*Naska*
The rain hadn't let up once since dawn. It came down in relentless sheets, drumming against stone with a rhythm that seemed to mock the solemnity of the moment. Each drop struck like a tiny hammer, soaking through wool, silk, and skin without mercy. The air itself felt thick and sodden, carrying the metallic scent of wet stone and the earthy musk of drenched gardens. The courtyard had transformed into a shallow lake of standing water and sand, puddles reflecting the gray sky like broken mirrors, and still—still—they came.
Gray clouds hunched low overhead like a ceiling about to collapse, pressing down with such weight that breathing felt labored. The sky felt too close, too heavy, as if the heavens themselves were bearing witness to this exile. The world had been drained of color, save for the violent red smear of roses drowning in the garden beyond—their petals scattered like drops of blood on the dark water—and the cold glint of brass buckles where rainwater ran like veins over polished boots.
The limestone path under Naska's feet was slick and treacherous, each step a careful negotiation with the elements. Rainwater lapped around her thin leather slippers, the cold seeping through the worn soles and climbing up her legs like creeping frost. Her muslin tunic clung to her like a second skin, heavy and sodden, the fabric pulling at her shoulders with each movement. The weight of it seemed to drag her down, as if the very air conspired to remind her of her place.
Still, she held the umbrella over Mykhol's head, arms aching, breath caught in her throat.
She would have shared it. The thought burned in her chest like acid. But everyone was watching—she could feel their eyes like hot coals against her skin. She could only bite back the urge that made her heart crack open anew, the bitter knowledge that even now, even in this moment of departure, she couldn't get closer. No affection outside the realm of servant to Lord. The rules that bound her were as invisible as they were absolute.
Every drop that struck her head felt like a mocking laugh, sharp and cold against her scalp. Each one made her flinch, but she bit down on her lip hard enough to taste copper, determined to stay strong. Head high, shoulders squared despite the tremor in her arms. She would not falter. Not where they could see.
This punishment would not last forever. The words had become a prayer she whispered to herself in the dark hours before dawn. One day, soon. But that day seemed impossibly distant, like a star viewed through storm clouds.
"I'll hold things down until you're back," she whispered, just loud enough for him to hear. Her voice wavered like the rain-streaked candle flames struggling under the overhangs nearby.
This moment—this breath of time that felt stolen from the world—was all she could claim. She had been waiting all morning for this chance, pacing like a caged animal, her heart hammering against her ribs. A chance that was being poisoned by the weight of hostile stares, red eyes that felt like coals burning into her back.
Behind her, the crowd shifted restlessly, their whispers creating a low hum that competed with the rain. She cast a sharp glare over her shoulder, her jaw clenching until her teeth ached.
They shouldn't even be here. Word of Mykhol's departure had spread like rot through the palace walls overnight, carried on the tongues of servants and lords alike. Now they flocked like mourners at a wake, their faces pale and drawn with a grief that felt performative. No one had been invited to this private torment. But still they came, drawn by the terrible magnetism of a fallen prince.
Around them, nobles huddled beneath parasols and half-collapsed canopies, their fine silks growing heavy with water. The rich fabrics darkened and sagged, their bright embroidery dulled to muddy shadows. Even their carefully arranged hair had begun to escape its pins, hanging in damp tendrils that framed faces drawn with exhaustion. The rain had stripped away their polish, revealing the raw grief beneath—eyes red-rimmed and weary, lips pressed into thin lines of barely contained emotion.
On any other day, Naska might have felt a surge of pride at this display. So many had come—despite the ungodly hour, despite the merciless storm. It meant they cared. It meant he mattered. It meant his influence ran deeper than even she had imagined.
But the sight of the girls scattered throughout the crowd turned her pride to ash in her mouth. Daughters of lords, young court favorites, their youth making their devotion seem all the more tragic. They stood beneath lace-framed hoods, their faces flushed with cold and emotion, mascara bleeding down their cheeks in dark rivers. Their eyes were swollen from crying—crying over him, over a man who belonged to another. Their stares clung to Mykhol like desperate vines, adoring and hungry.
Naska's free hand curled into a fist at her side, nails digging crescents into her palm. She wanted to scream until her throat was raw. She wanted to shove them all aside, to claw at their perfect faces. To bare her teeth like a wild thing and shriek that he belonged to her—body, soul, and the child they'd created together. That they didn't know him, not the way she did. They saw a tragic prince, a rising star snuffed out too soon, a romantic figure to pine over.
She saw the man beneath the title. The man who whispered her name in the dark like a prayer. The man who had wept openly in her arms, his careful composure cracking like glass. The man who had made her a mother, who had given her a son with his eyes and his melting smile.
But all she could do was clench her jaw until her temples throbbed, her fingers locked around the umbrella's handle like a lifeline. Her knuckles had gone white, then purple, straining against the urge to violence.
"Don't glare at them, Naska," Mykhol murmured, his voice low, but the edge unmistakable. "Remember what we agreed to?"
"Yes, my lord," she muttered, the words scraping against her throat like broken glass. She lowered her eyes, studying the pattern of rain on stone, and bit down on her lower lip to keep from pouting like a child. The taste of submission was bitter, coating her tongue like medicine.
But she obeyed. Always would.
Still... once it's public, she told herself. Then things will be different. That thought was the only thing keeping her anger from boiling over.
She kept her eyes downcast, letting the rain sting her lashes like tiny needles. Let her heart race and stutter inside her ribs like a caged bird, as long as she kept her face a perfect mask of servitude.
Mykhol moved a step closer—not enough to draw attention from the watching crowd, but enough to slip his hand beneath the edge of his cloak. His fingers found hers, cold and slightly trembling, hidden from view by the dark fabric. His skin was ice against hers, but the touch still sent warmth shooting up her arm like lightning.
"You act like I'm going to war," he teased, his voice faint and hollow, lacking its usual warmth. The words were meant to comfort, she could tell. They didn't. Instead, they felt like goodbye wrapped in false cheer.
"Lord Mykhol—" she started, but her voice cracked like ice under pressure. Her throat burned with unshed tears, the words tumbling over each other. "Can't you just—"
But he was already pulling away, his touch slipping from hers like water through cupped hands. The warmth disappeared so quickly she might have imagined it. Her fingers curled into the empty space where he had been, grasping at nothing but cold air. He had already turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps, his attention shifting like a door closing between them.
Naska's breath caught in her chest, sharp and painful. She felt suddenly exposed, as if the rain had washed away more than just warmth. But he didn't look back. His eyes had shifted ahead—sharp, focused. And she saw the change in him before she saw who he was looking at.
Of course. Her.
Ana.
The name sat on her tongue like a curse. The same girl who had destroyed everything last night with her calm, brutal certainty. The one who haunted Mykhol's thoughts like a ghost, who would always be there no matter how far he traveled or how many years passed. Naska's stomach twisted into knots of acid and dread, the familiar jealousy rising like bile in her throat.
She cast a desperate glance toward Lady Funda and nearly gasped at the raw hatred blazing in the woman's eyes. Funda's face was blotchy and swollen from crying, her usually perfect composure shattered. She swayed on her feet, kept upright only by Lord Charles's steady hand at her waist. Her lips trembled not with grief, but with pure fury as she stared daggers at Ana.
For once, Naska didn't feel alone in her rage. The thought was intoxicating: wouldn't it be wonderful if Lady Funda just snapped? If she finally gave voice to what they were all thinking?
"My Empress," Mykhol greeted, his voice smooth as silk, one hand pressed over his heart in a gesture of perfect courtesy. But Naska caught the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his fingers pressed a little too hard against his chest.
"Cousin—" Ana's voice stumbled for just a moment, her composure cracking like a hairline fracture in porcelain. Her lips tugged downward before she caught herself, smoothing her expression back into royal serenity. "Cousin, may you travel safely."
The simple courtesy hit Naska like a physical blow. Such casual words, as if they were discussing the weather rather than years of separation. As if the man who had shaped their lives was just another courtier taking his leave.
"He shouldn't leave at all, you bitch—" The words slipped out before Naska could stop them, her lips barely moving, the curse lost in the rain's whisper. But Mykhol's sharp glance found her anyway, and she clamped her mouth shut so hard her teeth clicked together. The taste of blood bloomed on her tongue where she'd been gnawing the inside of her cheek.
Mykhol's smile was effortless, charming—but Naska saw what others missed. The razor edge beneath the warmth. The tension that made his jaw rigid. The way his eyes had gone cold as winter stars.
"I won't be back for some years," he said, his voice light and conversational, as if discussing plans for a garden party. "I hope you won't forget about me."
The words hung in the air like a challenge, layered with meaning that only some would understand.
"I won't." Ana's answering smile was small, polite, perfectly appropriate for an empress addressing a departing lord. But it made Naska want to tear her own skin off, to scream until her voice was gone. "I'll be waiting for you to return."
Something shifted in Mykhol's expression—a flicker so brief that Naska almost missed it. His face stiffened, the careful mask slipping for just an instant before sliding back into place. But there was a change in his vermillion eyes, a dimming of the light that had always burned there. Something darker crawled behind his irises, something that made her stomach clench with unease.
"My lord?" she whispered, her voice barely audible above the rain. The question was torn from her without conscious thought, driven by an instinct that recognized danger even when she couldn't name it.
"I hope you will be," he answered Ana, but his voice had gone cold—not cruel, but final. Like a door closing with terrible finality. The sound of it sent ice through Naska's veins.
She wanted to reach for him, to pull him back from whatever precipice he was approaching. But Ana didn't seem to notice the change, still smiling with that maddening serenity. And then others were approaching—more nobles, more courtiers come to pay their respects—and Naska felt herself being pushed back, relegated to the shadows where servants belonged.
"Whore," came a not-so-whispered comment from one of the other servants as she stepped into line with them. The word hit like a slap, sharp and stinging.
"Eat shit," Naska snapped back without missing a beat, her voice low and venomous. She deliberately shook her head, sending water flying from her soaked hair toward the nearest servants. They grumbled and shuffled away, creating a small circle of space around her like she was something infectious.
Let them sneer. Let them whisper. They'd all eat their words soon enough, when the truth finally came to light. When she took her rightful place beside him, they'd remember every cruel word, every dismissive look.
A small hand slipped into hers, warm and trusting despite the cold.
He didn't want to stay with them? She glanced toward Lord Charles and Lady Funda, raising an eyebrow in silent question. Charles shook his head slightly, his expression grim. Lady Funda stood beside him, trembling like a leaf in a hurricane, barely holding herself together through sheer force of will.
Naska wrapped her arm around Bruno and pulled him against her leg, her palm settling on his damp curls. For a moment, they shared the weight of this moment- sharing pain as mother and son, watching as their world shifted on its axis.
*Bruno*
Bruno flinched as his mother's fingers tightened in his hair, her nails pricking through the fabric of his shirt like small claws. The points were sharp enough to break skin, but he bit the inside of his cheek and said nothing.
Mama doesn't mean it. She didn't even realize she was doing it.
Her eyes were fixed ahead, locked on the black carriage, on the pale figure just beneath its canopy.She was miles away, again, like everytime he was near, lost in whatever private drama played out in her mind. Forgetting even Bruno was right beside her.
She wouldn't hear anything as long as He was still in view.
The Black knight. Bruno swallowed the sting behind his eyes and focused on the scene before him. The sound of boots on wet limestone created a rhythm that competed with the rattle of armor and the hiss of rainfall against velvet cloaks. The horses were restless, their hooves striking sparks from the stone as they pawed at the ground. Steam rose from their flanks in the cold air, and water streamed from their manes like ink bleeding across parchment.
King Alexander had positioned himself at Ana's side, flanked by Admiral Nugen and Sir Pendwick. The three of them stood like guardians, each cast from different metal—bronze, silver, and iron. Their presence changed the very air around Ana, making her seem less alone, less vulnerable.
Farther back stood the old man with the tired eyes and pale brown gaze. Johan. The king's shadow.
Bruno felt him watching. Measuring. Like a builder studying the foundation of a house. It was a cool but observant stare that Bruno made when he met people. It was to size him up. He was looking to see how capable he could be.
Bruno met his stare without flinching, offering a nod that was small, but certain. He wanted Johan to know: I see you too. The old human looked capable. Perhaps he should get to know him better, as well.
For Ana's sake, he would watch all of them. The dragons. The wizards. The wolves hiding in fine robes.
Especially the Black Knight.
Johan's expression barely changed, but Bruno caught the ghost of approval in his eyes before the king began to speak.
"Ana," Alexander's voice cut through the rain like a blade, clear and commanding.
Bruno turned to watch as the king stepped forward, his broad frame unbothered by the rain that soaked through his cloak. The steel-blue of his eyes didn't glint with fury or pity—only with cold calculation. He was smiling, but the expression didn't reach his eyes.
It didn't have to.
"Lord Mykhol," Alexander greeted, his voice pitched to carry just far enough to be heard by those who mattered. The tone was polite enough to pass for courtesy, but cold enough to make the tension shift like a living thing.
Mykhol stopped short, forced to acknowledge the king first. His bow was measured, graceful, his expression schooled into perfect neutrality. "King Alexander. Sir Pendwick. Admiral Nugen."
Bruno could see the stiffness in his shoulders though—tight and twitching beneath the layers of embroidered velvet.
He opened his mouth, likely to offer something witty or cutting—but stopped. Instead, he looked back at Ana, just for a moment. Long enough to hold her gaze, to let something pass between them that Bruno couldn't read.
Then he turned away, his jaw sharp as a blade, his eyes darker now with everything he couldn't say.
He might've walked off with some measure of grace… had the Admiral not spoken.
"I do hope," Admiral Nugen said, dryly despite the rain, "that you won't fall on your own sword out there. That would be a real shame."
Bruno caught the flick of Mykhol's jaw, the momentary stillness in his shoulders. A pause like he was debating whether or not to respond.
"Admiral," Mykhol replied through barely parted lips, "I will be careful."
"Good," Nugen said without a blink, hand falling to the hilt of his sword. "Wouldn't want to have to waste a telegram."
The words hung in the air like a challenge. Bruno saw the crack in Mykhol's composure, the flash of rage that broke through his careful control. His hands clenched briefly at his sides before he forced them to relax.
And then Sir Pendwick stepped forward.
Bruno's eyebrows lifted in surprise. The usually nervous, timid lord looked... different today. Taller somehow, as if something in him had finally clicked into place. Not arrogant—Bruno didn't think he was capable of that. Not cocky. Just certain.
"I hope you use your time well, Lord Mykhol," Pendwick said, his voice steady and clear. "Sometimes distance is exactly what a man needs to become someone better."
The words weren't sharp or cruel. They were spoken with calm precision, measured and unapologetic. But they carried the weight of absolute certainty, of a man who had finally found his voice.
Bruno narrowed his eyes, studying the young lord with new interest. He didn't like Pendwick—not the way the boy looked at Ana like she was starlight given form, not the obvious devotion that shone in his eyes.
But he was… safer. Considering. He liked him. A little better.
Mykhol's jaw twitched again. Rain slid down the slope of his cheek. The fabric over his shoulders darkened further with the storm. He made no reply—because Ana was watching.
She was watching everything.
So he did nothing. Said nothing. Just held onto his pride like a blade already sheathed, and turned toward the carriage.
Instead, he gave one look back to Ana. And then he was turning without another word.
"Don't go, Lord Mykhol!" a servant sobbed nearby, her voice cracking like a snapped bowstring.
"This is horrible," muttered one nobleman. "What a wretched day."
Bruno felt his mother's claws again—this time digging deeper. He winced.
"Mama—" he whispered, barely audible, not in protest but in warning. But she was gone inside herself, drowning just like the rest of them. Clearly lost in her wave of emotions.
"Things will never be the same," she whispered, more to herself than him. Her tears slid down her cheeks and mingled with the rain. She looked so lost it almost made him feel guilty.
Almost.
"She'll get what's coming to her," she hissed, dragging a sleeve across her face.
Bruno said nothing. He only shifted his stance, planting his feet slightly apart like a knight would before a charge. He looked ahead—past the wet veils of rain, past the gaudy crowd soaked to their fine-threaded bones.
Didn't they feel it?
The spell was breaking. The rot was leaving. The palace smelled different already—like wet roses, like new grass under the stone. Like hope.
They wept for the wrong reason.
Good riddance. Bruno kept his gaze fixed as Mykhol approached the carriage. The man's boots splashed through the shallow puddles, his cloak dragging across the muddy edge of the walkway. His hand reached for the door—
But then he paused.
For a heartbeat, his gaze swept the crowd—and landed squarely on Bruno.
The look chilled him straight to the spine.
There was no recognition in Mykhol's expression. No warmth. No cruelty either. Only… understanding. Cold, detached understanding. Like someone staring at a chessboard, finding the wrong piece in the wrong place—and realizing too late that the game had already turned against him.
It was the look of someone who knew.
Bruno didn't blink. He didn't flinch. He simply tilted his chin slightly higher, meeting that terrible gaze with all the courage his small frame could muster.
He was Ana's knight. The unsung hero. Sir Bruno.
And Mykhol was the monster they'd finally managed to banish to the tower. Far far away.
It had been Bruno's job to help defeat him.
Still… the man's gaze lingered too long.
Then, as if nothing had happened, Mykhol climbed into the carriage and vanished behind the velvet curtain.
The door shut with a muffled thud. The reins snapped. The horses lunged forward in a surge of muscle and steam, their hooves sending up sprays of muddy water as they fought for purchase on the slick stones.
The Black Knight was gone.
Bruno exhaled slowly, quietly, not realizing he'd been holding his breath until the tension left his shoulders. The sound of the carriage wheels faded into the distance, swallowed by the rain and the collective sigh of the watching crowd.
Don't come back, he thought fiercely, his small hands curling into fists at his sides.
But even as the rain began to soften into mist, Bruno couldn't shake the memory of that final look. The way Mykhol had seen him—really seen him.
Could he know? Could he have figured out who had passed that ledger to Admiral Nugen?
No. Bruno shook his head, trying to convince himself. No one had seen him. He had been so careful. Quiet. Hidden. A shadow among shadows.
Still… his fingers curled slightly at his sides.
The Black Knight was gone.
The monster in the mirror was finally gone.
But not defeated. Not yet.
*Ana*
The carriage vanished behind the rain-veiled horizon, swallowed by the rolling dunes that had turned from golden yellow to muddy brown in the storm. A thin veil of mist still fell, too light to sting but too persistent to ignore. It softened the edges of everything—the palace steps, the drawn faces of the crowd, even the deep ruts left by the carriage wheels in the sodden earth. As though the world itself wanted to wash this moment away before it could settle into memory.
I stand still, watching it shrink to a flicker, then nothing at all. My hand presses over my sternum without thinking, fingers curling into the fabric of my bodice. There's a tightness there, a pulling sensation low and slow, like the ache of a bruise just beneath the bone.
I knew I would be sad to see this day but-I blink. My eyes are dry. That surprises me.
Around me, the crowd shifts and murmurs like a living thing. The air fills with the rustle of damp fabric, the whisper of handkerchiefs against tear-stained cheeks. Even Lady Katya has one pressed to her mouth, though I look away quickly before her presence can poison this moment.
Their tears feel distant, as if I'm watching them from behind thick glass. So much softness, so much open grief. And yet—
I am not crying. I should be, shouldn't I?
A strange pressure climbs the inside of my throat. I swallow it down. No, it isn't sadness. Not exactly. Just the echo of it. The aftertaste.
A void, not a storm.
A strange pressure builds in my throat, threatening to choke me. I swallow it down, tasting salt and regret. But it isn't quite sadness. Not exactly. More like the echo of sadness, the shadow it leaves behind. A void where something should be, rather than the storm I'd expected.
He didn't even say my name.
The thought slides in unwelcome, sharp as a blade between ribs. In all our years of complicated history, through every argument and reconciliation, he had never failed to use my name. It was always—
I cut the thought off before it can take root. Such a simple thing, so insignificant. But it had caught me off guard, left me feeling strangely hollow.
He was still angry. Of course he was. The formal distance was just his way of maintaining dignity in front of the watching crowd. Logical. Appropriate for once, instead of the familiar intimacy that had always marked our interactions.
Time would heal it. Years had a way of wearing down even the sharpest edges of hurt. No one could nurture anger for that long—it wasn't logical, wasn't sustainable.
And yet I find myself pressing my palm harder against my chest, as if physical pressure might ease the inexplicable ache there. The comfort I'm seeking refuses to come. The discomfort lingers, formless but persistent, like the hollow echo that remains after a bell's last toll has faded.
"So, now that's over."
Father's voice cuts through my brooding like sunlight breaking through storm clouds—bright, warm, encompassing. I hadn't noticed him approaching, but suddenly he's there beside me, slipping his arm through mine with the easy familiarity of someone who had never left.
His other hand covers mine, and the contact is a revelation. Solid. Warm. Steady as bedrock. A smile stretches across his face, pushing back his full beard, reaching all the way to his eyes. He looks as if an enormous weight has been lifted from his shoulders.
I release a breath I didn't know I was holding. It comes out sharp and sudden, catching in my throat before releasing in a soft exhale that seems to pull something with it. My shoulders, I realize, have dropped. The rigid tension I'd been carrying between my shoulder blades finally releases. For the first time in days, I'm not braced for an attack.
His fingers squeeze mine gently, and the simple gesture grounds me in a way that nothing else has.
"We have quite a mess to clean up, don't we?" he says, his voice light with an undertone of anticipation. There's an energy about him that seems to vibrate through the air between us, as if the months of travel, the fatigue, the weight of his return have all been swept away. He looks rested despite his recent arrival, vital in a way that makes the gray day seem brighter.
"Missing Bows. Diplomatic negotions with the Bulgeons. Finding a new merchant." This is my father as I remember him best—larger than life, unshakeable, radiating the kind of confidence that makes others want to follow him into battle. His presence alone seems to rearrange the world, making problems feel solvable, challenges feel surmountable.
Just life. Clear, steadfast, and familiar. Like Nicoli's laughter when he used to pull me by the hand through castle halls. Like firelight in a long-empty room.
"Shall we get started then, daughter?" His sapphire eyes gleam in the dim light, and as if responding to his words, the rain begins to slow. The drops ease from steady percussion to gentle mist, then pause altogether, as if even the sky has been waiting for permission to stop weeping.
I don't answer him with words. I can't—my voice feels locked somewhere deep in my chest, tangled up with too many emotions to untangle.
But I let him lead me.
At first, my feet feel strange beneath me, uncertain of their purpose. But then his step becomes mine, his steady rhythm pulling me forward. He doesn't walk ahead of me like a general leading troops, but beside me, his arm firm beneath my hand. For the first time in what feels like an eternity, I don't feel like I'm walking this path alone.
His presence works like alchemy, transforming the weight I've been carrying. The sharp edges of doubt begin to dull. The cold that has lived in my bones for weeks starts to thaw. Even the persistent ache in my chest begins to shift, stretching into something unfamiliar but not unwelcome.
Something that might be hope.
When we reach the palace steps, he pauses. Really looks at me—not the careful assessment of a political ally or the worried glance of a concerned subject, but the full attention of a father seeing his daughter clearly for the first time in months.
"It's time Empress Anastasia begins her rule for real," he says, his voice soft but carrying the weight of absolute conviction.
The words settle into my bones like stones finding their place in a foundation. I nod, because this—this I understand. This is not about grief or loss or the complicated tangle of feelings I can't untangle. This is about purpose. About the crown I wear and the kingdom that depends on me.
We step through the archway together, entering a palace I've walked alone for far too long. Behind us, the last drops of rain disappear into memory. The light that breaks through the dissipating clouds is pale, not yet warm—but it's enough. Enough to see the path forward clearly. Enough to believe that the worst of the storm has passed.
Father's grip tightens on my hand, and I squeeze back, feeling strength flow between us like a current.
For the first time in longer than I can remember, I don't feel like I'm merely surviving my reign, trying to weather each crisis as it comes.
I feel like I'm about to claim it.