*Ana*
My attention shatters like thin ice at the sound of yet another rock tumbling across the frozen garden path. The clatter echoes through the stillness—a jarring intrusion that rips apart the peaceful atmosphere I've been desperately clinging to. The sound ripples through my chest, pulling me from my thoughts. But the tranquility rebuilds itself stubbornly after each disturbance, or at least tries to.
Naska, however, refuses to stay still.
I turn to find her standing in the middle of the row, her tall frame casting a long jagged shadow as she shifts on her feet. Her hands are planted firmly on her wide hips, fingers digging into the fabric of her muslin tunic. Her woolen cloak is bunched up around her shoulders, creating a rumpled nest that she huddles into despite the day being milder than most. The tip of her nose glows crimson from the biting air, and her breath escapes in frustrated little clouds that hang between us before dissipating. Her lips twitch, fighting back what I know will be another scowl.
"What's the obsession with these damn things, anyway!?" Naska gripes, her voice cutting through the garden's hush like a knife. She lifts her old boot—the leather cracked at the edges—and kicks up another rock in protest. It skitters across the path with a sound that makes my shoulders tense. "It's just a bunch of sticks and leaves. Boring stuff!"
I steal a deep breath, trying to pull up my composure. This isn't the first time we've had this conversation. I suspect it won't be the last.
The familiarity of Naska's complaints wraps around me like my shawl over my head. Well-worn by years together—frustrating but predictable.
"They're not just sticks and leaves," I say firmly, my voice adopting the measured cadence I use with Bruno when we are in our lesson and want him to truly listen. A flutter of determination rises in my chest. "They're young shoots, new growth, see?"
I bend down, skirts rustling against the frost-kissed ground, and gently turn up a small green bud peeking from the gnarled branches. The sight of it already brings a smile to my face.
It's a shy promise of renewal. Of spring. It was why I ventured out today, why I slipped away from the mountain of parchment on my desk, from the council members with their disapproving stares. I needed to catch the first marks of change with my own eyes, to reassure myself that transformation is still possible.
Even though Nochten remains in winter, with thick grey clouds persistently casting a gloom over the landscape, they are thinning sufficiently to allow the sun to shine through. Small, fleeting bursts of golden light carve out brief pockets of warmth that push back the biting cold, filling the otherwise still winter-gripped garden with a subtle whisper of hope.
The first tentative signs of life are starting to show, defiant against the lingering chill. The earth smells different today—less of ice and dormancy, more of damp soil beginning to wake. Life will awaken again with the promise of spring to come.
It's something I look forward to with an almost childish anticipation. To walk these gardens again when they're alive, to see the familiar sight of roses in bloom, their perfume hanging heavy in the air. They gift me peace of mind—something I crave more than anything now, if I were to be honest with myself.
My fingertips finally make contact with the vine, feeling the almost brittle branch give against the pressure—pressure that I, too, hate to admit is become more of a handful each day. The bark feels rough against my skin, real in a way that parchment and royal seals never do.
But still, I can't give up. I press on a hopeful smile, ignoring the tightness in my chest as I look back at the small green bud, so brave in its vulnerability.
"These are all going to be roses soon enough, Naska." I go on, my voice softer now as I gently drop the branch back in place. The subtle movement sends a shiver of anticipation through me. "I predict the garden will have its biggest bloom yet. Just give it time. You will see. Everything will work out."
Yes, everything will. I hold that hope close to my heart, nourishing it like these gardeners tend to these plants. I just need to keep trying, to weather this winter of doubt. I will prove to them I am a good Empress, worthy of their trust. The thought straightens my spine, makes me stand a little taller despite the invisible weight on my shoulders.
"I just hope Father will be back in time to see them, they will be so pretty. Surely he should be done with his work then and—" but as soon as the words leave my lips, I feel a familiar hollowness spreading beneath my ribs. I try to push the thought away, swallowing down the childish longing that threatens to rise.
No, let's not think about any of that. Father is still busy in Dawny. He is a King. He has work to do, just as I do. The metal of my crown seems to grow colder against my skin.
Don't be selfish, Ana. I came to the garden to get my mind off things, remember? To find strength in these stubborn plants that refuse to surrender to winter.
"Well, they look like weeds if you ask me." Naska retorts, crossing her arms with a huff that sends another cloud of vapor into the air between us.
"Weeds! Naska," I take a breath, nearly rolling my eyes as a flicker of indignation heats my cheeks. She really is quite the sour sport today, isn't she? It's a shame, though. I look back at the expanse of the garden, taking in the lines of bushes and vines, each one representing hours of careful tending.
My mother's greatest achievement during her short reign before she eloped with Father. Something of her's I can still have…
Even without blooming, I can still find something to appreciate about them—the architecture of their branches, the promise in their dormancy. But I am the only one who does, it seems. The loneliness of that realization settles on my shoulders, familiar and heavy.
Maybe it does look just like weeds to most people. Maybe I'm the fool, finding meaning in barren branches.
Naska puffs out another cloud of air before shifting on her feet again, the leather of her boots creaking. "You've seen enough, right?" She looks around to emphasize her point, gesturing at the seemingly endless rows. "It's all the same, anyway."
"That—It is." I can't deny that. The endless rows of dry and desiccated leaves in shades of dead greens and browns fill the area, stretching out like an army in waiting. They break only for the flash of vibrant green buds. And it's not like one bud is different than the last. Yet each one makes my heart lift with the same foolish hope.
But my answer seems to make Naska more hopeful, as her carnelian-colored eyes flicker as if catching a sunbeam, brightening with anticipation.
"So we can leave, right?" Her voice is almost breathless as her head is already snapping to look after the palace, as if already imagining we go back inside, like she is ready to just pull up her skirts and take them back inside, away from this cold that reddens her cheeks and makes her nose run.
But inside, there will just be paperwork waiting for me on the desk. Things I know I must do, and I will do them. The very thought makes my shoulders tense and my stomach twist. But for now, I need this—this moment of quiet rebellion, this breath of fresh air that tastes of possibility rather than duty.
I don't even need to say it to see her sink, her posture deflating like a sail without wind.
"Seriously?" Naska scuffs her boot against the ground, looking back at me incredulously. "You still want to stay?" By the tone in her voice, I can hear the disbelief practically dripping, as tangible as the occasional drop of melting frost from overhead branches.
Naska rolls her eyes and lifts her hands as if to grab air, fingers splayed in exasperation. "Don't you, I don't know, have work to do?"
"I do, but I wanted to take a small break. Try to take advantage of the weather." And give me a chance to clear my head a moment. The issue of the Bulgeon's unexpected attack has been haunting me, lurking behind every thought like a shadow that grows longer as the day wanes.
Things keep going against all my plans and designs, collapsing like sandcastles against an incoming tide. The issue with the Bulgeons and how they got even the crossbows has still not been answered. Admiral Nugen is still investigating, of course, but the damage is still done.
Blood was shed on both sides—blood that stains my dreams and turns my stomach when I think of it. Of the men that will never come home…
Making it just another reason for the court to continue to push back. Question me. I sink a little at the thought, feeling the cold more acutely as a chill runs down my spine. Finding myself hitting a new wall. Making progress to citizenship is slower. Minds closed. No one tries to see the bigger picture of what I'm trying to do, their vision as narrow as the garden paths.
I'm still not sure what to make of it. Being an Empress seems like a mountain now, its peak hidden in clouds I can't penetrate. I thought I was more prepared, but it seems Mykhol was right about that. Despite all my studies, not everything will be in a book. The realization sits heavy in my stomach, a stone I can't dislodge.
It's disheartening, and I wish Father were here. To have another voice to support me. It would help. The longing for him is a physical ache, a hollow space behind my ribs that nothing seems to fill.
No, I just need time. Time enough for Father to return. And things will start improving with the Bugleons, soon. My plan can still work. Things just look bleak now. I repeat these thoughts like a mantra, trying to convince myself as much as anyone else.
Bleak, but not hopeless. I move to stand, my chains clicking against my crown on my head—a sound that always reminds me of my place, my duty. The sight of the rose buds fills me with more encouragement, their green a defiant splash of color against the winter palette. If they can do it, so can I. My mother figured out how to make them grow in the desert. I can figure this out too. Her memory gives me strength, a warm current that flows through my veins.
"I might be out for some time before I need to return." The words come out firmer than I expected, carrying a note of the royal authority I'm still learning to wield.
"Are you kidding me!?" Naska goes again and rolls her eyes, throwing her head back in dramatic fashion. She seems even more upset, her frustration coloring the air between us.
"Naska?" I don't think I've ever seen her so determined to go back. The intensity of her reaction surprises me and makes me wonder if there's something more at play.
Is there something she needs to do? Perhaps it's for Bruno? I haven't seen him yet today, which is a surprise. Bruno is usually not far. He must be off helping Mykhol or my aunt and uncle today. The absence of his cheerful presence leaves a noticeable gap in my day.
Maybe that's why she wants to go back. To see him? If it's for Bruno, then…
"If you want to return inside, Naska, you can." I soften my tone, offering the compromise like an olive branch.
"Really?" Naska perks up for the first time all day, her face transforming with sudden hope. "Can I go?"
"Of course, but—" I start, holding up a finger, feeling the cool metal of my rings against my skin, "you must finish the laundry that still needs to be done."
"That," Naska falls flat as if that's the last thing she wants to hear. She lets out a deep exhale before clicking her tongue to the roof of her mouth, the sound sharp with disappointment.
"It needs to be done, Naska." I reminded her, my voice gentle but firm. No matter how much you dislike it. "Do Laundry or continue to walk the garden with me."
"Not much of a choice, is that." Naska pouts and crosses her arms, the wool of her cloak bunching up further. "What's got you so bossy today?"
"Me, bossy? Naska." I laugh despite myself, the sound surprising me with its lightness. I don't want to be mean, but her reactions are funny. Naska has never been passionate about her job being my maid, even I can see that. And she seems reluctant to do many tasks, but laundry is in the top five.
Naska's so different from Maddie. I can't help but compare with a soft smile at the memory. Maddie would have jumped at the opportunity to go to the landers' rooms. No doubt, to get the latest gossip. I smirk a little. A soft, warm feeling fills my chest to fight the cold, memories of her silly ways bringing color to my cheeks that has nothing to do with the chill.
I close my eyes, allowing myself this slight indulgence. It's such a good day. I'm glad to be outside. The sun cups my cheeks when it breaks through the clouds, and for a moment, I am tempted to stay out the rest of the day. A surprising thought for even me, duty-bound as I am.
It's something Hidi would do. I can already imagine my giant friend more than capable of. She shrugged off her queenly duties to enjoy herself. Leaving the work of the estate to her mother, once again.
Something I already know I won't do, even if I did have someone to help. The chain of my crown swings gently with the motion of my head, a constant reminder. This is my birthright. And I must do things properly.
But how nice would it be if I could be like one of the roses, with no care in the world? To simply exist, to bloom when the time is right, without the weight of an empire on my shoulders? A constant need to prove I'm worth the throne, despite what they think. To show them I can do this.
If only. But even then, I don't dream far. I can't afford to. The fantasy dissolves like morning mist as reality creeps back in, cold and insistent. I still have a job to do.
I have too much to fix. Because I am an Empress, I have to. The weight of my title settles back onto my shoulders, heavy as the ornate crown that's leaving an ache at my temples.
I open my eyes to look back at the vines, their twisted forms now seeming less like promise and more like the tangled problems awaiting me. "We will head back before lunch, alright, Naska?" I say, my voice cutting through the garden's quiet.
I pause, waiting for her reply. But there is nothing—only the whisper of a breeze through dormant branches and the distant call of a bird.
Did she not hear me?
"Naska? Did you hear—" But as I turn, I find she's no longer standing behind me. The space where she stood moments ago is empty, leaving nothing but the impression of her footprints in the frost-kissed soil.
"She left?" Even at the threat of laundry? The realization sits strangely in my chest—somehow both amusing and vaguely hurtful.
Did she want to go back inside that badly? Was my company truly so unbearable today?
"My," I have to laugh, the sound brittle in the cold air. It echoes slightly before being swallowed by the garden's vastness.
I didn't think she would take up the offer. Naska is rather the character today, isn't she? Perhaps Bruno really is the draw. Or perhaps she simply couldn't bear another moment looking at what she sees as dead sticks.
"Well, at least I can take my time now." I look back at the walls, the grey stone catching what little sunlight filters through the clouds. It seems too long since I last could do that—stand still without someone waiting interupting, demanding my attention, my approval, my wisdom that I'm still not sure I possess.
And I won't need to worry about running into anyone. Duke Zaver and his posse are long gone, their adamant chase, appearing around every concern, constantly needing to talk my ear off going along with them. The garden is my own again. I can be alone with my thoughts now, tangled and thorny as they may be.
It makes me smile, the first genuine one I've felt in days. The muscles in my face almost protest at the unfamiliar movement. I turn to follow after another turn of the bushes, my skirts whispering against the dried leaves, sending up a faint, earthy scent. Kneeling to investigate another branch, I allow my mind to settle as I take in the sounds of quiet—the distant drip of melting frost, the occasional rustle of a bird in the hedges, my own steady breathing. I'm more than ready to spend at least another hour or two before having to return to work, to papers that need signing, to advisors who need placating.
But my happy solitude is short-lived as I hear them. The sound of leaves crunching underfoot as someone approaches—deliberate, measured steps that don't belong to Naska's impatient stride. I frown, mourning the loss of my chance to be left simple, but I suppose this is the life of an Empress, always in demand. Always performing.
Something I am not sure I will get used to, considering how much I treasure these quiet moments. But I do my best to compose my features, smoothing away the disappointment like wrinkles from fine silk. A measured smile dances on my small lips as I turn back, the chains of my crown tinkling softly with the movement.
However, despite my resolve to stay calm, my eyes widen at the sight of the last person I thought to see here, and my carefully composed mask slips for just a moment.
"Sir Pendwick?" I greet, unable to hide my surprise entirely, but managing to reel it in before it becomes impolite. The name tastes strange on my tongue—formal when the garden had made me feel anything but. "What brings you to the garden today?"
"Your Empress," Pendwick makes a bow, though it's slightly uneasy, as if he's second-guessing how deep he needs to go before straightening. His descent is too quick, his rise too abrupt, like a puppet with tangled strings. His hands fidget with the buttons on his sleeve, twisting one until I fear it might come loose. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on his forehead despite the chill, catching the light when he moves. Finally, he breaks into a little smile, lips pushing up to show both fangs—the real and the fake one, the latter slightly whiter, slightly straighter than its natural companion. "I was on a walk."
"A walk?" I repeat with a glance at him, eyebrows lifting slightly. I don't mean to sound so dubious, but I am, because he does not look like he is on a simple walk. He looks like a man preparing for an audience, not a casual stroll through winter gardens.
Though, by this point, I almost expected Pendwick to be impeccably dressed, but today, it seems even more out of place—almost comically formal for the setting. He is dressed in a slightly too thick cloak for the weather, the fabric clearly expensive, clearly chosen with care. It's white shade almost jarring against the grey sky, making him appear as a pale ghost among the dormant plants. The lining of silver embroidery runs in a diamond pattern over the entire cloth, catching what little sunlight there is and throwing it back in glittering defiance.
It's a bit much, but it does suit him—the colors complement his pale red hair and freckles that dust his nose and cheeks like cinnamon on cream.
But still, it's not the best choice. The fabric is a little too heavy, too restrictive for comfortable movement. It would make a poor walking gown, more suited to a formal dinner than a garden stroll. I notice a small leaf caught in the hem, already staining the pristine white.
But I squash the thought. Simply turning back to the vines, guilt prickling at my critical assessment. I'm sure he has his reasons. Perhaps he came from a formal meeting. Maybe he simply wanted to look his best. Who am I to judge when my own crown feels so heavy today?
"So am I," I admit, my voice softening as I trace a finger along a gnarled branch. "I thought it would help clear my head."
"Yes, right. You must still be thinking about the Bulgeons issue." Pendwick nods quickly, the motion too eager, too forceful. It shakes his hair out of the pomade that had slicked it back, sending little sticks of red falling across his forehead at awkward angles. He flexes another quick smile before opening his mouth, then closes it with an audible click of teeth. As if not sure what else to say, as if words have abandoned him entirely.
For a moment, we seem to both fall into a strange little silence that stretches between us like a physical thing. Pendwick darts his gaze up to the sky, then down to his feet, then to a point just over my left shoulder—anywhere but my eyes. Another nervous flex of his fingers over the buttons, the metal clicking faintly against his claws. He licks his lips and swallows, the sound audible in the quiet garden.
"Er, I heard so much about the famous garden." Pendwick starts up abruptly again, the words tumbling out too fast, nearly tripping over each other. "I wanted to see the roses, but—"
Pendwick's voice cracks on the last word, splitting it in two like a branch under too much weight. He steals a look around, his shoulders drooping visibly as his eyes fall upon the dormant plants.
"I guess...I'm still early. Of course." Again, he grows quiet, retreating into himself like a turtle into its shell. I can see him fidgeting with his fingers, twisting them together until the knuckles turn white. He seems to be struggling with something monumental, something that tightens his throat and floods his pale cheeks with color.
"They are very pretty in bloom," I volunteer, trying to ease whatever invisible burden he's carrying. The memory of last year's roses brings warmth to my voice—their velvet petals, their heady scent that hung in the air like invisible curtains.
"Ah, yes." Pendwick lifts his gaze again, finally meeting my eyes before a fresh flush paints his face a startling shade of pink that clashes with his hair. He laughs nervously, a strained sound that dies as quickly as it appeared, before swallowing again with such force I can see his throat bob. Pendwick looks around with a start as if he's trying to imagine it, his eyes wide and almost desperate. "I would love to see them."
I nod along, standing to brush a loose hair behind my ear unconsciously that has fallen from my braid. The strand tickles my cheek, sending a shiver down my spine that has nothing to do with the cold. "Me too," I admit, smiling softly as again I can feel the idea of seeing the entire garden colored in reds and greens, something to keep my spirits up when council meetings drag and diplomatic tensions mount. "It won't be long. I would think a few weeks or so?"
I turn to find Pendwick's gaze fixed on me with an odd sort of expression on his face, as if he were caught looking at something precious and forbidden. His eyes were on my lips before he quickly darted them away, the movement so sudden it was almost a flinch. His ears have turned the same alarming shade of pink as his cheeks.
"Oh, that's soon." Pendwick nodded, sucking in his bottom lip between his teeth, worrying the flesh until I fear he might draw blood. His face has progressed from pink to a deep crimson that makes his freckles stand out like stars against a sunset sky. Pendwick scratches his head, disturbing his already disheveled hair further, before darting his eyes up to me again, only to drop them immediately, as if burned by the contact. Again, his mouth opens before it closes again, like a fish out of water, as if the words were too heavy for his mouth, too dangerous to release into the world. He seems to want to be saying something significant, but chooses to say something else entirely.
"You...have a pretty smile, Your Empress." His voice is so small, so quiet, muffled under the high collar of his cloak that I almost didn't hear it. The words seem to physically pain him to release, each one dragged out reluctantly. But because it's so quiet, so unexpected, I do hear every syllable.
"You think so?" I blink, a bit taken aback by the compliment, heat rising to my own cheeks now. "Really?" I move to touch my lips, feeling their curve under my fingertips as if they might have changed shape without my knowing. "I don't think I've had anyone tell me that," I go on with some thought, searching my memory for similar words and finding none.
"Thank you." The words feel inadequate, too simple for the earnestness in his eyes.
"Of course, uh, no problem. Er, I mean, no, it's—" Pendwick flinches, physically recoiling from his own words as if they'd stung him, as if that wasn't what he meant to say at all. But whatever correction he intended, he didn't voice it; instead, he moved to look at the dry grass and his fine boots as if they might provide the answers he seeks. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he clenches it tight.
Finding the silence grow long and increasingly uncomfortable, I leave him to his internal struggle, just looking back at the vines, tracing their pattern against the grey sky. The wind picks up slightly, carrying with it the distant scent of salt and ice from beyond the garden walls.
"So are—" I don't catch the last part as it's mumbled too low even for my hearing, the words lost beneath the rustle of leaves and the thudding of my own heart.
"What was that?" I look back, tilting my head. "Did you say something?"
Pendwick looks up at me as if with a question written across his features, his brows drawn together in what appears to be physical pain.
"Er," Pendwick pulls on his sleeves again, the fabric stretched taut across his knuckles. His face changes colors like the sky at sunset, flushing between red and pink and back again, finally resting on a shade of pink so bright it seems almost unnatural against his pale hair. "If possible, I'd like to see them together."
"That—" I feel my breath hang on my lips, suspended between inhale and exhale. The request is so unexpected that for a moment I'm not certain I heard correctly. "Do you mean when the roses are in bloom?"
Pendwick scuffs his boot over the grass, the action almost childlike in its nervousness. Tiny ice crystals scatter from the disturbed blades, catching the light like miniature diamonds before melting into the soil. He nods, the movement so small it's barely perceptible. "I mean, if it's not too much trouble, if you don't mind, yes?"
Does he want to go together? The question surprises me, but in a good way, warming something cold that had settled in my chest. A simple request for companionship, for shared beauty—so different from the demands that I've been facing for the past few days now.
"What a simple request. Of course, I can. I would love to, Sir Pendwick." The words come easily, sincerely.
"You really—thank you!" Pendwick beams, voice lifting as if I'd given him something priceless instead of a few words of agreement. The transformation is remarkable—his entire being seems to illuminate from within, the nervousness evaporating like morning dew. His joy bubbles up so earnestly that I almost laugh. He has Bruno's kind of excitement—unguarded and bright, a child's joy despite him being my age of thirteen.
"Thank you so much, Your Empress." Pendwick goes on, practically bouncing on his toes now. He's eager over something that simple, as if I'd agreed to give him half the kingdom rather than a garden stroll.
"It's nothing to be so happy about. The garden is for everyone," I say and move around, brushing my fingertips along another branch, feeling its rough texture ground me in the moment.
"Why? There used to be many people here not too long ago, around my coronation" I say, glancing at the empty paths that wind through the garden like veins through a body. "Though, they've all left now." And it's mostly me coming to the gardens again. Not bad, though. I do prefer it this way. The solitude is a luxury I rarely find elsewhere.
"Your Empress," Pendwick starts again, but this time his voice falters—thinner, uncertain, as if he's about to share a secret he's not sure he should reveal. "Did you not know that…They weren't here for the garden."
"What? What do you mean? Then why would they be—Oh?" I barely finish the thought as my eyes land on a figure approaching from the far end of the garden, and the world seems to tilt on its axis.
My breath catches in my throat before I can control it, a small sound escaping my lips that I pray Pendwick doesn't notice. For a single, suspended second, the world stills around me, sound fading to nothing but the rush of blood in my ears. His figure rounds the far corner of the garden, light cutting across his dark coat in sharp slashes of gold, catching on the edges in sharp slashes of gold, painting him in stark, impossible beauty. And his expression—no courtly mask, no practiced distance—but the look he reserves only for me.
That smile—sharp, warm, achingly familiar—loosens something deep in my chest. A knot I hadn't realized was there. My stomach flutters, ridiculous and unbidden, and I pretend not to notice. I haven't seen him yet today, that must be why. My body's only reacting because I missed him. That's all.
Relief floods through me like heat after cold, anchoring me. Just seeing him makes something settle inside me. With my father gone, it feels like Mykhol is the only one left who understands. Not the Empress, not the half-blood girl paraded through court, but me. The quiet girl who still doubts herself in the dark.
I feel myself relaxing in a way I hadn't even realized I wasn't around Pendwick—like some breath I hadn't taken since morning is finally exhaled.
Across the garden, Mykhol's eyes find mine. That unmistakable spark ignites behind them, a deep red that flickers like firelight, and I can feel how glad he is to see me. Not just politeness, not duty. Me.
The warmth that coils through me at the sight is unsettling. I push it aside.
It's only because I hadn't seen him yet today. Of course it is.
"Ana," Mykhol calls, my name on his lips sounding like something precious, something cherished. His voice is thick with delight, rich as honey, as if he's been searching for me for days, not minutes. "Here you are."
His smile stretches wider, transforming his serious face, reaching those rich vermilion eyes—eyes that blaze like banked embers, eyes that only look at me that way, with that particular mixture of protectiveness and something else I can't quite name, until—
His gaze shifts, drifting down to find Pendwick standing beside me. Something dark passes across his features at the sight, a shadow falling over the sun. The change is so sudden, so complete, it's like watching a door slam shut. His smile doesn't vanish—no, he's too well trained from court to ever drop an expression—but it freezes in place, becoming something sharp-edged and dangerous, a weapon rather than a greeting.
The shift in his demeanor is palpable—I can almost taste the tension on my tongue, metallic and sharp. His eyes, moments ago warm and inviting, now burn with a different kind of heat as they fix on Pendwick, assessing, measuring.
Pendwick stiffens beside me, shoulders hunching as he tucks deeper into his cloak, like a turtle retreating into its shell from some unseen danger. His hand twitches toward his side like he might bow, or flee, or both. The earlier flush drains from his face, leaving him pale as the cloak he wears, except for two spots of color high on his cheeks that look like fever rather than joy now.
"I wasn't expecting… company," Mykhol says, the words deceptively soft, almost gentle, but carrying an undercurrent that raises the fine hairs on the back of my neck. The temperature seems to drop several degrees around us, frost crystallizing in the spaces between his words.