*Mykhol*
Mykhol didn't enter the courtroom—he conquered it.
The massive silver-studded doors swept open before him like the gates of his own kingdom, and he strode through with the languid grace of a predator who knew every throat in the room was bared to him. The trailing ends of his spidersilk tunic whispered behind him like the silken web of a spider king—deliberate, devastatingly expensive, and impossible to ignore. The fabric rippled like liquid shadow with each calculated step, dark as midnight oil, catching the light like dragon scales. His boots struck the marble with the rhythm of a coronation march, each footfall echoing through the vaulted chamber like a claim of ownership.
He was already Emperor here. Almost, in all but not name. Yet the writing was practically on the wall. He would be. Soon. And even without a crown, he carried himself in as if the silver was pressing on his temples already.
His hand swept through his tousled scarlet hair in one fluid motion, pushing the waves back with the casual arrogance of a man who had never known defeat. The gesture was pure theater—and devastatingly effective. Golden hoops caught the light as he brushed his ear, the metal still warm from Lady d'Kaneth's desperate fingers, her perfume clinging to his skin like a conquered territory's banner.
"Mother. Father," he said, voice smooth as aged wine, not bothering to slow his triumphant ascent of the platform. Each step rang out like a declaration of inevitability, steady and confident, as if the entire performance had been choreographed by destiny itself.
And why shouldn't it be? He was exactly where he belonged—at the center of everything, with all eyes drinking him in like starving beggars at a feast.
Everyone was waiting for him more than her.
Of course they are. He was the one they truly wanted, after all. Lord Mykhol—the name they whispered in drawing rooms, the face that haunted their daughters' dreams, the future they were all too clever to bet against.
The court didn't just turn toward him—it gravitated to him like planets to their sun. Heads swiveled with magnetic precision, following his every movement with barely concealed hunger. Women's eyes traced the sharp line of his jaw, the confident set of his shoulders beneath the expensive silk, the way power seemed to radiate from him like heat from a forge. Some tried to look away but failed, caught in the act of devouring him with their stares like guilty children with their hands in the honeypot.
Lady Morwyn, a doe-eyed brunette barely past her debut, dropped her ivory fan with a clatter that might as well have been a surrendered sword. Her cheeks flushed pink as summer roses as she bent to retrieve it, stealing glances at him through her lashes like a thief in the night.
He smiled—just a flick of his mouth, nothing more—and watched the ripple effect spread through the room like wildfire. Breathless sighs, the flutter of painted fans, a giggle muffled behind someone's trembling gloved hand. The very air seemed to thicken with their attention, heavy with the scent of jasmine perfume and barely contained desire.
So easy. The evidence was written in every face turned toward him like flowers to the sun—young maidens with their first-blood barely dried, and older, more experienced women who should have known better but couldn't help themselves. Married or not, noble or merchant-born, it didn't matter. Their pupils dilated as they watched him, lips parting slightly, bodies unconsciously leaning toward him like moths to flame.
Even now, he could see Lady Thorne, a striking woman with silver-streaked auburn hair, pretending to adjust her emerald necklace while her eyes devoured every inch of him. Beside her, the young Countess Vaelith whispered something to her companion that made them both flush and giggle, their gazes never leaving his form.
He could have any of them. Tonight, if he wished. The whole court was his personal garden, ripe for the picking.
Save the one that counts. She was still just out of reach. Just shy of his fingertips grasping his true prize.
On habit, his gaze flicked toward the throne—and stopped. Empty. The ornate seat sat vacant, its blue cushions undisturbed, waiting for its rightful occupant to claim it.
But first, his little cousin needed to see him like this—triumphant, desired, utterly in control. She needed to understand exactly what she would be getting when she finally surrendered to the inevitable.
Not here… when I'm already this late? His smile didn't falter outwardly, but something inside his chest stuttered. The confident rhythm of his heartbeat missed a step.
Unusual. She was never late. Ana was infuriatingly punctual—proper to a fault. Predictable as clockwork.
"Ana's not here yet?" he asked aloud, voice carrying just the right note of amused indulgence, as if her absence was merely a charming quirk he was willing to tolerate. His fingers didn't twitch—they remained perfectly steady at his sides, because why would they? He had all the time in the world.
She's probably still changing, he mused with indulgent affection. He did tell her to dress the part. Perhaps, at last, she was starting to care about her appearance? Maybe because of him? Mykhol couldn't reist the urge to gloat a little at the thought of her pawing and pandering about how she'd look for him in mind.
As if she needs to be—she's beautiful enough to stop time itself.
And she was his. Not yet officially, but they both knew how this story ended. Ana had been made for him, crafted by fate to be his perfect match, his ideal companion, his destined Empress. Every stolen glance, every blush he coaxed from her porcelain cheeks, every moment her composure cracked under his attention—it all proved what he'd known from the beginning.
She was falling in love with him, piece by careful piece. She had to.
I will always be the better choice in the end.
His eyes swept the crowd below with the satisfaction of a conqueror surveying his domain, and found them quickly—both grandfather and grandson standing among the other lords and ladies. Sir Celbest gripped his silver wolf-headed cane with white-knuckled intensity, his weathered face set in lines of perpetual disapproval. The old man's pale red eyes met his across the distance, and the frigid nod he offered could have frozen wine in its goblet.
Beside him, young Pendwick stood with formal stiffness, but not before Mykhol caught that telltale flash of heat in the younger vampire's eyes. Rage, barely banked. Humiliation that still burned like fresh coals despite his need to be composed.
Still smarting from our little conversation, are we? Mykhol observed with dark amusement. The insult may have brought the boy down a peg, but clearly not enough to make him forget his place entirely.
Fine. More fun for me. Mykhol would love nothing more to remind him again and again until he understood what happened when lesser men try to reach above their station. The fangless wonder would see with his own eyes how foolish he was to presume to court her attention. With the support of the King or not, Mykhol would gladly crush that presumption like an insect beneath his heel.
Ana was his. Always his.
And as long as Ana wasn't with them, as long as she remained safely away from their poisonous influence, he had nothing to worry about. The Celbests were gnats—annoying, but ultimately harmless.
"Never mind her, Empress," his mother cut in smoothly, her voice carrying that particular maternal authority that brooked no argument. Her cardamine eyes fixed on him with devoted intensity, though her painted lips curved in subtle reproach. "What kept you, son?"
Before Mykhol could craft an answer that would satisfy her curiosity without revealing too much, the massive doors groaned open. His head turned toward the entrance with lazy confidence—Ana, finally—only to see Lady d'Kaneth step through instead.
She looked pristine, untouchable, her face freshly powdered and auburn hair perfectly arranged as if she hadn't spent the last hour writhing beneath him in compromising circumstances. As if nothing had happened at all.
Delicious discretion, he thought with approval. She knows how to play the game.
His mother's gaze followed his, her expression brightening with obvious delight.
"Oh, Lady d'Kaneth," Funda breathed, watching as the elegant woman entered with measured grace. Her silk gown rustled like whispered secrets, the deep emerald fabric complementing her hair perfectly. "How lovely she looks today."
Mykhol's smile turned predatory as he followed his mother's obvious machinations. He knew exactly where this was heading, and for once, he didn't mind playing along.
"You would know, Mother. You've always had an eye for fashion." The words came out smooth as honey, rich with hidden meanings.
"I know you don't like me to harp on it, son," Funda continued, her voice taking on that particular tone she used when meddling became an art form,"But any lady like Lady d'Kaneth would make such a suitable... companion for you. Her family's standing is impeccable, her breeding unquestionable, and look at that grace—truly everything one could want in a proper lady." Her eyes glittered with meaning.
"So much more refined than certain... less sightly associations you might have entertained."
She didn't say Naska's name, but the unspoken comparison hung in the air like incense—cloying and persistent.
Mykhol rolled his shoulders, brushing off his mother's obvious machinations with practiced ease. "My plans remain unchanged, Mother. Ana is still my priority." His voice carried the finality of a door slamming shut, though something flickered behind his eyes. "However," he added with calculated casualness, "it is... pleasant to make friends with the other ladies of court."
Very pleasant indeed. The scent of jasmine and musk still clung to his clothes, a secret trophy his mother couldn't quite detect but seemed to sense nonetheless.
"I was late because I simply got distracted... enjoying myself," Mykhol replied finally to her original question, his voice silk wrapped around steel. His eyes found Lady d'Kaneth taking her place among a cluster of court ladies—Lady Ashford with her coppery-red ringlets, the dark-eyed Viscountess Marlowe, young Lady Pemberton still pink-cheeked from whatever gossip they'd been sharing.
Their heads bent together in conspiratorial whispers, envious glances darting his way like thrown daggers. He could practically taste their jealousy, sharp and bitter on the air.
One of them—Lady Katya—tossed her hair deliberately, marron strands catching the light like spun silk, trying to snare his attention with the desperation of a woman who knew she was already too late to matter.
They don't have to try so hard, he mused with comfortable arrogance. I already know I could have any of them. And it won't be long before another offers some of her time.
Actually, part of him hoped Ana would hear whispers of it. He could already imagine her face if she had been here to see him stroll in late, unbothered, radiating the scent of another woman's desire. What would she do if he told her? His tongue pressed against the back of his teeth, tasting the imagined tension like fine wine.
How would she react if I told her what I was just doing with Lady d'Kaneth? Every sordid detail?
Would she blush? Would that porcelain skin flush pink from her cheeks down the graceful column of her throat? Would she look away, finally flustered and disarmed, her iron composure cracking like ice in spring? Or would her voice tighten with something she refused to name, her small hands clenching into fists at her sides?
Jealous. His Ana, finally, beautifully jealous of the other women. The fantasy sent electricity crackling through his veins, heat racing through him like liquid fire. Something that was long overdue—one that he wanted to drag out and savor, piece by exquisite piece.
Ana, playing right into my hands at last.
"Pity," he murmured, lips curling upward as he glanced once more toward the empty throne. "I would have liked to see her reaction."
His eyes flicked back to the doors with confident expectation, as if thinking of her would conjure his perfect little obsession to him like a summoning spell.
But the doors remained stubbornly closed, and she didn't come.
The first flutter of unease tried to stir in his chest, but he dismissed it with the casual arrogance of a man who had never known true defeat. She would come. She always did. Ana was nothing if not dutiful, predictable as clockwork, reliable as sunrise.
Below the dais, the noble chatter began to swell with impatience, voices rising like restless insects in the overheated court.
"I wonder what this meeting is about," wheezed Lord Blackwood, a portly man with thinning hair and wine-stained doublet, dabbing sweat from his flushed upper lip with a silk handkerchief.
"I wonder what this meeting is about," a portly man murmured into his goblet, wiping sweat from his upper lip.
"More missing supplies, I heard," Lady Penrose sniffed, her sharp nose wrinkling with disdain as she fanned herself with painted ivory. Her white streaked and red hair was pulled back so tightly it stretched her weathered features into a perpetual scowl.
"Again?" This from Sir Aldric Thornfield, a lean man with a meticulously waxed mustache and cold dull red eyes that missed nothing. "Honestly, why is our Empress so utterly incompetent?"
"Too soft," declared Lady Ravencrest, a woman who wore her ambition like expensive jewelry. Her hair was threaded with silver, her burgundy gown cut to display both wealth and authority. "Too sentimental. No backbone whatsoever."
"And entirely alone," added Lord Grimsby with meaningful emphasis, his beady eyes glittering above his massive jowls. "No strong hand beside her to guide such... delicate decisions. Something only a man can do."
"If only someone more capable would take her place—" Lady Penrose let the words hang in the air like dangled bait.
Several pairs of eyes drifted upward as if summoned by invisible strings, landing on Mykhol with quiet expectation, hope gleaming in their expressions like candlelight in a tomb. Lord Blackwood nodded slowly, his double chin wobbling with approval. Sir Thornfield's mustache twitched in what might have been a smile.
Mykhol straightened beneath their scrutiny, spine lengthening, drinking in their unspoken coronation like the finest wine. Yes, their faces seemed to say. You. You should be the one ruling us.
And they were right.
Funda leaned toward him, breath warm against his ear, voice pitched low with maternal pride. "They're eating out of the palm of your hand, son."
Charles hummed contentedly beside her, adjusting his jacket lapels with satisfied fingers. "Our plan is working beautifully. Listen to them. Every whisper is a seed taking root in fertile ground."
"But I grow tired of this waiting," his mother snapped, arms folded tight beneath her bejeweled chest, rings catching light with each agitated gesture. "If she wanted to be late, she should have held court later. I have better things to do than stand around like a common servant."
"Like buying more jewelry?" Mykhol said with casual mockery, eyes flicking toward her new rings—larger, louder, practically screaming their newfound wealth and influence.
His mother swatted his arm, but her laugh betrayed her pride. "Don't be so loud, you wicked boy. You make me sound materialistic."
"But it is what you were doing, isn't it?" he pressed with mischievous delight, eyebrow arching in perfect mimicry of his father's stern expression. "Or have been?" He flicked a meaningful glance at Charles.
Charles grunted agreement, and Funda swatted again without real force. "Don't be mean to your poor mother," she protested, wiggling her fingers like a child showing off candy. "And it's not just dresses, if you must know."
"Apparently not," Mykhol muttered, gaze settling on the oversized amethyst dominating her ring finger. The stone caught the light—and triggered a memory that made his chest warm with possessive affection.
Ana, twirling in a dress the same odd violet shade, fabric swirling around her like liquid twilight. He'd thought the color hideous at the time, far too bold for her delicate coloring. But she'd smiled anyway, face lighting up with pure joy that had made something in his chest flutter like trapped wings.
Ana has always been fond of that strange color.
"Perhaps her ring should have an amethyst," he murmured to himself, lips curling with the pleasant inevitability of it all.
I haven't even proposed yet.
Not that he needed to. It was inevitable now, written in the stars, sealed by fate itself. The pieces were falling into place with mathematical precision. She was bending to his will, just slowly enough not to notice her own sweet surrender.
He looked back at the doors, expectation tightening pleasantly in his chest like the embrace of a lover.
Still closed.
The air shifted subtly around him, and Mykhol rolled his shoulders, supremely comfortable in his skin, in his power, in his absolute certainty that everything was going exactly according to plan.
She's never this late, he mused with indulgent affection. But then, perfection takes time.
"Yes, it—"
The massive oak doors groaned open, hinges singing a low, ominous note that seemed to vibrate through the floor like the growl of some great beast.
Anastasia? Mykhol's head turned toward the entrance, smile blooming across his lips with barely contained triumph, pulse quickening with anticipation.
"Cousin—" he started to greet, but the word withered and died in his throat as the tall, sand-dusted figure stepped into the light.
It wasn't Ana.
It was Admiral Nugen.
Mykhol's heart didn't just skip—it plummeted. Not from surprise, but from something far colder. Like stepping onto ice and hearing the first crack, feeling the surface begin to give way beneath his feet.
Nugen was a disaster. Dust caked his boots and climbed his trousers like he'd walked through a sandstorm. His jacket was stained with sweat and grime, one button missing, and his hair—usually neat despite the salt—was windswept and still full of desert sand. The man looked like he'd ridden hard without stopping.
He hadn't even bathed.
And yet he strode in like a conquering general, Lieutenant Eras and a retinue of weary but focused men at his back. They moved with eerie precision despite their obvious exhaustion, armor dulled from travel but spirits clearly unbroken.
The court erupted in a symphony of confusion and whispered gossip.
"Admiral Nugen?" Lady Ravencrest's burgundy fan snapped shut with a sharp crack, her dark eyes glittering with predatory interest. "But he left barely a week ago—what could have brought him back so soon?"
"Perhaps the desert was too much for our brave Admiral," Lady Penrose's sharp voice cut through the murmurs like a blade, her steel-gray hair seeming to bristle with satisfaction. "Some men simply aren't built for real hardship."
"Or real leadership," added Lord Grimsby with a wheeze, his beady eyes glinting with malicious pleasure above his massive jowls.
Mykhol's mother scoffed beside him, snapping open her own fan with theatrical disdain. "He shouldn't be back yet. Wasn't he supposed to be investigating that tedious trade route nonsense for at least a month?"
"Maybe he gave up," Charles chuckled with rich satisfaction, his voice carrying the smug superiority of a man watching his predictions come true. "Can't blame him, really. Too hot, too dangerous, too pointless. Complete waste of time and resources."
"Better for us," Funda cooed, flashing her newest amethyst ring like a weapon of victory. "Now we can point to this as yet another example of Ana's poor judgment. Sending that man on a fool's errand only to have him come crawling back with his tail between his legs."
Mykhol forced a laugh to match their cruel mirth, though something cold was beginning to stir in his stomach. "That was my plan exactly," he said, voice smooth as silk but tinged with triumph. "Making that loyal dog look the fool would have been perfect. Would have cleared the way for my own candidate—someone more... amenable to proper counsel."
The admiral should have come back with his head hung in shame, empty-handed and humiliated. Because there was nothing to find out there. It was a fool's errand from the start, designed to waste time and resources while making Ana look incompetent.
This should have been his moment of vindication.
But as Mykhol's gaze found those brown eyes across the chamber, his confidence began to crumble like sand.
Admiral Nugen met his stare with something that made Mykhol's blood run cold. Not defeat. Not exhaustion. Not the shame of failure he'd been expecting.
Calm. Measured. Confident.
The man's face looked hollowed by exhaustion but set in granite—not apologetic, not defeated. Just... certain. Like someone holding all the cards.
Why is he so calm?
Something twisted, sharp and cold beneath Mykhol's ribs. The forced laughter died in his throat like a strangled bird, leaving behind only the taste of ash and growing dread.
No. You were supposed to be ashamed. Defeated. Humiliated. Not—
And then he saw it.
Tucked beneath the Admiral's arm, partially hidden but not enough to escape notice from someone who knew it intimately: a black leather-bound book. Elegant. Expensive. Something far too rich and refined for a common soldier to own.
But not something Mykhol hadn't seen before. He knew that book. Had touched those pages. Had written in it.
The sight hit him like a physical blow, straightening his spine and locking his knees, turning his blood to ice water in his veins.
How— why do you have that?
His eyes froze on the ledger, unblinking, pupils contracting to pinpoints. Every muscle in his body went rigid as stone, the color draining from his face like water from a broken cup.
"Son?" Funda leaned over, noticing his sudden paralysis, her jeweled fingers touching his arm with maternal concern as she fluttered her fan nervously. "Son, what are you—"
The door opened again.
"Announcing Her Empress Anastasia."
A whisper of silk and sandalwood drifted across the chamber, that familiar scent that usually made his pulse quicken with anticipation. The soft rustle of her gown, the gentle shift of air that always seemed to follow in her wake—all the sensory promises of her presence that he craved like a drug.
But now it felt like mockery.
The room bent in collective deference, a wave of rustling fabric and bowed heads rippling outward from the throne. Mykhol's body obeyed the ingrained motion automatically, but his eyes remained locked on that damning book, unblinking, fixated.
Couldn't.
He could see only that ledger, black leather gleaming like a promise of destruction, like the end of everything he'd built.
His mind reeled, each question hitting like a physical blow. How? When? Who gave it to him?
But there were no answers. Only the terrible certainty that his carefully constructed world was about to collapse around his ears.
His fangs pushed past his lips as he gritted his teeth, sharp points pricking his lower lip and drawing blood. The urge to lunge forward, to tear that book from the man's hands, clawed at him like a caged beast. But he was frozen. There were too many eyes, too many witnesses.
He could only watch.
For the first time in years, Mykhol felt like prey. Like that moment in King Alexander's study when the sword had pressed against his throat, when death had been a heartbeat away. The phantom pain of that old cut seemed to throb now, as if responding to this new threat.
Admiral Nugen's eyes found his across the chamber. For a moment, there was nothing—just the calm indifference of a professional soldier. But then—
Then the bastard's smile widened into something savage and deeply personal.
The pale scar over his eye pulled wide with the expression, deliberate and mocking. His teeth, blunt and human, moved in a single, silent word that cut through the courtroom's chatter like a blade through silk.
'Gotcha.'
No one else heard it over the noise of the settling court. His parents didn't notice, Ana was taking her seat, the nobles continued their whispered gossip. But Mykhol heard it as clearly as if the man had shouted, felt it echo through his skull like thunder.
Just one word, but it was enough to drain every remaining drop of blood from his face, leave him pale as parchment and hollow as a tomb.
Admiral Nugen had the ledger.
And Mykhol... For the first time since this deadly game began—with all his careful planning, every calculated move, every contingency he'd prepared for—Mykhol faced something he hadn't predicted. Something he couldn't control.
This wasn't in the plan.
And Mykhol... had no move left to make.