*King Alexander*
"Your Majesty, we've arrived in Nochten." Johan's voice cut through the early silence like a blade through parchment—steady, commanding, unmistakably real, with an authority that could still bring the king to startled attention as if he were still a young boy. The familiar rumble of that weathered voice, deepened by decades of service, still carried the power to anchor Alexander to the present moment.
It roused Alexander from the shallow, unsatisfying sleep that had plagued the latter half of their journey. He stirred with a groan that seemed to echo from his very bones, the persistent ache in his back flaring as he shifted against the worn leather seat. His joints protested with sharp, needle-like stabs—too many nights hunched in a swaying carriage, muscles knotted tight as ship's rope.
It surprised him that he'd even managed to doze off. The metallic taste of exhaustion coated his tongue, and his mouth felt desert-dry despite the humid air seeping through the carriage seams.
"How long was I out?" Alexander rasped, his voice cracking like old parchment. He dragged a rough, calloused palm over his face, fingertips catching in the scraggly mess of his beard—untamed knots scratching against sun-weathered skin that felt tight and raw from too many days of desert wind. His sapphire eyes, dulled to the color of storm clouds, blinked slowly as they adjusted to the pale amber light bleeding through the carriage window like honey through cheesecloth.
"Not long," Johan answered as the door opened with a groan of hinges that had seen too many journeys. The familiar bouquet of salt and earth immediately washed over them—sharp brine that stung the nostrils, rich loam that spoke of life clinging to harsh stone. But layered beneath was something sweeter, achingly familiar that made Alexander's chest tighten like a fist around his heart.
Roses. Wild and abundant, their perfume thick as velvet in the warming air.
His throat constricted, something hot and jagged clawing up from his chest. They were blooming. The delicate petals would be unfurling in cascades of pink and white along the palace walls, just as they had every spring for thirteen years.
And…he had missed them. Again.
His jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached, the muscle jumping beneath skin that felt stretched too tight. He shouldn't have missed them. He never wanted to miss another bloom, never wanted Anastasia to see another season pass without him there to share in the simple wonder of it.
Alexander closed his eyes and breathed deep, letting the rose-scented air fill his lungs like a prayer. The sweetness clung to the back of his throat, thick with memory and regret. Never again. I will not miss another bloom.
He stepped out, and the heat greeted him like an old enemy's embrace—suffocating, relentless. Dawn was just cresting over the dunes in a wash of molten gold and soft rose, but the desert air was already warming with predatory intent. Sweat beaded along his hairline and slipped down his spine in a slow, crawling trail that made his travel-stained shirt cling uncomfortably to his skin.
His boots crunched on sun-baked stone with a sound like breaking bones. Dust clung to everything—his cloak, his boots, the creases around his eyes. He smelled of horse sweat, road grime, and too many days unwashed save for hurried ablutions with tepid water and rough cloth. A film of travel seemed to coat his skin beneath his clothes, making him want to scratch and pull at fabric that suddenly felt suffocating as a burial shroud.
The sensation reminded him sharply of Nicoli as a young boy, tugging at formal suits that never seemed to fit right, face red with frustration and embarrassment.
Nicoli... The thought hit him like a physical blow, the memory of their last conversation flashing behind his eyes—unspoken words, held back heartache and confusion, disappointment etched in features so much like his own. Alexander swallowed hard, forcing the bitter taste down. He could not afford to think of his son at the moment. Not when Anastasia needed him whole and focused.
But he wasn't the only one suffering. Johan's weathered face was already turning pink at the edges, the desert heat drawing color to skin that had grown pale during their northern sojourn. Perspiration dotted his upper lip despite the early hour, and his usually pristine uniform showed dark patches of dampness.
There was no time for comfort. No luxury of rest.
"I hope we're not too late," Alexander muttered, his voice low and tight as wire as he gazed toward the palace ahead. White stone gleamed like bleached bone in the strengthening light, beautiful and forbidding. "They've made themselves quite busy in my absence."
Alexander rolled his shoulders, hearing the distinctive pop and crack of joints that had been locked too long in one position. His neck protested as he tilted it side to side, muscles screaming their displeasure. "Still, better to see the worst of it with my own eyes." He forced a tired smile that felt brittle as old glass, the expression pulling at the corners of his mouth without reaching his eyes. "No letters. No warning. Let's see how they look when they think no one is watching."
"Your Majesty," Johan interrupted his dark musings, his tone carrying a note of gentle warning. He nodded toward a stumbling cluster of servants peering out from the main doors like startled rabbits. Human and vampire alike stood frozen in the golden morning haze, blinking in confusion that seemed almost comical.
But this time, it wasn't rudeness or disrespect that held them motionless. Just pure, unvarnished shock.
They weren't expected. That precious adherence to Nochten protocol—the elaborate ceremonies and careful pageantry—was the only thing keeping them organized in this moment of complete surprise. No fanfare. No prepared greetings or flowery speeches. Just wide eyes and gaping mouths caught off-guard by a sovereign's unannounced return.
Alexander had wanted it exactly this way. To arrive like a storm without warning, to see how badly things had truly gone while he'd been away. No time for pretty lies or carefully arranged facades. He could see with honesty who exactly was on their side.
Among the frozen cluster of servants, an older vampire maid whispered something barely audible—her voice no more than a breath of air, lips moving with the subtle precision of someone accustomed to palace intrigue. Her pale fingers, marked with the tell-tale tremor of advanced age, reached for the elbow of a younger human servant beside her. The girl couldn't have been more than sixteen, with the kind of wide-eyed innocence that palace life hadn't yet ground down to cynical dust.
The older maid's grip was firm despite the trembling, her knuckles standing out like pale knots against skin that had the translucent quality of aged parchment. She tugged the girl slightly behind the protective shield of her rough muslin skirts, the fabric rustling with a sound like dried leaves in an autumn wind.
"Mind your mouth," she hissed, the words barely more substantial than the whisper of silk against stone, yet carrying the weight of decades of survival in a court where loose tongues meant lost positions—or worse.
But it was too late. The damage had been done in the space between one heartbeat and the next.
"He's come back?" the young servant blurted out, her voice cracking with shock and something that might have been hope or terror—it was impossible to tell which. Her eyes went wide as dinner plates, pupils dilated with the kind of surprise that strips away all pretense and careful training. The words tumbled from her lips like water from a broken dam, unstoppable and damning. "But I thought Lord Mykhol was gonna—"
"Quiet!" The older maid's voice cracked like a whip, low and sharp as a blade drawn beneath silk tablecloths. The sound seemed to echo off the marble walls despite its whispered volume, carrying the authority of someone who had survived palace politics longer than the girl had been alive.
The young servant shrank into herself as if trying to disappear entirely, her face flushing a mottled red that climbed from her collar to her hairline like spilled wine staining white cloth. Her hands flew to her mouth in a gesture of too-late horror, suddenly and painfully aware of the king's piercing sapphire gaze fixed upon her like the point of a sword.
Alexander didn't speak—didn't need to. The silence stretched between them like pulled taffy, thick with implication and the weight of unfinished sentences. His jaw set with the slow, deliberate precision of a man grinding his teeth against words he couldn't afford to speak aloud. The muscle jumped beneath skin that had grown tight with controlled fury.
The implications hung in the air like smoke from a funeral pyre, acrid and impossible to ignore.
Even the staff had started to believe it—had begun to assume that Mykhol's grip on the court was tightening beyond any hope of return. That Alexander, absent for too many months and too many crises, was little more than a name carved in fading stone, a ghost king whose time had passed into history.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. Ana had been left to hold the walls by herself while her own people—the servants who should have been her most loyal supporters—whispered about her father's irrelevance in shadowed corridors.
Alexander's chest rose with a slow, measured breath that seemed to pull all the air from the immediate vicinity. The gravity of the situation pressed into his ribs like iron bands, making each inhalation feel labored and insufficient. This wasn't just administrative disrepair or political maneuvering—this was rot, quiet and insidious, allowed to spread like infection through a wound because he hadn't been here to cauterize it before it could take hold.
The taste of failure was bitter as old copper on his tongue.
But he was back now. Announced or not, welcomed or not—he was here, and he would not leave his daughter to face this alone for another day.
Ana will understand, he thought, clinging to that certainty like a drowning man clutches driftwood. It's been months apart. She would be thrilled. Overjoyed. He could already see her face lighting up with that radiant smile, could almost feel her small body launching itself into his arms as she had done since childhood. He would swing her around and around until they were both dizzy with laughter and joy.
And as soon as I see her.The image warmed something cold and tight in his chest, and he felt his expression soften despite everything—though his eyes never left the trembling servants who had revealed far more than they'd intended.
"No time to warn them," he said quietly, voice gentling. "Let's see how things really are when no one's polishing the truth."
As they crossed into the white stone entry hall, the temperature dropped, a welcome relief from the rising desert heat. Cool air hugged the marble, dense with years of sealed-in memory—of ink spilled from state decrees, oil rubbed into ancient furniture, and the ghosts of noble perfumes lingering like pride too stubborn to die. But there was another note beneath it all—one that rooted Alexander in place like a stake through the chest.
Sandalwood. Clean and warm and achingly familiar.
Her scent. Anastasia's.
He hadn't realized how much he missed it until now. It threaded through the air like a whisper of her presence, soft but permanent, wound into the very bones of the palace. She'd left her mark, claimed this place in a way no title or bloodline could. The realization hit him with unexpected force—his little girl had grown into a woman who commanded spaces simply by existing in them.
Alexander closed his eyes and let the scent wash over him, filling his lungs with the promise of reunion. Soon. Soon he'd wrap her in his arms, bury his face in that silver hair that caught light like spun moonbeams, hold her close enough to feel her heartbeat against his chest. The longing swelled in his throat—thick and hot and desperate as a fever.
But another scent cut through the sweetness like a blade through silk.
Old leather, worn smooth by countless hands. Iron, sharp and metallic. The austere smell of discipline and duty—the kind of scent that clung to steel-willed men who never stopped watching the door, never stopped scanning for threats in shadows and around corners.
Alexander's eyes snapped open, his body going rigid with instinctive wariness.
The measured click of military boots on marble announced the presence before Alexander even turned to look. Each step rang with precision, echoing off the high ceiling in a rhythm that spoke of parade grounds and endless drills. A figure stood waiting just past the intricate mosaic of bat and crescent moon—silent as a sentinel, solid as a mountain.
Admiral Nugen.
He was a wall of tension wrapped in crisp uniform, every line of his body speaking to barely controlled fury. Shadow seemed to cling to him like armor, but the anger blazed clearly in his weathered face—carved into the hard slash of his mouth, burning in the narrowed intensity of dark eyes that missed nothing. His back was ramrod straight, boots braced wide as if to absorb the impact of a coming storm. His fingers hovered near the ornate hilt of his sword—not quite touching, but close enough to serve as a reminder of the steel he carried and his willingness to use it.
His very presence rang louder than any trumpet's call, a challenge wrapped in the thin veneer of military courtesy.
The air between them seemed to crackle with unspoken tension, thick enough to choke on.
"King Alexander."
The title landed hard as a stone thrown at glass—flat, cold, stripped of all warmth or welcome. No bow. No deference. Just name and rank delivered with the bare minimum of protocol required to avoid outright insubordination. Civility held in place by willpower alone, barely containing the flood of accusation and rage that threatened to spill over.
Alexander's steps slowed, then stopped entirely.
The sight of Nugen hit him like a physical blow to the chest. The Admiral looked older than he remembered—not in years, but in the heaviness carved into his face like erosion cutting through stone. His eyes were darker, rimmed with the telltale signs of sleepless nights and relentless vigilance. Deep lines bracketed his mouth, and the gauntness in his cheeks spoke of a man who had forgotten how to eat regularly, too consumed by duty to remember basic human needs.
He looked like a man who had fought a war without backup, who had carried the weight of impossible responsibility on shoulders that were strong but not infinite.
Because he had. A war that Alexander should have been here for, should have stood beside him to face.
The guilt twisted in Alexander's gut like a rusty knife.
"Admiral," Alexander said, his voice barely above a whisper but edged with tired steel.
Nugen didn't reply. Instead, he turned on his heel with military precision that was sharp as a slap, his red cape bearing Nochten's proud sigil snapping once in the still air before trailing behind him like a banner of accusation. Each movement was controlled, deliberate—a master class in contained fury.
Alexander followed, his own footsteps sounding hollow and uncertain compared to Nugen's measured stride. The silence between them was suffocating, pregnant with everything they weren't saying. Johan moved at his side, but even he—veteran of a thousand diplomatic crises—was wise enough to hold his tongue.
The only sound was the measured strike of boots on marble, echoing through the high halls. Somewhere, wind slipped through an open archway, carrying with it the salt-tinged scent of Nochten's cliffs, and the rustle of banners swaying listlessly overhead.
But Alexander wasn't listening to any of that. He was focused on Nugen's back—on the stiff set of his shoulders, the way his jaw flexed every time the silence threatened to break. Every step forward was a blow not yet struck. Every breath between them was laced with everything they weren't saying.
Alexander could feel the weight of the letters he never received. Could feel them buried in the slope of the man's spine. Letters Belinda had hidden. Warnings silenced. Pleas ignored.
It was unbearable—the history stretching between them like a drawn bowstring, and neither of them willing to release it. Not yet.The air between them brimmed with unspoken things—blame, regret, the weight of a thousand choices that could not be unmade.
It was unbearable—the history stretching between them like a drawn bowstring, and neither man willing to release the tension. Not yet. The air practically hummed with unspoken accusations, regret, and the crushing weight of choices that could never be unmade.
"I'm here now," Alexander murmured, not sure if he meant it as apology or reminder, the words falling into the silence like stones into deep water.
Nugen's shoulders rose slightly—just a fraction, barely perceptible. A breath drawn in and held, carefully controlled and contained. But his stride never faltered, never broke rhythm.
His jaw clenched so hard Alexander could see the muscle jump beneath skin drawn tight with exhaustion and fury.
Alexander's own jaw answered in kind, teeth grinding together with audible force.
He deserved this silence. Deserved every shred of anger, every ounce of barely contained contempt. The knowledge sat in his stomach like lead, heavy and cold and indigestible. But it wouldn't stop him. Couldn't stop him. He had come back, finally, and he would not leave again like that. To go so long. Leaving Nugen to shoulder far too much meant for his own shoulders. For the weight a King must bear.
Not until Ana was safe. Not until things were made right.
He squared his shoulders, lifted his chin.
"Right," he said aloud, jaw stiff. "Let's get started."
And without another word, the king followed the man who had been her true shield, deeper into the palace. Past the bat and crescent moon, past the ghosts of old loyalties and newer betrayals, toward whatever reckoning waited for them both in the shadowed halls ahead.
-x-
"You took your damn time, coming here." The door hadn't even finished swinging shut before Admiral Nugen's voice cut through the thick silence of the room like a sword drawn in anger. The heat from outside hadn't followed them in, but the tension certainly had.
Alexander barely had time to glance around before the accusation hit. The room Nugen had chosen was wise but also drenched in hard memories as Alexander could recongize it almost immediately—tucked away in the oldest part of the palace, past Ana's wing, in a place where few servants and even fewer nobles would dare to tread. Stone-walled and drafty, it felt cold as a tomb despite the warming day outside.
The air still held the ghost of lavender perfume, faded now to barely a whisper but unmistakably hers. Old paper and ink, dust motes dancing in shafts of sunlight that struggled through grimy windows—it all spoke of abandonment, of a life interrupted and never resumed. Thirteen years of nothing but silence and slow decay.
Alexander's chest constricted as recognition hit him like a punch to the solar plexus. These were Parsul's private chambers, left mostly untouched since her departure all those years ago. The weight of memory hung in the air like incense, thick with everything they had lost.
He didn't know if Nugen had brought him here intentionally—to hurt him with reminders of what was gone, or to strengthen his resolve with memories of what could be saved. Either way, the impact hit him square in the chest, stealing his breath and making his hands shake with more than just travel fatigue.
Then Nugen's voice boomed again, barely restrained fury turning each word into a weapon.
"What were you thinking!? Why did you ignore all my letters!?"
Alexander winced as if struck, instinctively seeking Johan's eyes. The look they shared was pregnant with dangerous knowledge—how much do we tell him? Because the truth—Belinda's systematic sabotage, the careful orchestration of his isolation—was more dangerous than Nugen could possibly know.
Would it be wise to admit that there were enemies not just within the deserts of Nochten. But in his very own home? That the woman Alexander had trusted with his correspondence had proven to be his daughter's greatest threat?
The thoughts raced through his mind like wildfire. If Nugen knew the full extent of the betrayal, he would cut ties immediately, try to handle everything himself in a fury of righteous anger. Alexander couldn't afford to lose the Admiral—not when he was one of the few remaining loyalists Ana still had in this nest of vipers.
It had happened before. Nine years of silence, nine years of wounds that had never properly healed. Too much to risk again.
"It's complicated," Alexander said at last, the words tasting like ash in his mouth.
"Complicated!?" Nugen's voice cracked like a whip, rising in pitch with barely contained rage. The jagged scar above his brow—a memento from some long-ago attack to defend Parsul—was red and swollen, the way it always became when he was pushed beyond his limits. His face had gone mottled with fury, veins standing out in his neck like rope. "Well, it's complicated here too!"
The familiar sight should have been comforting—some things never changed, and Nugen's explosive temper was as constant as the sunrise. But the memory it brought was bittersweet, tinged with loss. It reminded him too sharply of Parsul, of how she used to laugh at Nugen's dramatics and calm him with nothing more than a raised eyebrow and a gentle word.
Alexander didn't respond immediately. His gaze dropped to the table between them, where the ledger sat like evidence in a court of law. He reached for it with fingers that trembled slightly, brushing over the fine leather cover with something approaching reverence. Even the texture spoke of quality—supple hide that had been treated with expensive oils, binding that spoke of master craftsmanship.
This ledger belonged to someone with serious coin. Alexander could tell that much just from touching it. The leather was too fine, the construction too meticulous for anyone below noble rank. Certainly not a soldier like Nugen. This was a quality book with a high number of coin–a noble's purse.
"I'm here now. Let's just leave it at that," he muttered, not trusting his voice to remain steady if he said more. His fingers traced the edge of the ledger's cover, feeling for any maker's marks or distinguishing features. "What's important now is how you came by the ledger?"
Nugen's shoulders sagged for the first time since they'd arrived, fury giving way to something that looked almost like embarrassment. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, a tell that Alexander remembered from their younger days—Nugen only fidgeted when he was genuinely uncertain about something.
"I don't know," Nugen admitted, his voice losing its battle-ready edge and taking on a note of genuine confusion. "It was just... someone put it in my bag when I wasn't looking." He ran a hand through his choppy dark hair, the gesture making him look older and more vulnerable than his military bearing usually allowed. "It was there when I went looking for clues about the shipment situation. Just sitting there in my bag like it had always belonged."
Johan lifted the book with the careful reverence of a scholar handling an ancient text. His weathered fingers, steady despite his age, began to leaf through the pages with practiced efficiency. To the casual observer, his scanning might look careless—quick glances at inked margins, numbers, and notations. But Alexander knew better. Johan's mind was sharp as any blade, and those pale eyes missed nothing, cataloging every detail for later analysis.
"You don't know who?" Johan pressed, his tone deceptively mild. "Ledgers don't grow legs and walk into people's bags. Someone had to place it there deliberately."
"Yeah, no shit," Nugen snapped, frustration bubbling over into profanity that made him immediately flinch under Johan's disapproving stare. The older man's raised eyebrow could have frozen desert sand, and even Nugen—Admiral of Nochten, veteran of countless battles—ducked his head like a chastened schoolboy. "I mean, I know that. But I don't know who. Could have been someone slipped it into my bag before I left the stables, a servant, maybe, or..." He trailed off with a helpless gesture.
"Well, whoever it was, I'll make sure to thank them properly," Alexander murmured, raking fingers through sweat-matted hair that desperately needed a wash and a trim. The relief of arriving just in time washed over him like cool water—fleeting but desperately welcome. They really had come within moments of disaster. A day later, and who knew what irreversible damage might have been done. But thank all the gods above and below, something was finally going their way.
"Without this evidence, you wouldn't have been able to—"
"Her Empress already knows." Nugen's words cut through Alexander's building optimism like a blade through silk, sharp and final.
Both men looked up with identical expressions of startled confusion.
"She knows?" Alexander's voice came out strangled, hope deflating in his chest like a punctured balloon.
Admiral Nugen nodded, but there was no satisfaction in the gesture. His brown eyes seemed to darken despite the growing light streaming through the grimy windows, and his face drew inward as if he were tasting something bitter. When he spoke, his voice carried the hollow quality of a man who had watched victory turn to ash in his mouth.
"Yeah. So does the entire court."
"What, then—" Alexander looked to Johan in complete bewilderment, searching the older man's face for answers that weren't there. "If they already know, then why isn't—"
Nugen gave a bark of bitter laughter that had no humor in it whatsoever. The sound scraped against the stone walls like fingernails on slate, harsh and grating. "You'd think that would mean something, right? That we finally had the little bastard red handed?" His laugh turned into something darker, more dangerous. "But that goddamn brat managed to slip right out from under me like an eel covered in oil."
The two men stared at him in growing confusion and dread. If they had the evidence, if the court knew the truth, then what could possibly have gone wrong?
"Why isn't the boy under arrest, then?" Johan pressed, closing the ledger and holding it against his side like a shield that had failed to protect them. His voice carried the precise diction of a man trying to make sense of an impossible situation. "The numbers are clear as daylight. This was intentional fraud, not mere incompetence. Mathematics don't lie—"
"But that son of a bitch certainly can." Nugen's laugh transformed into a low growl that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest. His hands clenched into fists at his sides, knuckles white with tension. "And god, did he lie beautifully. Stood there in front of the entire court and admitted to everything. Took full responsibility—but blamed it all on the merchant he'd chosen. Called it a mistake born of his own inexperience."
Alexander felt his stomach drop toward his boots. "You mean he managed to dodge—"
The sharp crack of Nugen's fist meeting stone wall cut off his words. The sound echoed through the chamber like a gunshot, followed by absolute silence as everyone stared at the spider web of fractures spreading outward from the point of impact. Blood welled between Nugen's knuckles, bright red against pale skin, but he didn't even flinch.
The man who had faced down pirates and enemy fleets without blinking didn't even acknowledge the pain of broken bones.
He went back to laughing—that bitter, scraping sound that made everyone in the room want to cover their ears.
"The nobles are praising him," he growled. "Praising him. They think he's honest and honorable for owning up to it. He lied, he cheated, and somehow—somehow—he walks away shining."
Nugen stepped back to examine his bleeding fist with detached curiosity, as if it belonged to someone else entirely. Definitely broken—Alexander could see the unnatural angle of at least two knuckles—but the pain didn't seem to register on the Admiral's face at all.
"There's no killing this pest, is there?" His voice dropped to something barely above a whisper, but it carried more menace than any shout. "I really thought I had him this time. Gods above and below, even with blatant evidence of his guilt, he still manages to come out smelling like roses. How is that even possible?"
He made to punch the wall again, rage overriding any consideration for his already injured hand, but Johan stepped forward with surprising speed for his age. He caught Nugen's wrist mid-swing, his grip iron-strong despite his weathered appearance.
Nugen wheeled on him with fire blazing in his eyes, every muscle in his body coiled for violence, but he stopped short when he met Johan's cold, steady gaze. The two men stared each other down in a battle of wills that seemed to stretch for eternity, until finally Nugen's arm went slack and dropped to his side in defeat.
And that was when it happened.
Nugen swayed slightly—just a hair off balance, like a tree that had weathered too many storms and finally felt its roots beginning to give way. It wasn't exhaustion that made him falter, though gods knew he had reason enough for that. It was something deeper, more dangerous. The emotion that had been building behind his ribs like steam in a sealed kettle finally found a crack, and it rose up too fast and too fierce to swallow back down.
For one flickering second—no more than the space between heartbeats—his iron composure cracked like glass under pressure. The mask of military discipline slipped, revealing something raw and wounded beneath.
"I thought I saved her," he said, and the words came out barely above a whisper, as fragile as spun glass. Each syllable seemed to cost him something vital, as if speaking the truth aloud might shatter what little strength he had left to draw upon. His voice carried the hollow quality of a man confessing sins in an empty cathedral. "She smiled at me... like I'd done something right for once. Like I'd actually fixed it this time."
He didn't look at them when he spoke. Couldn't bear to see whatever expression might cross their faces—pity, disappointment, the confirmation of his own inadequacy. Instead, he stared at the spider web of cracks in the stone wall, at the place where his knuckles had split open against unforgiving rock. Blood dripped steadily from his mangled hand to the floor below, each drop landing with a soft plink that seemed unnaturally loud in the suffocating silence.
The pain was almost welcome—something concrete to focus on, something he could anchor himself to when everything else felt like it was spinning apart.
"But he still won," Nugen continued, his voice roughening with something that went deeper than rage, darker than simple fury. The words scraped against his throat like broken glass. "He's still there, still whispering poison in her ear, still wrapping his fingers around everything she touches. And she..." His breath hitched, just once, before he forced himself to continue. "She's slipping away from me. Further every day."
Alexander felt his own chest tighten in sympathy, recognizing the particular agony of watching someone you love drift beyond your reach.
"I don't know how to stop it anymore," Nugen admitted, and the confession seemed to physically pain him. His shoulders curved inward as if he were trying to protect himself from his own words. "I don't know how to reach her. Everything I do, every move I make—he's always three steps ahead, turning it against me. Making me look like the enemy."
The weight pressing down on him wasn't fury anymore. It was something infinitely heavier, infinitely more crushing. It was failure—pure and absolute and inescapable. The failure of a soldier who had done everything right, who had followed every protocol and checked every corner and anticipated every threat, only to discover that the real danger had been growing quietly in the spaces he'd never thought to guard.
It was the failure of a man who had sworn to protect someone and was watching her slip through his fingers like water, powerless to stop it no matter how tightly he tried to hold on.
His heavy breathing was the only sound in the room, harsh and ragged as a wounded animal's. Outside, the first tentative songs of morning birds began to filter through the windows—cheery melodies that seemed to mock the frustration, dread, and bone-deep exhaustion that hung over all three men like a funeral shroud.
Alexander's gaze drifted to one of the old dressers, where a cracked mirror reflected his image in fractured pieces. The broken glass sliced his face in half, rendering him as skewed and distorted as he felt inside. It was his face looking back, but the last time he'd seen himself in that particular mirror, he'd been younger. Freer. Without the weight of impossible choices and darker secrets shadowing his every feature.
Now, a harder face stared back at him—weathered by years of political maneuvering, marked by promises made and broken, haunted by the ghosts of decisions that had seemed right at the time but had led them all down this twisted path. He cleared his throat roughly, watching his fractured glass twin do the same, before tearing his gaze away to regard the now-quiet soldier.
"Does Anastasia not plan to do anything about this?" he asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.
"Right now, she's more concerned with finding a replacement merchant," Nugen replied, his voice calmer now but still edged with exhaustion. "At this point, she's just trying to stem the bleeding and recover what money she can."
Johan leaned over the ledger again, his weathered brow furrowing into deep lines of concentration. "Even with Hildenberg's pledge of support, these numbers don't make sense. The money is hemorrhaging too quickly for simple mismanagement."
"I know," Nugen said heavily. "I'm still trying to track down all the leaks. Things have been cut back in other departments to compensate. The armory alone is..." He seemed to flinch away from that particular thought, letting it die unfinished. "I know they're still bleeding money somewhere. The whole lot of them are probably skimming off the top."
"Hopefully, whoever left this ledger has more intelligence to share," Johan murmured, his finger tracing columns of damning figures. "We need to find out who they are. They might be our only ally in this nest of vipers."
"Yes, but until then we need to handle the immediate crisis." Alexander felt the weight of leadership settle back onto his shoulders like a familiar but unwelcome cloak. It was their biggest problem, and one that had him genuinely stumped.
Lord Mykhol was going to get away with this, wasn't he? He could do this exact same thing the next time Alexander had to leave for Dawny or any other diplomatic necessity. What kind of damage would he return to then?
What other disasters could that blasted teenager orchestrate while—
"Wait." Alexander's head snapped up as a thought struck him like lightning. He confessed. In public? Claimed fault. Not denial, not silence—but accountability.
"You said Lord Mykhol took responsibility for this mess?"
"Due to his supposed inexperience," Nugen replied with a scowl deep enough to etch stone. "But even his confession somehow managed to make him look better than before he started talking."
Alexander's eyes began to brighten with something that looked remarkably like dangerous satisfaction. "Yes, exactly." He nodded along, but his mind was racing down a completely different path. Johan, ever perceptive, caught the shift immediately.
"Sire?" Johan prompted, and then understanding dawned across his weathered features like sunrise over the mountains. He nodded with slow approval. "Yes, that could work quite well."
"I know it will." Alexander beamed. Good ol' Johan. Thank Gods he was perceptive.
But Admiral Nugen was still several steps behind, his battered face twisted in confusion.
"What will work?" He looked between them as if they'd started speaking in tongues. "What in the seven hells are you two talking about?"
"Lord Mykhol admitted that his failure was due to inexperience," Johan explained with the patience of a teacher addressing a particularly slow student. "He said it to the entire court, on the official record."
Nugen's expression suggested he thought they'd both lost their minds. "He did, but I still don't understand what—"
"Then he essentially admitted that he isn't fit for military oversight," Alexander interrupted, his grin growing wider and more predatory by the second. "The boy handed us the perfect excuse on a silver platter, gift-wrapped with his own words."
"Admitted what? I still don't—" Nugen shook his head in bewilderment, but Alexander couldn't contain his elation any longer.
Alexander threw back his head and laughed—a sound that seemed to shake his entire body and ring off the stone walls like cathedral bells. It was loud and unrestrained and desperately needed, like taking his first full breath after months of suffocation. The release of tension was so profound it left him feeling almost dizzy.
"Did you finally snap or something?" Nugen blinked at them both as if they'd sprouted additional heads."Have you both gone mad?"
"Not yet," Johan replied dryly, but his own satisfaction was evident in the slight curve of his mouth. "This is just good strategy finally presenting itself."
He moved to place a steadying hand on Nugen's shoulder, his voice shifting into the crisp tones of command that had served him through decades of court intrigue.
"Inform Her Empress that His Majesty has returned," Johan instructed with military precision.
"And don't forget to summon Lord Mykhol," Alexander added, his grin taking on a decidedly predatory quality that would have made sharks proud. "I want to see the look on that boy's face when he realizes he isn't the only one who can twist words to serve his own purposes."