*Ana*
It has been a long time since I have seen my court like this.
The banquet hall is alive with laughter, voices rising and falling in an overlapping melody of conversation. Silver and red streamers drape from the domed ceiling, catching the flickering candlelight, while the grand chandeliers and fresh candelabras cast a warm glow across the room. Stocked with fresh kindling, the great fire pits breathe heat into the vast space, making it feel as welcoming as the mirthful sounds echoing within it.
The nobles sit in their finest tunics and fur-lined shawls, their wealth displayed in glittering jewels and polished brooches. Crystal glasses clink together as toasts are made, and the scent of roasted meats, spiced blood, and sweet pastries lingers in the air. Even the faint metallic tang of fresh blood doesn't sour the mood. Everywhere I look, there are smiles—fangs flashing between sips of dark wine and warm conversation.
All of this, for me. Or rather, for what I now am. Empress. I search my memory for the last time I witnessed such joy in this hall. The sounds, the atmosphere—they remind me of something, something distant yet familiar. Then it comes to me. When Mykhol first returned from the academy.
Yes, it was almost the same. The excitement, the celebration, the way everyone gravitated toward him, basking in the moment. But this time, it is not about him.
A small smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.
"Ana?" Mykhol's voice is close, laced with curiosity. "You're smiling."
I blink, startled by the realization. I hadn't noticed.
"I—" The warmth in my chest flickers, replaced by something more uncertain. I suddenly remember before. The moment shatters before I can grasp it, slipping from my fingers like sand.
"It's nothing, Cousin." My voice is measured as I quickly avert my gaze, forcing down the strange feeling curling in my stomach.
I glance at the decorations, latching onto them as a distraction. "I was just admiring the room."
I turn purposefully to Aunt Funda, offering her a polite nod. "You did a wonderful job of decorating, Aunt."
"Ha! Of course, I did." She clicks her tongue, puffing up her chest with satisfaction. "I have been slaving day and night to ensure everything goes well."
"I can see that," I admit, my gaze sweeping over the hall again. It is impressive.
She has managed to fill the grand chamber with beauty, with warmth. Even among the deep reds and silvers, there are delicate touches—white roses, bright against the rich fabrics and candlelight.
Flowers. My brows lift slightly in surprise. Fresh blooms? But how can that be? In the middle of Autumn? When all mine are gone and dried out?
"It's beautiful," I murmur, my attention drawn to the pale petals. "Whose greenhouse are these from? I would love to ask how they managed to keep them this healthy." It's quite the feat, and I would love to get tips.
The hall buzzes with life around me, but my thoughts remain tethered to this moment—to the unexpected joy, laughter, and warmth. To the way, for the first time, this celebration is not for someone else.
It is for me. And still, something within me feels uneasy. I struggle to truly believe it.
"You've been to their greenhouse already, Ana," Mykhol cuts in smoothly, between a sip of his glass.
"Have I?" I blink, rummaging through my memory for any recollection of such roses. But nothing strikes me. I would remember such fine specimens. "Are you certain?"
"You have." His voice is light, almost teasing, but there's something else beneath it—something sharper. His lips curl into a small, knowing smile. "In fact, she's right there if you'd like to ask."
Before I can question him further, his gaze shifts—guiding mine toward someone across the room.
"Ah, right, Lady Katya," My aunt claps, suddenly remembering. "Yes, we used her family's greenhouse."
Lady Katya? My fingers twitch against the table, my throat tightening before the name even fully registers.
"You remember Lady Katya, don't you?" Mykhol continues, his voice smooth and deliberate. "We went to one of her birthdays."
I do. How could I forget?
I remember the laughter—sharp, cruel. A chorus of giggles that turned into shrieks of delight when small hands yanked at my hair—my silver hair. I remember shouting at them to stop, the way they ignored me, tugging and pulling until pain bloomed across my scalp. I remember the sting of tears in my eyes, my voice breaking, the helplessness of it all as they only laughed harder.
Even now, even five years later, just hearing her name makes my skin prickle, my scalp ache with the phantom pain of their hands in my hair.
"I remember," I cut Mykhol off, my voice even, controlled.
Lady Katya turns toward us then. She's older now, around Mykhol's age, and her features are refined. Her thin nose sits nicely against her oval-shaped face, giving her a delicate and refined appearance. When she looks over, she pauses, her expression one of polite inquiry and curiosity.
She smiles. It is a proper, clean smile—so unlike the last time I saw her smile. That one had been wide and gleeful, lips parted in laughter while I cried. Like she enjoyed it.
Beneath the table, my fingers curl into the end of my shawl. The soft fabric grounded me as familiar, a constant barrier between me and the memory. I have never gone without it since that day.
Mykhol knows. I feel his vermilion eyes on me—not on my face, but on my shawl, the red fabric draped over my head and shoulders. He lingers there, and I know he remembers too.
I swallow down the shifting feeling in my stomach.
"Yes, I remember," I say again, forcing the words past the tightness in my throat.
"Good." Mykhol leans back, watching Lady Katya with something like wistfulness. "I was worried you'd forget."
Forget? The words shouldn't mean anything. But the way he says them—the way his fingers tap idly against the table, the hint of satisfaction in his tone—makes my stomach twist.
Then he smiles. That slow curve of his lips until its a full courtly grin. Lady Katya giggles, fluttering her lashes in response. She still reacts like the others do when he looks at them like that.
I, however, feel nothing. Nothing but the weight of my shawl, heavy as the past.
"Well, that must have cost a penny," Hidi muses, chewing her meat as she eyes the roses with passing interest. "Shame they'll all die now."
"Hidi," I can't help but frown at her. Yet she ignores me, happily tossing back another glass of red wine in seconds. How many glasses has she already had?
"I can say it was expensive," Funda says with a flutter of her hand, clicking her rings together. Her thin lips purse after them before she shrugs. "But I know how much my niece likes them. So I thought, what else would my darling niece want but roses?"
"Darling Niece?" Since when was I ever Darling anything? I pull out of my dark thoughts to spy the woman anew. But Funda keeps her grin and looks at her husband, who smiles back, pushing up his round glasses, as if affirming that was true.
"Spoil, do you?" Father's grin stiffens, something dark pooling in his sapphire eyes. Making them appear almost black. "How so?"
"That, oh, well-" Funda fumbles a little, her smile shifting slightly. "We, well, it-" her voice squeaks as Uncle clears his throat.
"Let's not talk about expenses, your majesty. It will spoil the dinner." Uncle takes up a fork.
Father, however, keeps pressing."So, later, then?" He taps the table with his index finger beside me."I'd love to hear more about how you've been SPOILING my daughter."
"Er," My uncle pales with his fork half up to his small mouth. "That is, well-" he flashes a look to Mykhol rather than me as if he can answer. But Mykhol needn't try, as Hidi suddenly bursts out.
"Baah!" She slurs and shoves a piece of meat into her mouth. "It's a party- so let's party!" And with that, she gulps down another cup of wine in one shot.
"Hidi!?" I am shocked to see her easily swallow everything in one go. But the giant is unfazed, pouring yet another drink.
"Anywho," Hidi swallows another glass in a hard gulp. "Ana, how does it feel to be officially in charge of the lives of countless people? You'll be choosing whether people die or not." She then burst into a hard laugh to shake her shoulders. "You're gonna have so much fun!"
"Hidi," Now, I can't help but frown. "Why is that the first thing you could think of?" Father, however, seems to take it in a more light-hearted way.
"Hildenberg, you have such a way with words." He wags his head softly with a softer laugh. "I see you take after your mother in that regard. You sound like a dictator."
"Not, Hildenberg." Hidi chugs another glass, swaying a little in her chair to make it creak against her weight before winking. "It's Hidi, Okay? Pops?"
"Pops?" I repeat the word. "What pops?" I look around. Is there popcorn or a firecracker somewhere I don't see? I don't see anything of the sort.
"What pops, Hidi?" I look over to suddenly notice the line forming. The procession of nobles has started to gather. I almost forgot.
I must still be distracted, but luckily, they have been patient with me. I sit up with anticipation, ready to greet the first person who wishes to pay their respects. This moment is crucial—I need their support, their loyalty. Every impression I make matters.
Duke Zaver stands at the front of the line, moving quickly to bow with a hand over his heart. His gown is of rich spider silk, his hair and beard gleaming with oil, the smell of rosemary, polished to perfection—like always. I don't think the flamboyant man could miss a chance to dress—certainly not today.
"I wanted to be the first to congratulate you on your succession," He purrs with a grin, flashing fangs dusted with gold flakes. "You look beautiful in your gown."
Beautiful? Does he mean this gaudy thing? But I don't even like it—No, that doesn't matter. I cannot afford to let my personal discomfort cloud this interaction. I force myself to recover, straightening with practiced composure.
"Duke Zaver, thank you. That's most kind—"
"Is that all?" Mykhol lowers his glass, voice smooth but cutting.
Duke Zaver flinches. "Is that what?"
"I'm just surprised." Mykhol's gaze drags over him, slow and appraising. "I expected better."
"Better?" I glance between them, trying to grasp what is unfolding. There's a weight to the air between them, something deeper than Mykhol's usual irritations. Did something happen between them? A personal grudge? A test?
Mykhol scoffs as if the matter is already settled in his mind. He turns to the line behind Duke Zaver with thinly veiled boredom. "Well, you had your say. There are more waiting behind you."
"Cousin." I turn to him, but Mykhol's gaze remains locked on Duke Zaver.
A flush of red creeps up the Duke's face. Still, he bows again, stiff and measured. "Please, enjoy your meal, Your Majesties, Lord Mykhol." With that, he turns sharply, his rigid posture betraying his humiliation.
As soon as he is out of earshot, I whip toward Mykhol. "Cousin, that was—" Very rude of you to do that. But he just tilts his head, feigning innocence as if it was nothing to dismiss Duke Zaver so coldly.
As if he doesn't understand what he just did.
"What?" His tone is light, dismissive.
I grit my teeth. There's something here, something I don't fully understand. Mykhol has always been possessive, but this… this is different. Extreme. I know he dislikes the sudden influx of lords at court, but surely he doesn't think he can keep me to himself. Or perhaps, I realize now, that's exactly what he's trying to do.
A sharp thought cuts through my mind. Wait, is this still about the scarf?
I didn't think he would carry his tantrum for this long. I didn't think he would go this far. But now, he's doing it again—only differently. He isn't just targeting me. He's striking out at the men I am trying to form connections with.
I turn to the next noble, stepping forward, determined to handle this properly. "Lord Veyne, it is a pleasure—"
"Move along," Mykhol snaps his fingers, cutting me off. "Next."
I tense. "Cousin, it is my responsibility to meet them as Empress," I say, voice even but sharp. "They are only coming to show their respects. This is not a process that should be rushed."
Mykhol hums, still not looking at me. But he doesn't acknowledge Lord Veyne, either. He merely flicks his fingers again, dismissing him before the man can even offer his greeting.
Lord Veyne hesitates, glancing between us before giving a short bow and stepping back. His uncertainty is clear.
My hands clench in my lap.
Another noble approaches. I steel myself, ready to speak first. But Mykhol doesn't give me the chance.
"Keep moving. Bow and move. It's that easy," he says, his voice carrying over the hall.
I stiffen. The nobles hesitate, but Mykhol drums his fingers against the table, a lazy, practiced rhythm—a performance. A silent claim of power. As if he were the one they had to answer to before they reached me. As if he had the right to dictate how they show respect to their Empress.
The line moves faster, but not out of efficiency—out of unease. Their bows become shorter, their words clipped. I can feel the wariness in them, the hesitation. The second-guessing of whether they should have come at all.
I try again, voice firmer now. "Cousin, we can slow down just a bit—"
But Mykhol doesn't relent. His fingers tap the wood again.
I clench my jaw. This is not how I should be introduced to those who will either support or oppose me in the future. Every ruler must command respect, but that respect must be cultivated and earned. Mykhol, however, treats them as if they are beneath even the attempt.
And worse—he is treating me as if I am something to be guarded. Possessed. As if my place is beside him and no one else.
Since when was Mykhol this childish? He is acting like he is Bruno's age. No, I correct myself immediately. Bruno is better than this. Bruno would never be this rude.
Another noble is dismissed before he can finish his bow.
I exhale sharply, my patience snapping at last.
"Is it not the procedure for the nobles to come and greet their new ruler anymore?" My father's voice cuts through the air. His tone is calm, but his eyes are steady on Mykhol. "Wouldn't it be rude to shoo them off like this?"
"I am just worried my cousin won't get to eat at this rate." Mykhol tempers his tone to be softer, but his eyes sharpen. "I want her left in peace."
"As do I," Father smirks when some unspoken message that seems to hang between them sharply. "I'd like nothing better." His gaze stays on Mykhol a moment to long.
"Well, what a coincidence," Mykhol smirks, but his amusement fades as the next guest approaches.
For some reason, Mykhol grows quiet, his body stilling as the boy bows before me.
"Your Empress." The voice is polite but uncertain.
He straightens, and I take him in. Taller than me, but lean, with brick-red hair cut short above his ears, parted neatly down the middle. Freckles scatter across his pale face—something about them, about him, tugs at my memory. Then, as if instinctively, his hands rise to his chest, fingers curling slightly in a nervous habit.
The gesture makes something click.
A sharp inhale. A flash of recognition. I know him.
This is the boy from Lady Katya's party—the one who sat beside me, the only one who did. The one who laughed and talked with me, unbothered by the whispers. The one who was there before everything went wrong.
This is him.
"Sir Pendwick?" The name escapes me before I can think.
His cranberry colored eyes widen. "You—" He perks up in genuine surprise as if not expecting me to recognize him. "You remember me?"
"Of course." And, to my surprise, I smile. A real smile, warm and unguarded. "It's been a long time."
Pendwick nods, a pink hue dusting his freckled cheeks. "I—yes, it has, Your Empress." His voice is unsteady, but his smile is bright. "It's—It's wonderful to see you again."
I glance at his mouth. "Your fang grew in?"
Pendwick blinks before rubbing the back of his head, sheepish. "Ah, no. It's actually—" He hesitates, then sighs. "It's a fake." He looks down at his feet. "My grandfather wanted me to wear it today."
"A fake?" My brows lift, and I lean slightly forward to examine it. "But it fits so neatly. I never would have noticed."
Pendwick's head snaps up. "Do you really—?" He stops, then clears his throat, flustered. "I mean, thank you." He smiles again, shifting a little. "It feels funny when I talk, but if you think it looks good, then I guess I could—"
"Keep the line moving, boy!" A sharp voice cuts through the moment, making Pendwick stutter.
"Oh—sorry." The warmth in his expression flickers, and he quickly looks down. "If you'll excuse me, Your Empress." He bows again, hurried, ready to step away.
"Wait." My father's voice is calm but firm, halting Pendwick in place.
Pendwick blinks, clearly unused to the sudden attention. "Your Majesty?"
Father watches him, an easy smile forming. "I didn't catch your name." He motions lightly. "What was it?"
"Pendwick Celbest." He bows, his floppy red hair falling into his eyes. "I am the only son of the Celbest family."
"Ah, the Celbest," Father repeats, as if weighing the name. "Not bad." He nods, looking Pendwick up and down with careful interest. "I'll remember that."
Pendwick hesitates. "Yes?" His curiosity flickers to the surface, but before he can say more—
"Move it." Another impatient noble snaps, shuffling forward.
Pendwick jumps slightly, then straightens. "Ah, yes. Um—goodbye, Your Majesties." He bows again, hurried but not ungraceful, before dashing off.
I almost feel bad for him. But it's already too late as another is coming up to repeat the process.
"So many people to greet Her Empress." Hidi leans in to whisper. " It's like they just noticed you."
"Yes," I agree, seeing the line only grow longer. I have the slight sensation that Mykhol's words might be valid. At this rate, I might not get to eat at all.
But what else can I do? Turn them away? No, I already know that will upset them because I break tradition. I'm stuck.
"But that is to be expected." I sigh as yet another man comes up. It strikes me now that many of them are men. Hidi seems to notice, too.
"You expect a line of men?" Hidi lifts a blonde brow. "Ana, I never knew you could be such a maneater."
"A what!?" Mykhol and Father snap in unison, their heads turning sharply toward me as Hidi bursts into laughter. Her amusement only grows louder as they shift their stares between us.
"No, Hidi is joking—" I say quickly, feeling the weight of their shocked expressions. "Hidi, stop—"
"Ja, ja, the food will grow cold if they keep coming, Ana." Hidi bumps my shoulder with a wink, her mirth barely contained. "Play with them later, ja?"
I exhale, begrudgingly seeing her point. I haven't even started eating, and it has been a long morning. My stomach aches with emptiness. At least, for once, Hidi has some sense.
"Everyone?" I motion to the lingering nobles. A flicker of disappointment crosses their faces, but none argue. One by one, they disperse back to their tables.
"Finally," Mykhol smirks, watching them go with far too much satisfaction.
"Cousin." My voice is sharp as I narrow my eyes at him, but Mykhol simply ignores me. Instead, he picks up the bloodiest piece of meat from his plate and slurps it down loudly, licking his fingers with exaggerated satisfaction.
"Not bad." He grins, and the nearby women giggle, charmed by his antics. Loving his attention. I, however, am not amused.
Rather, I find myself more upset because he is going too far. This cannot continue.
After this is over, we should talk. I have let him get away with too much. This tantrum of his had gone on long enough. He is now speaking out of turn, doing as he pleases, and behaving like he is untouchable. Before, I excused it—I thought it easier to let him have his way than to deal with his inevitable tantrums. But I see it now. It is not just an issue of patience or indulgence.
I am not just his cousin anymore. I am Empress. And Mykhol must learn to act accordingly. I firm my resolve.
After this is over, I will speak with him. No, I must. Mykhol may be Mykhol, but there must be a limit. He cannot keep pushing. I will not let him.
I just hope it isn't too late to reel him in.
I reach for my goblet, expecting the familiar taste of blood. But the moment the liquid touches my tongue, I flinch, my stomach twisting at the sour bite.
"This is—" I force myself to swallow, suppressing a grimace. "I thought this was—"
"Still don't like wine, I see." Mykhol chuckles, watching my reaction with amusement. Before I can react, he plucks the goblet from my hand.
"Here."
I hesitate, but he has already lifted it to his lips, drinking it in a smooth motion as if it were nothing.
"Thank you," I murmur, momentarily caught off guard.
Just like that, the moment shifts.
My annoyance dulls, replaced by the small, familiar comfort of him knowing me so well—of him stepping in, effortlessly easing my discomfort.
I check the room, hoping no one saw my mistake. The nobles are occupied with their meals. Even Hidi and Father are focused on their food.
For the time being, I am in the clear.
And I can't help but be grateful again for Mykhol, finding my anger lessen even more.
"Speaking of men, there seems to be a lot in court, eh, Your Highness?" Hidi leans toward Father, her voice laced with amusement. "Quite eager, aren't they?"
Father doesn't respond immediately. His smile diminishes, and his gaze sweeps over the hall with quiet intensity. He absorbs the faces—the men at the grand tables, their laughter a touch too loud, their glances a bit too bold. Their eyes flicker toward me.
His bronze fingers tighten around his goblet. His jaw shifts. A thought settles over him, something resolute, something final.
Then, after a long, measured breath, he exhales and pushes back his chair.
"I suppose it's now or never."
I blink, caught off guard. "Papa?" I look up just as he stands.
The scrape of his chair against the floor draws the attention of those nearby. A murmur stirs along the table as he lifts his goblet, his expression unreadable, his movements decisive. His voice is clear and strong when he speaks, echoing across the room, cutting every voice to silence.
"I want to make an announcement."