*Naska*
"This can't be happening." Naska clutched her arms around herself as she flew down the white empty corridor, sandals slapping sharply against the polished stone—each strike reverberating through her bones like hammer blows. The sound was too loud, too real, echoing back at her like mockery while her heart hammered against her ribs in a rhythm that made her dizzy.
The air scorched her lungs, thick with the noxious stench of oily perfume that clung to her clothes, wet stone that made her skin feel clammy, and roses—always those damned bloody roses. The scent leaked from the cursed garden of her empress below like poison, seeping through marble and mortar to find her even here. Sweet, overripe, oppressive. The fragrance wrapped around her throat like silk hands wringing her neck with every inhale.
No. No, no, no.
Her heart thudded so violently she could feel it in her temples, behind her eyes, in the pulse points at her wrists. The tightness crawled up her spine like ice water, latching onto her ribs like ivy made of thorns that dug deeper with each ragged breath. She shook her head violently, rust colored hair whipping across her face as she muttered half-formed protests that tasted like ash.
It can't be real. It's not real.
Lord Mykhol can't be leaving.
He can't.
Just like that? On the whim of that silver-haired bitch?
Her fists balled at her sides, trembling with the fury surging through her bones like liquid fire. Her knuckles popped as her claws bit into her palms, digging deep to make angry red crescent moons against the flesh. The pain was sharp and clean—the only thing that felt real in this nightmare.
Blood welled between her fingers, warm and slick.
No. How could this be fair?
He was beloved. Revered. Admired by everyone in court—their golden boy, their clever darling with eyes like winter storms and a smile that could melt kingdoms. He wasn't a soldier or some empty-headed brute—he was Lord Mykhol. Charming, strategic, poised. Needed. The real heir to the Throne.
The court didn't want him gone. They adored him.
They…
They loved him. Almost as much as she did.
Her throat caught, muscles seizing like a fist had closed around her windpipe. She stumbled and had to brace herself against the wall for one ragged heartbeat, the stone cold and unforgiving beneath her palm. Her knees threatened to buckle as the truth carved itself deeper into her chest.
She loved him. In all the quiet ways she wasn't allowed to say. In every stolen glance across crowded rooms that made her pulse race. In every whispered secret passed between shadows when the moon was dark. In the warmth he gave her when he wasn't being cruel—when his mask could finally drop, his guard down, his tears flowing free just for her. When he chose her. When he was just hers.
They loved him. Loved and adored him almost as much as Naska. No one would want him gone.
And now?
Just gone?
Because of her.
Empress Anastasia.
That girl. That Empress. The word curled bitterly on her tongue like spoiled wine. She spat it inwardly like bile, her stomach churning with the taste. All that silver hair cascading down her back like a waterfall of moonlight, that incomplete mess of a mistake. The half-breed.
It should be her who was sent away to be locked up and out of sight for the rest of her days. Withering in some corner where decent people wouldn't have to look at her. Not parading around like she had the right to pass judgment over people whose lives she couldn't possibly understand? She was tearing him from her with those pale, delicate hands. Stealing him. Undressing her heart in front of the entire court and leaving it bleeding on the marble floor.
But what power did she have to stop this? Her breath hitched as the helplessness crashed over her like a wave. Who would listen? She was just a maid. Just a lowly servant with aching hands that scrubbed floors and whispered dreams that would never see daylight. She had no title. No voice. No worth.
And it burned right through her chest as she realized how little she could do while they ripped her love—her child's father—right from her hands. The powerlessness tasted like iron and salt, like blood and tears.
The Empress had the final say. There was no one left to stop her.
No. There was someone. Naska's breath hitched. Her thoughts seized like dry brush catching fire, hope flaring bright and desperate in her chest.
There was one.
Make that two.
The only people in the world who might still fight for Mykhol. Who had reason to. Who held enough influence, enough rage, enough ambition—if anyone could stop this, if anyone could see how wrong this was—it would be Lady Funda and Lord Charles.
His family.
She pushed open the drawing room doors with shaking hands that left damp prints on the gold-inlaid wood—
And nearly missed ducking from the porcelain basin that flew past her head with a whistle of displaced air. It smashed against the wall behind her, shards of delicate blue and white exploding like stars, one piece nicking her cheek with a line of fire.
"We can't let this happen!" Funda's voice cracked against the walls like thunder, wild and frayed and desperate. Her gown hung lopsided, slipping from one shoulder as if she'd torn at it with her own hands, the silk wrinkled and stained with wine and tears. She was barefoot, her pale feet already cut from walking over broken glass, leaving tiny drops of crimson on the Persian rug as she paced in crooked, frantic lines.
Her eyes were rimmed red and swollen, her lips cracked and bleeding from where she'd bitten them raw. The air inside the room was stifling—thick with expensive perfume turned cloying, the sharp bite of spilled wine, the salt of tears, and something broken that made Naska's nose burn.
A crystal vase lay shattered near the hearth, its pieces catching the firelight like scattered diamonds. A silver brush bent at an unnatural angle on the floor, a handful of copper hair clinging to its teeth like gossamer.
Funda let out a cry that wasn't a word—just grief, raw and feral and animal. She grabbed a crystal decanter with both hands and hurled it at the fireplace with all her strength. It exploded against the stone with a crash that seemed to shake the room down to its foundation, liquid amber spraying across the marble like blood.
"No!" she screamed, the sound tearing from her throat like flesh. "She can't—she can't have him!"
Lord Charles stood like a man turned to ash, his thin lips moving around reassurances that never made it to sound. His face was pale and hollowed, dark circles under his eyes speaking of sleepless nights. His pudgy hand hovered behind Funda's back, trembling, too afraid to touch her. Too useless to try.
For a heartbeat, Naska just stared—shocked by the raw display of maternal grief, by seeing Lady Funda stripped of all her elegant composure.
Then her breath caught in her throat as the emotions surged through her again, stronger this time, sharpened by the sight of another woman's grief mirroring her own like a reflection in broken glass.
Naska stepped inside, barely hearing the door close behind her with a soft click. Her hands trembled as she crossed the room, glass crunching under her feet. "Lady Funda? Lord Charles?" She exchanged a look with Lord Charles, searching his eyes for answers, for hope, for anything. But he seemed in no position to answer, let alone tell her to go. He was far too busy trying to handle his wife, who was already reaching for another projectile.
Funda didn't register her presence. She clutched her throat with both hands, dragging her nails across her skin hard enough to leave marks, as though she could rip the grief out by force. Red welts bloomed under her fingers.
"My son—my baby—" she choked, clawing at empty air like she was trying to pull him back from the void. "She's tearing him from me!"
Naska looked past the shrieking storm and noticed the faintest shadow in the corner—Bruno. He crouched with his arms folded tightly over his knees, making himself small and almost invisible if one didn't know his usual hiding spots. Those burgundy eyes—so much like his father's—were silent and composed in a way that made him seem carved from something older than his five years.
He met his mother's eyes across the chaos. One small finger pressed to his lips.
Shhh.
She nodded, her heart clenching. But her eyes, and her breaking heart, were elsewhere. Lady Funda's pacing commanded all her attention now.
"Yes," Naska breathed—barely recognizing the sound of her own voice as it rose past the tightness in her chest. The word came out cracked and desperate. She stepped forward, hesitant but driven by something deeper than fear, crossing the plush rug in uneven strides that left small tears in the expensive weave. "He must stay. There has to be something… anything… we can do."
Funda turned slowly, like she'd just heard a ghost speak her name.
Naska froze mid-step, every muscle tensing as she instinctively braced for the inevitable—a hiss, a slap, a cutting jeer. Anything sharp enough to draw blood. That was their ritual, wasn't it? Veiled barbs hidden behind silk fans. Acid wrapped in smiles. Funda had always looked at her like something she'd scrape from her shoe, something distasteful that had somehow tracked into her pristine world. Never good enough for Mykhol.
But this time, there was no sneer.
Funda's red-rimmed eyes, glistening with tears she wasn't trying to hide for once, locked onto hers with an intensity that stole Naska's breath. The tremble in her lower lip didn't match the woman known throughout court for her merciless elegance. There was no mask tonight. No veneer of superiority. No careful composure.
Only grief—undressed, unraveling, agonizing.
Her arms, bare and trembling, slowly dropped to her sides. The fabric of her torn sleeve slid down further, revealing a shoulder littered with fresh nail marks—angry red scratches she'd made in her own skin while screaming into silk pillows, trying to muffle her rage.
Naska's breath hitched. Her pulse pounded in her ears like war drums.
She saw it now. Not just the Lady of the Court. Not just the enemy.
She saw a mother.
A mother whose world was crumbling just like hers.
And Funda, for the first time in all their years of careful hatred, truly saw her too. Not the help. Not the whore. Not the girl her son had used and discarded.
She saw the woman who loved him. The one who still did, despite everything.
For a heartbeat, neither spoke. The silence stretched between them—not cold, but electric. Charged with the awful, aching weight of shared heartbreak. Something unspeakable passed between them, invisible but undeniable, like the hum of a taut string straining under too much pressure.
They were circling the same wound.
Both bleeding from the same cut.
Funda's breath shuddered out of her like a prayer. "Yes…" she rasped, her voice cracking around the word like old leather, soft but carrying a strange new steel underneath. "Yes… something."
Naska nodded. Slowly at first, then again with more conviction, like she was reminding herself she still had breath in her lungs and fight in her bones. "Yes."
Their heads dipped in a ragged unison, a silent pact forming in the space between heartbeats.
Two women—one in threadbare slippers, the other with her hair half-fallen from its pins and tangled with tears—standing beneath the flickering candlelight like broken mirrors, facing the same shatterline from opposite sides.
Neither reached for the other.
But neither looked away.
For now, that was enough.
"What can we do, husband?" Funda turned to Charles, her voice trembling. Her fingers twisted in the torn fabric of her gown, knuckles white with desperate pressure. "How do we stop this?"
"There's… nothing." His voice was papery, worn thin as old parchment. The words seemed to age him further, shoulders sagging under invisible weight. "If Mykhol agrees to it—"
"Agrees?" The word exploded from both women like fire catching dry tinder. Setting them both ablaze with renewed fury.
Lady Funda whirled on him, droplets of spit flying from her lips. Her eyes blazed with something feral and wounded. "He was cornered! He had no choice!" Her voice cracked like breaking glass on the final word.
"He never would've chosen this." Naska's voice splintered, each word tearing at her throat. Raw. Desperate. "He wouldn't leave us behind unless she—" Her breath hitched. "Unless she forced him."
Pain bloomed anew behind her fangs, sharp and immediate. She bit into her lip without thinking, drawing blood that tasted like copper pennies and despair. The pain was nothing compared to the ache in her chest.
"If I could strangle that little Empress in her sleep…" Naska's voice dipped, feral and low like a predator's growl. Her fingers curled like claws, the motion automatic, instinctive. She could almost feel it—the softness of Ana's throat beneath her hands, the flutter of pulse, the blessed silence that would follow.
"She's rotten," Funda hissed, breathless with loathing that made her chest heave. "Just like her mother. Always discarding those who give her everything. As if loyalty is worthless the moment it becomes inconvenient." Her hands shook as she wrapped them around herself, fingernails digging into her upper arms hard enough to bruise.
"Lady Funda?" Naska's eyes flicked toward her, not just hearing the loathing—but recognizing it. Something buried. Something personal. A wound that ran to the bone.
Funda didn't look at her. Her voice dropped to something brittle as old wood. "And now my poor son must pay."
Pain and silent rage crossed her face like storm clouds, twisting her features into something almost unrecognizable. Naska could understand. Both of them lived in the same nightmare now—the world without Mykhol was unthinkable because he meant everything to them.
They stood in the quiet that followed like mourners at a grave, the silence heavy with shared grief.
Naska turned, her gaze catching on the small figure again. Her heart clenched.
Bruno.
Yes. This wasn't just her lover being taken from her. It was Bruno's father. Whether or not the truth had ever been acknowledged aloud, whether or not blood had ever been claimed—Mykhol was the only father Bruno had ever known. She had to think of Bruno. Protect him from this devastation.
Naska didn't hesitate. Her fangs were still half-bared, glinting in the candlelight. Her voice dropped low and dangerous as a blade drawn in darkness. "She's a monster," she growled, the sound vibrating in her chest. "I will get her back for this. For breaking up my family."
"No," Lady Funda said—and Naska flinched, every muscle tensing. Not because of the word itself, but because Funda was no longer shouting. No longer wild with grief. She stepped forward with the kind of quiet, deliberate grace that could gut a person without drawing a single drop of blood.
Her hand reached out—not to slap, not to strike, but to hold.
Naska blinked in stunned confusion as long, pale fingers enclosed hers. The touch was warm and trembling, unfamiliar in its gentleness. Gentle. Real. It was the first time Lady Funda had touched her without disdain, without the careful distance of someone handling something distasteful.
Naska looked up, uncertain—muscles coiled, ready to pull away the moment cruelty returned.
But the look on Funda's face stopped her cold.
There was no contempt there. No veiled judgment. No sneer of superiority. Just raw, shared grief and something achingly rare: compassion. Not pity. Not civility born of necessity. Recognition.
"For breaking up our family," Funda said softly, her voice barely above a whisper.
Naska's breath caught in her throat. "Our…?"
The word landed like a blow to the chest—but not one meant to harm. It cracked something deep inside her wide open, like ice breaking in spring. That single syllable reached into the deepest, loneliest hollow inside her—the part that had been silent since childhood, where the ache of never belonging had made a permanent, painful home.
She had been a maid. A secret lover. A shadow moving through corridors with no claim to anything but the ache in her chest and the child who looked at her with questioning eyes.
But now…
Funda's grip tightened, warm and steady.
Naska swallowed hard, her throat burning with unshed tears. "Lady Funda?"
A tear slipped down her cheek before she could stop it, warm and salty as it traced a path to her chin. She didn't even try to hide it.
"Yes," Funda said again, her smile thin but genuine—the first real smile Naska had ever seen from her. "Our family."
She turned slightly, her elegant fingers still wrapped around Naska's hand as she looked toward Charles—and then toward the small figure standing stiff and watchful in the shadows near the far wall.
Bruno.
Her smile thinned at the sight of him, lips pressing into something strained—but it wasn't cruel. Not this time. If anything, it was… hesitant. Warmer than Naska ever seen from her. Like she was seeing him truly for the first time. Not as a pest. Not as a Bastard. But as part of their–
Naska turned, following her gaze, her heart swelling with something she'd never dared hope for.
"Yes," she said gently, her voice trembling with emotion as she reached out a hand toward her son. "Bruno. Come."
Her gesture wasn't commanding. It was open. Welcoming. An invitation she only ever dreamed of but never been able to offer him. Until now. In this moment of shared grief and newfound acceptance. Of doors opening up that were meant for them to step through and take their rightful places.
Come, Naska motioned with her free hand, her eyes bright with tears and hope. Come and join your family. The one you were meant to be part of all this time.
Bruno did not move at first. His small hands stayed curled into fists at his sides, and his burgundy eyes—so like his father's—flicked from Naska to Funda like a mouse deciding whether a trap was truly empty. But something in Naska's face—something soft and honest and desperate—told him it was safe.
Slowly, step by step, he crossed the room. Measured. Wary. His small frame practically vibrating with suspicion and uncertainty.
But he came.
When he reached her side, Naska pulled him close with both arms, holding him tight against her waist. She bowed her head to kiss the top of his dark curls, letting her tears fall freely now into his hair. Her heartbeat slowed—not from calm, but from completion. From wholeness she'd never known she was missing.
They were no longer alone.
She looked up and saw them all—not rivals, not superiors, not obstacles to navigate around.
Family.
"We shall bear this together," she said, her voice low but full of something that hadn't been there before—resolve. Power. Something quiet and dangerous blooming just beneath the surface like a flower made of thorns. "Lady Funda. Lord Charles." Her hand tightened protectively against her son's shoulder. "Bruno."
Together, they would not just mourn.
They would wait. Watch. Plot.
And as the last candle flickered low, casting dancing shadows on the walls, Naska smiled through her tears—not with sorrow, but with new hope. Dark and fierce and hungry.
For all the pain she put us through. Because for once in her life, she wasn't being pushed aside. Ignored. Dismissed as insignificant.
Now, they belonged.
And they would make the Empress bleed.
*Bruno*
Bruno's burgundy eyes flicked up to catch the soft smile blooming across his mother's face, and something inside his small chest twisted like a knife.
She looked… happy. Or maybe just relieved. Hopeful in the way people are when they've been starving in the cold and finally think they've found a warm hearth.
Bruno hated it.
Not her smile—Mommy should always smile, should always be happy. But why she was smiling. What it cost. What it meant.
Don't listen to them. The Dragon Lady lies. Her claws are too sharp, he thought, curling his small fingers into the edge of his sleeve until the fabric bunched. His nails pressed into his palm through the cloth, not hard enough to leave a mark, but enough to remind himself he was still here. Still sharp. Still watching.
Mommy's being foolish. It was just another lie. Another spell. Enchantment. A few kind words and clasped hands to make her believe she belonged. But there were monsters in this room. All of them monsters, wearing human faces.
If his mother could be fooled by pretty words and gentle touches, he wouldn't be. Couldn't be.
He swallowed hard, tasting something bitter and too big for his five-year-old mouth to hold.
Because Bruno—Sir Bruno—knew the truth. He was all too familiar with Lady Funda's scowls and hard hands when no one was looking. All the bruises and scratches hidden under his clothes were enough testament to her real nature. The pinches that left purple marks. The sharp words that cut deeper than claws.
And no one would ever know what he'd done.
He had vanquished the Black Knight. Himself. From the shadows. Silent. Waiting. Secret.
They wouldn't know it was him who'd saved Ana from the monster who smiled and lied and hurt people when they weren't useful anymore.
His mother might cry now, might feel her heart breaking, but she would see in time. He had saved her too. Saved her from the black knight who would have destroyed her eventually, the way he destroyed everything he touched. Saved them both from something worse than exile.
They wouldn't know it was him. Could never know.
Because knights don't boast. They only serve. His Princess Ana. His Queen Mother.
Lord Mykhol was going away for a long, long time—maybe forever. Bruno felt his lips want to twitch up in a small smile of victory, of justice finally winning. The great Sir Bruno had done his duty. His mama was going to be safe now. And more importantly, so would Ana.
But not now. Not here. He kept his face carefully blank.
Forever secret. But the Bad Man was not going to hurt anyone anymore.
He looked down at his scuffed shoes, dirt smeared across the toes from playing in the gardens. One lace had come loose and dragged on the floor. He didn't bend to fix it.
"Good riddance," he muttered under his breath, just loud enough to feel the weight of the words settle in his chest like a stone dropped in deep water.
A shadow shifted above him.
"Hm?" Lady Funda turned toward him, that new smile stretching across her face. Too sweet. Like fruit gone soft with rot on the inside. "Did you say something, little one?"
Bruno blinked up at her, his small face a perfect mask of innocence. Inside, his stomach churned.
"No…" He tilted his head, offering a smile that barely touched his eyes. "Nothing, Grandmother."
The title landed like a pebble in a still pond—too soft to be real, too sharp not to cut.
Lady Funda stiffened. He saw it—felt it—in the tension that raced through her spine like lightning, the way her gloved hands stilled for just a heartbeat. A flicker of something hot and dangerous behind her eyes. But she recovered quickly, forcing her face smooth again, and crouched down to ruffle his dark curls.
"Such a sweet child," she murmured, but her fingers were too rough, pulling at his hair.
He shifted away—just slightly. A subtle movement that looked like he was adjusting his tunic. But it was deliberate. Practiced.
Her touch made his skin crawl like insects were walking on him.
He didn't want her sudden kindness. Didn't trust the false warmth in her voice or the calculated softening of her gaze. He had seen the way she looked at him before tonight—like something disgusting that had crawled out from under a rock. The bruises he still carried, hidden beneath his clothes, were proof enough of her real feelings.
Dragon Lady. Wizard. Bad people. Bad. His mother might believe the dragon lady's spell, might think they were family now.
Bruno wouldn't. He would not forget. Not now. Not ever.
Bruno's little fists tightened at his sides as he watched his mother—her face lit with new hope, her eyes warm and bright for the first time since leaving the room. No, longer. Her smile genuine with something that looked like belonging.
She thought they were her family now.
She didn't know the truth. The terrible, necessary truth.
She couldn't know.
Because to protect her—to protect Ana too—
That was the part no storybook Ana read ever mentioned about being a knight. That sometimes it didn't mean slaying dragons with shining swords. Sometimes it meant… tearing out pieces of your own heart, cutting away the people you loved most, so someone else could survive.
He hadn't meant to make her cry. Hadn't wanted to see her fall apart on the floor of Ana's chambers, begging the Empress not to send Mykhol away. The memory of her tears still burned in his chest like swallowed fire.
But if Mykhol had stayed…
He would have destroyed them both, eventually. Like poison in pretty bottles.
Ana. His mother. Maybe even more people.
So Bruno had done what no one else could do. What no one else was brave enough to do.
He had sent the villain away forever.
And now… he had to watch his mother grieve for the monster who would have killed her.
The ache in his chest was tight and twisting, like something with claws was trying to scratch its way out from inside his ribs. He wanted to run to her. To say he was sorry. To tell her it was all a mistake, that Mykhol was good and kind and would never hurt anyone.
But it wasn't true.
He had done the right thing. The only thing.
Knights do the right thing. Even when it hurts. Even when it means lying to the people they love most in the world.
Especially then.
Bruno's small shoulders straightened as he turned to glance toward the door—the one Mykhol hadn't yet come through to face what he'd done.
Where was he now? Packing his things? Saying goodbye to his friends at court? Throwing a fit that finaly, finaly, someone out played him first?
His pulse jumped—not with fear, not quite with joy. But something sharp and bright and cold all at once.
He wanted to see Mykhol walk through that door and know. Wanted to see the shock on his handsome face when he realized a the great Sir Bruno had outmaneuvered him. The hurt. The loss. The bitter taste of defeat.
Because that would make it real. Would make the sacrifice worth carrying.
This was the cost of bravery in silence. Of choosing right over easy, justice over comfort.
Of protecting what mattered most, no matter the price you had to pay.
And Bruno would pay it. Had already paid it.
No one could know. Not his mother. Not Ana. Not anyone.
He was only five years old.
But Sir Bruno had done his duty.
And now he would carry it—all of it—alone.
He let out a slow breath, his shoulders tight, chest rising just a little higher with something that might have been pride if it didn't hurt so much.
His small hand brushed against his hip, where his imaginary sword hung invisible and sharp.
Let the dragon come back someday. Let the wizard return with new lies and pretty words to steal hearts.
He would be ready.
Because this was his war too now. His responsibility. His burden to bear.
And the true knight was watching. He would watch for his Princess Ana. He would watch for his Queen Mother.
And when the villain came back—because Bruno knew deep in his bones that evil always tried to return—he'd be ready.
Waiting in silence.
Watching from the shadows.
Because sometimes the bravest knights don't carry shining swords or wear gleaming armor.
Sometimes they carry secrets sharper than any weapon.