*King Alexander*
Alexander's quill scratched against parchment with a sound like dry leaves skittering across stone. The noise grated on his already frayed nerves as he hunched over his dark wooden desk, its surface nearly invisible beneath mountains of paperwork. Each document seemed to mock him with its crisp whiteness, the sharp black ink swimming before his exhausted eyes until the words blurred into meaningless patterns.
The afternoon light slanted through the study windows in thick golden beams, illuminating countless dust motes dancing in the air. It should have been beautiful, but all Alexander could see was time passing—precious, irretrievable time. He could almost hear it slipping away, each second marked by the merciless ticking of the ornate clock on the mantel. Tick. Tick. Tick. A countdown to what, he couldn't say.
"Here I was thinking I could simply go back in two weeks' time." Alexander's voice emerged as a hoarse rasp, unused for hours except to curse under his breath. He released the quill and pressed his fingertips hard against the bridge of his nose, applying pressure until sparks of light danced behind his closed eyelids. The momentary pain was a welcome distraction from the dull throb that had taken up permanent residence behind his temples.
"I was clearly foolish," he admitted, the words falling heavy as stones into the quiet room. His confession carried the bitter taste of regret, coating his tongue like old wine turned to vinegar.
What had been intended to be a fortnight in Dawny for celebrations had stretched into an eternity. Two weeks had melted into three, four—and now winter was surrendering to spring's inevitable advance. He could see it from his window—the last stubborn patches of snow retreating from the gardens, exposing dark, hungry earth. Tender green shoots pushed defiantly upward while birdsong, once absent, now filtered through the glass in tentative, hopeful melodies.
Every sign of spring's arrival was a reminder of how long he'd been away. From Nochten. From her.
Alexander sighed deeply and rose from his chair, the persistent ache in his shoulders a testament to hours spent hunched over documents. He flexed his fingers, stiff from gripping the quill too tightly—a physical manifestation of the tension he carried. What he needed wasn't rest but purpose—the ability to act rather than simply wait while miles and kingdoms separated him from Ana.
His fingers drummed a steady rhythm against the desk as he reached for his goblet. The water inside caught the afternoon light, momentarily distracting him with its clarity before he took a measured drink.
"How can there still be nothing, Johan?" Alexander pushed off his desk to stand. Finding a need to move, do something."We haven't received a single letter from Nugen since returning." Alexander couldn't hide his frustrated concern. His hands opened and closed at his sides, seeking something tangible in a situation beyond his grasp of what was now turning into weeks and weeks of silence.
Johan turned from the window, his weathered face offering the calm reassurance Alexander needed. "It may be silence means stability, your Majesty—though I understand that's little comfort." His steady voice was a familiar anchor. A soothing presence and a good confidant were things Alexander was finding more challenging to come across nowadays.
He didn't mean with Belinda. No, no. His relationship with Belinda had fractured beyond repair—that much was certain. Her icy presence in court was carefully maintained, a performance of regal dignity that revealed nothing of the hurt and anger beneath. In private, however, the silence between them spoke volumes, each unspoken word another stone in the wall that now separated them.
And then there was Nicoli.
Alexander's heartbeat stuttered painfully at the thought of his son. His son was a whole other problem.
Alexander was by no means a fool to think things were fine between them. Upon coming back from Nocthen, he noticed the growing distance between them with a father's keen perception. His son was withdrawing, retreating behind courtesies that felt rehearsed rather than genuine. Avoiding him by constantly being busy with Hidi, or finding an excuse to be elsewhere.
Alexander noticed it all—at first, he excused it, even thought it was normal. He was getting older, after all. This was going to happen. But something gnawed at him. It was like the boy had transformed overnight. His once spontaneous spirit had been replaced by something measured, controlled, almost too perfect in its execution. The boy wasn't just acting different towards him. Around Belinda, Nicoli played a different role—smiling, compliant, the perfect son. But Alexander saw through it.
It was almost a shock to see the boy so…behaved. Belinda had yet to notice but he did. Nicoli was different. And it worried him.
Yet there had been a moment, just yesterday, that had given Alexander a glimpse beneath the facade. He had passed the library and glimpsed Nicoli alone, hunched over a map of Nochten, fingers tracing the route to Ana's home. The boy hadn't noticed him standing in the doorway, and Alexander had watched as his son's carefully maintained composure slipped. There was genuine worry in those eyes so like his own, and something else—a fierce protectiveness that Alexander recognized immediately.
In that unguarded moment, Alexander had seen the real Nicoli—not the perfect prince performing for court, but the passionate, caring young man who cared for his sister so deeply. The sight had eased something tight in Alexander's chest. Whatever distance was growing between father and son, Nicoli's heart remained true. He hadn't lost the boy entirely to Belinda's influence; Ana still held a place in his son's heart, perhaps even more deeply than before.
That single moment of authenticity brought Alexander more comfort than he could express. Even in this time of strained relationships and careful performances, there remained a thread of genuine concern that connected them all to Ana. They were not as divided as he had feared.
No, as much as this growing distance troubled him, Alexander already had enough on his plate. He was just a man, and his head could only turn one way at a time. Nicoli was safe within the castle walls. The boy was surrounded by people who cared for him, protected by guards, and had the privilege of his position. But not for her.
Ana's situation remained unknown, and her safety was uncertain.
I will mend things with Nicoli, he promised himself with quiet determination. But first, I need to know she's safe. It wasn't a matter of choosing one over the other—it was who needed him more. And it was clear who that would be.
Clear but not making this any easier for him. Another day of delay. One more day of not knowing if she was safe.
Unable to stomach another single paper, Alexander gave up altogether on the idea and moved to join Johan at the window. He pressed his palms gently against the glass, the cool surface a contrast to the warmth of his concern. His reflection gazed back at him—a father and king with too many responsibilities pulling him in different directions. The sapphire eyes that usually conveyed strength now revealed the weight of worry he carried.
"I have no idea what is happening over there, right now, Johan." His voice was quiet but intent, the muscles in his jaw tightening slightly as he gazed toward the horizon. "I should be there, already. Or at least know if she needs assistance or support." He tapped his fingers once against the window frame, a small gesture of his restless energy. "It feels just like it was before, when we weren't talking—"
The memory paused his words, a wound still tender to the touch. Those awful years of silence would forever haunt him—that dreadful distance that blinded him to anything and everything Ana faced alone. How easily misunderstandings could take root in that absence. Manipulated to keep them apart, he still had to heal—for the both of them.
Even a king's authority had limits. A line of power that ended at the borders of his realm.
"I don't like this silence," he finally said, his tone resolute rather than resigned. "I need to know she's well. I need information I can act upon." His words hung in the air between them, steady as a promise. A promise he intended to keep till the bitter end. A father's promise.
He gripped the windowsill until his knuckles whitened, the wood groaning softly under the pressure. The texture of the polished oak against his palms was the only solid thing in a world that suddenly felt made of smoke and shadows.
Johan's voice cut through his spiraling thoughts. "Master Nettle should have received a post by this time." The slight lift in his tone offered a fragile thread of hope that Alexander seized desperately.
"I will check if there is mail from Nugen."
Alexander turned, feeling the first real smile of the day soften his features. "Thank you, Johan." The words were simple but laden with genuine gratitude.
"Of course, Your Majesty." Johan bowed, his spine defying the curve that age tried to impose upon it. As he turned to leave, he added, "Until then, you should focus on your work."
Alexander flinched at the reminder, feeling it like a physical nudge against a bruise. "I was only taking a break," he offered weakly, but Johan's raised eyebrow—a look Alexander had known since childhood—told him the old man wasn't fooled.
"The faster it is done, the faster we can return," Johan remarked, his gaze narrowing slightly in that familiar way that had once made a young prince Alexander squirm in his boots.
"Old coot," Alexander couldn't help but throw back, not in anger, but rather in familiar banter they held in esteem for each other.
"Brat." Johan's immediate response, delivered without hesitation, drew a genuine laugh from Alexander's throat—a rusty sound, as though his body had forgotten how to produce it.
"Just go already," Alexander waved him off, turning back to the window. "I'll do my work. I promise."
He didn't lie. He would get back to his work. He had to. Johan was right. The faster he did, the faster they could return and–
As the door clicked shut behind Johan, Alexander was once again left alone with the crushing weight of his thoughts and the relentless ticking of the clock. He exhaled slowly, his breath creating a small circle of mist on the cold glass.
It was then that movement in the garden below caught his eye. A dark blur amid the garden paths. Someone was down there—
No, not just anyone.
It was Nicoli.
Alexander's chest gave a faint lift, a subtle jolt of recognition and something warmer, quieter—relief, maybe. He leaned closer to the glass, his fingers brushing against the cold edge of the frame. Down below, Nicoli wandered the garden alone, his figure weaving slowly between hedge shadows and slushy patches of melting snow. The boy—no, not quite a boy anymore—wore a heavier cloak than the mild spring warranted, the kind Belinda likely fussed over. He'd be sweating in it soon, Alexander thought absently.
Nicoli seemed to be alone at the moment—rare. Alexander was surprised the blonde giant was nowhere in sight. Her tendency to practically cling to him was almost obnoxious. But for now, he was.
And by the looks of his expression, it looked like he needed to be. That telltale tightness in his jaw. The furrowed brow pulled in just enough to crease a line between his eyes. Lips pressed thin. Shoulders slightly hunched. Alexander didn't have to guess what it meant. He knew it instantly, seen it for too many years to think it could be anything else.
Nicoli was waiting for a letter too. From Ana.
The realization pulled a sound from Alexander that was half-laugh, half-sigh. The irony was almost too perfect—here they were, father and son, separated by floors and what was growing misunderstandings, yet united in this one thing: both of them circling like caged animals, eyes constantly searching horizons, hearts leaping at every hint of correspondence that never came.
Both held hostage by the same silence.
Alexander watched as Nicoli paused by a stone bench, his fingers running absently over its damp surface before deciding against sitting. The gesture was so familiar—something Alexander himself might do—that it sent a pang of tenderness through him so acute it was almost pain.
"You too, huh?" Alexander murmured against the glass, his breath creating another cloud that briefly obscured his view of his son. When it cleared, Nicoli had moved on, continuing his restless circuit of the garden.
For a moment, despite everything—the silence from Nugen, the frost from Belinda, the uncertain future—Alexander felt something unexpectedly warm bloom in his chest. Not quite hope, but something akin to it. Understanding, perhaps.
They were both caught in the same helpless waiting, both tethered to the same distant heart. Both walking in circles—he up here, Nicoli down there—holding their breath until word came from across the miles.
His fingers curled against the windowsill, tighter now, the wood creaking softly beneath his grip as his eyes followed his son's solitary figure through the awakening garden below.
Then, from somewhere beyond the frame of the window, a bird's song broke the quiet. Clear, melodic, almost too delicate for the heavy gray that still draped the sky. Alexander's brow twitched. He turned his head toward the sound, catching a flash of brilliant red in the skeletal branches of a nearby tree.
A cardinal. Its red plumage cut against the dull, wintry gray like a fresh wound. Vibrant. Out of place. A strange kind of hope.
So small, he thought, blinking slowly. So small in such a vast, indifferent world.
Alexander stilled, something soft catching in his chest.
It was so small, perched there, so easily missed in the wide sprawl of sky and stone. Yet it sang anyway. Boldly. As if it had every right to.
He let his palm rest flat against the glass, the cold seeping through to his skin. A quiet, wordless ache bloomed low in his ribs.
"Hold on," he whispered, not sure if it was meant for Ana or for himself. "Just hold on."
The cardinal lingered a moment longer, then leapt into the air. A flicker of red, gone before he could follow its path.
Still, Alexander didn't move. He stayed at the window, eyes fixed on the empty branch, holding the ghost of red in his mind.
He would carry it. That sliver of color, of life, of her.
Even as something colder stirred beneath the hope—an ache he dared not name.