The Cost is Heavy

*Mykhol*

Mykhol took a deep breath as he examined the gown. It was exquisite—gold thread trim, jewels inlaid with precision, a garment that shimmered in the light as the tailor presented it like a masterpiece.

It was beautiful. His heart quickened. This was the kind of clothing he had always wanted—regal, commanding, dripping with power. Perhaps even finer than Ana's.

But that was the problem.

"Tone it down a little more." He could see his words strike the tailor. The tailor paled, his hands twitching against the fabric, but he gave a curt nod.

"Yes, my lord."

 But not before his mother stepped in front to block his way.

"Are you sure?" Pain laced her voice as her gaze lingered on the gems. "It's already so plain." She looked up at him, eyes pleading.

"It's anything but plain, mother." he almost laughed. The amount of gold thread alone could fund a small estate. But his mother had different standards.

"Surely, we can keep the sapphires-" She was bargaining now, unwilling to let go of even a fraction of the finery.

"It's to match, but we must be more conservative." His voice was firm. His mother needed a guiding hand, or she would spiral.

Still, he softened the blow, taking her hand and pressing a kiss to it. She calmed, though the pout remained.

"Mykhol, please? For me?"

"We must appear subtle compared to her. Otherwise, it won't work."

She sighed but wasn't ready to concede. "A little finery won't hurt—"

A sharp clearing of the throat interrupted. His father looked up from the ledger he had brought to stave off boredom.

"Oh ho—I wouldn't think so. Not when everyone hears how much this costs."

"It can't be that much. Can it?" His mother didn't seem to grasp the cost. She was never one for numbers. She just liked fine things.

"It is, dear. And quite heavy." His father smirked, pushing up his glasses before glancing at Mykhol. "Better to make it look like Her Empress is the one squandering money. Especially with Pave becoming so costly."

"Thank you, Father." Mykhol inclined his head. His father had no taste for fashion, but he understood strategy. And he helped to tame his mother. 

Mother sighed with one last lone look over the gown. "It's just a shame." She stepped aside, allowing the tailor to leave. 

"Remove more jewels," Mykhol instructed, then paused, eyes catching the delicate embroidery at the hem—waves and stars swirling in gold. "But leave the thread. It will match Ana's scarf."

"My lord." The tailor bowed and left.

His mother barely waited for the door to close before rounding on him. "You don't mean that damn old thing, do you?"

"Old what?" His father blinked up from his work.

"Her, you know." She gestured to her head.

Realization dawned on his father's face.

"Don't you think that's wasteful?" His mother's incredulity made him smile. It would look like a waste to them, wouldn't it–To want that?

It showed how little they knew. He could feel something curl under his heart. It was a familiar feeling now. Mykhol felt it almost every day. 

And it only goes away when Ana is around me. He thought before turning back with a smile. 

"I know, but she likes it."

His father hummed. "Didn't that human—what's her name—give it to her? I think it started with an 'M'?"

"It doesn't matter. It's old news." Mykhol dismissed the thought. That woman was gone. Almost. The red scarf still lingered like a ghost in Ana's wardrobe.

 Why didn't she ever throw that thing away? 

"Perhaps I should commission a new one for her." He mused with a few colors in his head already. 

While he seemed to ponder his choices, Mykhol vaguely noted his parents both looked at him. His parents exchanged a look. Concerned. Hesitant. His mother opened her mouth, but a soft knock interrupted.

She tensed immediately. "Who is that?"

The door creaked open, revealing a small boy. His dull red eyes flickered around the room, taking everything in before settling on Mykhol.

His mother's face hardened at the sight of the little boy. "What do you want?"

 His mother was never warm to the boy. She either would snarl or scream at him. And His Father was no better. Adjusting his glasses with cold indifference. Mykhol remained unreadable, simply waiting.

 The boy must have come for some reason. 

"Can't you see we are busy?" His mother tapped her foot to make the boy look up.

"Busy?" he repeated, slipping through the narrow opening and carefully closing the door behind him. His movements were quiet, his voice always low when he spoke.

Bruno glanced around the room, his dull red eyes sharp—sharper than his mother's, Mykhol noted. A flicker of doubt crossed the boy's face as he looked back at her.

"You- how dare you stare at me!" His mother lifted her hand as if to march over and slap the boy. But Mykhol shifted in front of her. 

"Why are you here, boy? What business do you have with us?"

"Mama wants me to tell you all the men's faces." He didn't blink as he looked up at Mykhol. His expression was unreadable. He only stared as if waiting for something. 

"The what?" His mother scoffed. His father sighed, already weary.

"And where were they this time?"

"Outside. I saw men from the window." Bruno pointed to their window. 

"The rose garden again?" His Father furrowed his brows as his mother groaned loudly.

"Who told them she went there?" Because of the boy's age, Mother seemed to be holding some choice words. But he ignored her tantrum to inspect Bruno further.

"Can you point them out?"

"Yup." he nodded again, not blinking. He seemed to be looking at everyone else now. It was as if he was trying to register their expressions. 

Strange child. he found it off-putting but didn't dwell on it. There was work to do.

"Then go with Lady Funda. Mother?" Mykhol motioned to see his mother nod. But not before she groaned.

"I'll be back." Her voice unenthusiastic. She clearly did not enjoy this, but she still charged toward the door.

"Hurry up!" She brushed past him, his small hand reaching out for her, but she ignored it.

"I can't stand waiting for the likes of you. Bastard," she muttered, yanking the door open.

The boy hesitated at the word, his eyes flickering with a mix of shock and hurt. But in an instant, whatever emotion he'd felt vanished, leaving his face blank once more– cold, unreadable and silent.

"Ah, yes." Bruno dropped his hand and moved to follow. 

"God, you're slow!" She didn't wait for him to clear the doorway before slamming it shut behind him.

"Go on, shoo!" Mykhol heard her muttering as they walked away. His mother never held back when she was angry, and even now, it sounded like she was coming up with new insults.

No doubt traumatizing. He thought, But Mykhol did not feel sad for the boy. At some point, Bruno would get used to it.

While Mykhol turned to face the room again, he saw his father shift. He looked to be bothered over something. 

"Son, I still don't think keeping them both around is a good idea." 

"They are still useful," he motioned to the window. Like now, even the child was proving himself. "You saw for yourself."

Mykhol watched his father sigh. Again, the look of concern did not leave his face. 

"They could be your weakness." His Father pointed out, to which he just snarked.

 The child and Naska were a weakness? Mykhol couldn't think of anything more comical.

"My weakness is that these worms are still approaching the ground. How is it that they still think they have a chance?" He couldn't believe it. He shook his head—the sheer audacity of them.

Don't they know already? Mykhol thought it was so obvious. But it must not have been. He looked to his father to see the man stutter.

"Well, we've been trying," His Father seemed generally flustered.

"We've been spreading the word that you two are already a union."

"Be more obvious, then." he was not impressed at all.

"Obvious?!" His Father seemed to choke before pulling himself back in.

"Mykhol, any more and word will get back to her Empress, and she will-"

He smirked at the threat. "I'll take care of it." 

Mykhol was fully confident he could easily swing Ana back around. He had done it for this long.

 What's another rumor?

She'll believe me without a doubt. It was these pests that were the problem.

"Just make sure it spreads." 

"But if King Alexander were to hear-'' 

"King Alexander." Mykhol flinched at the name. An unpleasant taste came up his throat, and sat on his tongue. 

"That man…"

Mykhol's fingers drifted to his neck, pressing against the spot where the king had once pointed his sword. Making him bleed. The memory of that moment—when blood had spilled—felt distant now.

But it didn't matter. Now no one was around to protect Ana. The King had already lost his precious little maid.

He smirked, the taste of it sharp in his mouth.

"Just keep the suitors away. Everything else will fall into place, eventually."

"He can't play protector forever, can he?" The words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of what was to come. It wasn't a matter of if, but when.

When.