Thorn

*Ana*

"Am I… interrupting something?" Mykhol stands waiting with a measured smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes. His voice is, as always, warm and pleasant, yet it carries a distinct ring, as if it fits too seamlessly into the cold air surrounding us, as though every syllable were meticulously shaped from ice and positioned there with intention. The sound of my name in his mouth is both familiar and strange, intimate in a way that makes my skin prickle beneath my layers.

 His vermilion eyes flick between Pendwick and me, taking in the sight of the two of us. I recognize that look—the subtle tightening around his eyes, the slight forward tilt of his shoulders. It's the same stance he took when Duke Zaver and his posse were around. He grew rigid like this before whisking me away. Saving me from their constant chatter and demands.

Was that what he was doing now? Did he think that Sir Pendwick was bothering me?

I almost laugh at the thought. 

Sir Pendwick? A threat? The idea seems absurd—he's merely being polite as required. It's not like he could ignore the Empress. Really, Mykhol is being too much again.

But my cousin has always been this way, hasn't he? Coming to my side every time. Watchful. Guarding. Sometimes I find it comforting, other times unnecessary. Today, with the garden still around us, I'm not sure which one it is.

"Not at all," I say simply, brushing past the moment. "Sir Pendwick is on a walk. We stopped to chat."

"Yes, I was on a walk," Pendwick adds quickly, his voice pitching higher than before. He steps a little closer to me, as if seeking shelter, the movement causing his too-heavy cloak to rustle against the frozen gravel. "For my health." The words trip over each other, landing awkwardly in the space between us. A bead of sweat traces down his temple despite the biting cold, catching the weak sunlight before disappearing into his collar.

Mykhol tilts his head, the motion fluid, almost serpentine. "Is that right, a walk?" He lifts his chin as if stretching, the motion casual—but it draws my eyes to the crisp lines of his unclasped cloak, revealing the gown beneath. Another new one. Deep navy with brushed silver lining that absorbs the winter light rather than reflects it. His hair is parted perfectly, not a strand out of place despite the garden breeze, his golden earrings catching the light with every slight turn of his head, sending tiny daggers of brightness dancing across the dormant roses.

Again, reminding me I seem to be the only one dressed sensibly today. Both my cousin and Sir Pendwick look as if they're about to attend a formal reception rather than stepping outside for air.

 Do they avoid the elements entirely? I find myself wondering why neither of them dressed for comfort or utility. Or perhaps they simply don't mind the discomfort of fashion over function. The crown feels heavy on my brow, and I adjust it slightly. 

But then again, who am I to question people's preferences? My favorite color is purple, after all— Not exactly making me a profound insight. Instead, I tuck away the thought that both men seem oddly concerned with appearance in a place where no one of importance would see them.

 Except me, I suppose—though I'm hardly one to notice or care about the latest fashion trends.

"Yes," I add, filling the silence that has stretched too long, "it's a good day for a walk—like Sir Pendwick was just telling me." My breath clouds between us, a visible reminder of the cold that seems to be deepening with every passing moment.

"Yes, I was just—" Pendwick begins, his fingers worrying at a loose thread on his sleeve, pulling it until the fabric puckers.

"So it is," Mykhol cuts in smoothly, his eyes never leaving mine. "You both wanted a walk today? At the same time?" Each question drops between us like stones into still water.

Mykhol smiles—slow and small, but somehow unsettling, like watching ice form over deep water. "How remarkable," he says softly. Then he turns to Pendwick, the movement subtle yet conveying volumes. "You just happened to find yourselves alone. Together. A coincidence."

The air between them seems to solidify, charged with something electric and dangerous. A crow calls from somewhere overhead, its harsh sound cutting through the tension like a warning.

"Ah, yes, well…" Pendwick flushes deep crimson, the color flooding his face and crawling up to his ears until they match his hair. His throat works as he swallows hard enough for me to hear the click. "When I saw Her Empress, I had to stop and say hello." His voice cracks on the last word, betraying him.

"So you did." Mykhol stretches the smile a little wider, but there's no light in it now, no warmth. It's all teeth, sharp and white against the paleness of his face. His gaze sharpens, the way he sometimes looks at nobles in court when they say something foolish—sharp and cold, like he's already solved the problem of them.

 "Don't you think it's time you went, then?" The question is voiced gently, but the steel underneath is unmistakable.

"That—" Pendwick falters, his confidence evaporating like morning dew. A muscle jumps in his jaw as he clenches it tight. "I was thinking of talking with her a bit longer—"

"For your health?" Mykhol's tone is mild as milk, but he steps forward, the gravel crunching beneath his perfectly polished boot. The sound echoes in the quiet garden like breaking bones. It doesn't look like much—just a step, a shift in weight—but Pendwick recoils like he's been shoved, his boots scrabbling against the frozen ground, almost losing his balance.

"I think you'd benefit more from continuing your walk," Mykhol goes on, his voice honeyed but sharp now, "than staying to take up more time with Her Empress." The emphasis on my title is subtle but clear—a reminder of distance, of propriety, of boundaries Pendwick should not cross.

"Oh, er, yes." Pendwick stammers, backing up another step, his heel catching on his too-long cloak. His face pales to an almost sickly white, the freckles standing out like spatters of blood on snow, his eyes flicking toward the hedges as if calculating the fastest escape route.

"Then excuse me, Lord Mykhol. Your Empress." He bows, the movement too deep, too hasty, almost losing his balance again before straightening. Then he turns sharply and hurries off, the hem of his cloak snapping behind him like a flag in a storm. But just before the hedge swallows him, he glances back over his shoulder.

There's something in Pendwick's expression—tight, uncertain, a complex cocktail of emotions I can't quite decipher. Not fear exactly, though that's part of it. Regret, maybe? Longing? A promise to return? Whatever message he's trying to convey is lost on me, like a language I haven't learned to read.

I'm still puzzling over it, the exchange replaying in my mind, when Mykhol steps in front of me, blocking my view of Pendwick's retreating form. He moves with the fluid grace of a dancer, each step deliberate yet seemingly effortless. So close now, I can smell the faint scent of pepper and tobacco that always clings to him. A scent I've come to recognize as a welcomed one, though sometimes, suffocating. 

Now alone, Mykhol transforms. The sharpness in his face melts away naturally. It's as if it was never there, replaced by a warm familiarity, his vermilion eyes growing softer as if relieved by something I'm not sure of. But he seems to only grow more comfortable in the space just for us.

"What brings you outside, Cousin?" Mykhol asks with a smile, not his court smile, all polish and no substance. It's the other one. The smile meant only for me—the one that crinkles the corners of his eyes and softens the sharp angles of his face. The one he seems only comfortable making around me when we are alone.

"I wanted to check the roses," I say, turning to touch a leaf, to push up to see the soft green bud underneath, finding myself falling back to my distractions.

I notice Mykhol's eyes tracking my movement, following my hand with unusual intensity, as if even my interaction with the garden deserves his full attention. When he looks at me again, something flickers in those vermilion depths—possessive, hungry, gone so quickly I wonder if I imagined it, like heat lightning on a summer horizon.

"And how are they?" he murmurs, his voice brushing over my shoulder as he steps even closer. His heat radiating from his chest as he seems fixed on needing to be within my space. His tendency to hover must be flaring again. 

I sigh, finding myself resigned to it as usual. "They're budding."

"Budding?" he echoes with a slight frown. For a moment, he seemed lost as though it were a foreign word, it catches him off guard. It's such a rare sight to see Mykhol break his usual stance. My cousin is usual so confident about everything, even in court.

So to see him like this…

I laugh before I can stop myself.

 Mykhol lifts a brow at me, caught off guard by the sound. His vermilion eyes were dancing as if trying to read me. But just as quickly, his smile deepened. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," I say, trying to compose myself again. "It's just caught me off guard. It's rare to find something you don't know."

Mykhol clicks his tongue, before huffing a slight laugh as if in disbelief.

"Am I supposed to know everything?" He leans slightly, his grin widening until I glimpse his fangs. "Really, Ana. I didn't know you held me in such high regard."

"No, I don't. It's just that—"

"You don't?" His eyes widen with a mock gasp, as if my denial wounds him.

"That's not what I meant—" I begin, but stop. It's no use explaining, not with Mykhol. He will simply keep teasing and twisting the words like always. So I show him instead. "The small ball under the leaves—here. That's a bud." I lift a vine for him to see.

"That's a bud?" Mykhol's arm brushes over my chest as he reaches. His fingers touch the bud, but linger far longer than they should. His heat ripples through me like water disturbed by a stone.

"Er, yes," I murmur. I try to step aside, but his closeness presses in. His scent—tobacco and pepper and something metallic—fills my lungs stronger now. Almost thick enough to taste on the tip of my tongue. His lips are too near now, the warmth of his breath making the fine hairs at my nape stand on end. My breath catches.

"And things are turning green again," I offer quickly. My voice sounds high and strange to my ears. "Spring may come early."

"That would be nice," he says, almost directly into my ear. His chest brushes my back, the solid warmth of his body seeping through my cloak, making me shift. Wanting more space. Does he need to be so close? "You do like spring, don't you?"

"Yes, I—because of the roses, I do." A heat flushes across my cheeks and down my neck, prickling beneath my collar. My eyes lock with his—vermilion flecked with gold, watching me with an intensity that makes my stomach clench—and I suddenly realize I'm staring. What am I doing? I turn quickly, hoping he didn't notice. My face burns as I try to steady my tone. "It will be very beautiful."

"You are."

"Cousin?" I glance up, startled. The frozen garden suddenly feels too warm, too small. "I mean the flowers," I add quickly. My voice trembles. "The flowers will be beautiful."

"I know what you meant, Ana." Mykhol's voice is lower now. There's something velvety and dangerous in it. Too close to mistake. His hand lands on my shoulder, warm and firm, fingers pressing into flesh through the fabric of the woolen cloak. Feeling heavy on my little shoulders. I should step away. I want to.

But I don't.

"Then what did you mean?" My breath stumbles. The sunlight catching in his hair creates a halo that belies the growing darkness in his eyes.

"I thought you were alone out here." His hand slides down my arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. "If I'd known you weren't—"

"Cousin?" The word escapes me like a breath. Goosebumps rise as his fingers find the inside of my wrist, tracing small circles against my pulse. His skin is warm. The sensation is not. A tingling spark low in my belly. I tell myself it's discomfort, but it isn't, not really—no, it is. I don't know. I just want it to stop.

"You shouldn't be talking to Sir Pendwick alone like that," Mykhol says, and his breath stirs the hair near my temple. I can feel his lips almost grazing my skin with each word. "You don't want people thinking there's something between you two, do you?"

"Cousin," I gasp. He's joking. He must be. But his fingers tighten around my wrist, and the gentle pressure sends an unwelcome shiver down my spine. My body betrays me with its response, even as my mind recoils.

"What would your father say if he knew you were entertaining a boy alone?" His thumb presses against my racing pulse. "Or perhaps... You weren't entertaining him at all? Perhaps he was pressing his attentions on you?" A protective edge enters his voice again, though his hand slides possessively to my waist.

My throat constricts. "Mykhol, that's not—"

"I can't help but worry about you, Ana." His other hand brushes a strand of hair from my face, fingers lingering at the nape of my neck. "You're just so trusting sometimes. Thinking everyone has the same mindset as you. You don't see what others might want from you. "

What they want? Want what? Wait, he surely doesn't imply that–

"Didn't I say there would be no marriage talk until after—" My voice falters as his fingers trace into the soft hollow of my palm. Each circle he draws sends ripples of sensation up my arm that I refuse to name.

"People will say all kinds of things, Ana." His lips are near my neck now, close enough that I feel their heat against my skin. My pulse thrums wildly beneath that spot, betraying me. "And if they saw you with Pendwick, well, what kind of picture do you think that would paint for you?"

His voice lowers to a breath, the words vibrating against my throat. "You need to be more careful."

"But, Cousin, I'm alone with you and—" I begin to argue, but then I feel it.

His fingers curl between mine. Lacing. Anchoring. The bushes and vines blur at the edges of my vision, narrowing until there's only the pressure of his hand against mine.

"It's because you trust me," he says softly, like a secret. His thumb strokes the tender skin of my palm—an unbearable, itching rhythm that coils into my stomach, setting off butterflies that feel more like wasps.

"Mykhol, your hand—" Please stop. The words stick in my throat, refusing to emerge.

He doesn't. Instead, he breathes against my ear, his exhale making the small hairs there dance.

"I don't like seeing you alone with other boys, Ana."

I can't move. I can't speak. His fingers keep circling, rubbing. My whole body is locked in place, every nerve ending painfully alert. The air itself has teeth. The scent of soil and greenery mixes with something else—something spiced and heavy that overwhelms me.

"It makes me angry." His lips graze my ear, the slight moisture of them sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. My toes curl inside my boots, heels lifting as if preparing to flee—or rise to meet him.

And suddenly, he's turning me. His hands on my shoulders, guiding. His face draws close, far too close. I can count each dark eyelash, see the flecks of gold in his irises, feel the heat radiating from his skin.

"Ana—"

Admiral Nugen's face flashes in my mind—weathered, stern, safe. I think of the study, the desk covered in papers that still need to be worked on, the smell of sandalwood and brewed coffee. Something I know by heart. Something I know by heart. Something familiar. Something I suddenly need more than I need air.

"I need to go back inside, "I blurt, finally pulling away with such force I nearly stumble backward. The words feel foreign in my mouth, disconnected from the thunder of my pulse.

The world snaps back into motion, colors too bright, sounds too sharp. Without thinking, I turn so fast I nearly stumble. The stony path shifts beneath my feet like a living thing trying to trip me. My legs move before I decide to run—I am running. I don't care where, just somewhere else. Somewhere with people. With walls and rules and proper distances between bodies.

"Ana, wait," Mykhol calls behind me. I feel his hand brush against my sleeve, his fingers grazing the fabric with a whisper that seems to burn through to my skin, but I twist free, the cloth nearly tearing in my haste.

"I—I need to find Admiral Nugen. About the new trade routes for Pave." My voice fractures like thin ice, high and strained. My chest heaves. The lie blooms on my tongue like hemlock, bitter but necessary. But yes—the Admiral. My study. His gruff voice and matter-of-fact manner. Safety.

Mykhol calls again, something straining in his tone, like he's...hurt? Confused? No—I won't interpret it. I won't give it meaning. I can't.

But I don't stop. My feet carry me toward the glass doors, toward what I know. What is familiar. To what makes sense.

Something is wrong with me. That has to be it. There's no other explanation that fits within the boundaries of my understanding.

I must be overtired, or maybe ill. Some strange reaction to the change in weather, perhaps. Maybe from the stress of awaiting Father's return. Something I can name. Explain. Categorize. File away.

Not this.

Not him. Not… me.

My skin feels too thin, like parchment held to flame—translucent and seconds from catching fire. My heart beats an erratic cadence against my ribs, a caged bird seeking escape. Mykhol always jokes—he must be joking. He's always been affectionate. Always hovered close, touched my hair, my hands. That's all this is. That's all it has to be.

He's my cousin. My family.

It was a joke.I know it was a joke.

I misread it. I must have. No. I shove the thought into a box and slam the lid shut before it can take shape.

I just need to work. If I stay busy, I'll calm down. This strange fever will pass. I'll sort this out. Once I'm calm, I'll talk to him normally again. We'll laugh about this. It's just a misunderstanding. A momentary lapse. A reaction to stress. Nothing more.

The admiral will have tasks for me—practical, concrete things that require my full attention, such as reports about the Bulgeons, maybe even words from my father.

Father…

I squeeze the sides of my shawl as I run, twisting the fabric until my knuckles burn white. Faster. The wind whips tears from the corners of my eyes—tears I tell myself are from the speed, nothing more.

I need to get back inside. Get to work. Do something I know how to do without thinking. I need to be a good Empress. That's all that matters. That's all that can matter.

I pinch my arm, digging my nails in deep, the sharp pain bringing momentary clarity like a lightning strike illuminating a storm-dark landscape. I'm overthinking. That's all. I just need to calm down.

I have to calm down.

I run, my path instinctively taking me back to the familiar, to what I know, what I can trust. My wing of the palace, my books, my desk, my study. The tools of my position. The instruments of my duty. I just need to get to the study. To the desk. To the smell of ink and old paper. What I have known all my life.

I need to hold a quill. Organize a list. Prepare for court. Calculate grain reserves. Do something, anything, with numbers and facts and figures that don't shift and change and make me feel things I don't understand.

My lungs burn with each breath, but I welcome the distraction. The physical pain is straightforward, honest. Back to what I have. My routine. My duty.

Safe. Orderly. Alone.

I squeeze the edges of my shawl, tighter now. I just have to keep going. Keep working. Keep being good. A good Empress. Just until Father comes back.

Whenever that will be—

No. I can't think about that either. That's not useful. Focus on what I can do. On the now. On what makes sense. The desk. The Admiral. The reports. The empire that needs me to be steady, controlled, and completely present.

An Empress can't afford to be distracted. 

*Naska*

The flash of crimson caught Naska's eye first—Ana's red shawl billowed like a flag of surrender as she fled the garden. Her silver braid whipped behind her, catching sunlight that gleamed like polished metal. Something about the way she ran—hurried, desperate, shoulders hunched—made Naska's stomach clench.

Even from her hiding spot in the bushes, Naska could see Ana's face was flushed, her eyes wide with something that looked like fear. Panic dancing over her usual stoic expression. A young girl, lost and running for safety.

Running away from – Naska's eyes turned back to find him.

Mykhol stood in the middle of the bushes, one hand still outstretched, his expression lost for a moment, as if struck raw by the idea that anyone, no, that Ana herself would take off from him. To push back, to flee. His vermilion eyes transfixed on the sight of the girl running away from him, like he was the last thing he ever expected.

The sound of the glass doors clicking closed was the only thing to break his expression. The flicker of pain dancing across his face before it morphed. Changed into a storm of frustration and hunger so ravishing that she couldn't help but gasp in shock, her breath caught in her throat.

"Gods damn it!" he snarled, slamming his fist against the nearest tree trunk. The bark splintered under the impact, leaving his knuckles bleeding. He didn't seem to notice. "So close. So damn close."

Mykhol! Naska bit down on her knuckle to stop herself from crying out, the sudden violence making her heart skip. Blood dripped from his hand, staining the withered grass beneath. The fury radiating from him was palpable, a heat she could feel even from her hiding place.

"Fine, run to that damn human," he said, a hint of amusement creeping into his voice. "Predictable. Safe, reliable Admiral Nugen with his damn maps and reports." His laugh was hollow. "But the old man can't stand between us forever, Ana."

Mykhol's face darkened again. "None of them can. Not now, with your damn father still gone." He straightened his posture, adjusting his cuffs with meticulous precision. "Without him, they don't have teeth. That fangless wonder Pendwick, that glorified strategist Nugen—none of them has the authority to keep me from you."

He traced the path Ana had taken with his eyes, something possessive and hungry in his gaze.

"She'll come to me. She has no other choice—we were always meant for each other. And if she resists..." He wiped the blood from his knuckles onto a handkerchief he pulled from his pocket. "Then I'll make sure there's no one left for her to turn to. No one but me. Just as it should have been."

He paced frantically, a caged predator denied its kill. His boots crushed the dried leaves beneath them, crunching and snapping twigs with bone-snapping clarity with each furious step.

"She was responding right then. I felt it," he muttered, running bloodied fingers through his dark hair, leaving crimson streaks. "Her pulse was racing. I could feel it under my fingers." He examined his hand as if he could still capture the sensation of her skin against his. "Gods, if she just stayed a little longer I could have–"

Mykhol kicked at a decorative stone, sending it sailing across the brittle grass with a violent smash into another bush, shaking out leaves and branches.

He stood still suddenly, head tilted back to look at the sky, taking several deep breaths. When he spoke again, his voice had shifted to something eerily controlled.

"I just need to keep working on her. She'll break." His lips curved into a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "She's already cracking. The way she broke down in my arms, crying. Clinging to me…"

The smile that spread across his face sent chills down Naska's spine. Not the warm, charming grin he showed the court, not the one she loved. But something hard, sharp, and cold. It was unlike anything she knew he could make. It was…like a beast denied its meal.

"Such a tease." The words sounded torn from him, ragged with longing. "Next time, I won't let you escape so easily."

"My lord?" The words spilled before she could stop them, sharp and soft like a blade slipping loose.

"Who's there?" Mykhol's voice snapped. His head turned sharply, eyes narrowing as they swept across the garden.

Naska ducked behind the hedge, the rough branches scratching her cheeks. The coarse wool of her servant's cloak rubbed against her neck, already raw from a morning of carrying laundry. Cold seeped through its thin fabric, making her shiver despite the spring sunlight.

Her heart pounded in her ears, each beat a painful thud against her ribs. She had to stay quiet. She didn't know why. But something told her that it was imperative that she not be found. That Mykhol would not know that she had seen him try to–

"I said Who's there?" Mykhol's voice thundered across the garden, voice shrill enough to snap something within her to make her tremble. Naska slapped a hand over her mouth, tasting salt and dirt from her unwashed fingers.

She hadn't meant to see it. Didn't mean to spy and see–Really, it was an accident. She didn't even know Mykhol was outside.

I just didn't want to do laundry. She told herself that. It's why she came back. Being bored with Ana was better. She'd take walking around stupid dead bushes any day then getting soaked. She changed her mind. It was just a simple change. She just didn't want to deal with her fingers prunny and raw from the soap and water.

She never meant to–

But then she did. She saw.

All of it.

Above her, a sharp, frustrated scream cracked through the quiet. The sound was more animal, more frustrated than anything she thought she ever heard him make before. The growl of desperation mixed with anger was enough to make Naska's hands dig into the dead grass, her breath coming in shallow gasps.

"Fuck." Mykhol's voice, low now, bitter. The word hung in the air like poison.

She felt herself flinch as if a blade had run along her spine. The sound hollowing in her bones. She kept herself to the grass, breathing in the dirt and rot, making her small. Smaller.

She jolted slightly as rocks began to clatter. Then the sound of footsteps, gravel crunching under boots. Heavy, deliberate steps.

He was heading back.

Only after his steps faded—each crunch of gravel a hammer against her pulse—did she dare exhale. A thick and hard puff of white danced against the grey air before it vanished like a ghost. She sat up slowly, body crying from the tension, joints cracking in protest, skin marked with the imprint of twigs and stones. Her limbs felt hollowed out, filled with something heavier than blood. Filled with dread.

It only dawned on her that her cheeks were wet when she felt the icy bite of the breeze. She hadn't realized she'd started crying at some point. Dumbly, her rough sleeve rubbed against her face, scratching it up clumsily. Her nose sniffled from both the tears and the cold.

She tried to catch herself. Tried to calm down. Tried to make sense of what she saw and what she had just heard. What Mykhol was just—

"He doesn't mean it," she whispered, the lie tasting like copper on her tongue. Her voice was hoarse and small, brittle among the rustling leaves that seemed to mock her with their whispers. "It's all just part of the plan."

Because it had to be.

Yes, Mykhol was just doing what he had to, again. Because Mykhol was sharing everything with her now. He was letting her in—finally. On the schemes. On the throne. On the future that was theirs. Not Ana's.

"It was an act," she repeated, firmer this time, as if volume could make the words true. "He loves me."

But even as she kept saying it, the image flashed into her mind unbidden—not this moment, but another. The night Ana turned. Her first blood.

Naska clenched her fists until her nails sliced skin. Red lines bloomed across her palms. She didn't even flinch. She pressed her bleeding palms to her skirt, smearing them red. The pain grounded her, but only just. The metallic scent of blood mixed with the garden's earthy smells filled her nostrils with each ragged breath.

That look in his eyes when Ana had fed from him. Not pain. Something else entirely. Something Naska had never seen directed at her.

And his eyes—Gods, his eyes had met hers across the room.

She'd frozen under the weight of that look. Not guilt. Not surprise. Not an apology.

Just something raw. Something true.

Naska doubled over, arms crushing her ribs, trying to smother the scream in her throat. Another drop hit her skirt, dark and wet.

"No," she rasped. "No—he loves me."

She dug her nails deeper into her palms. Blood welled, fresh and hot, vital. It helped. A little. The pain was clean, honest—unlike the lies she wove around herself like armor.

He chose me. Told me his plans. He's building the future with me—for Bruno.

"For us," she said aloud, jaw tight. "He has to choose us."

Her voice trembled, but she didn't let it break. She wouldn't. She couldn't afford to shatter now. Not when she was so close. Not when they were so close.

Because it wasn't him.

It was her. Ana.

That half-breed. That wide-eyed bastard who didn't understand what she was doing—who had no idea how easily she took. How effortlessly she stole what wasn't hers to claim.

He had to look at Ana that way. He had to pretend. It was all part of the plan.

If he looked at Ana that way, it was because he had to. Because she forced him to. Because playing the role required it.

It was her fault.

All of it.

"She's the problem," Naska whispered, nails digging into her palms until they split skin anew, each crescendo of pain a vindication. "She's always been the problem."

She pressed her bleeding hands to her chest, smearing the red over her tunic. The fabric scratched against her wounds, each thread a tiny needle.

Ana was the other woman. Even if she didn't know it. Even if she was too young to understand the power she held. The power to destroy everything Naska longed for, happiness, a family together, Mykhol–

It didn't matter. Naska would endure. She would bite her tongue. She would stay patient. Just a little longer. These were just the final steps before everything she'd been promised would come to pass.

Because she was the one he trusted. The one he cried to. The one who saw the broken pieces—and held them like they were sacred. The pieces no one else was allowed to see.

The one he needs.

"Just a little longer," she whispered, fingers curling into her bloodied palms. "Once Ana's out of the way. Once his plan is complete."

She closed her eyes and breathed in deep, letting the blood and earth and memory settle into her bones. Her heartbeat steadied as the certainty returned. This was temporary. Her reward was coming.

"For us," she whispered. "For the throne."

The life she deserved.

He chose me first. He will always choose me in the end. 

He promised.