Hidden Lovebird

*Ana*

"We aren't going to my study?" I say with surprise. I assumed we would be. It has all the necessary plans and books about the Bulgeons, after all. That would make things easier if we were going to talk about them.

Unless… we're not? Then what else would he want my time for?

Father doesn't answer. He only veers to the opposite side of the fork in the white halls. East would have taken us to my wing. My study. The usual rhythm. Instead, we head west—towards the guest rooms, and by the angle of his stride, to his study instead.

I hesitate a step behind before catching up.

It's not that I mind a change in direction. It's just—unsettling? I'm so used to my little habits and my way of doing things. Being on my own for so long, order has been a form of armor. There's a kind of comfort in knowing where I'll be, what I'll say, what they'll expect. And my study is familiar. I know the scent of the wood, where the afternoon light hits the far wall. It's comfortable. Consistent. My thoughts gather more easily there. I can be alone. It helps to think better.

 Or to the rose garden. I don't veer from it. And Never west.

But something he said prickles in the back of my mind, a curiosity to shift me from my usual routine.

Father did mention someone else. I recall. A 'he' was the word. So they are male? I wonder who this person is. Whoever it is, they must be someone significant. He's grinning again—broadly, foolishly almost. I don't think I've ever seen his sapphire eyes so bright. They catch the afternoon light like polished glass, all gleam and mischief.

He looks younger like this. Like Nicoli. 

Or should I say, Nicoli takes after him. It strikes me then how impulsive they both are. How easily they shift course when something or someone delights them. That same unbothered boldness. That wild sense of direction that leads everywhere but where you planned. Leaving one caught off guard every time. But, I suppose, not in a bad way. 

 He easily just sweeps me off my feet, taking me to some random new place without explanation.

And at least, he wasn't dragging me through dark and forgotten hallways, unlike Nicoli. There's that small mercy. This detour—this strange, quiet adventure—was better lit. Cleaner

We reach his study quickly, stopping only in front of his study door. He lets go of my arm to knock on the door, or, I thought he would, thinking we would enter—but he doesn't. 

Instead, Father releases my arm and turns to face me fully. Then, without a word, his eyes roam—careful, deliberate—sweeping over me from head to toe as if he's assessing something. Or rather, memorizing something. It's not the casual glance of a father checking in. There's weight to it. Something quiet and unspoken passes in his sapphire gaze.

He nods to himself, slow and thoughtful, and the silence stretches.

My brows knit. It's not the look he gives me when we're making plans or preparing for court. This is something else—closer to how he looked the day of my Coronation. Not just looking at me, but seeing me. Really seeing me.

The way his eyes soften makes something twist in my chest. There's pride there—pride and something almost tender like he's about to do something important. Like he's waited for this. Longed for it, maybe.

I shift, unsure what to do under that kind of gaze. It isn't like him to be so still. So quiet.

I follow his gaze as it lingers over my crown, where the shawl covers most of my silver hair. And yet... it feels like he sees right through it. Like he's admiring even that. The part of me I've always tried to keep tucked away. The part that marks me as different.

The thought sends a flicker of warmth—and discomfort—through my chest. I don't know what to make of it.

My lips tug into a small, confused smile. "Papa, what's—?"

He reaches to gently brush his calloused fingers across my cheek. A loose strand from my braid tucks behind my ear. The gesture is simple, but it stills me. His fingers linger just a second longer than necessary, and his familiar scent of soap and woodchips wraps around me.

Then he drops his hand, his beard lifting with the curve of a fresh smile.

"Nothing, sweetie," he hums. "I'm just happy to see this happen."

See what? My brow furrows.

"Why? What is-"

Father puts a finger to my lips before winking. "Just trust me." No sooner than his finger drops from my lips does he rap a hard knock against the wood. It flings open without a pause.

 "Your majesty, Your Empress," The tall older human bows in greeting," We've been expecting you."

"We?" I perk up as Father takes the threshold first. His broad shoulders block my view for a moment, and he seems to stop just inside—his face caught in a hard, assessing look. Then it softens just as quickly.

"Ah, yes, well, we are here now," Father boasts, turning on his heel to half look over his shoulder. "Ah, sorry to keep you waiting, Ana?" He moves deeper into the room, giving me space to follow. 

The room itself is the same as always: shelves embedded in the stone walls, a heavy desk set before the tall windows, and a robust fire snapping in the hearth, sending waves of welcome heat that prick at my nose. The scent of burning wood and aged paper greets me as nothing unusual.

Everything is the same. Expected. Until my gaze lands on a figure standing stiffly by the couch.

"Sir Pendwick?" I blink.

The Celbest boy snaps into a bow with such abruptness I nearly flinch.. His red eyes widen, then dart away as a wash of color floods his cheeks.

"Ah—Your Empress," he stammers. "H-hello."

"Hello," I return automatically, but not before furrowing my brows. What was he doing in my Father's study? 

And why is he… very dressed up?

A sidersilk tunic of deep green velvet clings neatly to his lanky frame, trimmed at the sleeves and collar with fine grey rabbit fur. It looks soft and expensive, the kind of garment better suited to a banquet than a private audience. His coppery hair has been slicked back tightly with pomade, pressed behind his ears with visible effort. Not even a strand is out of place.

He looks more put together than he did at my Coronation. And that had been a formal occasion. This... seems like something.

 I look at Father, expecting some kind of answer. But Father just beams a new smile, walking over to the fire with his hands clasped behind his back, saying nothing.

He clears his throat after a beat, giving Pendwick a look. It makes the boy twitch upright.

"Um," Pendwick starts, then falters. His hands lift but find nothing to do, and he drops them again just as quickly.

I wait.

"Yes. Do you have a question?" hoping to nudge things forward.

His face immediately deepens to scarlet. Again. He really does that a lot. Is the room too warm for him? Or perhaps he's unwell?

"I, er, your father," Pendwick coughs." Oh, I mean his majesty—" Pendwick coughs, floundering. His tongue slips out to wet his lips, and he clamps them together afterward. The silence yawns too long, and finally Father steps in.

"Ana, you know Sir Pendwick, yes?" he says brightly, moving to my side to clasp my shoulder with a warm, steady hand. "You're acquainted, I believe?"

"Yes," I answer. I remember Lady Katya's party well enough, even if it was some time ago. "We are." 

"Good, then." Father pumps my shoulders before stepping toward Pendwick. His stature is full and looming over Pendwick by a good few feet. "Because I've taken a shine to him."

"A shine?" 

Father slaps a hand over Pendwick's shoulder. The poor boy nearly buckles under the weight, stiffening like a post to stay upright.

 "I was thinking of making him my personal attendant to help when I'm here. And when I'm not."

"Help?" I glance between them, slow to follow. "Like a steward of yours?"

"Ah, I knew you'd understand!" Father grins. "I'd like him to be my eyes and ears when I'm not around."

"Your eyes and ears?"

"Yes, I will have to leave soon," Father admits, "but I want to make sure you still have someone close. Someone I trust. Until I return, Pendwick will stand in for me at court. A learning opportunity, really. Isn't that right, my boy?"

He turns back to Pendwick, giving him a nod that practically yells Go on.

"I—yes," Pendwick stammers. "My grandfather said I should be more active. I—I need the experience." His voice catches as he meets my gaze again. His eyes shine with... something. Nerves? Admiration? It's hard to pin down.

"Exactly," Father booms with a laugh. "And what's a better experience than working under me? Heh?" Father pushes Pendwick forward until we are almost face to face. 

Suddenly close to each other, I can feel his body heat, soft and unsure like a candle's flicker. He blinks rapidly and then drops his gaze, clearly overwhelmed. His cheeks are glowing. Again.

"Er, yes, it's a good opportunity," Pendwick says more to the floor than me. But his eyes quickly flash up to check if I'm still looking. 

I am. It's hard not to. His face is a shade of crimson that deepens by the moment, and I can practically feel the nervous heat rolling off of him. He fidgets again, and I find myself wondering—not for the first time—if he might be ill. But it's not sunsickness. There's no sun to be had through the thick, ever-churning clouds forming outside.

Odd.

"So," I say briskly, "you want Sir Pendwick to act as your assistant?"They both nod in unison.

"Johan is only one man, after all," Father adds, sauntering toward his desk. " And I could use the extra hands. So, A win-win." He winks at Pendwick.

Pendwick flinches, shrinking slightly before dropping his gaze again. "That, yes," he mumbles, fumbling with his hands. "Win-win."

"Then, good!" Father booms, very pleased with himself. "You two will become quite familiar with each other moving forward." His eyes flick to Johan, who returns the look with a subtle smile.

A strange beat passes between them. Some silent message exchanged.

"I see." I nod, taking in his words. My mind is already working on the next steps. If Sir Pendwick is to be his proxy, that means he would be at the palace for an extended stay. 

I return my gaze to Pendwick. "Then I will have a room prepared for you and Sir Celbest's extended stay, as I assume he will want to remain close by."

"Your Empress, that's, yes, you're correct." Pendwick lifts his head in surprise, his eyes shinning with some emotion that I'm not sure of. But he does seem happy. He even affords a little smile that shows his fake fang.

The fake fang. He wore it again. I hadn't noticed at first. But now that I do, something quiet stirs in my chest. It makes me oddly sad to see it. 

The fang is like my silver hair, isn't it?

We both hide pieces of ourselves the court deems imperfect. His missing tooth. My mixed blood. His falsity molded to resemble what should be. My shawl and careful braids were meant to distract from the color of my hair.

He's trying so hard, trying to fit in. Just like I have to—still do.

My fingers brush the edge of my shawl without thinking. It's soft between my fingertips, familiar. A practiced comfort. My own little cover to hide away.

I want to ask him why he wears it. I want to say you don't need to. But a pang of sympathy—or something like it—tugs low in my stomach.

Because I can already guess the answer to his would be the same as mine.

So instead, I just nod again, quieter this time.

"Was there anything else you wanted to speak about?" I ask, hoping to move on to something concrete. Perhaps a plan for the Bulgeons and their position in the mountains? I had been meaning to revisit that map.

But Father just shakes his head.

"No, honey. I just wanted you to know. That's all." His voice is far too casual, a bit too light. Then he chuckles—oddly. That strange little laugh again.

And just like before, his eyes flick to Johan. Another flash of blue, another unreadable signal passed between them. Johan gives the faintest huff of amusement.

Maybe it's some inside joke? I pause, not sure if I should ask. I don't.

Perhaps they're relieved I didn't object to the arrangement. Or maybe they're just happy to have one fewer task to manage. That would make sense. I had accepted Pendwick without protest, and I suppose that could seem... mature of me?

Yes. That must be it.

Or maybe it's about Pendwick himself. Maybe they're impressed he didn't embarrass himself more.

Whatever it is, it doesn't feel worth pressing.

"Then, I will be going." As I have much to do. I say, my thoughts are already sliding into the next task. There's much to do—maps to study, trade routes to reevaluate. I frown slightly, but not from displeasure. Just focus. I must not lose spirit.

It's just another unseen challenge. But nothing I can't figure out. My plans will work. They must. I only need to keep trying. Harder, smarter. I must not falter.

"Goodbye, Father, Johan," I pause before nodding to Sir Pendwick. "Sir Pendwick."

He brightens like a lamp, his smile eager and immediate. "Your Empress." The smile holds as I turn to leave. Behind me, Johan moves to close the door.

As the latch clicks softly, a small tug pulls at my thoughts. What a strange little meeting.

Father brought me all the way to his rooms just to say that? Pendwick would be his assistant?

He could have sent a note. Or told me in passing. There was no need for all the formality. I recall the odd tension in the room, the way he'd winked, the way Johan had smiled almost like they were trying to reintroduce us.

 But why? We already knew each other. And it wasn't like he was asking for anything unusual. A proxy at court was a smart move. Of course. Sensible. Useful.

Still… My steps slow as the truth I keep tucked away tries to creep up again.

Father will leave soon. The thought sits heavy. Too heavy. I press out a slow breath to force it down.

No, I can't be greedy. It was already enough. He came at all. That's what matters. I should be glad for it. I am glad. I tell myself that again.

He helped. He believed me. That should be enough. He has duties elsewhere. Real ones. Big ones, any king does.

He'll leave—but he'll come back. Eventually, that's how it has to be. I straightened my spine, as I could say the same for myself. There's work to be done. I should get to it.

But I don't even make it halfway down the hall before a flicker of brundgy-colored eyes stops me.

"Bruno?" I blink, surprised. He's crouched down near a table, tucked so close to the leg it takes me a moment to spot him. Was he… hiding from me?

"Bruno," He stiffens when I call his name again. "What are you doing here?" I turn with a look for Naska. But I don't see her here, which makes me all the more confused when I see him. He's alone. That wasn't good.

"I was looking for you," he mumbles, voice soft and small from under the table before he rises, slow and gingerly, as if it aches to do so. "You didn't go to the study."

"No, Father wanted to speak with me first," I say, already moving forward. I reach my hand out. "Come. You shouldn't be on this side of the palace."

I don't want you to be alone. As he takes a step into the light, I see it—another bruise. This one on his upper arm, dusky and round. New. The sight stops me.

Again? My jaw tightens before I force it to relax.

Although I have addressed it before, someone was hurting him, and I still didn't know who. Like Naska, Bruno seems stubborn about keeping secrets. Somehow, someway, it still happens. I will find a new bruise or scratch.

They were always worse when Bruno wandered too far from my wing of the palace. I press my fingers together, curling them against my palm. I want to stop it altogether. But without names…I can't protect him when I don't know where to strike.

I want to shake someone. Tear apart a wall. Do something. But that's not what an Empress does. 

What I can do is smile. Wide and cheerful. Trying to make him feel better. 

"Shall we have more hot chocolate today?" I chirp brightly, crouching beside him. The anger sits hot under my skin, but I make sure he doesn't see it. I make my voice lighter. "Extra whipped cream this time?"

Bruno's face lights up. His eyes go round with excitement.

"Oh yes!" he says, grabbing my hand. "I love hot chocolate."

He almost skips, but glances back toward the room I left. His expression softens slightly, revealing curiosity and a hint of caution.

"Who was that, by the way?" he asks, like he's been holding it in.

"Who?"

"That funny boy that kept blushing." He points toward the door behind us.

I blink, then laugh. "Oh, Sir Pendwick, you mean?"

 I start before I reel back a little, narrowing my eyes.. "Why, Bruno, were you eavesdropping just now?" I know the door was left ajar, but I didn't think Bruno, out of anyone, would eavesdrop.

His grin turns sheepish as he averts my gaze. More than saying he was. I huff, incredulous. 

 I tap his nose."Bruno, that isn't a good habit. Don't do that again. Only bad knaves from our books do that. And you're a knight, remember? Knights are noble. They don't spy."

His smile fades. His expression becomes strangely serious. "Even if it means saving the Princess?"

The words freeze me mid-step. I blink at him, unsure how to answer. There's something in his voice—too old, too knowing. I'm not sure what he means by that.

I flick up a brow. "Saving the princess? What do you mean?" When would anyone need to sneak around, listening to conversations to help someone? It sounded quite…

But Bruno doesn't answer. His eyes search mine, heavy and far too old for a child so small.

I shake my head. "It was wrong of you to do that, Bruno. I don't like you doing this again, you hear me?"

He lowers his head, voice barely above a whisper. "Sorry, Ana."

He looks to be taking my words to heart. But he scrunches his nose after a moment, as if unhappy. 

"I don't like him," he mutters. "He's a knave."

"What?" He thinks Sir Pendwick is a knave? Him? Something about that makes me have to laugh a little. "Bruno? What makes you say that? Did Sir Pendwick do something?"

But Bruno just puffs out his lips. He's not going to answer me. Instead, he spins, tugging my hand.

"Hot chocolate!" he declares, and before I can stop him, he's pulling me down the corridor.

"Bruno—slow down!" I stumble to keep up, nearly losing a slipper. But he doesn't let go. And I don't make him.

Bruno is just a child. His excitement is pure. The idea of sweets completely absorbs him. I can't lie and say I am not a little envious. 

I used to be the same not so long ago. But I forget myself in the warmth of his grip and the pull of his joy. Something about knaves… Sir Pendwick… I can't even recall what we were talking about.

Just silliness, I tell myself. Nothing more. Just the random prattling of a child.

*King Alexander*

Alexander waited until Ana's footsteps faded entirely before speaking, though he was practically vibrating with anticipation. His jaw clenched in an effort to contain his grin—then failed. All he needed to do was look back at his old servant and see the man break his somber face into a grin of his own.

"I think that went well, Your Majesty." Johan approved. Alexander let out a triumphant sound and punched the air in a joyous burst. His heart was singing in his head.

"Yes! I thought so, too!" he beamed. The meeting had gone exactly as planned. Ana was confused, sure, but she hadn't rejected the idea outright. She took it as a matter of state—more help, nothing more. But help meant proximity. And proximity meant potential. Which meant the two would inevitably grow closer.

Just like we wanted, Alexander gushed, his head snapping to the star of the show. The gesture made the nervous boy flinch, shoulders tightening like he expected to be scolded, not celebrated. 

The young Celbest boy seemed built from nerves—thin, quiet, jittery. But nerves were not the worst thing they could deal with. Nerves could be soothed. Over time, strength could develop. The boy would grow out of it. 

But for now– "You did great, my boy!" Alexander boomed, stepping forward and slapping him hard on the back. The boy nearly crumpled under the weight of the gesture, staggering forward with a squeak. He was surprisingly slight, even for a pure-blooded vampire—practically skin and bones.

Alexander caught him by the shoulder, steadying him before he could topple.

Pendwick blinked up at him, wide-eyed. There was a delay, like the words hadn't landed yet—like his mind was scanning the statement, searching for the catch. A soft pink crept over his ears.

"I-I did?" he asked, his voice a hoarse whisper, too soft for a boy who had just received royal praise. "You... think so?"

"Flawlessly," Alexander said, ruffling his hair with genuine affection. The boy's currant-red strands fell over his face, obscuring one eye. "You were perfect!"

Pendwick's mouth opened, but no words came out for a beat. His lips parted around something unsaid, and then he quickly clamped them shut again. A shy, uncertain smile broke through the shock, fragile as glass, but no less sincere.

"I… thank you," he said at last, almost as if it hurt to believe it. "I'm glad. Really."

His blush deepened, and he looked down at his boots, fingers wringing in front of him.

Alexander's chest tugged unexpectedly. That reaction wasn't just nerves. It was unfamiliarity. That look—like the boy didn't know what to do with kindness—it spoke of something else. Loneliness. Rejection. Perhaps even shame.

Alexander's gaze flicked briefly to Pendwick's mouth. He didn't see it when the boy spoke, but he knew the rumor well enough: a pureblood vampire born without one of his fangs. A birth defect, they'd called it. An embarrassment. It didn't matter that the boy had noble blood—his own kin likely kept him at a distance, too proud to embrace a son who couldn't bite properly.

Isolated, Alexander thought, his smile softening, just like Ana.

The match made more and more sense.

It was clear the boy already had a crush on Ana—quite a bit, judging by how he couldn't stop blushing. The way he clung to Alexander's praise like it was the first kindness he'd ever known only confirmed it further. That innocence, that soft ache of someone trying so hard to be worthy... it did something to Alexander. It settled the last of his hesitations—though not the guilt. That lingered. Bitter and metallic in the back of his throat.

The arrangements were already inked out, and the expectations drawn. The boy would stay close to Ana under the guise of assistance. A companion. A confidant. It was a hard trade, but a fair one. He wasn't selling her off—not yet. But he was choosing for her.

And she didn't even know it.

Alexander clenched his jaw, forcing down the rise of regret that came with that thought. He wanted Ana to find love. Real love. Not a duty. Not a binding. Not like what he'd ended up with.

But time was not something they had in excess. And in the end, if it came down to the safety of his daughter, if the court would not accept her unless a man stood beside her, then it would be one of his choosing. Someone he could control. Someone he could trust. Pendwick, for all his nerves and fumbled bows, was still the best option.

He was just a boy, no more than Ana was a girl. But maybe that was the mercy in it. They'd grow together. Maybe even care for one another in time. Maybe.

Alexander had to trust his instincts. That was the only thing that had kept him breathing since the day Ana's mother died.

Still, he couldn't ignore the sick twist in his chest, knowing he was deciding something so much without her. Behind her back. Like her mother.

He ran a hand over his face, then forced on the smile. He didn't have the luxury of indecision. Not now.

"Now, boy, remember," Alexander leaned in. "If you muck this up.-" His smile fell as he growled."I WILL REPLACE YOU."

Pendwick stiffened. His eyes widened, any lingering blush draining from his face.

Good. Message received. Alexander returned to his smile.

"But no pressure." He patted him once more on the back—gentler this time. "I'm sure you'll do fine." Alexander dropped his hand to stand up to his full height. His eyes glinted against the flame of the roaring fire. 

"Y-yes," Pendwick stammered, bowing stiffly before practically fleeing the room like a spooked rabbit.

A quiet scuff of movement behind Alexander made him glance back. Johan stood there, shaking his head. The scolding was in his silence.

Alexander returned it with a playful pout. "What? I can tease him. Just a little. It's my daughter. I have every right to be a little protective, can't I?"

"I think it's you—not the nobles—who are the real threat in Nochten," Johan drawled dryly.

The moment Alexander saw the flash of blue wax, his stomach flipped. Not just flipped—somersaulted, panicked, and fled. He didn't need to guess. He already knew.

Belinda didn't take long to write back.

"Oh?" Alexander asked lightly, plastering on a grin like a man about to be hanged. "I got a letter?"

Johan didn't even bother to play along. "It's heavy."

That wasn't good. Heavy was never good. Not when it came from Belinda. Not after the letter he'd sent. Not after he'd written, in his own hand, that he would be joining Ana's council in Nochten. Indefinitely.

Alexander swallowed hard as Johan tapped the desk like it were a judge's gavel.

"I suggest you read it now rather than later," Johan said, with the calm finality of someone who had seen things. Terrible, Belinda-shaped things that no doubt cursed those very pages. 

Very thick pages. Alexander grimaced as he came to pick it up. The envelope did feel like a brick. A heavy, marital-doom-laden brick. The kind that could shatter decades of carefully managed affection in one furious swoop of quill and ink.

Belinda wrote a lot.

Not good.

His ears were already burning as he reached for the letter opener. But before the blade touched paper, he paused—eyes flicking up to Johan in a desperate, wordless plea for mercy.

Johan, ever unsympathetic, returned the look with a slow wag of his head. The international sign for: you dug the grave, old friend, now lie in it.

Alexander sighed deeply, then moved to slice open the seal. The top peeled open with a whisper, and he slid the parchment free.

There were pages. Multiple pages. Folded. Dense. Cursive as sharp as daggers.

He hadn't even started reading, and already he could hear her voice—sharp, shrill, and escalating with every paragraph. He flinched, half expecting her to burst through the fireplace in a swirl of blue ink and righteous fury.

"I'll fetch you the brandy," Johan said, already halfway to the sideboard.

"Make it a bottle," Alexander muttered, pressing his fingers to his temple as the first words leapt off the page like accusations. The headache was already building behind his eyes. The sinking sensation in his chest—that was worse.

This was it—the beginning of the end.

Not a storm, but rather a crack. Slow and deliberate. Inevitable. It splintered the delicate facade of happiness he and Belinda had carefully maintained for years, polished for appearances, preserved for civility. But now the mask slipped, revealing the old wound beneath that was always there. Raw. Festering. Just quiet. Just waiting.

 He'd made a choice, once. Long ago, when Parsul came to him in desperation, her pride already shattered by the world. He hadn't even hesitated. He offered her sanctuary, then silence, then strategy. And somewhere in the midst of that, he offered her his heart.

Maybe he had loved her long before that moment. Maybe helping her had only revealed what had already been there. Either way, it hadn't been a mistake. He was never ashamed of it.

But Belinda never forgave him. Not truly.

She loved him, yes—but there was always that shadow clinging to the back of her heart. Quiet, like a buried thorn. She never spoke of it, but its roots grew all the same. And over time, they spread.

Now here it was again. Another choice. Another woman caught in a storm she hadn't asked for.

But this time, it was his daughter.

And God's help him—he would choose Ana again. Without hesitation. Without regret.

Even knowing it was already unraveling what was left of his marriage. Even knowing the wound had never closed.

He could feel it now—that same wound, slow and silent, working its way deeper. Like a poison swallowed long ago, now beginning to burn through the final threads.

It wouldn't kill him today. But one day—it would.

And he would welcome it. Because if the cost of that long-ago love was his life, if the consequence of standing by Parsul once more—through their daughter—meant the end of him, then so be it.

He had already started dying the day he realized he could never love anyone the way he loved her.