*Ana*
Was this where I got it from? The drive, the grit, the instinct to stand and push harder when everything begged me to sit?
I never knew where it came from—until now.
Father didn't pause when he returned indoors. He barely bothered to shake the rain from his cloak before launching into court matters like a man reclaiming a throne that had been left to rust. His voice rang through the chamber before the servants had even finished lighting the last candles. I've never seen him this serious. And I've never been more grateful for it.
When he said, "Let's get to work," he didn't mean tomorrow. He meant now. That same hour. That same breath.
And in just a month, the arteries of this empire—every last clogged vein and festering wound—have been cut open, cauterized, and made new.
The first change had been to fix the failing supply lines—Mykhol's old "arrangement." Father cut through the tangled bureaucracy like a sword through overripe fruit, the corruption giving way with a sickening ease that revealed just how rotten things had become. A new trade route was negotiated, bypassing the devastating attacks of the last route in favor of the safer, more stable Almony mountain passes. He'd replaced a whole group of our shady Nochten merchants (it turns out there were more than what even Mykhol had confessed to that had their hands in the profits of the crossbows) with Almony-based traders—trusted allies from his own network. The relief in the treasury ledgers was immediate and visible, black ink replacing the endless sea of red. Hidi was delighted by that change, needless to say.
And between us, after careful consideration, we decided that Uncle Charles would step down from his role as treasurer. It is now Sir Celbest, Pendwick's grandfather, and head of the family, who will have the honor.
At first, the reaction was predictably resistant. The traditional sense of decorum and procedure of Nochten left many to push back—it was too much change, too fast, and some argued, not needed. Outrage echoed off the marbled pillars of the courtroom like thunder trapped in a stone cage. The idea of relying on foreigners was almost sacrilegious to some of them. Even I balked at first, my stomach knotting with the familiar anxiety of uncertainty.
But Father had looked at me across the council table, sapphire eyes steadfast and warm as summer stones, and calmly said, "They're loyal to me, Ana. Which means they'll be loyal to you." And that had been that.
Even Hidi—gods help me—sent a letter to vouch for them. She also mentioned, in her ever-charming tone, that she'd be visiting in person from now on, since I've apparently developed "bad habits." I still don't know what she meant by that. I suspect she'll tell me when she arrives, whether I ask or not. I pity the Almony delegation. She's going to land on them like a thunderclap, all sharp words and sharper wit. How she will manage to rule her own country while dropping everything to make unannounced trips to Nochten, I can only imagine. Her mother will likely be working even harder in retirement than she would have still on the throne.
But I... I have my own empire to run.
And for the first time, I feel like I actually can. I don't feel like I'm drowning in it alone.
The courtroom, once a den of veiled barbs and sideward glances, feels transformed. The high archways stretch taller somehow, less like the weight of judgment pressing down and more like pillars of support holding up something precious. Light pours through the eastern windows in golden streams, catching on the polished brass sconces and the waxed woodwork until the entire space seems to breathe differently—deeper, cleaner, alive. Even the banners—those heavy velvet reminders of bloodlines and loyalty—stir faintly in the rising heat of spring, their fabric whispering secrets of seasons past.
The people inside it have changed, too.
Where once I stood surrounded by tightly drawn lips and eyes that rolled when they thought I wasn't watching, now I hear the low hum of conversation laced with something startling: praise.
"The new merchant is proving efficient," murmurs a nobleman near the back, his voice pitched just low enough to sound impartial—but I hear the grudging respect underneath, rough as sandpaper but genuine.
"Not just efficient," another adds, the words carrying the weight of surprised approval, "he's... prudent. We've seen more silver restored to the treasury this month than we did in half a year prior."
One of my councilmen, Sir Elleray, clears his throat. His voice is steady, weathered by years of careful diplomacy, though not unkind. "His Majesty's recommendations have proved effective," he says, nodding once toward Father with quiet acknowledgment that tastes of swallowed pride. "I daresay Nochten hasn't run this cleanly since… before. When Empress Parsal sat the throne."
The words land like the strike of a cathedral bell—low and resonant, vibrating through the stone and into my bones. They seem to hang in the air, shimmering with significance.
Empress Parsal. My mother. The breaking of our taboo to speak of the dead doesn't go unnoticed by me, the weight of it pressing against my ribs like a held breath. The significance of bringing her up, to compare me to her—
For a moment, I forget to breathe.
The pride blooms in my chest so suddenly, so fiercely, it lifts my posture before I can stop it. I sit straighter in my throne, the fine weight of my gold chains shifting over my head with a soft metallic whisper. They chime together—a delicate, ceremonial sound like distant temple bells—as my movement sends a ripple down to Maddies shawl draped over my hair like alawys. It slides slightly from my shoulder, revealing a flash of silver hair underneath.
I almost reach to fix it out of habit, my fingers twitching with the ingrained impulse to hide.
But I don't.
For once, it doesn't feel that important to conceal what I am.
Because I'm more than just half. More than a woman on the throne. I am—my mother's daughter
Across the dais, Father doesn't speak. But when I glance his way, I catch the way his mouth presses into a thin line—almost a smile, almost a wince, as if he's fighting some deep emotion. Something glistens faintly in the corner of his eye, diamond-bright and quickly hidden, before he blinks it away with the practiced ease of a man who has learned to bury his heart in public.
Still, he stands taller, shoulders squaring as if he's shedding an invisible burden.
"I wouldn't expect anything less," he says softly, his voice carrying the warmth of banked coals, his gaze never leaving mine, "from her daughter."
His words carry—not loud, but clear enough to still the last of the murmuring like a conductor's baton falling silent.
The court doesn't erupt in agreement. Not yet. But the room shifts, a subtle change in the very air, as if the walls themselves are listening. The quality of attention changes, sharpens, becomes something more respectful than mere obligation.
A few hesitant nods ripple through the crowd like stones dropped in still water. Even those who still visibly flinch at the name Alexander—their faces tightening as if they've tasted something sour—don't argue. Their posture has softened, arms uncrossing, shoulders dropping from their defensive positions. Their eyes meet mine—some with reluctance heavy as winter wool, others with growing trust that glimmers like early spring shoots pushing through snow.
Change is slow. But change has come.
Even the court air feels lighter, cleaner somehow. The scent of open windows and fresh breezes has overtaken the musty weight of old wool and stale incense. The marble doesn't echo quite so coldly beneath my shoes—each step sounds more like music now, less like the hollow toll of isolation.
"I hate to say it," one of the older councilmen grumbles near the base of the dais, his voice carrying the rough texture of admitted defeat, "but it's good he's here."
Laughter—quiet, surprised, but real—bubbles in pockets through the room.
"I heard the Bulgeon pirates are sending representatives soon."
"Peace talks? With pirates?"
"Who knows? But the tide has turned. Things feel different now."
Yes, I think, breathing in the transformed air of my court, they do.
There's no snickering from the gallery, no muttered jokes. Not even Aunt Funda has found something sharp to say today, her usual arsenal of cutting remarks seemingly blunted by the changing atmosphere. And when I rise from the throne—tall and straight in my sea-glass blue robes that catch the light like captured ocean waves—they rise with me in a rustle of fabric and creaking joints.
Dozens of eyes meet mine. Not with suspicion. Not with barely concealed mockery. With expectation. With respect that tastes like honey after years of receiving anything but.
So this is what it feels like.
This... this must be what being Empress truly is.
It's just a pity Mykhol isn't here to see it. That is my only shadow on this bright day, the one note of sadness in an otherwise perfect symphony. If he were here, I'm sure he would be proud, his dark eyes lighting with that rare smile he saved for moments when it was only us. Genuine and real.
"Your Empress," comes the reply, almost in chorus, the voices blending into something that sounds almost like a song.
Not a single bowed head is late. Not a single voice misses the mark or carries that edge of reluctant compliance that had haunted my early days on the throne.
They are not just obeying me. They are acknowledging me, recognizing something in me that even I am only beginning to understand. Even now, several nobles linger, hovering like birds just outside reach, their body language suggesting they're clearly hoping for a private audience, for a moment of my time that might advance their own causes.
But not today.
Today, I have plans that are mine alone.
I smile as I step down from the dais, robes trailing behind me like silk waves. "Sir Pendwick."
He's waiting at the foot of the steps, posture straighter than usual, his pale cheeks colored slightly pink in the rising spring heat that filters through the tall windows. He smiles back—truly smiles, his whole face lighting with genuine warmth—and for once, he's left his false tooth out.
Good. I like it better that way. His smile feels more honest to me when he doesn't feel the need to pretend perfection, when he lets me see the small flaws just like I have my own. If anyone understood the need to hide, we share that knowledge and can trust in the other.
"Are you ready?" I ask, offering my arm with the easy familiarity we've developed over these past weeks.
"I am, Your Empress,"he replies, bowing slightly with just the right amount of respect. His fingertips brush my wrist, warm and slightly damp from sweat, but before he can properly take my hand—
"Daughter?" My father's voice cuts in, warm but insistent, carrying that particular tone that means he has something important to say.
We both turn. Pendwick stiffens beside me, instantly deferential, his spine snapping straight as a soldier's. I narrow my eyes, mildly confused by the interruption.
"But we—" I begin, already gesturing toward the doors. The garden waits, and with it, the quiet rhythm I've come to rely on—It's our daily garden walk. A ritual we've grown fond of. Pendwick's gentle commentary, the scent of soil and sun-warmed blossoms, the privacy of a walk where no titles follow us. A chance to talk, away from titles and expectations.
Father simply lifts a hand to his chest in exaggerated solemnity, pressing his palm flat against his doublet. "It won't be long, I swear," he says with mock gravity, but the grin curling behind his dark beard gives him away, transforming his stern features into something boyish and mischievous. Like one I knew all to well from Nicoli.
"Of course," Pendwick nods far too quickly, his voice slightly higher than usual. I glance at him with a slight frown. For all his quiet strength and growing confidence in my presence, he still folds like wet parchment under my father's gaze. It's almost endearing. Almost.
Father notices too, and I catch the way his eyes crinkle at the corners. He hums low in his throat, a sound that vibrates with barely contained amusement, clearly savoring Pendwick's discomfort as he takes the lead and turns us through the high-arched corridor, out toward the gardens.
The change in air is immediate and intoxicating.
Gone is the scent of old marble and beeswax-polished wood, replaced by something wild and alive. Out here, the world smells like life itself—heavy with roses in full, blushing bloom, their perfume so rich it's almost edible. The sun has climbed higher since morning court, and the garden glistens beneath its golden gaze like a jewel box thrown open. Dew still beads on thick velvet petals, each drop catching the light like scattered diamonds, and the sky above stretches in a deep, clear blue that seems to hum with the first real promise of summer.
The roses stretch tall along wrought-iron trellises and weathered stone archways—climbing, reaching, sprawling with wild abandon like they're trying to kiss the sun itself. They've grown thick and lush in the last few weeks, each bloom full and decadent, heavy heads nodding under their own voluptuous weight. The scent swirls in the warming air: sweet and intoxicating, sharp with spice at the edges where the older blooms have begun to deepen. It clings to the skin like expensive perfume mixed with pure sunlight.
"He's a good boy," Father says suddenly, his voice cutting through the drowsy hum of bees and the distant splash of a fountain, once the glass doors fall shut behind us with a soft click.
I glance at him sidelong, studying his profile as he walks. "He is."
The words come easily, but I can feel heat beginning to bloom beneath my skin, a warmth that has nothing to do with the sun. "In truth... he's been something of a blessing. I've grown to appreciate his company more than I expected."
"Do you like him?"
I stop walking so abruptly that my slippers skid slightly on the smooth stone path. "What?"
Father keeps going, hands clasped behind his back with casual ease, studying a deep crimson rose blooming beside the path as if it holds the secrets of the universe. The question had been tossed so casually, like a stone thrown into still water—but its ripples are still moving, spreading outward through my chest.
"Do you mean as a friend?" I ask, catching up to him with quick steps, my robes rustling against the lavender bushes that line the walkway. "Then yes. I do."
"Too soon for more than that, then," he murmurs, chuckling as he strokes his beard with one weathered hand. "But friendship's a fine start to it, anyway."
"Sorry—start to what?"
He says nothing—just takes my arm again with gentle firmness and turns me down another winding path, this one completely engulfed in an archway of climbing roses. The air thickens with fragrance so intense it's almost dizzying, and fat bees float drowsily from bloom to bloom, their wings catching the dappled sunlight that filters through the canopy of flowers.
The light catches in the silver strands that thread through his dark hair like precious metal woven into silk. He looks younger out here, lit by green leaves and golden sun instead of the harsh candlelight and constant scrutiny of the throne room. This version of Father—playful, warm, irreverent—was hidden beneath the iron mask he wore in court. But now it slips away like armor removed after battle, and I see the truth of him. The man I've grown so fond of, the one who reminds me achingly of Nicoli with his easy laughter and dancing eyes.
Or should I say, Nicoli reminds me of him.
"Things are calmer now," he says at last, his voice softer, more thoughtful.
"Yes," I agree, breathing in the rose-scented air. "They're better."
He laughs under his breath, a sound like wind chimes in a gentle breeze. "Gods, there was much to fix when I arrived. You certainly had yourself in a royal pickle, my dear. It's kept me on my toes since I got here."
I wince, the memory of those early days of chaos and uncertainty still sharp enough to sting. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for things to—"
But he lifts a hand again—not to scold, only to hold, to comfort. He pats mine gently, then keeps it there, his fingers warm and solid and reassuring over mine. When he speaks, his voice is low, threaded with pride and mischief both.
"It's why I'm here, Ana. I'm here to teach you." He pauses to glance at a bloom beginning to fade, then reaches out to pluck a browning petal with careful fingers and lets the wind carry it away like a tiny prayer. "Being a ruler takes more than just one person. It takes knowing when to lean on others, when to trust, when to let people help you carry the weight."
The wind lifts again, warmer now, carrying the scent of roses and distant salt from the sand dunes looming in the not far distance of the desert. It smells like life—new, rich, and finally, ours.
"Papa," I ask quietly, my voice almost lost in the rustle of leaves, "is he—?"
He lets out a knowing laugh before I even finish. "We finally get to talk alone, and you're already asking about him, huh?"
I look down at my feet, watching my silk slippers peek out from under my robes with each step, my lips twitching with embarrassment. "I'm sorry."
But he doesn't scold. Instead, he watches me like a man watching the sun crest a long horizon, certain of what's coming next but content to wait for it. The look in his eyes is patient, knowing, touched with something that might be called hope.
"I think it's calm enough now, don't you?" he asks, his eyes bright with possibility and promise.
"Papa—"
He waves away the rest of my protest with a casual gesture, already grinning with the satisfaction of a man who has orchestrated something beautiful. "Go on."
That smile—the one I remember from childhood, from before the weight of empire and the bitter taste of separation—creases beneath his beard like the sun parting storm clouds. Mischievous. Knowing. A flash of Nicoli's glint in his eyes, but steadier, wiser, tempered by years of understanding what it means to love and let go. The kind of look only a father can give, when the world finally allows his child the room to breathe, to choose, to reach for happiness.
Something in my chest unfurls—like a thread pulled free from the tight weave of responsibility.
I surge forward before I think better of it and press a quick kiss to his cheek, tasting salt and sunshine and the familiar scratch of his beard. The bristles prickle against my lips, but I don't mind. It grounds me to something real, something mine.
"Papa… thank you."
Then I'm gone.
The wind catches my robes as I turn, silk snapping against my ankles like sails filling with wind as I tear down the garden path. A laugh escapes my lips—short, breathless, stunned by its own freedom. I hadn't realized I was holding it in, hadn't known how much I needed to let it loose.
The neatly trimmed hedges snag at my sleeves as I pass, rose petals brush my shoulders like gentle fingers as I cut through archway after archway, and the sharp perfume of hundreds of blooms clings to my skin and hair. But I don't stop. I can't. I won't.
My crown shifts with each stride—slipping sideways, heavy and crooked on my head, the gems catching the light and throwing rainbows across my vision—but I let it. Let it tilt like a falling star, let it be imperfect for just this time. The weight forgot, the pressure vanished. In this moment, I don't reach to fix it, don't think of the court, or the eyes that might watch me through the tall windows, startled to see their empress break into a sprint like a girl chasing the wind across summer fields.
Because for once, I am just Anastasia.
Not the Empress. Not the daughter of war. Not the symbol of reform or the spine of an empire that nearly buckled beneath her.
Just a girl who has waited too long to reach for someone she once thought would always be within arm's length.
The silver braid down my back flies loose behind me, whipping in the wind like a banner of starlight. Strands escape to frame my face, and for the first time in months, I don't care. I can't.
The glass doors of the palace rise before me, silver-edged and blazing with reflected sun, and the shadows inside beckon like the beginning of a new chapter written in hope instead of duty.
Finally, the moment I've been waiting for.
Not to negotiate peace with pirates.
Not to gain supporters in a court that once fought me at every turn.
Not to balance ledgers or approve trade routes or solve the endless puzzle of governance.
Something that speaks deeper than even the throne itself, something that reaches into the very core of who I am beneath all the titles and expectations. Something I've been longing for since I could remember what it felt like to have my heart sing with more than just duty.
A chance to write his name. Again.