Chapter 156 Plead The Case
*Ana*
"It's because of me." Mykhol's voice falls like a guillotine, soft but inarguable. "I did it."
Time stutters. The spring sunlight streaming through the tall arched windows seems to freeze mid-air, golden motes of dust suspended like amber tears. My breath catches halfway up my chest and refuses to go further, trapped behind the sudden constriction of my ribs. The court seems to exhale all at once—a collective sigh that tastes of fear and disbelief—then goes completely still, soundless as a tomb.
"Cousin?" My voice scrapes out, brittle and thin, the word cracking like ice over deep water. I don't even hear myself at first. The words feel borrowed. Stolen. Not real. My tongue feels swollen, foreign in my mouth, coated with the metallic taste of shock.
I'm staring at him—no, through him—my eyes dry but burning, as if refusing to blink might hold the moment still long enough to make it not true. The golden light from the windows halos his red hair, but it looks wrong now, like a crown of fire on a man already burning.
Around me, no one moves. Nugen's weathered face has gone the color of old parchment, courtiers frozen like actors who've forgotten their lines. The room has become a still life, and Mykhol is the crack running through its center.
Did he just say—
Did he just admit—
No. No. I must have misheard. My fingers dig into the cold, gilded arms of the throne until the pain blossoms under my nails. It doesn't help. Nothing helps. The world tilts on its axis, and I'm falling even while sitting still.
Mykhol?
Mykhol is responsible? Responsible how? For the mismatched numbers? For hiding the missing crates? For giving our enemies the weapons that killed our men?
My lungs lock. A phantom weight clamps down over my ribs like iron bands, squeezing until black spots dance at the edges of my vision.
He would never. He's family. Families don't—
They don't—
I shake my head, a sharp movement that rattles the chains against the crown. The sound is too loud in the silence, a metallic whisper that makes my teeth ache. I can feel the sweat gathering at the base of my skull, beneath the tight braids that suddenly feel like a cage. It itches, burns, but I don't move. I am afraid to lift my hand or show a tremor. Afraid that any movement might shatter what's left of this moment, might make it real.
No. He's my cousin. He's mine. We've shared too much. Our childhood, the halls of this palace, the times I went to him in tears when things were too much. The cruel words said behind my back, the jarring stares at my hair, cruel hands pulling, sharp voices laughing. Mykhol would always be there, hands always gentle as he brushed through my hair, unraveling my braid like undoing a knot of worry. His voice always soft when we were alone, talking to me when I thought Father and Nicoli didn't want to. For years, it was just Mykhol at my side, steady as stone, warm as sunlight.
Mykhol would not do this.
The memories taste like burnt honey on my tongue.
I want to demand an explanation, to pull the truth out of him—but the look on his face silences me. There's something there, something that makes my stomach clench with dread.
He doesn't even look at me.
Instead, he steps forward—down the dais steps with smooth, even grace. Each footfall echoes in the vaulted chamber like a countdown to execution. His head is high, shoulders squared with the confidence of a man who knows exactly what he's doing. The sunlight catches on the golden hoops in his ears, making them glint like coronets. The rays gild his copper hair, slicked and parted with perfumed pomade, each strand held in place like glass spun from blood and oil. Even now, he smells of bergamot and tobacco, expensive and familiar and wrong.
He walks like a man marching toward a throne, not a trial.
His boots land with soft precision, leather tapping against the polished stone in a rhythm that matches my racing heart. The floor itself seems to bend beneath his stride, as if the very palace recognizes his authority.
He doesn't waver.
Not when he reaches the center of the room, where dust motes dance around him like tiny courtiers. Not when he stops directly beside Admiral Nugen, close enough that their shadows merge on the marble floor.
The sight of them side by side is striking—and wrong.
Nugen stands as if he's just risen from the battlefield. Sand still clings to his boots and cloak, gritty and real. His sun-roughened skin is flushed with exertion and anger, armor sitting uneven on his shoulders, leather straps dark with sweat. His sword hand twitches at his side. The smell of smoke and saddle leather and salt wafts from him—honest scents, earned scents.
Next to him, Mykhol looks sculpted from marble and moonlight. His doublet, black as ink and stitched with fine silver thread, fits like a second skin. His hands are clean, soft, unmarked by callus or scar. His skin is freshly scented—bergamot and tobacco. Even now, Mykhol looks as he always has—together, controlled, perfect.
Where Nugen looks like the empire's broken shield, battle-tested and true, Mykhol gleams like polished gems. His lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes—an expression too poised to be guilty, too elegant to be regret.
If it's meant as a show of contrition, Nugen doesn't buy it. His jaw tightens, tendons standing out like cords.
"Lord Mykhol?" Admiral Nugen's voice grates across the stunned silence like stone dragged over iron. He straightens, his stance rigid with suspicion, one hand settling on his sword hilt with slow, reverent precision—the way a man of faith might reach for a relic before war. The leather wrapping creaks under his grip.
His other hand clutches the ledger tighter to his chest, the leather groaning beneath his grip. He holds it not like evidence now, like something precious and dangerous.
"What is the meaning of this?"
But Mykhol doesn't look at him.
Not right away.
His gaze flicks to the book—just a glance, calculated and unhurried—before he reaches for it with long, pale fingers. Nugen doesn't offer it. His shoulders bristle, every muscle coiled tight, eyes narrowed to slits.
Mykhol only exhales a soft chuckle, almost a purr. He tilts his head, his earrings catching the light again, glinting like wolf's teeth in moonlight.
"I'll give it back, Admiral. I swear." His voice drips with familiar confidence—not loud, but firm, indulgent. The kind he used with servants before. Each word is carefully modulated, honey over steel.
Mykhol speaks softly, a light chuckle as if amused by the human's resistance. "Now, if you please?" He holds out his hand again, palm up, fingers slightly curved. Expectant. Entitled.
For a beat that stretches like eternity, Nugen holds the ledger tighter. His knuckles go white, the veins in his forearms standing out like rivers on a map. Then, grumbling low in his throat like a cornered animal, Nugen uncurls his grip from the leather book. The book lifts from his rough riding gloves and into Mykhol's soft, clean hands as his gold rings lightly click together in the subtle movement—a sound like tiny bells, or coins in a purse.
Mykhol turns a single page with exaggerated care, eyes skimming the faded ink. A small, unreadable smile plays on his lips before he pivots slowly to face the room, holding the ledger with one hand like it too was precious to him, needing to keep it close like support.
"You heard correctly. I am responsible."His voice is louder now, ringing with humility and regret."I have failed you all."
The reaction is immediate—his words start a chain reaction of shock and disbelief, crashing across the court like a struck bell. The confession unleashes tongues that had been frozen in horror. Mouths begin to work, jaws dropping and snapping shut like fish gasping for air. Fans flutter violently, creating small whirlwinds that disturb the dust motes. Silk sleeves hiss as nobles turn in unison, startled whispers rising like wind before a storm. The sound builds and builds, a crescendo of disbelief.
"He said responsible—did he say responsible?"
"What... for the crossbows? Did he mean that?"
"No—surely not. Surely not for that—"
"What in the name of all saints is happening?" mutters Lord Geremont, his long beard quivering as he grips his wine cup so hard the rim cracks. More nobles start to perk up, their faces pale as bone china in the spring light.
Red eyes blink up to the dais, looking to me before falling to Mykhol or each other again, desperate for guidance. I can't tell who's speaking and who's swallowing their fear. The words blur together into a sound like rushing water. They glance at me, at Mykhol, at each other—panicked, searching for cues like sheep suddenly aware there are wolves in the fold. Shadows cross other lords' faces, hard swallows making their throats work, pallor spreading like frost across their features.
Among them, Master Brunce—our new Armory steward—blinks dumbly. His skin has gone a sallow gray-green as he looks from Nugen to Mykhol to the floor, like he's realizing far too late he's stepped onto a collapsing bridge.
Others aren't so quiet. The ground beneath me feels unstable, as if the throne itself might crumble. I can feel a cold stillness to my left, like winter suddenly descending. My eyes find my aunt and uncle, still as statues in a garden.
Aunt Funda is frozen, pale as wax. A single coil of her elaborate updo has fallen loose, a curled strand trembling at her temple. Her thin lips part, quiver, then tighten again like she's trying to speak—but no sound comes.
Uncle Charles stands stiff beside her, his usually perfect posture crumbling. He's wringing the scroll he's forgotten in his hands into a crushed mess, parchment crackling like autumn leaves. His face has gone ashen, eyes wide and staring.
But Mykhol does not look at them. Not yet.
His eyes are on me. Vermillion eyes that don't waver, deep as wine and just as intoxicating, as if afraid to blink might break whatever spell he's weaving. The intensity of his gaze makes my skin burn, makes me want to look away but unable to.
"I mean, I am the reason." He says it like an offering, like a sacrifice climbing the last steps to the altar to be slaughtered in front of all. Wrapped in guilt and silk and something else I can't name.
"It's my fault, Anastasia."
My name on his lips sounds different now. Familiar and foreign at once.
My stomach twists into knots. My heart lurches against the inside of my ribs like a caged bird desperate to escape. The taste of copper fills my mouth—I've bitten my tongue without realizing it.
"His fault?" Nobles repeat it like a curse.
Some are confused, faces scrunched in bewilderment. But others are already looking angry, understanding dawning in their eyes like sunrise over a battlefield. Others already understand what this means, what it costs.
"You're saying you're responsible for my son's death?" Lord Marrin's roar splits the room like lightning, like the sound of the world ending. The old lord pushes forward through the crowd, his rich tunic bunched in one clawed fist, fabric tearing at the seams. His other hand is extended, bare, fangs flashing in fury like ivory daggers. Spit flies from his lips with each word.
"You son of a bitch—!"
Marrin lunges with the desperate fury of a father's grief, his face twisted with rage and anguish.
But before he can reach Mykhol, steel flashes like lightning. A half-circle of Admiral Nugen's men descend with frightening speed, moving like wolves in perfect formation, blades drawn and gleaming in the spring light. Their formation snaps shut around Mykhol like a bear trap, protective and deadly.
Marrin is forced to stop, frozen with two blades crossed beneath his chin. The steel is so close I can see his pulse beating against the edge, rapid and desperate.
His chest heaves like a bellows. Spit flies from his lips, and he's weeping now, openly—rage and grief spilling over like water from a broken dam as he shakes with impotent fury. Lord Marrin has to force himself to calm down with the knives at his throat, but it's clear by the glare of hatred thrown at Mykhol that his anger burns like a forge, unquenched.
"Consider any more support for the House of Marrin over," the lord hisses through his fangs, his voice thick with unshed tears. "From this time forward." His gaze burns holes into Mykhol's doublet, hot enough to melt steel—but Mykhol doesn't so much as flinch.
If the threat wounds him, he gives no sign. He only watches Marrin be dragged away with a curious, quiet stillness. Like a man watching smoke curl up from a fire he already expected to light.
As I watch them go, the sight sits uneasily in my chest. It feels wrong to have Lord Marrin put into the dungeon for acting out in court, even though it follows the rules. The rules feel brittle now, inadequate for the weight of what's happening.
But what did he mean by support? The words confuse me, rattling around in my head like stones in a jar. But I shelve the thought for another time, unable to process anything beyond the immediate crisis.
As the doors close behind Marrin with a sound like a coffin lid, a tense stillness settles over the room. The silence is tight and prickling, like a sheet pulled over a corpse. The spring air that had seemed so sweet now tastes stale, poisoned.
And still, Mykhol stands calmly, holding the ledger like it's nothing more than a book of poetry.
I force myself to speak, my voice a fragile thing that might break if I'm not careful.
"Cousin…" My throat is raw, scraped clean by shock and fear. My stomach knots so tightly I feel dizzy, the world tilting dangerously. The throne beneath me feels less solid, as if it might crumble to dust.
"When you say it's your fault—what do you mean by that?"
Mykhol turns to me, and for a moment—just a moment—his mask slips. Something flickers across his features, quick as shadow, before the practiced expression slides back into place like a curtain falling.
He bows low, the gesture fluid and graceful.
"I'm sorry." He says it to the floor, voice muffled by the marble. Then lifts his eyes and pins me again with that unblinking stare.
"But it's true. What you're thinking... is correct."
Correct?
The word lands like a stone in my chest, heavy and cold.
I turn, eyes darting to Nugen—needing something solid, something outside of the sick ache forming in my chest like a wound that won't close.
"Lord Mykhol," the admiral says flatly, voice like winter steel, each word carefully measured. "Are you meaning to tell me you're responsible for all of this going missing?"
"He what?"A sharp gasp slices through the air like an arrow finding its mark.
"No." Aunt Funda is moving—not walking, but stumbling, half-running, her silk skirts rustling like dry leaves around her ankles. The sound is desperate, frantic.
"No, no, no—this is wrong! Mykhol—Mykhol, stop it!" She grabs at my hands, panicked, fingers clawing at the fine silk of my sleeves. Her grip is too tight, nails digging through fabric to skin.
"Your Empress—he doesn't mean this! Don't believe him! Please—please don't—"
"Aunt—" I recoil, but she grabs for me again, her lacquered nails scraping against the embroidery of my gown. The sound is harsh, grating.
"Mykhol doesn't mean it, he doesn't—he wouldn't—" Her eyes are wet now, mascara streaking beneath them like black tears. "Please, don't punish him for this! He's just—he's just confused!"
"I can't hide the truth, Mother." Mykhol's voice stops us both like a blade through the heart.
His voice slices through the pleading like ice water, cold and clean and final.
Funda freezes. Her hands drop from mine as if I've burned her. She turns to him, shaking like a leaf in winter wind, as if seeing him for the first time.
"Mykhol?" Her voice is barely more than a whisper, fragile as spun glass. "Why are you doing this?"
Mykhol meets her gaze. Then his father's. And at last—mine.
"Mother. Father." He nods to each, a formal gesture that feels like a goodbye. Then speaks to me like it's just us, like the court has melted away and left only family.
"Ana. I have done you wrong."
Something fractures behind my eyes, sharp and sudden. I don't look away—but I want to, desperately. My body tries to curl inward, protective instincts screaming, but I force it still.
"Cousin?" The word cracks inside me like ice breaking. "Did you... did you do this?"
His smile is soft now, but wrong. It doesn't touch his eyes, doesn't reach the depths where truth lives. He looks exhausted. Not defeated—spent. Like a man who's carried a weight for too long and is finally setting it down.
"What Admiral Nugen says is true." His fingers smooth over the worn leather of the ledger like a lover's cheek, gentle and possessive.
A fresh shudder ripples through the chamber—whispers rising again, overlapping, fragmented like breaking glass.
"No—no, Mykhol, don't—" Funda lurches forward with a gasp, arms half-raised like she might shield him from his own words.
But Mykhol lifts his hand slowly, palm out. Not with panic. With grace. With control. The gesture is elegant, authoritative.
"Please, Mother. It's time this be brought to the light." Mykhol lowers his hand slowly. He exhales softly, shoulders rising and falling with more gravity.
"I discovered it myself not long ago. But I only had one ledger. I couldn't speak on suspicion alone. I had no concrete proof."
He turns slightly, enough that his words now pour over the gathered nobles.
"Not until now."
Then he pivots back to Admiral Nugen, extending the ledger with both hands—like an offering to a god or a weapon handed over in surrender. But his posture remains tall, centered.
"Thanks to you, Admiral Nugen," he says with a knowing tilt of his head, "I finally can."
And then he smiles.
Not broadly, but with sharp perfection—both fangs glinting under the colored light from the stained-glass windows, casting red and blue across his cheeks like war paint.
Nugen's jaw clenches. His eyes narrow, not with confusion now—but with suspicion. He takes the ledger back, but holds it differently. Like something might be missing.
"Lord Mykhol," he says after a beat, "what exactly are you saying by 'evidence'?"
Mykhol meets his gaze, steady and unflinching. There's a flicker of something in his eye—A slight curve of his lip as if he knows something the rest of us don't. Something that makes Nugen's brown eyes narrow as if he too has just caught on to a game whose rules he doesn't understand.
Then he speaks louder now, addressing the entire court again. His voice carries perfectly in the vaulted space.
His lips break into a full smile with both fangs gleaming like pearls.
"It's true," Mykhol spoke, facing the rest of the room again. "The old armory master was a traitor through and through. And he got what he deserved. Death."
Gasps hiss like snakes across the room, a sound that makes my skin crawl.
"But—cousin—" I begin, but Nugen beats me to it, stepping forward with military precision.
"If what you say is true, Lord Mykhol, then explain this: how are supplies still going missing? Mr. Nimble is dead. You don't mean to suggest he's still trading from the grave."
A ripple of agreement hums through the chamber. Eyebrows rise like birds taking flight. Heads tilt forward, hungry for answers.
Mykhol bows slightly, his expression softening into a regretful smile that looks practiced in a mirror.
"Of course not," he says gently, voice like silk over steel. "It was never just him. The real mastermind—the true leak—is the merchant I hired to liaise with the caravans. He's the one continuing the theft. The one doing business with the Bulgeons."
The court explodes in gasps again, the sound bouncing off stone walls like thunder.
I blink. Merchant? My pulse jumps as the implications hit like falling stones. It's the first I've heard of such an idea. There were two traitors? A collaboration? The possibility makes my head spin.
"Could that be true?" I glance at Admiral Nugen, hoping for some sign of validation, but even his eyes are tight with new tension, doubt clouding his weathered features.
"Lord Mykhol…" Nugen starts, his voice lower now. Unsure. Uneasy. The confidence that had carried him through battle seems to waver.
But not Mykhol. He seems sure. And he stands taller with purpose, like a man who's found his calling.
"Yes," he presses, voice gaining strength. "It's the merchant. He's still selling weapons and supplies—directly to the Bulgeons. Ana, I—" his voice softens, as if addressing only me, intimate in the midst of chaos, "I should've been more careful. I trusted the wrong man."
He lowers his head, just slightly. His red hair, neatly slicked back, gleams in the light like fresh blood, like a crown of fire.
"It's a traitorous act," he says. His voice nearly trembles.
I nod, slowly. "Yes, it is." The words taste like ash in my mouth.
But my gut coils like a snake. Something still doesn't add up. The dates. The scale. The pattern. It's on the tip of my tongue, a question struggling to be born—
Mykhol must see it. That question blooming behind my eyes like a dangerous flower.
And he strikes.
A unified gasp cracks the room wide open like an egg. Fans drop from nerveless fingers. A noblewoman sways, falling against a lord who catches her with a rustle of embroidered skirts, her face pale as moonlight.
I jolt upright in my throne, the stone cold against my spine. "Mykhol—that is—"
But he's already gesturing grandly, as if this is only the beginning of a horrid story of treason and betrayal. More story still to be told and Mykhol clearing the way like a master storyteller.
"What say you, Admiral Nugen?" Mykhol turns with graceful precision, his voice coaxing." You, too, suspected it was a murder and not a simple robbery."
Nugen stiffens like a man who's walked into a trap. His jaw twitches, but he says nothing, silence stretching taut as a bowstring.
"It was suggested," I say instead, the words tasting like iron in my mouth, metallic and wrong.
"Then it's obvious." Mykhol's eyes lock onto mine. "With the bookkeeper gone, and the ledger missing, the merchant was free to act as he pleased. No oversight. No suspicion. Isn't that right, Admiral?"
Before Nugen can respond, Mykhol steps forward and pats his shoulder—slowly, almost lovingly.
"You've done a great thing finding that ledger."
Then he adds, more quietly to himself like an afterthought. "Or had someone's help."
His eyes flick downward to the ledger—just for a beat—and I see it. A flash. A warning? A dare? Something passes between them, quick as lightning.
Nugen shrugs off the hand sharply, his shoulder jerking away like he's been stung. "Yeah, it is," he says, but his voice is tight, controlled.
"Hm," Mykhol murmurs, lowering his hand with the ghost of a smirk. It vanishes as quickly as it came, leaving me wondering if I imagined it.
"Anastasia,"The sound wraps around my name like a caress, intimate in a way that makes the entire court feel suddenly distant. "You have a great and loyal servant at your hand." He nods toward Nugen. "If only I had shown the same discernment."
I brace myself—my fingers digging into the embroidered arms of my throne until the delicate threads threaten to snap under the pressure. The golden silk bites back against my nails, a sharp reminder that I'm still here, still real, still breathing despite the suffocating weight of revelation.
"Cousin?" My voice is barely a whisper, fragile as butterfly wings caught in a storm.
Behind Mykhol, I catch movement again in my peripheral vision. Aunt Funda has gone rigid again as carved marble, her hands clenching her pearls tightly.Uncle Charles stands beside her, his glasses slipping down his fat nose, forgotten. Their eyes are locked on their son with an intensity that makes the air shimmer with unspoken communication.
"I should've been more careful in choosing the merchant," he says with a bow of his head. The movement sends a strand of his perfectly arranged hair falling across his forehead that somehow makes him look more vulnerable. "This is on me. I thought I could help you but… Because of my inexperience. My eagerness to prove myself. I was… too trusting."
There's a tremble in his voice now, so subtle it could be missed by anyone not listening with their whole soul. A pained expression darkens his usually handsome features, transforming them into something sullen and heavy, like storm clouds gathering over sunlit fields.
And then I see it—the moment everything shifts.
Aunt Funda's shoulders drop by the barest fraction, the tension bleeding out of her posture like water from a cracked vessel. Her lips part slightly, not in shock now, but in what looks almost like… relief? Uncle Charles's grip on his scroll loosens, and for just an instant, his eyes flash with something that might be pride before he schools his features back to worried confusion.
It happens so quickly, so quietly, that I almost miss it entirely. But Admiral Nugen doesn't.
His weathered face hardens further, if such a thing is possible. His jaw works silently, grinding down words. The ledger trembles in his hands—not from fear, but from something that makes his body grow stiff and hard. His jaw clenches. But he says nothing.
"Cousin, you-" So it's not your fault.I feel my breath release like air from a punctured lung. I didn't realize I was holding it in for so long, didn't realize how much I needed to breathe.
Mykhol didn't betray me.I didn't realize how much I needed to hear that. It's like a weight has been lifted off my chest, like chains falling away from my heart.
My heart swells painfully with relief—he didn't do it. He didn't choose to hurt me.
He made a mistake. A grave one. But he didn't betray me. But he didn't betray me. Not personally. Not intentionally. Not with malice.
I force out another breath, deeper this time. It escapes as a soft exhale that barely disturbs the air, but inside it feels like a flood of relief, warm and overwhelming and cleansing.
"Your Empress," Admiral Nugen says, his voice low but urgent, threaded with desperation that makes my skin prickle with unease. His eyes dart—not just glancing, but pleading—from the ledger clutched against his chest to Mykhol's perfectly composed face, then finally to me. There's something desperate in his expression, like a man trying to signal through a window while a fire burns behind him.
I meet his gaze, searching for what he's trying to tell me. His brow is furrowed with deep lines carved by sun and battle and too many years of watching good men die for other men's mistakes. His mouth is set in a hard line, unmoving, clenched like a man watching something precious unravel just out of his reach.
"Your Empress," Nugen tries again, more urgent now. "I need you to—"
But Mykhol's voice slices in before he can finish. He steps forward with fluid grace.
"It's all right, Admiral." His tone is calm, gracious—soothing something with his usual candor. He lifts a hand as if to still the chaos, not in the room, but in me. "I admit it. And now, thanks to you, we have proof. Finally."
He turns to me then, and smiles.
A warm, easy smile. Not a courtly smile performed for others, but something private and reassuring. Comforting. The one he only gives to me, the one that's always made me feel safe, protected, loved.
"But now, with this," he says, gesturing lightly to the ledger as if it's merely a troublesome report and not a weapon forged from lies and blood, "we can begin to fix things, Ana. We'll set it right together."
The use of my childhood nickname sends warmth spiraling through my chest. Together. As it's always been. As it should be.
I don't remember deciding to move—my hand was already reaching for his, like it remembered something I didn't. My feet carry me forward on their own, drawn by that familiar warmth like a moth to flame. My hand reaches for him like it's done a thousand times before.
He meets me halfway, taking my fingers gently in his. His skin is warm, soft from oils and care, unmarked by the calluses that rough Admiral Nugen's palms. Heat flows from his flesh to mine like sunlight spilling across cold marble. I didn't realize how chilled I'd become, how the fear had turned my blood to ice water in my veins.
But even as warmth surges through me, a chill races down my spine. I ignore it. I refuse it.
For a breath, a beat—something flickers between us. Something that tastes of shared secrets and whispered promises and the particular intimacy of two people who've survived the same storms. But no. Of course not. This is Mykhol. My cousin. My family. The person who's never let me down, who's always been there when the world felt too large and sharp and cruel.
I hold his hand tighter, grounding myself in that thought, in the solid reality of his presence and the warmth of his smile.
It's okay. It's going to be okay.
Then Mykhol turns from me to the gathered court, his voice booming with newfound strength— "We will win this war against those bastard pirates!"
The reaction is instant, explosive. A wave of voices rises like wind through a canyon, like a battle cry torn from dozens of throats.
"Praise to her Empress!" "Praise to Lord Mykhol!" "Yes, we will root out the traitor!" "We'll pull his fangs!"
That last one lands sharp and sour in my ears, making me flinch as if struck. The cheer turns jagged around the edges, celebration curdling into bloodlust. A tremor of disquiet edges into my chest like a splinter working its way toward my heart.
Punishment. Of course. It's treason. There must be punishment. The thought sits heavy in my stomach like a stone, cold and unforgiving.
I squeeze Mykhol's hand again, seeking anchor in the storm of my own thoughts. His head bows toward mine, close enough to share breath, close enough that I can smell his cologne—bergamot and tabacco and something darker underneath—and see the fine lines around his eyes that speak of age and late nights.
"I wanted to be the one to tell you," he whispers, voice velvet-soft and intimate as a lover's confession, "because I was the one who failed you." He pulls back just enough to meet my gaze fully, his vermillion eyes searching mine with an intensity that makes my breath catch. "Please. Forgive me."
My heart cracks open with a painful pulse, like ice breaking in spring floods.
"Cousin…"
Relief rolls over me like heat after brutal cold, like stepping into sunlight after hours in shadow. I exhale with a trembling sigh that carries away the last of my fear, the last of the terrible suspicion that had been eating at me like poison.
"This isn't your fault." I shake my head, tears pricking but not falling, held back by sheer force of will. "I knew it wasn't." Saying it aloud makes it real, makes it true, makes it final as a sealed tomb.
He smiles again, and there's something behind it—faint, flickering, like candlelight through colored glass. Something I don't quite catch, don't quite understand.
"I knew you wouldn't doubt me," he says softly, each word chosen with care. Then adds, quieter still, like a prayer or a promise: "You never will."
"Cousin?" I frown, sensing something deeper in those words, but before I can ask, Admiral Nugen pushes forward with the desperation of a drowning man.
"Your Empress," he tries again, but his voice is thinner now—like he's been pushed too far downstream, like he's fighting against a current too strong to overcome. "If that's true, then this merchant—"
"That's right," I nod, cutting in before Mykhol can respond. I step back, gently releasing his hand, blinking back the haze of emotions that threaten to cloud my judgment. "The merchant will be dealt with."
The words taste like ash in my mouth—necessary, awful, justified. A life will end because of this moment, because of choices made in shadows and gold changing hands in darkness.
I straighten, spine tall beneath the weight of every watching eye, every held breath, every unspoken judgment.
"We'll procure a new one immediately."
Nugen's scarred face twitches, muscles jumping beneath sun-damaged skin. His jaw ticks once, twice, then releases like a spring wound too tight.
"That will take time," he says carefully, each word weighted with meaning, threaded with warning.
"What if our soldiers run out of ammunition?" The whisper comes from somewhere below, anonymous but urgent. I feel dozens of eyes settle back on me in scrutiny, measuring my response, weighing my competence.
I square my shoulders, feeling the heavy silk of my gown settle around me like armor. My fingers twitch against my skirts, hidden in the folds of grey fabric, but I make no outward sign of the uncertainty that gnaws at my bones.
"I—" I glance at Mykhol, the word catching in my throat like a fish hook. "We," I correct, and watch Mykhol's head lift in surprise, his eyebrows rising slightly before settling back into careful neutrality.
That surprise flickers across his features like lightning—there and gone, but not before I catch it. It fades quickly into the smile I know best, the one I've always liked most, warm and genuine and proud.
"Lord Mykhol and I will find a better merchant as quickly as possible."
He nods, solemn and proud, the perfect picture of loyal family. "Someone trustworthy this time."
"We'll work on it." I manage to smile, and it's easier now, like storm clouds finally beginning to clear. "Court is adjourned."
My voice rings through the vaulted chamber like a bell at dusk—sharp, clear, final as death.
The nobles begin to stir immediately, silk rustling like dry leaves in autumn wind. Murmurs chase the edges of their polished shoes as they shuffle to rise. Some glance at Mykhol with narrowed eyes, speculation written in the furrows of their brows; others, more cautious or perhaps more wise, avert their gazes entirely.
I turn, the hem of my gown whispering across the polished stone floor like secrets shared in darkness, and step forward with renewed purpose. The worst is over. The crisis has passed. Mykhol moves on instinct to walk beside me, a reassuring presence that feels as natural as breathing.
His hand hovers close but never quite touches, for once, he is respectful of protocol. I can feel him anyway—his heat radiating against my shoulder, his taller form casting a protective shadow over me as we move toward the great doors.
"We will surely be busy then, Ana." Mykhol's voice is low, intimate, meant only for my ears. "But Admiral Nugen brought up a good point. The Bulgeons still have some of our weapons. I was thinking, perhaps a more seasoned soldier like the Admiral should return to the trade routes to ensure they're properly protected and—"
"No," I say quickly, cutting him off with more force than I intended. I look back with what I hope is a reassuring smile. "I need him here."
Mykhol halts for half a breath, his stride broken like a dancer missing a step. There's a pause, a furrow in his brow so slight it could be missed by anyone not walking close enough to count his eyelashes—except I don't miss it. Not when I'm beside him, not when I'm paying attention.
He looks… annoyed. The expression flickers across his features like shadow across water, there and gone but unmistakably real.
"Why?" he asks, voice carefully casual. But something sharp pinches the edge of his tone, a needle threaded through silk. "What could he possibly be needed here for still?"
I almost laugh at the obviousness of it, at how clear the answer seems to me.
"The same reason I need you." I shrug, the gesture feeling light and natural. "I trust him. Like I trust you."
He stops walking entirely.
The sudden stillness is so complete, so absolute, that I've taken several more steps before I realize he's no longer beside me. I turn, already a few paces ahead, concern creeping up my spine like cold fingers.
"Cousin?"
His face is unreadable in the colored light streaming through stained glass—shadows playing beneath his dark lashes, his lips caught in an expression I can't quite name. Surprise? Disappointment? Something older, darker, like wine left too long in the cellar?
"You…" he says, and the word seems to fight against itself, trying to become something else before it leaves his mouth.
"Cousin, come." I gesture gently, sensing his hesitation but not understanding it. "We have work to do."
"In a minute," he answers, and the smile that spreads across his face doesn't feel right. It's too smooth, too practiced, too empty of the warmth I've come to expect. Too… quiet.
A chill brushes the back of my neck like ghostly fingers. My gut tenses with something that doesn't have a name, some primal instinct that whispers danger in a language older than words—but I ignore it. Again. As I always do.
It's over. I tell myself. That scare is behind us.
Perhaps he's just hurt. Embarrassed by his public confession, by having to admit fault in front of the entire court. It did frighten me too—thinking, even for a moment, that he might have…
I shake the thought free with physical force, pushing it down into a locked place deep inside where it can't hurt me. I don't need it. It serves no purpose except to poison what should be relief.
It will only make me sick to dwell on such things.
I'm glad it's not true. I breathe easier just thinking it.
"Then find me," I say, already moving toward the archway where afternoon light spills golden across ancient stone. "I'm going ahead to my rooms."
My silk slippers whisper against the marble, each step echoing softly in the vaulted space like secrets being told. The air feels different now—lighter, cleaner, as if a storm has passed and left the world washed new.
Sir Pendwick hurries to my side with quick, nervous steps, his young face pinched with concern. His mouth opens slightly as if he wants to speak but doesn't know how to form the words. The poor boy looks so displaced and jittery like he's aged years in the span of this single morning.
Admiral Nugen joins us too—but his approach carries none of Pendwick's youthful hesitance. His steps are rigid, controlled, each footfall precise as a military march. His jaw is clenched so tightly the veins in his neck strain against his weathered skin. He holds the ledger with a death grip, his knuckles bone-white where they press against the cracked leather.
The silence between us stretches taut as a bowstring. He doesn't speak. Perhaps he too is embarrassed? How certain Admiral Nugen had seemed that Mykhol could be—
But all the better that he is not. Nugen was wrong about that but still–
Guilt pricks at my chest like a thorn. I glance at Nugen and offer a small, grateful nod—meant to acknowledge his service, to reassure him that his efforts haven't gone unnoticed. But something in me stirs—maybe guilt, maybe affection, maybe just the warm rush of relief that makes me generous—and I take it one step further.
I turn my head fully and offer him a soft smile. One meant only for him. The kind of smile reserved for the few who have earned it: warm, steady, full of trust. A smile that tastes of gratitude and carries the weight of absolute faith.
A thank you. For finding the ledger. For believing in justice. For protecting Nochten.
His expression does not soften. If anything, it goes still—too still. His mouth doesn't move. His gaze doesn't waver. But there is something unbearable in the way he looks at me, as if I've just sealed something shut with gold leaf and wax, and handed it back to him to carry alone.
He looks like a man watching a bridge collapse beneath someone who refuses to run.
The moment stretches between us, heavy with unspoken words. The scent of old parchment and ink rises from the ledger in his hands, mixing with the lingering ghost of incense from morning prayers. My stomach flutters with something that might be doubt, but I swallow it down like bitter medicine.
I blink and look forward again, pushing the tension from my shoulders with deliberate force. The chains of my crown clink softly with the movement, a sound like tiny bells or distant music.
"I'll have to change my schedule again," I murmur to myself, already mentally reorganizing the coming days. The words feel practical, grounding, pulling me back to the solid world of duty and responsibility. So many things to rearrange, so much to prepare, so many pieces to move across the board of politics and war.
It will take time to find a capable merchant. The right one. A loyal one who won't be tempted by enemy gold or personal grudges. But we'll manage. We always do.
With the three of us working together—Pendwick, Nugen, myself.
I pause mid-step, my breath catching like a fish hook in my throat.
But Mykhol had stopped walking. Just for a second. His face unreadable. That moment—silent, too still.
And Nugen—his silence. That look in his eyes, heavy with knowledge I don't want to understand. That ledger, clutched like it was life or death, like proof of something I'm not ready to see.
The memory tastes of copper and fear.
No.
I shake the thought from my head like water from my hair, the movement sharp enough to make the chains softly clink against my crown—a gentle sound that brings me back to myself, to the present, to the warm light spilling across ancient stone.
No. The four of us. I correct myself with a quiet, inward smile that feels like sunrise after the longest night.
Yes. Admiral Nugen, Sir Pendwick, Mykhol, and I will find a new merchant, will rebuild what was broken, will strengthen what was weak. And soon, everything will be as it should be.
Things will right themselves again. They always do, given time and effort and faith.
I'm sure of it.
Because we all want what's best for Nochten. We all serve the same cause, fight for the same future.
And I will never think otherwise again.
I won't let doubt poison what should be trust.
Mykhol is family. He is and will always be loyal.
And soon—soon—Father will return from Dawny. He'll set everything in order with the easy confidence that's always made him seem larger than life, solid as the mountains and twice as enduring.
I just have to keep moving forward until then. Keep the empire steady, keep the people safe, keep faith with those who've sworn themselves to our cause.
The natural light grows brighter as we walk, spilling through tall windows to paint the white halls in liquid gold. The warmth kisses my skin like a blessing, and I let myself believe that it's a sign. That the worst is behind us now, that the path ahead leads only to better days.
Behind us, our footsteps echo in harmony—Sir Pendwick's quick, nervous pace, Admiral Nugen's measured military stride, and my own steady steps that sound like certainty made manifest.
I have to believe it.
Because the alternative is unthinkable.