LOGIN“Your Majesty,” Johan warned. But King Alexander shooed him off.
“I know what you are going to say, but I don’t care.” King Alexander had every right to be happy. And with that, he gave another skip around the room.
“Your majesty,” Johan could shake his head, but it was a lost cause. The king wasn’t going to listen.
“My baby girl, my sweet little dove.” King Alexander twirled before sitting back down. He kicked his feet before going for the letter again. It was the third time.
But it still wasn’t enough.
“I wish she wrote more.” Alexander pouted, pushing his beard down.
“But it’s a start, your Majesty.”
“Aye, yes, it is.” And Alexander was back up and walking the room. His mind was a buzz, and he had to keep moving.
“Agent Maddie has delivered on her word.” She said she would. But neither of them expected it to be this fast.
“She deserves a reward. But it should be gold.” No, gold wouldn’t be enough for what she managed to do.
The door of communication was finally opened after four years. It was no small task by any means. Yes, it deserved something great.
“I’ll give her a title.” Alexander decided at once. “And a great house.”
Alexander returned to the letter.
“My very first letter.” Alexander lifted it like a priceless heirloom. “Look at her penmanship. It’s perfect.”
"Ana must be quite the student indeed."
“Yes, She takes after her mother.” Alexander beamed proudly.
“Then Prince Nicoli must take after you.”
Alexander dropped his smile.
“Old coot.”
“Speak of the devil,” Johan and King Alexander both turned at the startled cry.
Birds were up and flying over the window in panic as a child's laughter bellowed.
“Back to terrorizing those poor creatures again.” King Alexander shook his head but peered over his to look down the window.
Below, the four-year-old with curly brunette hair and blue eyes moved to pick up a pile of leaves. He threw them up above with another roar of laughter.
“He should be with his tutors right now,” King Alexander frowned. But he wasn’t all disappointed. He skipped many classes at his age.
It was the next person with him, however, that made King Alexander grow cold.
Queen Belinda walked a few steps behind the boy. She was dressed in a white layered garden gown. Her black curls were pulled up neatly to cascade over one side of her head and frame her face and gray eyes.
The queen’s expression was an equal measure of admiration and patience as she watched on. A motherly smile crossed her face. That is until she was directly under the window.
As if already aware, Queen Belinda looked up with expectation. The smile on her face lessened to something softer, and she bowed.
“What a coincidence that Her Majesty would want to take a walk now.” Johan went, but both men knew it was anything but.
“Do you think she knows?”
“It would only be a matter of time before she would.” King Alexander wasn’t surprised. The only surprise was how fast it took.
Faster than both of them expected, apparently.
“Her spies must be quite busy.”
“It doesn’t matter.” King Alexander turned away from his desk to open the drawer. A piece of fresh parchment was pulled out with ink and quills.
“She won’t have it her way again. Not this time.” Four years was long enough.
King Alexander took a seat, dipping the quill in fresh ink.
“Johan, send for the postmaster. I want this sent with no delay.”
“Your Majesty,” Johan bowed and turned out.
“It’s about time I fix my mistake, right, my love?’ King Alexander looked up at the portrait.
The painted woman smiled at him. Her fangs slightly showed under her full upper lip. Her red hair was pulled back with gold chains and crowns to better show off how large her red eyes were.
It was quite a feat to get her to agree to the painting. King Alexander remembered how he had to beg. The vampire was naturally reluctant to her Nochten superstitions. But he had been glad of his persistence.
The painting had turned out to be his second most treasured thing. But it was time he got his first. And King Alexander was determined.
“It’s time I get my daughter back home.”
-x-
*Nicoli*
“Mommy, look!” The young boy lifted the pretty feather to show her.
“It’s blue-” Your favorite. But Nicoli could see his mother was already distracted.
Her maid, Julia, was coming from inside. She leaned to whisper something. Whatever it was, it looked important. His mother’s usual smile dropped for a moment.
But it came back just as quickly.
“Is that what he’s planning to do?” his mother laughed. “After all this time?”
Julia nodded.
“He seems set on it, Your Majesty.”
“I’m sure he would be.” His mother sighed, looking back at the castle. “He always gets sentimental this time of year.”
“But What if she does come back, Your Majesty?”
“Julia, you sound more concerned than I am.” She laughed. But the smile thinned.
“I just- I know this must hurt you,” Julia confessed.
“It does.”
“Then, Your Majesty-”
“Do you really think I will let it happen?”
“What happened?” Nicoli dropped the feather behind to come closer. What was happening?
“What’s happening, mommy?”
Both women turned with a slight start at the boy being so close. Julia bowed, averting her eyes. But his mother grew sweet again.
“Nothing, sweetie.” She cooed and motioned for him. Nicoli gladly came over. Her hand played with his curls tenderly.
It felt good. Nicoli liked having his head touched. He pressed closer to her leg as she continued.
It was also nice to be with Mommy. She was so nice and warm. Nicoli could feel his eyes droop.
“What will you do, your majesty?” Julia, meanwhile, asked again. Her face pulled thin with worry.
“IF she comes back-”
“Julia,” His mother widened her smile to show all her teeth. “How dare you doubt me.”
“I got rid of her once.” His mother stopped to take Nicoli’s hand. She turned to guide him back inside. Their random little walk was over.
“I can do it again.”
*Bruno*(Song recommendation for this chapter: Light of the Seven by Ramin Djawadi)Bruno stood alone in the middle of the courtroom, feeling the cold sink into him like a living thing—not merely temperature, but a sentience that seemed to understand exactly what had been stripped from him. The stone beneath his feet absorbed his weight with a ruthless indifference, each vein feeling like a silent witness to his unraveling. His skull was still ringing from the marble's brutal kiss.The sting of drying blood pulling at the corner of his mouth each time he swallowed. And the place his mother had been standing was now an absence so sharp it felt haunted—like a missing limb, like a wound that wouldn't stop reaching for what it had lost.His bangs had slipped back into place, veiling his eyes further, but they didn’t feel like armor anymore. Not after Mykhol easily took even that from him. Exposing him, like a babe ripped from the crib and found wanting.And still, across from him, Mykhol
*Bruno*The courtroom felt like an ice-sealed tomb—stone and shadow breathing with a cold so precise it could slice flesh from bone. The long, hollow windows sweated a chill that crept across the air like invisible talons, gripping tighter with each passing moment.Only two figures stood illuminated in the dying candlelight.Like fire and ice.Sir Bruno versus the Black Knight.Mykhol still loomed over him, close enough that Bruno could taste him in every inhale—pepper and something dark, wine-rich and choking. His hand remained near Bruno’s face for a beat longer than necessary, rings catching the last restless flickers of torchlight, as if he were unable to pull himself back. Too tempted to savor this moment where Bruno couldn’t retreat.Bruno’s lip throbbed once more, where Funda had struck him; the wound sealing up now, healing, but the dried blood dragged at his skin like a reminder branded into his very being. He held himself still, jaw locked, palms stinging where his nails had
*Bruno*The moment crystallized like a crack through glass before the door even finished settling on its hinges.A razor-sharp click of heels against marble. A blur of movement so swift it sliced the air—a whip of velvet, the striking gleam of gold rings against pale skin, a hand already rising as if it had been waiting for permission all night.Cold wind rushed past, carrying the bite of stale ashen fire pits gone to embers, the sputtering torchlight, and Lady Funda's perfume— a thick gagging cluster of overlayered scents that had burned a hole in some corner of his vulnerable memories. It swallowed him.Bruno’s body tried to move- do what it had been systematically trained for. A mechanical response caved into him by fourteen years of relentless abuses. Hands instinctively rising. Head angling down. Shield the face. Brace for impact constructed from learned helplessness.But this time, his mind was a heartbeat too slow.The slap landed with a sound that seemed to crack the very marb
It was late. Very late. Bruno didn’t need a clock to tell him—he felt the hour etched into the very bones of the palace. The air had transformed into something razor-thin and sharp, as past midnight had carved itself into the very atmosphere. Sound itself seemed reluctant, exhausted, the corridor holding its breath like the walls were living things that had witnessed too many secrets.The moment he slipped out of Ana’s chamber, the warmth was ripped from him.Most torches had surrendered to the night, burning down to fragile, trembling stubs. Those few flames that still clung to life did so weakly—more phantom than light, casting more shadow than comfort. No servants moved through this wing now, no hands to trim wicks or replenish oil. Ana’s corridor was forgotten, ignored, as if like before —save for just hours ago, when servants and nobles stalked marble in wake of a collapsed Empress. The only time it ever seemed to have changed in all his fourteen years.The door clicked shut beh
*Bruno*“Boy,” the voice came out softly. Almost too much so that for a moment Bruno didn’t even register that it was meant for him. No one spoke to him like that. In such a considerate or respectful manner. Not besides his own mom and Ana, that was. Words that weren't barbed and brutal, slurs and vulgarities towards him or Naska, that he'd learned to let slide past like snow falling on stone.So he didn’t answer.He remained rooted where he'd been planted for hours at the edge of Ana’s bed, shoulders squared in a posture that had long ago shed any remnant of childhood—angular, controlled, a shield built from survival. The chamber had quieted down now, stripped of the chaos that had stormed through it hours earlier— no more frantic servants tripping over themselves, no desperate clatter of medical implements, no arguing physicians whose voices scraped like broken glass.Only the fire spoke now.It chewed through seasoned wood with a steady, almost petulant rhythm, as if disappointe
*Mykhol*The heavy wooden door swung shut behind Mykhol with a muffled thud, sealing him into the familiar sanctuary of his private study. He didn’t bother to look about him as he entered–the room knew him the way a hound knew its master—by the scents of aged parchment, rich mahogany, and the faint metallic tang of blood-wine. Warm candlelight danced across the room, casting shifting shadows along the towering bookshelves and transforming the dark rug beneath his boots into a sea of muted patterns. Mykhol strode purposefully across the room, his steps sure and unhurried. Vermillion colored eyes focused straight ahead, he reached for the waiting decanter with a hand that knew every groove and ridge of the cut crystal. The soft clink of glass meeting glass punctuated the heavy silence, a refined sound at odds with the restless energy thrumming beneath his composed mask.As the blood-wine poured in a shimmering crimson ribbon, Mykhol watched the flickering firelight paint sinister glin
*Nicoli*“Nicoli,” Her voice brushed against him like frost across skin—soft, delicate, threading through the air with a mournful tremor that made his chest constrict. He froze mid-step, feet sinking deeper into virgin snow. The sound curled up from somewhere deep within the hedge maze, floating
*Ana*“No,” I whisper, the word a razor's edge against the burning silence filling my head."It isn’t true.” The confession slides from my lips—trembling, fragile as blown glass slipping from desperate fingers. Falling. Slipping. Too thin. Too delicate to catch. They shatter in the stillness, each
*Anastasia*“I thought you could use a friend, just about now.”The word—friend—hangs over me, almost mockingly, slicing through the stillness of the room. It catches in my throat, sharp and bitter, a shard of glass impossible to swallow. Behind me, the fire in the grate sputters and hisses, a dyin
*Mykhol*The high vaulted ceiling still trembled with the aftermath of her voice. It clung to the carved stone like smoke after a fire—sharp, commanding, impossible to ignore.The resonance hung thicker than the firepits still crackling hungrily into the woodpiles, the scent of burning oak and pine







