*Ana*
What in all the gods' names do I even say?
The question slams into me harder than I expect. My breath still carries the sharpness of roses and sun-warmed stone, but the moment I step inside, the scent fades, and the pressure returns.
One would think, after running through a rose garden like a storybook heroine—crown crooked, heart full, breath catching in my throat—I'd have at least some idea of what to write. The memory of petals brushing my bare arms, of thorns catching at my silk sleeves, still tingles against my skin.
But no.
I, Empress Anastasia of Nochten, conqueror of court reform and tamer of trade routes… am staring at a blank page like it might bite me.
This is the moment I've been waiting for. The moment I've dreamed about, built up in my mind like it would all come pouring out the second I sat down. Words flowing like wine, honest and warm and perfect.
It doesn't.
Instead, I just… sit. Heart pounding against my ribs like an overzealous drummer, breath still tinged with the last traces of rose petals and fresh sunlit stone. My fingers hover, quill trembling slightly above the paper, feather twitching like it, too, is nervous.The leather of my chair creaks softly as I shift, trying to find comfort that won't come.
The paper doesn't help. It stares back at me, pristine and judgmental, as if it knows I've already wasted half a forest trying to get this right.
Okay. Just breathe.
In.
Out.
I try.
"Dearest Brother—"
What? No. No no no. That sounds like I'm about to ask for a goat dowry and send him salted pork. The words look wrong. Too formal. Too cold.
I drop the quill with a soft clink against the inkwell and fold the paper in half, creasing it with more force than necessary before tossing it into the waste bin. It lands with a whispered thud among its fallen siblings.
My fingers ache from gripping the quill too tightly, small red marks pressed into my skin like tiny wounds.
"Nicoli, I…"No. That's too informal. I'm an Empress now—this is royal correspondence, not some childhood note passed beneath a library table.
I strike through the line. The ink spreads like bruises.
Another wasted page. Another crease. Another flutter into the bin that's already brimming with failure.
The letter was supposed to be easy.
Or at least—simple. A beginning. After everything…, so much has happened in just this year. My first blood at the tea party, the coronation, the Bulgeons, Hidi,, Mykhol's departure, Father's vow, and so many countless other things. So much has happened in such a short span of time. Things I can hardly believe are real now—One would think this would be the one thing that didn't take effort.
But how do you fit five years into a paragraph? How do you explain silence when the truth behind it would shatter the very voice you're trying to find again?
I start again, the quill scratching against the paper with a sound like dried leaves.
Nicoli,
I hope you're well. I know it's been a long time—
I stop. The line stares back at me like a scolding.
No. That sounds like I'm apologizing for breathing.
I blow on the ink and watch it dry to a dull sheen, the black letters seeming to mock me from the page. My fingers twitch to fold the paper and throw it in the bin with the others, adding to the chorus of rustling failure.
A drop of sweat curls at the back of my neck, warm and sticky. The afternoon heat is climbing—seeping in through the sun-washed windows and warming the marble under my bare feet until it feels like heated silk. Outside, the court is quiet for once, subdued by the same thick haze of approaching summer that clings to everything like honey.
Except my thoughts. They're all noise—chattering, demanding, pulling me in a dozen directions at once.
Across the desk, the breeze slips in through the open windows, teasing at the edge of the parchment with invisible fingers. It carries the scent of roses and dust-warmed stone, like the memory of the garden I ran through just hours ago. My pulse had thundered then—free and sure, my feet flying over the gravel paths. Now, it flutters, trapped somewhere between my throat and my ribs like a caged bird.
I've fought through palace intrigue, stared down council memebers and liars, and bloodline-snared lords. But here I am… undone by paper.
The fresh parchment looms bright against the wooden desk. Achingly blank.
If Nicoli were here, I could already imagine him laughing at me, with that infectious grin that always made everything seem possible. The way his eyes would crinkle at the corners, how he'd probably ruffle my hair and tell me to stop overthinking.
"To my dear brother," I begin again, but a slight tremor sends a drop of ink blotting the page like a dark teardrop. It's ruined! No, I can't send this—not with that imperfection staring back at me.
I close my eyes. Try to summon the memory of his voice. That gentle steadiness, warm as summer rain. The way he never rushed me to speak, but always waited, patient as stone, like the space between my sentences mattered just as much as the words themselves.
I open my eyes.
Another sheet ruined. I crumple it with both hands, feeling the paper resist before giving way with a satisfying crunch. The waste bin below is already a graveyard of broken beginnings.
I reach for another sheet—only to find the stack gone. My fingers brush empty wood where paper should be, the surface smooth and unhelpful.
"I need more paper, Naska." I call, brushing a loose silver curl behind my ear—one that immediately falls again, tickling my cheek like a whispered secret. I shift, the chair beneath me creaking as I rise just slightly to reach for the inkstone, beginning to re-sharpen my quill while waiting. The subtle scritch of the blade against feather fills the quiet, curls of excess dropping to the desk like tiny snow. I test the tip—sharp, perfect—then sigh and set it down.
"Naska?" I call again, turning toward the hearth.
I expect her to be close—maybe polishing the silver until it gleams, or refolding linens she's already folded once with meticulous care. Maybe even watching me with curiosity, wondering what has me so animated today.
But she's still by the hearth.
Not moving. Not cleaning. Just… standing there.
A faint breeze presses the curtains to lift around me, the scent of life and green growing things from the garden below filling the room with promises of summer, but she doesn't seem to feel it. Her arms are crossed tight across her chest, her shoulders tense as drawn bowstrings. She's staring into the cold grate like it might speak to her, reveal some secret written in ash and shadow.
"Naska," I try once more, firm but not unkind, "the paper?"
She doesn't respond right away. Just turns slowly, like a clock winding down. Her steps are stiff as she walks to the drawer, retrieves the paper without a glance, and returns with it hanging limply in her grip.
"Here," she mutters.
She drops it. Not quite missing my hand—just… letting it fall. Like it didn't matter.
The sheets slide like fallen leaves across the desk.
My brows pull slightly together, suspicion stirring in my chest. Did she mean to do that?
But I let it go. My excitement overrides it.
"Thank you, Naska. That will be—"
I don't finish. She's already turned, gone before I can ask where she's headed. Her skirts trail out the door like the end of a sentence she didn't bother to finish, leaving only the faint scent of lye soap in her wake.
She's in one of her moods again, isn't she?
I frown after her. It's been like this for weeks—since Mykhol left. This strange distance, like she's seeing something I can't. But why…? That part still eludes me. She barely speaks to me anymore, just drifts through her duties like fog, always watching but never truly present.
I'm sure she'll get over whatever it is, in time. People do. I can only push the thought aside for now, file it away with all the other small mysteries that palace life brings. When she's ready, I'll ask about it then. I'm sure it's nothing, though. Naska has always been touchy for some reason or another.
Though I have noticed she's been more riled up lately. Since Mykhol's departure. I pause, quill hovering over the paper.
Still, it's not like she would be affected—at least not in any meaningful way. Not like Aunt Funda. That, I understand. Aunt Funda still won't meet my eyes, her face always blotchy these days, her nose red and sore from crying. And Uncle Charles... he barely speaks. He's lost weight, wandering like a ghost through the halls, muttering about "loyalty" and "the old ways" under his breath like incantations.
But they'll mend. In time.
"I certainly have," I say aloud, more to the room than to anyone in particular. "Life goes on."
And surely Mykhol is doing well. Now attending the Academy.
"Perhaps I should write to him, too?" I muse, fingers reaching again toward the newly stacked paper. The sheets are cool and smooth beneath my fingertips, full of potential. I've barely grazed the corner when the door creaks open with a familiar squeal of hinges.
"Naska?" I look up, half-hoping she's returned—maybe in a better mood, even ready to talk-
But it's not her.
"Bruno," I brighten, sitting up straighter as the boy slips inside like a shadow given form.
He's taller. It catches me by surprise, stealing my breath for a moment. A growth spurt? When did that happen?
He stands almost to my shoulder now, his tunic a little short at the sleeves, showing thin wrists that speak of growing too fast. His curls are even shaggier than before, falling into his eyes like dark water.
"I was wondering when you would show," I say, smiling at the sight of him.
"Hello, Ana." He nods solemnly and makes his way to my side, burgundy eyes already scanning the desk with curious intensity.
"What are you doing?" he asks, gaze flicking between the messy pile of crumpled papers and the blank one beneath my hand.
The light catches his face differently today—his cheekbones are beginning to shift, the softness of childhood giving way to something sharper, more defined. Naska's features are still there, unmistakable in the tilt of his nose, the shape of his mouth. But something else lingers, too. Something I can't quite place, like a word on the tip of my tongue that won't come.
Bruno reminds me of someone, but I can't put my finger on it just yet.
Perhaps that too will show in time. I smile, feeling on the cusp of understanding—the last hurdle not so far away.
"You look happy," he says, voice soft but considerate for someone so young.
"Happy?" I blink. "Do I?"
He nods. "Yes. Like... like you found something you lost."
I glance down at the paper again, my smile tugging crooked. "I suppose I am. Or I was… until this." I gesture to the chaos at my elbow, the battlefield of failed attempts.
"Are you writing a letter?" he asks.
"Indeed, or I'm about to." A soft laugh escapes me, lighter than I've felt in weeks. "It's to someone very important to me. To my brother."
"The prince." Bruno looks at me for a long moment, something ancient in his young eyes, before looking back at the paper. Then he frowns. "But the paper is blank?"
"I—yes," I laugh again, rubbing the back of my neck where tension has knotted my muscles. "I suppose I've been… struggling. I don't know where to begin. That seems to be the problem."
He thinks about that. Blinks once, slow and thoughtful. "Why not start with a 'hello'?"
I gasp a little. Not because it's clever—but because it's not. It's simple. Disarmingly so.
His face is earnest, tilted slightly to the side, curls shifting just enough to show more of his expression. In that moment, he looks so much older than his years, like he's carrying wisdom he shouldn't have yet.
"Well," I say, my smile widening until my cheeks hurt, "aren't you smart?"
I reach out, ruffling his hair. It's gotten long—too long, silk-soft between my fingers. I have to tuck it behind his ears to see him properly. He lets me, patient as always.
"You're the smart one, Ana," he says softly, and though his voice is quiet, I catch the pride flickering behind his words like candlelight. "But you're also caring. And gentle. You're a princess worthy of any knight."
"Bruno…" I pause, caught off guard by the intensity in his voice. My heart stutters for a beat, then warms like honey in sunlight.
"A knight, is it?" I tease gently, brushing another wayward strand from his forehead. "And you would be… Sir Bruno?"
He nods. Solemn. Eyes clear as deep water.
"My great protector?"
"Always, my lady. Even now."
"Even now?" The words hang between us, curious and heavy. I blink at him, but he only smiles again, like he's said something obvious.
He really does love those stories about knights and dragons and princesses, doesn't he? I can only humor him, thinking it childish whimsy. But I'm glad to see it. Bruno is just a child, and he should be allowed to be one for as long as he can.
I'll have to read him another story soon.
But after…
"This is the first letter I'll be writing to him in years," I murmur, fingers curling around the quill once more. The feather is warm from my touch, familiar weight in my palm.
So much has changed. So much left unsaid.
But through it all, here we both are.
I lift my gaze to the portrait on the far wall. Blue eyes meet mine—calm, steady, impossibly kind. A smile that has waited patiently for years, painted in oils that have never faded. Nicoli frozen in a hope that never died. Not once in all five years.
Five years that I will have to work hard to make up for and then some. But it's work I'm more than willing to do.
"Wish me luck," I whisper.
Bruno nods, silent and sure. His small frame leans closer to watch, like any other time—a routine and habit, one of many good ones I want to keep and nurture.
I pause just a second more to take a long, steady breath. The air tastes of roses and ink, of possibility and second chances. I pull all my muscles to relax as I sink into my chair, feeling the tension drain from my shoulders like water from a broken dam. A smile is still on my lips as I open my eyes to start what I've had to put off for so long.
And it all begins with such a simple sentence.
"Dear Nicoli," I breathe, and let my shoulders drop. The tension releases, slowly, like thawing ice in spring.
I smile.
I write.
The words flow like they've been waiting all along, patient and ready. Each letter forms with care, each word chosen like a precious stone. The quill moves across the paper with a whisper, leaving trails of ink that look like tiny roads leading home.
It's funny, in a way. Painful. Beautiful.
And somehow… honest.
Like a piece finally clicking into place—completing a picture I thought lost forever.
But it wasn't.
It was just waiting to be found again.