Look For Yourself

*Admiral Nugen*

"Admiral Nugen?" The maid's voice cracked like dry parchment, the name escaping her throat in a strangled whisper. Her fingers, pale and trembling, released their grip on the silk dress. The fabric slithered to the floor with a defeated rustle, pooling around her ankles like spilled blood, but Nugen barely registered the sound—not when his skull felt like it was trapped in a blacksmith's vise as he stepped forward.

Three days of merciless sun had baked the pain deep into his bones. His vision wavered at the edges, heat-drunk and fracturing the world into dancing mirages. Each pulse of his heart sent lightning through his temples, and his old scar throbbed—the raw, windburned skin pulled tight across bone, stinging like a fresh brand. Sweat had dried to salt crystals along the agitated flesh, each drop that rolled into it now a tiny knife of agony.

Three days. No sleep. No pause. Just endless sand that filled his lungs, wind that scoured his skin raw, and the bone-grinding urgency that had driven him and his men past their breaking point. The horses had wheezed blood-flecked foam by the end, their ribs heaving like bellows. Half his men would need treatment for sun poisoning—their lips cracked to bleeding, skin fevered and peeling like shed snakeskin. 

I'm getting too old for this, he thought, shifting his weight as his left ankle gave a sickening pop. Every muscle in his body screamed that deep, hollow ache that promised days of misery ahead.

Gods above, he could only imagine what he looked like–smelled like.

The stench rose from him in waves—weeks of accumulated grime ground into his pores. Sweat had crystallized into his collar, turning the leather stiff as armor. Sand filled every crease of his clothing, every line of his weathered face, even settled between his teeth with a grinding texture that made him want to spit. His hair, cropped military-short, looked dusted with fool's gold. Even standing in the cool palace corridor, he could smell himself: leather, horse sweat, woodsmoke, and the metallic tang of exhaustion.

He should have bathed. Should have collapsed onto clean sheets and let unconsciousness claim him for twelve blissful hours. Gods, even five minutes with his boots off and his spine stretched out on a cold floor would've been a mercy.

But there was no time. Not when Ana—

His brown eyes, bloodshot and burning, swept the dressing room behind the vampiress. Every corner, every shadow, every possible hiding place. The vanity with its array of crystal bottles catching beginning afternoon light. The massive wardrobe that could conceal a dozen conspirators. The silk dressing screen painted with cherry blossoms.

Empty. All of it empty.

She's not here. The realization hit him like a physical blow, stealing what little breath he had left. He spun on his heel—too fast—and his vision tilted sickeningly. The marble corridors stretched before him in polished silence that felt wrong, too quiet, like the held breath before a scream. Where was the movement? The chatter? The guards?

Where were the guards? The bustling servants? The constant hum of palace life?

Have things fallen apart so quickly? His jaw clenched until his molars threatened to crack, sending fresh spikes of pain through his already throbbing skull.

Naska, meanwhile, still stood frozen in the doorway, her pale red eyes wide as saucers. She stumbled backward, her muslin slipper sliding against marble with a whisper of sound, her body coiling instinctively as if expecting a blow.

"What are you doing here?" The words tumbled from her lips, pitched high with shock.

Nugen didn't answer immediately. Couldn't. His throat felt lined with sandpaper, and the rage building behind his sternum made it hard to form words. The fatigue was thick behind his eyes, pooling in the hollows of his cheeks, dragging at every tendon. His patience—what little he had left—was fraying fast. This girl—this maid—was just standing her, wasting precious seconds with her stammering surprise when Ana could be—

"Where is she?" His voice emerged low and deadly, each word precision-cut. He stepped forward, his shadow falling across Naska like a death shroud. "Where is the Empress?"

Naska's mouth opened and closed soundlessly, her face cycling through expressions like a broken clockwork toy. Shock gave way to confusion, then hardened into something that made Nugen's hand twitch toward his sword hilt.

Defiance. In a maid. Directed at him.

"I should be asking you that," she said, her voice gaining strength with each syllable, growing bold in a way that set his teeth on edge. "What are you even doing here? Weren't you supposed to be out investigating? Did you give up already?" Her laugh was sharp as breaking glass, far too weighted with authority for someone of her station.

The sound drove spikes through his skull. Nugen's vision narrowed to a tunnel focused on her face—on that smirk twisting her lips, the way she lifted her chin like she had any right to question him.

He didn't have the patience for this little games. Not from some haughty maid. Not after what he'd just put himself and his men through. Three days. Three GODDAMN days and now this girl, this girl with no sense of place or timing, was standing in his way?

What thread of patience in Nugen snapped like a bone right then.

"Why does that matter to you?" The words came out wrapped in smoke and threat, his voice dropping to the register that had made enemy soldiers soil themselves on distant battlefields. 

"I—it doesn't," she faltered, blinking as if some of her manufactured courage cracked at the idea that he would bark back. And louder. "Lord Mykhol just told me you would be gone for at least another week before–"

Mykhol. The name hit him like ice water in his veins. Every muscle in his body went rigid, his spine snapping straight as his eyes bored into hers with laser intensity.

"Why would Lord Mykhol tell YOU anything?" Each word was enunciated with deadly precision.

"I—I just overheard, I mean—" Naska's shoulders caved inward, her confidence dissolving like sugar in rain. "Nothing more."

The lie tasted bitter in the air between them. Nugen could smell it on her—the sour tang of deception mixing with her cheap rose soap. 

"Uh-huh." He took another deliberate step forward, using every inch of his considerable height to loom over her. The stench of horse and sweat rolled off him in waves, and he watched with grim satisfaction as she flinched away from it. His right hand found the worn leather grip of his sword, fingers flexing in a rhythm she couldn't miss.

"I asked you a question." His voice rose to a bark that had once commanded battalions. "Where is the Empress?"

The sound hit Naska like a physical slap. She jerked backward, catching her feet on the forgotten dress from her nervous steps. Almost losing her balance but not quite. Though she might if he took another step, forgetting herself in fear.

"I—she's in the study," she stammered, the words tumbling over each other in their haste to escape. "Down the hall. She's in the study, I swear it."

Nugen held her gaze for one more heartbeat, letting the silence stretch taut as a bowstring. Long enough for sweat to bead on her upper lip. Long enough for her breath to come in quick, shallow gasps.

"But why are you even back here anyway?" The defiance flickered back to life in her pale eyes as she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear with shaking fingers. "Does the Empress even know you're here?"

"She will." He turned away, but not before delivering one final look—the kind of stare that had preceded executions in his younger days. Naska stood amid the spilled silk and her own crumbled pride, her face flushed crimson with humiliation.

I'll have to look into her, he thought grimly as he strode toward the study. She should have been reassigned months ago. But Ana—merciful, trusting Ana—had kept her on. Always seeing the best in people, even when they showed her their worst.

Out of mercy.

Mercy gets exploited. He clenched his jaw, the pain in his skull now thudding like a war drum. He thought Naska to be the sharpest tool in the drawer, but it didn't mean someone else could use work through here. Use her. The girl could be a spy, a plant, a dozen different kinds of threat wrapped in the harmless disguise of incompetent service.

He clenched his jaw at the thought of danger still so close. One thing at a time. First Ana. Everything else could wait.

The corridor stretched before him, his boots striking marble in sand-muffled thuds that echoed off the vaulted ceiling. He didn't pause to appreciate the cool relief of being out of the desert sun, didn't slow to admire the palace's grandeur. The storm still raged inside him—gritty, sun-seared, muscles locked from days in the saddle.

However none of it mattered. Not the ache, not the grime, not the sand ground so deep into his scalp it felt like gravel. What mattered was ahead. But as his hand closed around the study door's ornate handle, something in his chest loosened. Just a fraction. Just enough to let him breathe again.

The door swung open with a whisper, and there she was.

Ana.

Those beautiful doe eyes flicked up from her paperwork, wide and startled, and Nugen felt something inside him crack open with relief so profound it nearly buckled his knees.

She was here. She was safe. She was—

"Admiral Nugen?" Her voice washed over him like cool water over sun-cracked earth, soft and musical and blessedly familiar.

Ana rose from behind her desk with fluid grace, a surprised smile blooming across her face like sunrise. The expression lit her from within, transforming her from the grave young Empress into someone younger, warmer, genuinely delighted to see him.

"I didn't expect you back until next Monday."

She's glad. The realization hit him with the force of a cavalry charge. There was no suspicion in her face, no wariness, no trace of the paranoia that should have been her constant companion. She looked at him like he was exactly what she wanted to see—a trusted friend returning from a difficult journey.

Ana didn't know. The thought was a blade between his ribs. She has no idea what's coming.

Here she stood, radiant with innocent pleasure at his return, completely unaware of the betrayal documented in the ledger tucked under his arm. Unaware that her own court was riddled with traitors. Unaware that every smile, every moment of trust, was being catalogued by enemies who would use her kindness against her.

Too young, he thought, his throat tightening with an emotion he couldn't name. Still too damn young for any of this.

Yes, she was a leader—stronger than anyone gave her credit for, with steel beneath that gentle exterior. But behind her composed mask, she was still just a girl who believed people were fundamentally good. Who extended mercy even when it cost her. Who trusted because the alternative was too terrible to contemplate.

The weight of what he was about to do crashed over him like an avalanche.

He bowed low, feeling sand cascade from his coat to hiss against the polished floor like the whisper of accusations. "Your Empress."

His voice came out rougher than intended, scraped raw by dust and emotion he couldn't afford to show. He felt filthy standing in her pristine study—covered in grime and horse sweat and the stench of hard travel—but she was already moving around the desk toward him, unconcerned by his appearance.

Of course she is, he thought with a mixture of affection and despair. Just like her mother. Too kind. Always too kind.

"But why are you here?" Ana's tone shifted, dipping into concern as she drew closer. Her brow creased with the beginnings of worry. "Did you find something? Do you have a clue? About the crossbows?"

Nugen straightened despite his spine's screaming protest, meeting her gaze squarely. The truth sat heavy as a stone in his chest.

"Aye. We have an urgent discovery. I came back the moment we confirmed it."

What? Nugen blinked, spinning to follow her gaze. When had the boy entered? He moved like smoke, this child, his small feet silent as snowfall on the marble. The boy sidled up to Ana's side with the easy familiarity of a favored pet, burgundy eyes soft and patient.

"Hello, Ana," Bruno said simply, his voice carrying that unsettling maturity that always set Nugen's teeth on edge.

The Admiral studied the child—no older than six, perhaps younger, but with those ancient eyes that seemed to catalog everything. Bruno's gaze swept over Nugen without haste, taking inventory like a merchant assessing goods. Then his attention caught on the ledger beneath Nugen's arm.

For just an instant, something flickered in those wine-dark eyes. The corner of Bruno's mouth twitched—was that recognition? Interest? The ghost of a smile?

Then it was gone, the boy's face smoothing back into that mask of childish devotion as he looked up at Ana with reverent attention.

What was that? But Nugen pushed the concern aside. He had more pressing matters.

"Are supplies still going missing?" he asked Ana, needing confirmation before he shattered her world.

She blinked, refocusing on him with visible effort. "That—yes, it is. Another shipment was intercepted while you were gone."

"So it's still happening." His grip tightened on the ledger until his knuckles went white. The leather cover was warm and slightly damp from his palm's sweat.

"But how did you guess? Wait—is this about what you found? Do you have an update?"

"I do." The words came out quietly, weighted with finality. He lifted the book between them like an offering on an altar—or evidence at an execution. "I have proof."

I'm so sorry, he thought as Ana reached for it. I'm so sorry it has to be this way. I tried to warn you. I tried to…

Her fingers brushed his as she took the ledger, and he flinched at the contact like he'd been burned. He wanted to hold her hand, wanted to cup her face and tell her everything would be alright, to shield her from what was coming, rose so strong it nearly choked him. But he couldn't. He could never.

Nugen had made his choice—his vow. He'd given up that right thirteen years ago.

His role now was to serve, to protect, to deliver hard truths even when they destroyed the people he cared about most.

Even if it cut her open inside, he would protect her.

"I have proof."

Her fingers brushed his as she took the book—his skin flinched like he'd been burned. He wanted to hold her hand, wanted to cup her face and tell her everything would be alright. But he couldn't. He could never.

"Proof?" Ana repeated, her voice smaller now, uncertainty creeping in around the edges.

"The reason we're continuing to lose supplies. I found it."

She opened the ledger with careful fingers, flipping through pages covered in neat columns of figures. Her brow creased deeper with each turn, confusion giving way to something sharper.

"This just looks like someone's ledger."

"Go to the last page." His voice came out rougher than he intended. "Read the last entry."

She started to protest, but the moment her eyes found the final notation, the words died in her throat. Nugen watched the blood drain from her face, watched her pupils dilate with shock. Her breath caught audibly, a small sound of pain that hit him like a physical blow.

A long, hollow silence wrapped around them.

Ana closed the book with exaggerated care and handed it back, but her fingers lingered against his for a heartbeat too long. Not in hesitation—in devastation.

"You..." she began, then stopped, the word hanging incomplete in the air.

Her gaze went distant, staring past him, past Bruno, into some middle distance where terrible realizations lived. She wasn't speaking. Wasn't moving. Just standing there like a statue carved from grief.

"Your Empress," Nugen said softly, cautiously, the way one might approach a wounded animal. "It's clear now that—"

"Court has already started." Her voice came out stripped of all feeling, mechanical as a clockwork automaton.

He flinched. It was like watching her fold inward, retreating behind a shell of logic. Forcing whatever she was feeling down and away to protect hereself in that moment. 

Ana drew a long, shuddering breath and squared her shoulders with visible effort. "I will meet you in a moment."

"But, Your Empress—" He lifted the ledger again, desperate to make her understand. "With this evidence, we need to act immediately. We must—"

"Admiral Nugen." Her voice came out carefully controlled, each syllable measured and precise, but he could hear the tremor beneath—like ice over rushing water, thin and ready to crack. She lifted her chin, spine straightening with that regal composure he'd watched her practice since childhood, but it was too late.

He'd already seen them. The tears gathering in her eyes like morning dew, threatening to spill over despite her desperate attempt to contain them. Her throat worked silently as she swallowed whatever words—or sobs—wanted to escape, her jaw clenched so tightly he could see the muscle jumping beneath her pale skin.

"I said... I will meet you in a moment." The words came out barely above a whisper, her composure hanging by the thinnest of threads.

The sight of her struggling not to break apart in front of him hit Nugen like a war hammer to the chest. Every instinct screamed at him to close the distance between them, to pull her into his arms and let her cry against his shoulder until the pain dulled to something bearable. To stroke her silver hair and murmur promises he had no right to make—that everything would be alright, that he would fix this, that she didn't have to carry this burden alone.

If only, his heart whispered. If only I could.

But he couldn't. His station, his vows, the very foundations of everything they'd built together—it all stood between them like an insurmountable wall. He was her Admiral, her protector, her servant. Nothing more. Nothing less.

The only kindness he could offer was to pretend he didn't see her tears. To give her the dignity of her composure, even as it crumbled at the edges.

He bowed deeply, the movement formal and respectful, his voice rough with unspoken emotion. "Yes, Your Empress."

As he turned toward the door, his peripheral vision caught Ana's slight figure trembling almost imperceptibly, her hands clasped so tightly in front of her that her knuckles had gone white. Bruno moved closer to her side with that eerie intuition of his, not quite touching but offering his silent presence like a shield.

At the threshold, Nugen's gaze met Bruno's one final time. The boy's wine-dark eyes held an expression far too knowing for his apparent age—understanding, perhaps even sympathy, but threaded through with something else. Something that made the hair on the back of Nugen's neck stand on end.

Then—the faintest tilt of Bruno's head. A nod? A warning? A promise? Nugen couldn't tell, but he didn't have the strength to ask. Not anymore.

He stepped into the corridor and closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded like a death knell.

I have the truth, he thought grimly, The ledger weighed on him like a sealed verdict—unopened, but final.". And soon, the court will too.

But what Ana would do with that truth—whether she would find the strength to act on it or let mercy stay her hand once again—that remained to be seen.

He had done his part. The rest was up to her. As much as it might hurt her.

However, Nugen could do nothing more for her now. His role allowed him to do this much. Even if it meant walking away from Ana when she needed him most.

*Bruno*

About time. 

Bruno beamed, barely able to contain the triumphant puff of pride in his chest. I was starting to think he'd never find it.

He stood tall—Sir Bruno, Defender of the Empress—fists on his hips, chin tipped toward the painted ceiling like the brave knight carved into the big hall tapestry. The one who held a broken spear in one hand and the monster's head in the other. That's who Bruno was now. The ledger had been intercepted after much held breath and worried nights. But it was victorious! The dark spell broken. 

Now, The Bad Knight would finally be caught—and the dragon, too. Maybe even the wicked wizard who counted his coins and murmered lies from the shadows.

They were all going down.

The battle was almost over. Banners would rise. There'd be music and bread and maybe even fireworks again like during the Festival of Light.

He had done his part. Quiet as a mouse. Clever as a fox. Brave as a lion. Sir Bruno had protected his fair princess Ana.

Now that he has that ledger Ana can finaly punish them like they deserve and- but something tugged at him. A shift in the air.

Bruno blinked, his excitement faltering. The silence stretched between them like a held breath.

Where was the cheer? The music? The Empress's shining smile?

Where was the part of the story where everyone clapped and said "we did it"?

His shoulders began to sag as he turned, the proud knight's stance melting away.

This isn't like Ana's stories. It didn't feel like a victory should. The study was quiet. Too quiet. Not library-quiet. Not naptime-quiet. Wrong quiet.

The kind of quiet that pressed against your skin like invisible hands, the kind that made you want to look over your shoulder because something felt like it was watching from the shadows between the bookshelves.

Bruno's heart gave a little thump, then another, faster now.

The afternoon light streaming through the tall windows fell harshly across Ana's face as he turned back to see her standing motionless. The golden rays that should have made her glow instead revealed something that made his stomach clench.

She hadn't moved. She stood like a statue carved from cold marble—face blank as parchment, mouth slightly open as if she'd forgotten to close it, her scarlet eyes staring at something only she could see. Something far away and terrible. Her gaze hung low, not seeing the polished floor but something past it, something deep inside that hurt to look at.

Bruno took an unconscious step backward, his small boots scuffing against the carpet.

"Ana?" he whispered, his voice suddenly small in the vast room.

She didn't respond. Didn't even blink. Her chest rose and fell in careful, measured breaths, as if she had to remind herself to keep breathing.

Bruno's heart hammered against his ribs now. He reached for her hand with trembling fingers.

It was cold. Not like usual-cold when Ana forgot to eat and her fingers went all papery. Not even winter-cold when the fires had to keep burning so no one would freeze.

This was the cold of deep water, of stone cellars, of places where warmth had never lived. It felt like something inside her had gone still and would never move again.

Concerned, he rubbed her hand quickly. Trying to warm her up. Bring her back to life. "Ana, are you—?"

She blinked then—once, twice—and Bruno saw her eyes clearly for the first time. They were glassy and wet, tears balanced on her lower lashes like dewdrops ready to fall. Her eyelids fluttered as if she was fighting to stay awake, or maybe fighting to keep something locked away.

Bruno's stomach dropped to his shoes.

No no no! What was this? What was happening?

"No. Don't cry." His voice cracked. "You're not supposed to cry. This isn't–. Why are you crying, no."

He squeezed her cold hands harder, as if he could hold all her pieces together through sheer force of will. "I thought you'd be happy. I thought…" His chest hurt now, right in the middle. Like that time he fell off the stable rail and couldn't breathe right for a whole minute.

"Did I do it wrong?" he asked, his voice breaking. Did I somehow fail? Did he hurt his lady? Somehow?

He couldn't understand. This wasn't what was supposed to happen. She was supposed to be strong. Proud. Laughing, maybe. Wrapping him in a hug and calling him her knight. That's what should've happened.

But instead—

"I don't understand," he whispered, his small hands still gripping hers. "You were supposed to be—"

"Ana, please don't—"

But Ana's jaw clenched once, hard, like she was biting down on something painful. Her eyes squeezed shut for just a heartbeat, and when they opened again, something had shifted. She drew in a careful breath and lifted her chin slowly, deliberately.

"Bruno," she said softly, her voice steady now, controlled. She pulled her lips into a gentle smile—not bright or artificial, but quiet and measured.

Her hand came up to cup his cheek, fingers still trembling slightly, but her touch was still cool.

But even as she spoke, Bruno could see the tightness around her eyes, the way her smile didn't quite reach them. Her voice was calm, but there was something underneath it—something she was holding back.

"I'm not crying," she said, her tone matter-of-fact, almost conversational. She brought her other hand up and touched just beneath her eyes with careful fingertips. "See? All dry."

Her smile widened just a fraction, and she brushed a piece of hair from his forehead with practiced gentleness. "Empresses don't cry, remember? We talked about this."

But her breathing hitched for just a moment—so brief Bruno almost missed it—and her fingers lingered against his hair as if she needed the contact to steady herself.

Bruno nodded, but his legs felt shaky beneath him. Her words were gentle, her touch warm, but something was wrong. Her smile kept wavering at the corners, like she had to concentrate to keep it in place. Her cheeks were still blotchy, and when she thought he wasn't looking, her composure would slip for just an instant—a tightening of her mouth, a flutter of her eyelids, a quick swallow.

She was trying so hard to be normal, to be the Ana he knew, but Bruno could see the cracks in her careful control.

"Ana," Bruno started to say, but she shook her head gently.

"I know what you're going to ask," she said, her voice still that careful, controlled tone. "And I'm fine. Really." The word 'fine' came out just a little too sharp, a little too quick, betraying the effort it took to say it.

She pulled her hand away slowly, reluctantly, as if she didn't want to lose the connection either. "I just need to go take care of some things now. Empress duties."

Her smile faltered for just a moment as she glanced toward the door, and Bruno saw something flicker across her face—fear, maybe, or dread—before she caught herself and the composed mask slipped back into place.

"I'm late," she said, glancing at the tall clock near the window. Its steady tick-tick-tick suddenly seemed thunderously loud in the silence, counting down to something terrible. Her voice came from that faraway place again, hollow and tired. Not sleepy-tired. The bone-deep tiredness that comes after nightmares, after battles fought in darkness.

She straightened her shawl with precise movements, each gesture controlled and deliberate. The golden chains clinked softly against the sapphires of her crown, and she adjusted it with the practiced motions of someone who had learned to never let anyone see her less than perfect.

But her hands shook just slightly as she did it.

"Will you be alright on your own for a while?" she asked, and there was genuine concern in her voice, cutting through the careful composure. For a moment, she was just Ana again—his Ana who worried about him.

Bruno nodded, though he wanted to shake his head, wanted to ask her to stay, wanted to understand what was making her work so hard to seem normal.

"Good," she said, and her smile became a little more real, a little warmer. "You're growing up so fast."

She leaned down and pressed a gentle kiss to the top of his head, and Bruno felt her breath shudder just slightly against his hair.

When she straightened, the careful composure was back in place, but Bruno could see how much effort it took—the way she held her spine too straight, the way her breathing was too controlled.

"I'll see you later," she said, her voice gentle but distant. She turned toward the door with measured steps, each one precise and graceful, but Bruno could see the tension in her shoulders, the way she held herself like she might break if she moved too quickly.

As she reached the doorway, she paused for just a heartbeat—so brief Bruno almost missed it. Her hand touched the door frame, knuckles white with pressure, and for one moment her carefully controlled breathing hitched.

Then she was gone, and the sound of the latch clicking shut behind her echoed in the sudden quiet, leaving Bruno alone with the lingering sense that Ana had been holding herself together by the thinnest of threads, and that somewhere beyond that door, those threads were about to snap.

Bruno stood alone in the suddenly enormous study, his legs finally giving out. He sank to the floor, knees hitting the carpet with a soft thump that seemed to echo in the terrible quiet.

The wrongness pressed down on him now—not just Ana's pain, but her desperate need to hide it from him, to protect him even while she was breaking. And somehow, that made it hurt even more.

The dragon wasn't dead yet. And the Bad Knight still had claws.

And Empress Ana—She wasn't walking to a celebration but a new battle.

One that Bruno didn't understand. A place no knight, no matter how small or brave or determined, could reach. Something that was within his lady to fight… alone.