*Admiral Nugen*
Admiral Nugen watched the pale sunlight slant through the tall windows of Ana's study, catching dust motes that danced like lazy sparks in the stillness. The light pooled across the stone floor, gilding the carved edge of her desk and turning the red drapery into a river of molten copper. Outside, birdsong trilled in cheerful counterpoint to the heaviness in his chest, as if the world had decided to pretend it was kinder than it truly was.
Inside, however, the warmth was a lie.
A low fire still burned in the hearth, no longer the heart of the room but more of an afterthought — its embers curled in faint reds and oranges beneath charred logs, hissing softly with each exhale of dying heat. The air was warmer than weeks past, but it did little to settle the chill building in Admiral Nugen's gut.
"Mr. Nimble is dead?"
Admiral Nugen felt the air punch from the bottom of his stomach, sharp and bitter like the last swig of stale wine. His breath caught in his throat with an audible click, but he forced his face to stillness, clenching his jaw so hard it twitched at the hinge. The muscles beneath his weathered skin rippled with tension. His fingers curled briefly at his sides, rough knuckles brushing against the worn fabric of his trousers, the coarse texture grounding him to the moment.
Lieutenant Eras bowed his head with regret, the silver clasp of his cape catching the light. "Yes, sir. Found early this morning in his quarters. Dockside tenement near the canal."
Nugen didn't speak immediately. He stared at the floor, where the sunlight pooled as if to mock the weight in the room. The scent of beeswax and old books hung in the air, mingling with the faint coppery tang of blood that always seemed to cling to the palace walls, no matter how many times they were scrubbed.
The news did not surprise him—not fully. Not after the shadows Mykhol had cast over their last conversation, full of thinly veiled barbs and veiled threats. Nugen had doubled his men afterward, spread them across city blocks and seedy taverns, but it had been like chasing ghosts. Mr. Nimble, the last thread tying together the unraveling mystery of the dual ledgers and the missing shipments, had vanished without a trace.
Despite the man's lack of presence, they had clung to hope nonetheless. Maybe the bookkeeper had fled—realized he was in danger. Maybe he'd taken refuge in the southern fishing villages, or boarded a smuggler's ship to one of the colonies. Mr. Nimble was on the run, sure, but still alive. He could still be found.
He could still have spoken. Testified. Revealed the truth. Still–
Nugen had dared to hope.
Since when was I ever this optimistic? The thought curled like cold iron in Nugen's throat, bitter on his tongue.
He should have known better. This was Nochten. The kind of place where good men vanished and the guilty drank wine with dukes. Hadn't they done the same to Parsul? Wasn't this exactly what they were bred to do — clean their messes with blood?
Nochten didn't change. It only learned to wear a better face.
His lips twitched as his gaze flicked toward Ana.
She sat at her desk, posture attentive but not stiff, her crimson eyes bright with concern beneath the delicate silver of her crown. She looked older now, more composed. Her face was thinning in the way her mother's once had, the sharpness of bone beginning to outpace the softness of youth. A single silver curl had fallen from beneath her shawl — defiant and glinting like moonlight where it caught the sun.
Something tightened in Nugen's chest, a constriction so familiar it felt like an old companion.
His fingers uncurled and lifted, half an inch from his side — an unconscious motion, reaching before thought could stop it. The impulse to brush that curl behind her ear sent a jolt of panic through him, and he forced his hand back down. No. He wanted to do more as he saw the strained look of concern pull up on her face at the news. He wanted to take her in his arms, hold her, comfort her the way a father would a child when the nightmares came. Give her all the love he could not give in all thirteen years of having to watch from the sidelines. Not allowed to. The line he could never cross.
Can not cross. He clenched his fist, the rough weave of his trousers scraping his palm like penance. The sting grounded him. Reminded him of the line that could never be stepped over. The secret that must never be told. The choice he made that doomed him forever onward.
"Tell me exactly how he was found," he said, the words like stones dropping in water.
Lieutenant Eras—young, straight-backed, and pale, brick-colored-eyed—shifted uneasily. One of the few vampires Nugen trusted. The man's boots creaked softly against the stone floor as he adjusted his stance.
"The flat was torn apart, sir. Door forced in. Drawers pulled out. Furniture overturned. It looked like a robbery." Eras paused. "He was found on the floor. A stab wound to the chest. The blade pierced through the lung — clean through. And, ah…"
The man hesitated, his gaze flickering to Ana before returning to Nugen.
"What else?" Nugen asked, voice low.
"What else?" Nugen asked, voice low, the scent of dread thick in his nostrils.
Eras continued, voice lower now, almost reluctant. "They pulled his fangs. Both of them."
Ana visibly paled, her small hand covering her mouth with a soft gasp. The silver rings on her fingers caught the light, turning the gesture into something fragile and painfully young.
"Likely to be sold," Eras added, glancing down. "The witches in the south still pay good coin for vampiric ivory."
Nugen's stomach twisted again. The sheer brutality of it. It wasn't just murder — it was degradation. A statement. A warning.
Ana, who had been silently listening, sat straighter behind her desk. The soft creak of the chair's armrest was subtle, but to Nugen's heightened nerves, it cracked like a whip.
"A robbery gone wrong, then?" she asked, her voice even, but her fingers were tensed lightly over the desk's carved edge, just shy of clawing into the wood. Her knuckles were white with strain.
Eras nodded, though there was something unsure in the angle of his chin. "It does appear so."
Nugen managed to suppress the dry laugh that curled behind his teeth. Appears—what a useful word.
He didn't trust himself to say what he truly thought — that this was a hit, plain and simple. That the robbery was a smokescreen. That someone had wanted Nimble dead and defanged. The taste of it was sour in his mouth, the scent of deception acrid in his nose.
His hand clenched at his side, the rough fabric of his trousers scraping his knuckles, mocking him with its coarseness. The universe seemed to laugh with it—a cold, bitter sound echoing Mykhol's voice in the corners of his mind.
He took a slow breath, swallowed the fire building behind his teeth. The scar on his face throbbed with familiar pain as his blood pressure rose, a phantom reminder of old battles that seemed simpler than this invisible war.
He had nothing again. No witness. No proof. Just one ledger—half a puzzle, useless on its own. Yet still, he asked, because he had to.
"Is there any sign of the second ledger?" he asked finally, barely trusting his voice.
Eras's words returned like a cruel echo: "We could not find it, sir. They must have taken it." The lieutenant's voice carried the weight of defeat that matched the leaden weight in Nugen's limbs.
Gone. Everything Nimble had known was destroyed.
Nugen stared at the desk where Ana now rested her palm over the sealed report, her fingers splayed like a protective shield. The parchment crinkled softly beneath her touch.
Ana's crimson eyes softened with something like sorrow as she met his gaze.
"That's terrible." Her voice wavered, the tiniest hint of emotion breaking through her practiced facade.
It was. But not for the reasons she thought. Nugen needed Nimble. Needed the ledger. Now the man was ash and cold blood, and all he had left was one incomplete book, scribbled in a nervous hand that told only half a story.
"It is," Eras agreed. "He had a wife. And a little girl. Just six."
Ana's mouth trembled slightly at the corners, but she steadied herself. Her fingers shifted away from the desk, folding over the closed report with quiet care.
"I'll make sure the family receives his pension," she said, voice barely above a whisper. "You are dismissed, Lieutenant."
Eras bowed, his silver-stitched cape whispering over the stone floor, and left without another word. The thick wood of the door muffled his footsteps as he returned to his post outside, the soft click of the latch echoing in the quiet room.
The cheerful birdsong drifting in through the cracked window was an insult to the heaviness inside the room. Outside, spring had unfurled in full bloom—golden light spilled across the stone floor, casting shifting leaf-shadows across Ana's desk like abstract paintings. The scent of budding roses drifted faintly on the air, sweet and innocent. The warmth should have been comforting. Instead, it mocked them both.
A cruel season, spring. Soft on the surface, hiding rot beneath.
The fire behind him gave a soft sigh as a log shifted and crumbled inward. Nugen kept his eyes on Ana, waiting for her to speak—but she didn't. Her posture remained regal, but strain laced it now. Her shoulders were set too high. Her gaze, though still sharp, flickered faintly as though weighed down by the words she refused to give voice to. Thin, drawn lines shadowed the hollows beneath her eyes. Too many sleepless nights.
Again, his traitorous heart surged forward, and before he could stop himself, Nugen took half a step closer. His boots scraped against the stone with a sound like guilt. His hand rose an inch, reaching—then froze mid-air as his mind caught up with the impulse. God's breath, what was he doing? He couldn't comfort her like Alexander would. Couldn't cross that distance, couldn't tuck that silver curl behind her ear, couldn't wrap his arms around her shoulders and tell her that everything would be alright. That she wasn't alone.
His fingers curled back into a fist, and he forced his arm back to his side, the movement stiff and unnatural.
But Alexander was not here.
And Nugen had no such right. No such claim. He was only what he could be. Loyal. Silent. Watching. He had no right to do anything more. He had made his choice.
This was supposed to be our moment.
He'd cleared the room for it. Forced Pendwick to invent some ridiculous excuse to lure Mykhol out hunting—a request that would cost the boy dearly. He had waited for this sliver of time. A chance to speak freely, carefully, perhaps even reach her.
And now?
Now he was further from the truth than ever. The only man who could unravel the ledger's deception was dead. And the spare copy—if it existed—was gone.
Ana broke the silence at last.
"Did you know Mr. Nimble, Admiral? Personally?" Her voice was quieter than expected. Not cold, but probing. She didn't look up right away, her gaze fixed on her own hands.
The question startled Nugen. He forgot she could read his expression so clearly. Read him like her mother could.
"No, Your Empress," he said, steadying himself. "I didn't know him. It's just…"
Should I go ahead and tell her?
It was too early. And yet—when would he have another moment like this? When would the walls not have ears?
He drew a breath through his nose, the scent of beeswax and parchment filling his senses. "Your Empress, I have concerns."
Ana's eyes finally lifted. "Concerns?"
He nodded, jaw tightening. The lines of his scar pulled faintly as his expression hardened, a familiar ache that anchored him. Speaking plainly went against every instinct. He wished he could shield her—from politics, from secrets, from everything that should never have touched someone so young. That was what a father did. But that was not his role. It couldn't be.
He was only the Admiral. That was all she could ever know. And Ana was Empress. It was his role to be honest. Even if he hated it.
"The manner of his death seems staged to me."
Ana glanced at the report again. "Wasn't it a robbery?" Her eyes flicked over the ink, a slight breath slipping past her lips as if the letters were smoke she couldn't quite read through.
"On the surface, yes. But I don't think any of this was about a robbery."
Her eyes sharpened. "Not a robbery?"
He hesitated. This was the line.
"Your Empress, I don't believe Lord Mykhol has your best intentions."
Ana jerked back in surprise, the chain on her shawl jingling softly. "My cousin?" Her brow furrowed. "Why are you bringing him up so suddenly? He has nothing to do with—wait, don't tell me—" The sentence hung in the air, brittle as ice.
Her face closed in, shutters falling over her expression.
"That is a big accusation to make against my cousin, Admiral." She straightened in her chair, the wood creaking in protest. Her voice went colder, each word sharp and precise as a blade. "I understand you are wary of him, but as I've said before—he is family. He means no harm."
"Your Empress," Nugen said gently, swallowing past the tightness in his throat. "We have spoken of this before. But it's my experience—"
"Experience isn't proof, Admiral." Her interruption came like a blade. "Where is the evidence to make such a claim?"
He flinched. Because he had none. His empty hands felt like failures at his sides.
"I don't have any. Not yet."
"You don't?" Her hands folded over the desk, elegant, unmoving. "So you are making claims against my cousin without grounds?"
He opened his mouth—closed it. His teeth clenched behind his lips with an audible click.
"Yes," he said quietly. "I understand in terms of bringing charges, it isn't clean-cut, but—"
"Then it is rumor. Baseless suspicion." Ana leaned back, the light from the fire catching the silver pins in her crown. "And I will not entertain it."
Nugen struggled not to show his frustration. Even more because Lord Mykhol probably had this planned already. He knew I wouldn't be able to touch him. Nugen remembered the conversation with Mykhol—the smug glint in his eye, the way he all but invited the challenge, knowing Nugen had no proof, no way forward without the second ledger. He was clearly steps ahead.
And all Nugen had was his soldier's instincts. He saw the trap. He was walking straight into it. Yet Ana refused to see it.
"I admit I don't have anything solid, Your Empress." His voice was lower now. Rougher. The sound of defeat. "But my gut is telling me he's involved."
Ana rose from her chair. The chain on her shawl gave a faint clink, and her crown caught the golden light like a blade.
"You ask me to suspect my cousin based on instinct?" she said. "Emotions and hunches? That is not the way of my rule, Admiral. My court will not be governed by superstition. Only logic. Only order."
Nugen bowed his head slightly. But it burned. The scar on his face pulsed with renewed heat, the old wound reminding him of all the battles he'd faced. None had been harder than this.
"I need solid proof, Admiral Nugen."
Nugen flinched. He knew he had overstepped himself. But still, he could not stop. His sense of foreboding was too strong, like a storm front sweeping in on the horizon. And he was the only one here right now that could be the voice of reason. Not until Alexander was back.
"Your Empress, I only suggest reconsidering Lord Mykhol's position. You see the influence he holds in court—how the nobles—"
For someone so small, she stood like a mountain. She barely reached his chest, but the authority she carried was unmistakable. The air between them seemed to crackle with tension.
He saw her mother in that defiant lift of her chin. But also… something gentler. Alexander's quiet strength. His belief in goodness.
Nugen's heart twisted, the pain of it making him breathless.
"Your Empress, I understand you are upset, but I don't speak only for myself. I'm sure His Majesty would also—"
"That is enough!" Her voice cracked like a whip.
He froze, the sound of it striking him like a physical blow.
"You are in no position to speak on behalf of my father," she said, every word precise and clipped.
Nugen drew a slow breath, the scent of her—sandalwood from the hair oil and just a hint of something more, something quiter, clove, like her mother's—making his heart ache. "Your Empress… I meant no disrespect."
Her expression softened, faintly. Then she turned her gaze back to the report, the parchment crinkling beneath her fingers.
"I trust you, Admiral," she said after a pause, her voice quieter now. "But I would tread carefully. Especially when speaking against my own family."
He wanted to say more. His hand lifted before he could stop it, fingers reaching for her shoulder—but he caught himself. Lowered it with a jerk. The motion was awkward, a parent's instinct quelled too late.
She had seen. Her gaze flicked to his hand, then back to his face, confusion flickering across her features for the briefest moment before her expression smoothed once more. She said nothing, but something in her eyes changed. A question, perhaps. Or a warning.
"I will hear no more of this until you have something concrete to show me," she said. "We will not speak of it again."
"But—"
Ana's eyes met his. Hard. Shuttered. The crimson of them suddenly alien and unreachable.
"…Yes, Your Empress." Nugen bowed, his body rigid with unspoken words.
And walked out.
The fire behind him crackled again, as if exhaling disappointment.
This was a complete failure.
The bookkeeper was dead. The ledger—gone.
And now, Nugen couldn't even voice his concerns aloud.
He had spoken too soon. Thought he'd had more time.
What in the gods' names was he supposed to do now?
"Where are you, Alexander?" he hissed beneath his breath, his voice sharp and clipped, more accusation than plea. His boots hit the marble with clipped purpose, each step echoing through the dim corridor like a judgment. Attendants spotted him coming and shrank into doorframes, heads bowed, hands trembling with the instinct to disappear. He didn't bother to hide the scowl cut across his weathered face. The palace air felt oppressive around him, thick with unseen threats and whispered conspiracies.
Because he didn't know what else to do. If only Alexander were here. Things were turning to the worst, spiraling beyond his control like blood in water.
You wanted this, but where was the devil?
He stopped halfway through the corridor, one hand rising to press against the ridge of his scar. It was flaring up yet again from his anger—raw and burning, like the past refusing to stay buried. Each pulse of pain matched the throb of his heart.
"Why won't you respond to my letters?" His voice cracked, lower now, more desperate than he meant it to be. The words escaped like a wounded thing. Three dispatches sent. Not a single one answered. Not a word. Not a rider. Nothing but silence as unrest began to boil over again behind court doors. Every day the council grew more restless. Every hour Ana slipped further out of reach, too blind to realize she was surrounded by vipers in silk.
If he doesn't come back soon…
A whisper of sound. Soft. Almost imagined. Nugen's spine straightened, the skin at the nape of his neck prickling in warning.
He turned just as a flicker of color vanished around the bend—a flash of burgundy, unmistakable, gone in the blink of an eye.
His eyes narrowed.
"Bruno?" he called cautiously, but the corridor offered only silence. Cold and unmoving. The boy didn't answer. He never did.
Nugen frowned. He gets around, doesn't he? That small, strange child had a way of appearing in places he shouldn't— like back the other day at the amory. The boy been there. He knew he was. Just watching, listening. Always quiet. Too quiet, maybe.
But Nugen let it pass, for now. Bruno was just a boy. Probably. And he had bigger concerns.
His jaw clenched, every muscle along his arms wound tight. "What is taking so long?" he muttered, and this time the words were a growl. His frustration surged forward, hot and bitter as bile. He spun and slammed his fist into the wall hard enough to make the stone groan.
Pain bloomed instantly, sharp and white, racing up his arm like lightning.
He bit his lip to stop the scream, tasting copper. A bruise would bloom there tomorrow—if not a fracture. But he welcomed the pain. That he could deal with. That he could understand.
It was everything else that tore at him. The helplessness. The gnawing dread that sat like a stone in his stomach. The way Ana brushed off his warnings as though they were dust on her sleeve.
She was in danger, and she wouldn't see it. Couldn't see it, from her blindness loyalty to family. Because she clung to what she believed was the way of the world from books.
"As much as I hate to admit it…" he muttered, cradling his injured hand against his chest as his pulse slowed. The anger leaked out of him in shallow exhales. "I can't do this without you."
He had already failed one Empress. He wouldn't survive failing another.
Nugen stared at the far wall, scar pulsing faintly beneath his fingers. He'd thought he could do this. Thought he could carry it. Thought that experience, sword, and loyalty would be enough.
But he was only an advisor. The title weighed on him like a chain. He could warn Ana. He could raise flags. But he couldn't stop her from walking into the fire. Not alone. Not with just a soldier's tools against the courtier's games.
And Alexander? The one person who could move a court with a look, who could pull Ana back from the brink with a word—he was nowhere. Still in Dawny. Still silent. The one voice she might actually listen to had vanished, and time was running out.
A knot formed in Nugen's chest as he found himself at yet another dead end to the increasingly troubling puzzle.
Missing crates. Vanishing funds. Weapons left to rust. And now the only lead to it all…was dead.
The pain in his scar flared again, a cruel pulse behind his temple. The dread sank deeper.
At the heart of it all was Ana. Unaware. Unprotected in ways no armor could fix.
She needed Alexander. Not just for strategy. Not just for presence. But because Nugen was no longer enough. The realization stung worse than his bruised hand.
He could wield a sword, but he couldn't silence courtiers with their poisoned words and paper smiles. He couldn't stop the subtle sabotage unraveling everything from the inside. His battle was on an open field—theirs was in whispers and shadows.
And if Alexander didn't come soon—
Nugen exhaled slowly, forcing his fury back down where it couldn't do more damage. The shadows seemed to gather closer in the stillness, as if listening to his thoughts.
Until then, he would stand where he always had—between the danger and the Empress. He vowed to. He could protect her with his life if needed. But the sword would do so little damage against this threat. Court politics were a whole different set of teeth—villains of a kind no soldier could fight alone.
Not even one with a father's heart beating in his chest.