beat echoing through the supernatural silence.
Just as I can hear his heartbeat in return—that curse and gift of enhanced senses making the rapid drum of his pulse impossible to ignore. We're both afraid, both off-balance, both trying to pretend we can't detect the other's distress through the intricate web of scent and sound that connects us.
But I can't pretend forever. I know that. And I know I can't delay this conversation indefinitely—it will only make everything worse the longer I wait.
The silence stretches between us like a chasm, filled with all the words neither of us knows how to say. Where to start. Who will be the braver one to break the spell first, while the cool spring air continues to seep through the windows and the fire gradually dies to glowing embers.
Mykhol stands perfectly still in the center of the room, but there's something profoundly wrong with his stillness. It's not the controlled poise I'm used to—that elegant composure that speaks of centuries of breeding and training. This is the terrible quiet of someone barely holding themselves together, like glass that's been cracked but hasn't quite shattered yet.
His eyes stare at some fixed point in the middle distance, unfocused and distant, as if he's seeing something I can't—or perhaps seeing nothing at all, lost in some internal landscape where my words are still echoing and destroying whatever peace he'd managed to build there.
I swallow hard, my throat suddenly dry as parchment, tasting the metallic edge of my own fear and guilt. The weight of what I've just done settles over me like a cloak made of lead, and I force myself to break the silence first.
My voice comes out smaller than I intended, almost childlike in the vast quiet of the room, carrying with it all the uncertainty and regret I' wish I could hide.
But there is no hiding now. It's time.
"Cousin?"