Who Is the First Guest

*Ana*

Admiral Nugen and I are deep in discussion with the new reports with Pave when a knock interrupts us. Surprised, I barely manage to bid them entry.

My eyes widen as the door swings open—it's my aunt.

What is she doing here?

"Aunt Funda," I greet, hand still on a quill, tip wet with fresh ink. Black ink drips onto the paper with a soft pat as I look up to see her enter.

"Your Empress," Her heels click dull thuds against the thick throw rug as she advances. Her hair is up again, a mink shawl draped over her shoulders for warmth. Her eyes bounced around my study, studying the bookshelves built into the walls, and the low burning fire in the hearth.

She sniffs the air, the room thick with the comforting scent of smoke, warmth battling the autumn chill.

I sit up at the table. " What is it?" She doesn't usually visit around this time of day.

Nugen shifts in his chair, a low cough breaking from his lips before he stiffens. His hands return to the report, as if not going to even acknowledge her. Not that I see her try to either. Her red eyes narrow at him before scanning the reports spread across the oak table.

She seems irritable, shifting from one foot to the other, her hands clenching by her sides as her focus falls to her son on the couch.

A frown forms on her face when she finds him. "Mykhol,"

"Mother?" Mykhol rustles up from the sofa. He moves to yawn, and stretch his arms over his hand before smacking his lips with a sigh. 

Was he asleep? Since when? 

He was supposed to be helping us with reviewing information. It was why we are all here. Was that why he was so quiet? 

He should be taking this more seriously.

A let out a soft puff of frustration. It does vex me sometimes how laid back and slow he can be about these affairs. But even then, I'm already adjusting. It's easier to let it go than to deal with a potential argument. 

 Cousin must have gotten too comfortable on the couch, that's all. I excuse with a slight pout.

We will have to hold our next meeting at a table with hard chairs. I conclude before catching Nugen. He exchanges looks between both of them in a weighted silence. His lip tilt downward before his brown eyes narrowed.

 Another low huff. Annoyed.

I understand why. We've been working non-stop for hours over this. But we still haven't found many solutions. The Bulgeons are seizing crops, clashing with locals, stealing our goods.

And as for more supporters? I press my tongue to the top of my mouth. That's been even harder.

The Lords who favor me are outnumbered. And worse–divided.

One side seems to lead toward a neutral stance with me. Not wanting to support just yet until there are more guarantees. Sensible, but frustrating.

But that only brings me to the biggest question of how I can.

How do I prove myself to them? Another problem to add to the growing list of things to solve.

Because, as of right now, that only leaves me with Admiral Nugen, his men, and my cousin–

My hands twist my shawl a little tighter. 

I will get the support. Somehow, I will figure this out. And once I do, things will be easier then. Easier and…

The fire crackles, pulling me back.

"Aunt Funda?" I eye her empty hands—no mail tray. "Why are you here?" 

She shifts. "A guest, she says tightly, flicking a glance at Mykhol. "Another one has arrived, your empress." 

"Already?" Mykhol leans his head onto a hand before again yawning. He scrunches into the couch, content as if this was nothing. 

But then suddenly stiffens up. "Wait, who is it?" 

His vermillion eyes narrow.

"Don't tell me it's another one?" 

"Another what, cousin?"I press, but he ignores me–as always. But whatever it is, it seems to set him off into another one of those strange moods. 

It happens each time another guest arrives for the coronation. He suddenly gets agitated, and clingy. 

Does he not like strangers? It does look that way. 

Not to mention the fact he seems to be hostile towards those like Duke Zaver. I've noticed his glaring and how quickly he tries to pull me away from them. Not that I mind it. 

But if he could be more insightful on Pave, instead. It would serve us even better. But as it is, there is only so much I can do.

"More guests," I murmur, closing the report. "Now that my coronation is near, they must have time to waste."

Or—they could be coming from somewhere far away.

The thought roots me in place. A pair of sapphire-blue eyes flashes in my mind.

My breath catches.

Could it be him? Could it be them?

I sit up straighter, gripping the edge of the table.

Admiral Nugen smoothly plucks the file from my hands, tucking it into his weatherworn satchel. "Perhaps we should meet this arrival?" he suggests, his smile edged with meaning.

Whoever they are, they could be a supporter. A valuable ally.

I barely hold back the grin tugging at my lips. But inside, my chest swells with something warmer—something dangerously close to hope.

No wonder my mother trusted him. Where others hesitate, he stays. He's been at my side from the start, helping where he can, pushing forward even when everything seems against us.

But right now? Right now, I can't think about politics.

"Indeed." I nod, schooling my face into careful neutrality, but my insides churn.

It could be them. It might not be.

Whoever they are, I still need to greet them. Trying to brace myself, try to keep my thoughts tempered, but it's impossible. My heart hammers against my ribs, hope rising despite my best efforts to contain it.

Papa. Nicoli.

Please, let it be them.

The thought alone makes me move faster, my steps instinctively quickening. If it is—if I get to see them again—

A presence missing at my side halts me. I turn back.

"Mykhol?" He's still on the couch, lounging as if this moment isn't setting my world alight. "Are you coming?"

He shakes his head, gold hoops clicking. "I need a moment with my mother, first." His eyes flick up to her. She nods, unreadable.

I exhale, trying to refocus.

"Very well. Come when you can." I farewell, leaving them behind. My thoughts circle back to whoever this person may be, to the possibility, to the hope.

To the chance of seeing sapphire eyes again

Waiting for me.

My pace quickens again.

*Mykhol*

For once, Mykhol let her go ahead. Normally, he stuck close, shielding her from the vultures circling court. But today? Today, it was better to linger.

He rose from the sofa, stretching with a groan.

Because of him. Admiral Nugen.

Mykhol clenched his jaw, clicking his fangs. The man was watching him. Always watching. Always waiting. Like he knew something.

Annoying son of a bitch.

Since crawling out of the dungeons, the man hadn't left her alone. Mykhol growled under his breath. It was maddening, tiptoeing around this pest. Even more maddening that Nugen hadn't said a word about the punishment.

How he must know.

That it had been harsher. That it was meant to be a warning.

Yet here he still was.

It hadn't worked at all. Mykhol's hands twitched as he made his way to his mother.

No, worse—he wasn't just lingering, he was actively helping Ana. Actively trying to build her support.

Which will never happen. Mykhol was sure of that. His parents had made damn certain the Lords were already bought and paid for. The court had chosen its favorite. Ana was fighting a losing battle, and this man—this insect—was making it worse.

And still, she listened to him. Trusted him.

Taking her from me.

Mykhol's glare burned into the back of Nugen's head, tracing the way his unruly hair stuck out in jagged strands—like the legs of some disgusting, scuttling bug.

Fitting.

A cockroach.

A parasite that refused to die. Not only had he survived Empress Parsul's death, but now he was weaseling his way into Ana's trust. Her inner circle. Her decisions.

Mykhol clicked his fangs sharply, taking his mother's arm as they stepped into the hall. His gaze flicked back to the admiral, dark and seething.

He must have a death wish. Or he was just that stupid.

Mykhol clenched his teeth and forced himself to look away before his temper boiled over.

"Mother," It was barely a whisper, but she heard him. She leaned in expectantly as he checked the two ahead to ensure they were overlooked before going on.

"Who is the guest?"

She huffed a heated sigh. "It's no one I know. Probably another lord trying to be a suitor."

"Another one?" Mykhol breathed sharply out his nose. "We shouldn't still be having this problem, Mother." 

"My son, I know." Funda patted his hand before they turned. "We are trying as best we can to establish your position. The rumors are already all over court about the two of you to be married."

Ahead, he could hear the sounds of servants. They were coming up with trunks. Whoever was the guest did not pack lightly.

"Well, it's not enough. Try harder." Mykhol went as his eyes trailed after one of the servants. She was carrying what looked to be a high-quality trunk. Whoever had arrived was rich. 

 Mykhol shifted his jaw. Who could it be?

Not many other families were wealthy enough to boast money like this. At tops, he could think of about five, and three of them were with daughters, not sons. And even between the last two, one was too old even to get it up, as the other was barely Ana's age-

Mykhol stiffened at that. 

Yes, there was that one. What was his name again?

Mykhol frowned. He knew they had met before—once, maybe? Some party, long ago. Yes, it was that one. The only party he had bothered taking Ana to.

A vague memory stirred.

The boy.

A laugh almost slipped out.

That frail little thing? That pathetic excuse for competition?

Wasn't there something wrong with him? Some defect—ah. Yes. His tooth.

A missing fang. That's what it was.

Mykhol smirked, his mood lifting instantly. As if that even mattered. As if he needed to waste another second considering someone so beneath him.

The sheer audacity to think that runt could measure up.

He straightened, smoothing a hand over his pristine coat, chest swelling. Against me?

Please.

Better looking. Taller. Stronger. He had the sharper mind, the better build, the undeniable charm. Every possible metric weighed in his favor. The boy—what was his name?—never stood a chance.

And here I was, letting myself feel anxious. The thought was so absurd he chuckled aloud as they rounded the last corner.

The lobby ahead bustled with servants, trunks carried back and forth in an unnecessary flurry of motion. Mykhol scoffed at the excess. What a waste.

But his focus drifted back to himself, as it should.

Yes, there was simply no way Ana would choose anyone else. Not when he was standing right here.

He laughed deeply to himself.

"What's the point of packing so much when he's just going to run back with a tail between his legs." 

"What? Tail?" Funda looked around, trying to see what he was talking about, but he only kissed her cheek.

"It's nothing, Mother," He looked over the room. Now, where is that boy? 

He half expected to see him still be the same. Still short and weak, and missable.

Is he not in yet? He didn't look to be inside yet.

Or he's so tiny that I can't find him. He snickered.

"Mykhol?" His mother furrowed her brow after him, but just as she opened her mouth to ask, the doors opened. Their newest guest was about to enter.

Mykhol lifted his head, smirking—expecting a boy, a weakling. But the floor trembled. Footsteps, heavy and deliberate, shook the stone beneath him. His smirk faltered.

That's not him. Mykhol's breath caught. His mind scrambled to correct what his eyes were seeing. No, this wasn't the pathetic boy he expected.

This was….

"She invited her?" The words dropped from Mykhol's lips as his mother stiffened at the sight as the guest did not walk but charged. Heading straight for Ana.