*Naska*
Naska sat stiffly in the velvet chair by the fire, sharpening her fangs with the edge of her thumbnail. The repetitive scrape-scrape-scrape sent tiny vibrations through her jaw, soothing her only slightly as the metallic taste of her own blood tinged her tongue. Her carnelian colored eyes again drifted to the gilded clock on the mantle, its ticking impossibly loud in the quiet room. Each click all but laughing at her and pointing out how helpless she was. Rendered only to wait and wait some more. Wait until he returned. Like she was nothing but a servant.
The tension in her shoulders formed knots that pulled at her spine. Her skin felt too tight, like a drum stretched to breaking, and the longer she waited, the more she could feel her pulse hammering in her throat.
But she was anything but that. Not anymore. Naska was important. Important to the plan. To him— So why was he still not here?!
Her breath shortened with each passing minute. The air itself seemed to thicken around her, pressing in on her lungs.
Suddenly sick of the clock, her eyes shifted to the desk. But the sight was no better.
There, a tower of letters loomed like a monument to her humiliation. The very presence of them stung her eyes, made her nostrils flare with barely contained rage.
Naska couldn't read. She never thought the need to, not that she was ever offered. Mykhol said she didn't need to. But Bruno could. If he were here, she could ask him to read some of the names. Find out—Naska clenched the armrest until her knuckles blanched white, her claws digging half-moons into the expensive fabric.
No, she didn't need him to do that. She wasn't a fool. One didn't need to read to smell them. See the patterns. Creamy envelopes of imported parchment. Ribbon-sealed corners. Dainty handwriting that looped like musical notes. And the scent—gods, the scent—sticky and cloying, each letter reeking of sweet floral waters and overripe pride.
She wrinkled her thin nose, lip curling back to reveal the edge of a fang.
"Yuck." Naska stood, gliding across the plush rug in silence, the bristles of the carpet tickling her bare feet as she moved. She plucked one of the letters from the top of the pile, the paper crackling against her fingertips. She sniffed before gagging, the scent flooding her senses like poison. "Who even wears lily water?"
The perfume was too sugary, like rotting fruit left in the sun, clinging to the back of her throat with each inhale. She held the envelope between two fingers like something diseased, fighting the urge to sneeze. But this was just the first letter in the pile. The rest were as bad, if not worse.
Each letter was a claim. A flirtation.A reminder. Like she needed one. Of everything she wasn't. These girls had bloodlines—pedigrees that ran clean and deep. They had land, names, and connections. And more than anything, they had the right to be seen at Mykhol's side. To talk with him, be seen together with him.
They didn't have to hide like her.
A wave of heat flushed from her chest to her cheeks as jealousy coiled tight in her belly.
They weren't tucked away in unused corridors and shadowed rooms. They weren't whispered about in servant halls, nasty names behind her back she could always hear, the words slicing into her skin like paper cuts. About her, or Bruno. They didn't get the ridicule. They didn't have stand on the side, only able to watch, stomach growling, throat parched, while everyone ate at banquets.
Naska set the letter down carefully, like it might bite her. The sharp edges of the corners looking thirsty for blood. Blood that none of them would care to spill. Just a lowly maid in their eyes. Nothing.
Still, the pile remained—a growing stack of scented affections, written in ink she couldn't read, by girls who would never need to bow their heads in shame.
They don't know him. Not really.
Her jaw tightened so hard it ached, teeth grinding against each other.
They didn't see the way Mykhol's temper curled under his words when things didn't go his way, how the veins in his temples throbbed, how the air around him crackled with menace. They didn't feel the edge of his moods or the weight of his silences. They weren't there to hold him as he bitterly cried that one night like she did, his tears hot against her collarbone, his body shaking with grief she alone was privileged to witness.
No, They only saw Lord Mykhol—the charmer. The rising heir to Nochten's throne. The obvious favorite. The pureblood.
And they loved it.
Lady Celia of House Rivenbrook with her sharp laugh and wine-colored curls, always brushing imaginary dust from Mykhol's shoulder with fingers that lingered too long.
Mira of Duskwell, pale as milkglass, who fluttered her lashes like she'd been trained to since birth and leaned so close when they walked the halls her breath fogged the edge of his collar, her perfume trailing behind them like an unwelcome guest.
And worst of all—Lady Corinne Valendre, daughter of the high general, who had the arrogance of royalty and the smugness of knowing her family's army was critical to Ana's reign. She wore crimson silk like it was war paint and spoke as if every word should be engraved. The sight of her made Naska's stomach clench with loathing.
They were everywhere.
Flocking to Mykhol like moths to flame.
They followed him through the white marble halls, drifting in their embroidered gowns like ghosts of better breeding, the rustle of their silks an endless whisper of their superiority. They walked with him in the rose gardens, pretending to marvel at the flowers when they were really trying to be seen. They sat beside him during evening concerts, laughing too loudly, touching his sleeve as if that would bind him to them.
It hadn't always been like this. Yes, Mykhol had always drawn attention—his eyes, his voice, the way he filled a room without meaning to—but this… this was different.
It was like something had shifted. A switch flipped. He was always with them now. Courting their presence, entertaining their affections. Every hour seemed borrowed from someone else.
Afternoon teas. Garden strolls. Twilight recitals. A new noble daughter every day, it seemed.
Naska's heart pinched, a physical pain that made her press her palm against her chest, fingers curling into the fabric of her tunic.
"These wretches are getting in the way," she muttered, the words escaping in a hiss between clenched teeth.
They were pushing her out. Slowly. Quietly. As if she had never been there at all. Replacing her. But that could never be. Naska was too vital. She knew it.
Just as she knew Mykhol said it was only temporary. That everything would change once he had the throne. Things would be different.
Naska clung to those words like they were sacred, repeating them silently like a prayer, her lips moving without sound.
She had to. Because she would get what was hers. Everything denied now would be–
The doorknob clicked.
Naska straightened so fast she nearly knocked over the chair, the scrape of wood against wood jarring in the quiet room. Her voice caught as joy—pure and helpless—spilled out in a breathless rush. Her heart leapt into her throat, her pulse a thundering drum in her ears.
"Lord Mykhol! I've been waiting for you." She beamed, stepping toward him, muscles quivering with the effort not to run into his arms. "I missed you." Her voice cracked on the last word, betraying the depth of her longing.
The young lord lingered in the door way a moment, a short look of surprise gracing his chiseled features. Then his vermilion colored eyes darkened with remembrance. He had told her to wait for him. And he stepped in and shut the door behind him with a soft click that seemed to echo in Naska's very bones. His eyes, red-rimmed and tired, flicked up at her—briefly registering her eagerness. Then they settled into something unreadable, like smoke pulling back into shadow.
"Help me," he said simply, shrugging off the outer layer of his formal robes seeking to be free of the restraints. An afternoon change.
"Yes, my lord." Naska reached to take the robe, her movements careful, almost reverent. She folded it neatly over her arm, pleased to already be proving herself useful, before something made her pause. Her gaze falling to it. Her nostrils flared, catching an unfamiliar scent that made her stomach lurch.
A pale stain bloomed across the lower hem. Dried. Crusted. Faintly off-white against the silken fabric.
She blinked, staring. Her mind both knowing what it was but not wanting to believe it. The metallic taste of fear filled her mouth as her throat constricted. "Is this…?"
"What?" Mykhol glanced over, catching her stare.
"Nothing." She quickly folded the fabric tighter, her fingers trembling against the silk. "Probably…juice. I'll clean it." Her voice faltered, but she forced it steady, swallowing down the bitter taste of deception. "It's nothing."
Of course it's nothing. He wouldn't… not with someone else. He loves me. Naska swallowed the lump rising in her throat, feeling it scrape all the way down.
"Hurry up," Mykhol muttered, glancing at the clock. "I have an appointment."
The words struck Naska hard like a knife cutting down the center. She stiffened, a cold sweat breaking out along her spine.
"Another one?" she asked, then regretted it the moment it left her lips, her stomach plummeting. "I thought… you just came back from Lady Katya's." And the two of them nearly spent all morning together. It was almost past noon and he was off again to–
Mykhol's eyes narrowed, the crimson darkening to the color of old blood.
"And if I did?" he said, voice low and flat. "Do you think you're in a position to question me?"
"No! No, I would never…" Naska stepped back, her fingers tightening on the folded gown until her knuckles ached. "I just…I thought we could–"
Her voice was too soft, too uncertain. She hated how it sounded. Like a whine, a whimper. Her ears burned with shame.
She wished she could sound like Corinne. Like Celia. Like the daughters in silk and bone who knew exactly how far they could push a man like Mykhol without bleeding for it.
But then again, she should be used to this by now—the waiting, the hiding, the empty gowns left behind. This was the life she had chosen, wasn't it? The one she had to put up with, for now. Quiet loyalty. Quiet love. She understood it when it was Ana.
Because it had to be with Ana.
Because it was the strategy. Because Ana was on the throne. Mykhol needed Ana's favor. He needed her hand. He needed her crown.
So Naska had kept her mouth shut.
Because it wasn't real. It was a role he had to play.
He had to charm Ana.
But this? The noble daughters? The second-tier girls with powdered faces and glittering brooches? These other girls—these simpering, perfumed daughters of lords and generals—Naska didn't understand them.
They weren't strategic. They weren't Ana. They weren't necessary.
"I understand it's one thing for you to appear… affectionate with Her Empress," Naska said, careful to sound composed even as her pulse raced. Her fingernails dug into her palms, leaving crescent-shaped indents in the flesh. "But why must you, with them?"
The last word cracked. She couldn't help it. A single betraying tear slipped from the corner of her eye, trailing hot against her cheek before she could dash it away.
Mykhol exhaled slowly, his expression falling into a state unreadable. His eyes shifting off her to something in the distance as if needing to collect himself.
"Because taking over a throne is not just brute force, Naska. I have to keep my standing with their families," he said at last. "It's exactly for the cause. I need to ensure they continued to give us their support."
"By sleeping with them, my lord?" she asked, voice faltering, the words rasping in her dry throat. She could taste copper as she bit the inside of her cheek to keep from crying. "How could that ever—?"
He cut her off with a quiet scoff.
"You should focus on your tasks," he said sharply. "What good is it for you to try and do anything else, Naska? Just keep your eyes on Ana, and report everything. I know what I'm doing. Mother wants me to meet with these girls, and I must keep appearances."
He didn't say it kindly. He didn't say it cruelly either. Just… like a fact. Like the sun rising or the frost returning.
"Appearances, is it?" Naska lowered her gaze, swallowing the tight knot in her throat. Something cold and hard settled in the pit of her stomach, a weight she couldn't dislodge. She couldn't ask more. She wasn't allowed to. If Mykhol said he was handling it…She had to believe this was all just performance, just necessity. It had to be.
Of course, the noble houses needed flattering. Of cours,e they wanted to feel close to power. Of course, Mykhol had to make himself available. He was the next in line. A future emperor. A tool in their game, same as she was.
It wasn't his fault. Not truly.
He was being used—pushed, shaped, maneuvered into roles he didn't want. He didn't want them. Any of them. He only ever—
She pressed her thin lips together, swallowing hard, the muscles in her throat working visibly. The thought refused to finish.
It had to be for the greater good.
Still, the sting of it clung to her skin like frost. No matter how often she told herself it wasn't about love—it hadn't been for a long time—it was harder to hold onto that when another woman's perfume clung to his collar, when the scent of their skin lingered in the fibers of his clothes. Harder when she could still see the pale smear on his robes, a testament to intimacies she wasn't allowed to witness. Harder when he only touched her in the shadows, when the feel of his hands on her body became as fleeting as a dream.
But she endured.
Because he needed her. He chose her.
Because he loved her, even if he couldn't say it aloud.
Because once Ana gave in—once she accepted him, once the crown was secured—he would no longer have to keep appearances.
He wouldn't need the other girls. He wouldn't need anyone else.
Mykhol would be hers for real then. And only then–
His fingers brushed hers.
Naska froze. She hadn't even noticed he'd stepped closer. His robe still tucked under her arm, his hand still half-lifted as if reaching for something he wouldn't name. The warmth of his skin against hers sent electricity racing up her arm.
"Naska," he said, quieter this time.
Her heart thudded. His soft expression suddenly the strongest thing he could do. The vulnerability in his features, the one she had only seen, should only see. Hers to have. She didn't dare breathe, afraid the slightest movement would shatter this fragile moment.
"I know this isn't easy for you."
Her eyes stung. She hated how much those words undid her. How cruel yet true they were for her. The back of her throat burned with unshed tears.
"But I trust you," he went on. "You know me better than anyone. Better than them."
He leaned in—just enough for her to smell the faint trail of rose on his skin, the scent that had clung to her hair after nights in his bed. The familiar aroma made her heart clench with want and memory.
His lips brushed her cheek. It wasn't a kiss. Not quite. But it could have been.
It felt like one. The heat of his breath against her skin made her knees weak.
"Don't doubt me," he murmured, pulling back with a sigh. "You're the only one I can rely on. You and mother and father, and…Bruno."
That was all.
A single thread of warmth, barely given—but it snapped tight around her like a noose of hope. The mention of their son all but pulling her back together, the pain easier to swallow.
Naska held the folded robe tighter to her chest, clutching it like a talisman.
"Yes, my lord," she whispered. "I won't doubt you."
And she meant it. The words settled in her bones like an oath, binding her to him even tighter.
"I just…missed you," she whispered, the admission escaping like a secret. "I miss us being alone." Her voice trembled with longing.
"Alone?" Mykhol echoed, and this time, he smiled with both fangs.
But it wasn't the smile he used at court. This was sharper now. Hungrier. Just for her.
"You want to be alone, do you?"
He moved before she could answer—two swift steps and she was caught in his grasp. One arm snaked around her waist, yanking her flush against him with enough force to drive the breath from her lungs. His other hand found her hip, firm and possessive. His claws lightly pricking through the muslin tunic, sending shivers of both pain and pleasure across her skin.
"Because you missed this?" he breathed, grinding his hips into hers.
Naska gasped, her hands instinctively rising to press against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath her fingertips, though she didn't push him away. His body radiated heat; she craved it like sunlight after a storm. How long had it been since they could be together like this? The scent of him—spice and leather and something uniquely Mykhol—filled her senses, driving out all thought. Naska could nearly moan out from the thought.
"Mykhol…" she whispered, already breathless, her lips parting in anticipation.
He dragged a hand slowly over the curve of her chest, fingers tracing the neckline of her tunic until they found the knot. With a sharp tug, it unraveled. The fabric slipped from her shoulder, exposing her skin to the cool air. She shivered, goosebumps rising on her flesh.
He didn't kiss her—he never did—but his mouth hovered near her jaw, his breath warm as he whispered, "Is this what you needed?"
A moan escaped her as his thumb brushed the peak of her breast, sending a ripple of shame and pleasure through her. Her knees buckled slightly, and she clutched at his shoulders to steady herself. She wanted more. Wanted all of him. The hunger for him was a living thing inside her, clawing to get out.
"I want you," she breathed, her voice soaked in longing. "Inside me. Now."
I want to carry your child. I want to be your choice.
She hitched up her skirt, revealing her readiness. The heat between her thighs shimmered in the candlelight, the scent of her arousal filling the space between them. Mykhol's eyes lingered—not with desire, but with appraisal. Something cold flickered in his gaze that Naska chose not to see.
"Maybe," he said, lifting his tunic. "I've time for a quickie."
She guided him in, biting back a sound as he filled her, the sensation both relief and agony. His hand clamped over her mouth—controlling, silencing—but she arched into him anyway, desperate for closeness, for the joining of two people in love. Their love so pure and true that it could withstand even this trial. How Naska could overcome this challenge like she could with Ana. Because they didn't matter. He was hers. And nothing would change that. Not when a child of their love was alive, proof that love could conquer all.
Her body sang with each thrust, the tension in her building like a storm. She wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, wanting to feel every part of him against every part of her. The world narrowed to just this—his body and hers, moving together in ancient rhythm.
But just as the room began to dissolve into warmth and panting rhythm as Naska could feel herself fall deeper into him and his ministrations, her fingernails digging into his shoulders, her head thrown back in abandonment—
"Mama?"
The voice was small. Clear. Shattering.
Naska froze. Her eyes flew open, panic flooding her system like ice water.
"Bruno—"
Immediately, she pushed Mykhol back, heart pounding so hard she thought it might break her ribs, yanking her tunic up with trembling hands. Her face burned with mortification as she stumbled to cover herself, fingers clumsy with horror.
Mykhol stepped away with a biting curse, adjusting his trousers, fury creasing his brow. His face contorted with a violent fury that Naska didn't want Bruno to see.
She darted in front of Mykhol, hiding him from the child's sight. She didn't want to spoil Bruno's image of him. Mykhol had to always appear the great lord, the perfect father. Even now–
"How long have you—" Naska couldn't finish the question, the words dying in her throat. Her hands fumbled with her clothing, shame making her fingers numb and useless. Her hair was sticking to the light sweat on her forehead. Her face flushed and pink as tried to catch her breath, control her tone from the husk of arousal to that of a mother.
"You shouldn't come in like that," she stammered, trying to sound stern, maternal, normal, but hearing the tremor in her own voice. "You should always knock." She swallowed, pulling in a breath as she looked over him, trying to gauge what he had seen, what damage had been done.
Bruno stood still on the threshold. His lips closed, hands behind his back. His shaggy bangs nearly all but hiding his eyes. He said nothing. His expression unreadable—watchful. The stillness of him was somehow worse than any reaction, any question he might have asked.
Behind her, Mykhol's voice dropped, sharp and venom-laced. "What do you want, boy?" Naska flinched at the tone, feeling it like a slap against her skin.
But Bruno didn't. He seemed untouched by the aggression. His face only schooled into that rather mature look for a five-year-old, his shoulders squared, his posture perfect.
"Admiral Nugen has left the palace. He's already on the trade road."
Naska tried to smile—weak and watery, the way a mother might when pretending nothing had happened. Her lips trembled with the effort.
"Thank you, darling. That's very helpful." But inside, she panicked, her thoughts racing. How much did he just see? Please don't understand. Please be too young to understand.
Bruno's eyes flicked to Mykhol. Again, quiet, holding himself straight with his hands back.
"I thought you'd want to know."
"Yes, that…so he left today," Mykhol muttered, raking a hand through his hair. "Good. He'll be gone for a while. He won't find anything."
"Find anything?" Naska asked, before realizing the mistake as soon as the words left her mouth. Her stomach twisted with dread.
Mykhol shot her a look, tight-lipped, warning. This was something she wasn't to know about.
Right. She wasn't meant to speak of it. She lowered her eyes, properly chastened.
Mykhol turned back to Bruno, seeing that their son had yet to turn and leave. "What now?"
"Lord Pendwick," Bruno said.
That made Mykhol stop cold. His eyes sharpened, a muscle twitching in his jaw.
"Where?"
"In the rose garden." The words fell flat from Bruno's mouth, devoid of emotion. "He's with Her Empress."
"Gods damn it." Mykhol yanked the robe from her hands, throwing it over his shoulders. "Just one moment. Just one—"
He shoved a hand through his hair, didn't even glance at her, and barreled for the door.
"Lord Mykhol—wait—" But he was gone. The door slammed shut, the sound reverberating through her body like a physical blow.
Naska stood, dazed, in the thick quiet he left behind. Her chest still rose and fell too fast. Her muslin tunic was crooked. Her thighs were sticky with unfulfilled desire. And Mykhol was already distracted once again. Chasing another. Chasing her.
She looked down at herself—at her trembling hands, the flushed skin of her chest, the raw, unfinished ache between her legs. Heat crept up her neck, but it wasn't desire anymore. It was humiliation, burning like acid under her skin.
She turned slowly, stiffly, to her son, her spine rigid with shame.
Bruno stood where he had been, quiet and unreadable. A child. Their child.
And she—
She was a mess. Disheveled, half-dressed, reeking of sex and desperation.
"Couldn't this have waited?" she snapped, voice harsher than she meant it to be, the words scraping her throat. "Couldn't you have—"
She stopped. The words tasted wrong as soon as they left her mouth, bitter on her tongue.
Bruno blinked up at her, burgundy eyes wide and shining beneath the fringe of his hair. Not angry. Not even surprised. Just…quiet. Knowing. Something in his gaze was far too old for his years, and it made Naska's skin crawl with guilt.
Naska pressed a hand to her temple and turned slightly, her chest tightening with remorse. The throb of a headache began behind her eyes.
"No," she murmured, softer now. "This isn't your fault."
The timing was just bad. That's all. He wouldn't even know what he'd seen. He was just a child.
He's only a child. Naska looked back. His face was mostly hidden behind the mussed curtain of his bangs, small and still. On impulse, she bent and gently brushed the hair from his eyes, her touch feather-light against his skin. Her fingertips lingered longer than they should have, seeking a connection she feared could easily be damaged by her own tone.
Her smile was faint. Apologetic. Heavy with love, she didn't know how to hold it properly as she battled back her own frustrations. Feelings that were not his to put blame on. Bruno was only being a good boy, and she–
"I'm sorry," she said, just above a whisper, the words catching in her throat.
"It's okay, Mama," Bruno replied, but the words hit harder, because they sounded almost…resigned. She almost wished he didn't say anything. How quickly and loving he would forgive her.
It made her feel even worse for raising her voice. But just as she thought to step toward him and comfort him, arms reaching out to hug and carry him out, Naska's hand fell away. She hesitated—for one breath. Two. Her arms suddenly leaden, her body pulled by an invisible force toward the door.
Then she stepped past him.
The hollow feeling surged again, but she pushed through it. Bruno would be fine. She had to go after Mykhol. She couldn't stay here. Not in this room.
Not in the quiet that reminded her of who she was supposed to be.
The door closed softly behind her, leaving Bruno alone.
*Bruno*
Bruno stepped out into the hall after his mother passed him without another word. The swish of her skirts against the floor made a sound like leaves falling. He knew where she was going, so he didn't need to ask. It was all becoming too familiar now.
But it didn't mean it didn't hurt.
His small fists balled up tight at his sides until his knuckles turned white, his heart pounding like hooves on stone, boom-boom-boom so loud he was sure everyone could hear it. His tummy felt all twisty and hot, like when he ate too much hot chocolate with Ana too fast. He blinked hard and stared at the seam of the door, his breath coming in little hiccupy gasps that made his shoulders shake.
A knight protects his ladies. That's what Ana's stories said. And Mama was a lady. She deserved to be protected and treated well and–not like that. So why did she keep going back? Why did she let him? The questions buzzed in his head like angry bees.
Why does she keep running after him when Bruno was right here–
Don't cry, he told himself. Knights don't cry.
He pressed the thought down, squishing it with his mind-hands into a tiny ball, far away where the ache couldn't reach it, like hiding things under this bed.
Because she was still Mama. Even if she kept leaving. Even if she walked away again, and again, and again.
Even if she left now.
Bruno straightened his back until it was stiff as a wooden sword. Lifted his chin so high it almost hurt his neck. His bottom lip quivered once before he bit it still between his baby fangs.
He was Sir Bruno of the Nochten. He was a knight. And knights waited. They guarded the halls. They didn't cry when their lady forgot them.
Not even if it happened more than once.
She'd come back eventually. She always did.
Bruno's chin lifted. His dark eyes burned like the candles in the great hall. He sniffled once, quickly, and wiped his runny nose on his sleeve when nobody was looking.
The Black Knight was a sorcerer. A powerful one. That's how he tricked Mama—clouded her mind, made her forget. He charmed her until she stopped seeing things clearly.
Until she stopped seeing him.
She forgot about his bruises. She forgot the promise she made—that he'd always be safe. She didn't hear what the servants whispered about her. Or about him.
She forgot everything. She didn't mean to. Bruno knew it wasn't her fault. This was magic. Black magic from the Black Knight. Bad magic that smelled like the wine the grown-ups drank, sharp and sour.
If only he could do more. He just wished he were taller. Stronger. Big as a tree. He clenched his small hands until his nails dug half-moons into his palms, the length between what he wanted to do and what he could do stretching wide as a canyon.
Now he waited, ears sharp for footsteps, tipping his head to the side like the kitchen cat did when hunting mice.
Soft footfalls padded up the corridor, squish-squish on the stone, and Bruno's small back straightened so fast his spine made a tiny popping sound. He knew the sound before seeing the person. He was starting to remember how each of them walked, how fast, or slow, how heavy. It wasn't the dragon, and the Black Knight was gone. That meant–
He set his shoulders square, the way real knights did before drawing a blade, his chest puffed out like a proud bird.
"Ah, Bruno," came Lord Charles's familiar voice, a little too bland, almost reluctant even to speak if not needed. As if any social interaction was a significant push for him. "What are you doing here?"
Bruno turned slowly. He tried to keep his face blank but sweet, the way Ana could when grown-ups talked too much. She was really good at it.
The wizard's round face was flushed pink, beads of sweat forming on his forehead and above his lip. His spectacles were fogged slightly, the glass slipping down his fat nose. The air wasn't even that warm yet, but Lord Charles looked like he was already wilting under the early spring heat and the weight of his own body.
He carried himself like a man used to books and numbers, not built to walk down the white palace halls. His robes were heavy, the hem just barely brushing the floor as he walked with a slight wheeze that reminded Bruno of the bellows in the smithy.
"I was—" Bruno began. But he didn't need to finish.
Lord Charles waved a chubby hand, already impatient, as if his social meter was already on low.
"Never mind that. Come. I have another task for you."
Bruno didn't answer right away. He glanced past Charles's shoulder, toward the bend in the hall where Mama might still appear. She didn't.
Of course not.
She forgot about him when the Black Knight was near. She always did.
"Yes, grandfather," he said at last, the words coming out in a whisper.
"That—well, you shouldn't say that out loud. If someone were to hear–" Charles paused to adjust his fogged glasses, his weak smile tugging too tightly at his cheeks. "You know it would upset Lady Funda. You'll get hit again."
"She hits me anyway," Bruno said quietly as a fact. It didn't matter what he did or didn't do. Bruno was never going to be good enough in her eyes. Just like Mama wasn't good enough. "Mama says I should call you that since you are."
"Yes, that, is true but–" There was a flicker of discomfort in Charles's eyes—too fast to matter. He straightened and cleared his throat. "Well, anyway. Follow me."
Not having reason to say no, Bruno did. Small footsteps trailing larger ones, tip-tap against the cold stone. But his gaze wandered toward the tall windows lining the corridor, pale spring light casting long shadows across the polished floor that looked like giants reaching for him.
He could still feel the scratch of muslin under his tunic, the fabric chafing his arm where a new yellowing bruise was, making him want to wiggle and scratch. But his smile came anyway. Small. Secret. It tickled the corners of his mouth.
He should find it soon.
Admiral Nugen. The real knight. The one with the scar across his face and the eyes that didn't lie—was out there now, somewhere in the desert. Riding toward dust and sun and secrets.
And in one of his saddlebags was the gift. The second ledger.
Bruno waited until the palace was still. He couldn't be seen. Spotted. His secret mission. Waiting until the hearths burned low and his mother's breathing turned soft and even in her bed. He'd crept out with bare feet and a blanket for a cape, careful not to wake her. He hadn't even let himself sniffle, even though his nose had started to run.
The stables had loomed like a dark cave when he reached them. The horses were giants in the shadows—snorting, stomping, shifting in their stalls like dragons guarding treasure. They scared him, their big eyes shiny in the dark, their breath coming out in white puffs like smoke. The smell of hay and leather and dung clung thick in the air, making his nose wrinkle.
But Sir Bruno had a mission.
He had found the Admiral's horse—the one with the scar on its nose and the leather saddle blanket with the silver thread that sparkled even in the dark. The bags were already packed, heavy and buckled. His fingers had trembled as he unfastened one just enough to slip the book inside, the leather straps stiff and hard to move with his small hands.
Then came footsteps. A flicker of light that made shadows dance on the walls.
The stable boy.
Bruno had dropped flat into the hay, barely avoiding a pile of manure. Straw scratched at his neck and stuck to his hair, poking him like tiny swords, but he stayed down—curled tight, knees aching, barely breathing, his heart thumping so loud he was sure the stable boy would hear it.
The lantern passed close enough to make his eyes water, the orange light making everything look scary. He didn't move. Not even when a beetle crawled across his hand, its tiny legs tickly-scratchy on his skin.
At last, the footsteps moved on. The light pulled away.
Bruno had waited longer just to be sure, heart pounding so hard he thought it would shake the straw loose around him. Then he crawled back out, silent as a mouse, and crept home, each step careful as walking on eggs.
That had been last night.
And now the Admiral was gone. Far from the palace. Far from Ana.
The ledger was with him.
None of them—not the dragon, not the wizard, not even the Black Knight—had any idea what Bruno had done.
He had slipped the ledger through. Managed to hide it in plain sight. A trick even a grown-up might have missed.
Another victory for Sir Bruno. And if the stories were true, good knights always found what they needed. Just in time.
But still—
Bruno's smile faded as he glanced sideways. Lord Charles's shadow stretched across the stone floor, long and sharp like a blade.
What if he knows? What if they look in the safe? Find out the that book isn't the same one? What would happen? Would they figure it out that it was him?
What would they do?
Bruno bit the inside of his cheek and looked away from Charles's back, out toward the courtyard instead. The wind stirred the dead leaves, rattling them like bones. His heart thudded again—not like hooves this time, but like a warning drum before battle.
He kept walking. Quiet. Careful. Just a lowly servant boy today. Nothing more. Not a traitor. Not a boy secretly on a mission.
Not the one who had sent away the only hope the princess had left.
Because Ana was alone now.
There was a dragon in the tower. A wizard at her side. And the Black Knight—he was the villain in this tale, Bruno knew it. A shadow wearing armor, who'd already cast his spell.
Only Admiral Nugen could see through that. Only he could return with the truth. Bruno had to trust he would.
Bruno clenched his jaw. So much was riding on it now.
He didn't let himself cry. Knights didn't cry, remember? And Knights were never afraid
But in his chest, his thoughts curled tight like a fist:
Please find it. Soon.
Come back and save our princess.