Distracted But True

*Ana* 

"Your Empress? Can we begin, now?"

The voice crawls through fog, distant and warped—an echo trapped in the belly of a tomb. My mind grasps at the sound, fingers closing around smoke. The words feel unreal, weightless, as if they belong to someone else's nightmare. A dream, whispers the desperate part of my brain, the part that still believes in gentle lies. Just a dream.

But then a cough slices through the haze—sharp as a blade against bone, deliberate as a executioner's ax. The sound drags me back like iron hooks in flesh, tearing through the merciful numbness.

Aunt Funda's silhouette sharpens at the edge of my vision, too close, her presence pressing against me like heat from a forge. She's wrapped in coral silk that catches the light like spilled blood, pearls threading through her wispy bun like tiny teeth. Her jeweled fingers hover near my arm—close enough that I can smell the rosewater on her skin, the metallic tang of her rings—but she doesn't touch. Instead, she flutters her ivory fan, its edge tapping against her jewelry in a rhythm that crawls under my skin like insects.

Her lips, painted the color of bruised plums, press into a line that wavers between mockery and disgust. The expression makes my stomach clench.

I blink, each movement of my eyelids like lifting stones. My neck feels brittle as old parchment as I raise my chin. The light floods in—too bright, too sharp, carving the world into jagged pieces. Colors assault me: the flash of emeralds, the gleam of gold, the endless sea of red that marks my bloodline. Sound crashes over me in waves—silk rustling like dried leaves, the whisper of fans, the soft chime of jewelry, the barely contained murmur of voices.

 "Are you… alright?" Her voice does not harbor care, the question is not meant to be tender or warm. It's spoken more out of duty to an Empress, out of decorum—obligation, not concern. Just the performance of it.

My aunt tilts her head, studying me like a cat watching a wounded bird. "Do you need a moment?"

"No—I'm fine." The words scrape out of my throat like gravel, foreign and sharp. My tongue feels thick, clumsy. Not quite a lie, not quite truth—just sound shaped into something that might pass for certainty.

I sit straighter, my spine protesting as I peel myself away from the gilded throne. The carved wood has left impressions in my back, and a dull ache blooms between my shoulder blades like a bruise flowering under skin. How long have I been frozen like this? The thought drifts through my mind like smoke. How long was I gone?

The courtroom assembles itself around me in fragments, like a shattered mirror slowly piecing itself together. Lords and Ladies line the chamber walls, their robes shimmering with fresh silks that catch the light like scales. Their faces blur together—lips pressed thin with offense or curiosity, eyes bright with barely contained judgment. The air hangs thick with competing scents: jasmine and musk, sweat masked by rosewater, the metallic bite of jewelry, and underneath it all, the gritty whisper of desert sand carried on the breeze.

A crack in the high windows lets in air that tastes of gardens and dust, the sweet decay of flowers mixing with the harsh clarity of stone and heat. The afternoon sun slants through tall windows in golden bars, warming the room until it feels like breathing honey. No braziers burn—the light is heat enough, casting jeweled fragments across the floor and walls like scattered stars.

The warmth presses against my throat, my collarbone, but my hands remain cold as marble. When did I last eat? Not blood—food. Real food. The thought floats past like a ghost, and I cannot catch it.

I cannot remember anything before Admiral Nugen appeared with his terrible truths and—

Above us stretches the ceiling, painted in deep celestial blue and etched with gold stars that seem to pulse in the light. The dome creates the illusion of being cradled beneath a divine sky, each painted constellation a reminder of the emperors who sat here before me. My mother. Her father. His father. All of them looking up at these same stars, making the choices that shaped an empire.

The weight of their legacy presses down like a physical thing, settling on my shoulders until I feel I might sink through the floor entirely.

It's beautiful—this room where history was written in blood and gold. But it feels as distant from me as those painted stars, as if I'm looking at it through glass.

A cough from below snaps my attention back. Red eyes fix on me from every corner—nobles on both sides of the chamber, waiting, watching. Expectation perches on every shoulder like a carrion bird, black wings rustling with impatience. I've been still too long. They've noticed.

Whispers ripple across the room like wind through grain:

"She's dazed again."

"Perhaps it's her monthly?" The suggestion comes with poorly concealed snickers from the men, their voices carrying the lazy cruelty of those who've never known consequence.

Aunt Funda makes a sound like a cat with a hairball, lifting her fan to hide the curl of her lip. "This is incredibly inconvenient," she mutters, her voice pitched just loud enough to carry. "I was beginning fittings for my spring attire but had to drop everything because of…" She let's the word run unsaid with a not-so-subtle glare toward me. 

Uncle Charles shifts beside her, his round belly straining against embroidered silk as he adjusts his vest with pudgy fingers. "If I miss another shipment log over this," he grumbles, mopping sweat from his bald head, "there'll be more than fabric to worry about. We've lost two full crates from the northeast route just this week."

The words hit me like a physical blow. My chest tightens, and I feel myself flinch—a small, involuntary movement that might as well be blood in shark-infested waters.

Laughter rises like smoke, cruel and sharp.

"Oh, Empress, really—do we even have ships anymore?" Lord Vinton's voice cuts through the noise, dripping with theatrical dismay. He twirls the ruby signet ring on his finger like a coin, his round face flushed wine-red with heat and amusement.

"I say we hand the pirates a crown and save ourselves the trouble!" Lady Merra barks, her sharp chin lifting as her golden bangles chime with each gesture. The sound is like tiny bells celebrating my humiliation.

"Or perhaps we crown the pirates and ask them to fix our roads!" Viscount Harrin's voice carries from the back, his neck disappearing into his high collar as he snorts with laughter.

More voices join the chorus, each laugh a small cut, each word a needle finding its mark.

My hands curl against the carved armrests of the throne, nails biting into polished wood until my knuckles go white. The sensation grounds me, pain cutting through the fog of humiliation and rage that threatens to drown me.

Dangerous. The thought flickers through my mind like lightning. This is dangerous. I need to focus.

Court. We're in court. I'm holding a session because Admiral Nugen returned with—

My thoughts collapse like a house of cards, scattered by the memory that slams into me with the force of a physical blow. The black ledger. Its leather binding worn smooth by countless hands. The neat columns of ink that cut through my hope like a blade through silk. Numbers that spelled out betrayal in language too clear to misunderstand.

Not me, I think desperately. They didn't just betray me—they betrayed all of us. All of Nochten.

But the distinction feels paper-thin, ready to tear under the weight of what I know.

I glance down at my hands, folded in my lap with the careful precision of a corpse. My knuckles are bloodless, white as bone. I'm gripping myself so tightly I can feel my pulse in my fingertips.

I should speak, the thought drifts through my mind like a leaf on still water. They're waiting for me to speak.

"I—" The sound comes out cracked, not royal at all. My lips seal shut before I can make it worse, trapping the words behind my teeth like caged birds.

I have to speak. Say something measured, logical, befitting an empress.

Not the truth that's clawing at my throat. Not what I'm feeling as the certainty settles into my bones like poison. I can't excuse it anymore. Can't pretend it away.

I am Empress. The words echo in my skull like a prayer. I cannot afford to feel this.

But still, nothing comes. My throat constricts until breathing feels like swallowing glass. My jaw locks, fangs pressing against my lips as they clamp shut in a hard line. The words I need refuse to form, as if my body recognizes their weight before my mind can lift them.

Not personal, I remind myself, the thought as cold as winter stone. This isn't about me. This is about the empire.

But it feels like something has been carved out of my chest with a rusty knife. Left me hollow. Exposed. Raw.

The truth I want to scream and the words I need to say tangle together like thorns. I reach for logic, for the measured tone of an empress, but it slips through my fingers like water.

Control. The word burns behind my breastbone. I must be in control.

I clasp my hands tighter until my bones ache, using the pain to anchor myself to the moment. To this throne. To what I must do.

"I gathered you all here today..." The words come out soft but steady, carrying the weight of authority even as they scrape my throat raw.

Behind my teeth, the real truth writhes like a living thing: Because someone betrayed us. Because someone thought I wouldn't see. Because someone believed me weak enough to fool.

The thought blooms in my chest like rot, cold and jagged and hungry.

My gaze sweeps the court deliberately now, taking in the sea of red hair and smug expressions, the veiled interest and barely contained amusement. Crimson eyes, crimson lips, crimson trim threading through silk and brocade. Red everywhere, like being drowning in blood.

Once, I looked for friendly faces among them. Searched for allies, for understanding. I was young then. Naive.

I'd learned better. But betrayal cuts deeper than disappointment, festering in places hope used to live. It makes me want to shake them, to scream that this throne isn't a prize to be won or a target to be toppled. That I was never their enemy.

I've only ever tried to help. The thought tastes bitter as wormwood. To make Nochten better. To bring us forward into something greater.

But I don't scream. I sit as I always have—polished and cold, composed as carved marble. My gown of ash grey catches the afternoon light, the modest onyx buttons glinting like small, dark eyes. The fabric feels heavy as armor, stiff against my skin. My hair pulls at my scalp where it's pinned in careful braids, hidden beneath my shawl as always. Hidden from their judgment, their assessment of how far I still need to prove myself worthy.

The silver crown pinches above my temples, and my ceremonial chains shift with each breath, chiming softly against the metal. Their sound draws attention to the silence I've let stretch too long, to the expectation hanging in the air like smoke.

I cannot falter. Not here. Not now.

If Admiral Nugen is right—and I know he is, saw the proof with my own eyes—then this isn't suspicion anymore. This is certainty. Cold, careful numbers that someone used to bleed my empire dry, to leave my people defenseless while enemies circled like vultures.

Treason. The word sits in my mouth like a stone. Someone I trusted committed treason.

My fingers curl tighter around the throne's armrests, the carved wood biting into my palms through my sleeves. If I don't hold onto something solid, I might dissolve entirely.

"Your Empress?"

Aunt Funda's voice floats to me again, softer now but edged with something that might almost be concern—if concern could carry such calculation. Her rings catch the light as she fidgets, and I can smell the nervous sweat beneath her perfume.

I turn to her slowly, every movement deliberate, refusing to let the tremor in my bones show. She leans closer, her breath warm against my cheek, eyes already darting toward Mykhol as if he might save her from whatever comes next.

"Perhaps we should reschedule?" The suggestion carries the tone of helpful advice, but her gaze is pure desperation. "You seem... unwell."

But Mykhol doesn't respond. Doesn't even blink.

He stands rigid as a statue carved from winter itself, that familiar too-elegant posture holding him upright. His hair catches the light like spun gold, the hoops in his ears glinting like small suns. His black doublet with its silver embroidery fits him perfectly, every line tailored to suggest power and grace.

But it's not poise that holds him so still—it's restraint. Control stretched so tight I can almost hear it humming like a bowstring about to snap.

His arms hang loose at his sides, but his shoulders are set like a man bracing for impact. His jaw works almost imperceptibly, muscle jumping beneath pale skin. That slow, gathering stillness that comes before the storm. Not calm—never calm. Tension coiled beneath polished glass, waiting for the right pressure to shatter everything.

Aunt Funda notices it too. Her lips press into a bloodless line as she turns toward him again. "Mykhol?" The name carries a warning now, smoke and steel wound together.

I follow her gaze, and something cold settles in the pit of my stomach like a stone dropped in still water.

How hadn't I noticed? Mykhol is always the loudest voice in any room, always ready with a joke or a cutting observation. He fills spaces with his presence like light fills a prism, breaking into a thousand brilliant pieces.

Now he's... absent. Not physically—he stands exactly where he should, exactly as he always does. But the essential him-ness has retreated somewhere I can't reach.

Not a word. Not a laugh. Not even a scoff or eye-roll. Just silence, deep and complete as a grave.

His lips are drawn in a line that doesn't belong on his face, too severe for the casual confidence he usually wears like silk. And his eyes—sharp as winter sky, pale as morning frost—aren't even on me.

They're fixed across the room with the intensity of a hawk watching prey.

Admiral Nugen. Of course.

The old soldier stands near the eastern archway, still in his travel clothes. He hasn't changed since arriving—dust still streaks his cloak, sweat still stains his collar, salt still clings to his choppy hair like frost. His large, scarred hands grip the ledger like it's both weapon and shield, knuckles white with the force of his hold. The leather binding shows wear from constant handling, edges fraying from his desperate grip.

Nugen came straight here. Didn't stop to rest or wash or change. Loyal to his bones, unbending as iron. Devoted to me. Needing to show me what he found.

And Mykhol's eyes remain fixed on him with an intensity that makes my skin crawl. But it's different now—not the usual lazy amusement or courtly superiority that normally dances in his gaze. All of that has been stripped away, leaving something colder. Something that calculates and measures and weighs.

It's the look he gets when studying a chess board, when plotting three moves ahead. When figuring out how to win.

But why would he need to, unless he already knows—

My hands clench beneath my gown, and I force the thought away. I can't afford paranoia. Not now.

"No." My voice cuts through the room like a blade through silk, soft but sharp enough to draw blood. "This cannot wait."

Aunt Funda actually stutters, the sound catching in her throat like a bone. "Oh... I see." Her lips twist into something that might have been a smile on someone else's face. Her eyes slide toward Mykhol again, seeking support that doesn't come. "Then if you don't mind, we're all quite busy, and I'd prefer to hurry this along—"

"You do not tell an Empress what to do, Lady Funda." The words crack like a whip across stone.

The sound echoes off the domed ceiling, sharp and final. Even I'm surprised by the edge in my voice, the authority that rings through every syllable. But it feels good—like something I've been swallowing for too long finally finding its way free.

Heads turn throughout the chamber, faces registering shock, confusion, something that might even be respect. My aunt especially recoils as if I've struck her, one jeweled hand flying to her throat while her mouth opens and closes like a landed fish.

"Your Empress, I would never—" The words die in her throat as her eyes meet mine. For perhaps the first time in thirteen years, Aunt Funda retreats, stepping back into Uncle Charles's shadow like a child seeking shelter.

My uncle, sweat beading on his bald head despite the afternoon warmth, blinks rapidly through his small spectacles. "Your Empress, my wife didn't mean—" But his voice cracks mid-sentence, uncertainty making him small and ineffective.

A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth before I can stop it. Just for a moment, I taste what it might be like to have real power after all those years of her telling me what to do. To speak and be obeyed without question or mockery. It's nice.

But the moment passes, and I remember why we're here.

I'm stalling, I realize with a jolt of clarity. Delaying the inevitable.

I straighten, feeling the weight of the crown, the chains, the expectations. "Admiral Nugen and his company have returned early from their investigation."

The words hit the court like stones thrown into still water. Gasps ripple outward, fans freeze mid-flutter, silk rustles as bodies shift in sudden attention. Behind the quiet, someone snorts—a sound like a pig rooting in mud.

"We can see that, Your Empress," Lord Puth drawls, his wide chest puffed with self-importance. One fat hand rests atop his jewel-headed cane while the other gestures dismissively. "Surprised he made it back at all, frankly."

His wife Lady Cerise titters beside him, her bracelets chiming like wind chimes in a storm. The sound sets my teeth on edge.

"Admiral Nugen's come back with his tail between his legs," Lord Fully adds, his voice rich with cruel amusement. A few nobles chuckle—some hidden behind gloves, others bold in their mockery.

The laughter feels like oil on my skin, slick and contaminating. My gaze snaps to Lord Fully, and something in my expression makes his smile falter.

"He has done no such thing, Lord Fully." Each word drops like a stone into still water.

Blood drains from his face until he looks corpse-pale. "Your Empress, I was merely—"

"Silence."

He obeys instantly, jaw snapping shut with an audible click. The effect ripples through the court—spines straightening, voices dying, attention focusing with laser precision on the throne.

For the first time in years, they're truly listening. The sensation is intoxicating, like wine on an empty stomach.

I should have done this sooner, I think with crystalline clarity. All these years of trying to earn their respect when I could have simply demanded it.

But even as the thought forms, I know it's not that simple. Nothing ever is.

And I will never be that kind of Empress. Even if I can see the temptation. Still…

I rise slightly, letting my voice carry to every corner of the vaulted chamber. "Admiral Nugen has returned early because he has discovered evidence during his investigation."

The word evidence hits the room like a physical blow. I can actually see it land—faces going pale, hands trembling, eyes widening with something that looks suspiciously like fear.

"Evidence?" Aunt Funda's voice cracks on the word, too loud, too sharp. Her hand clutches her pearl necklace so tightly the strand bites into her throat, leaving red marks against pale skin. "What kind of evidence could he possibly—"

"You're joking," Lady Darvine mutters, fanning herself with violent intensity. Her eyes dart around the room like a trapped animal seeking escape. "Surely you can't be serious—"

"The human actually found something?" someone whispers from the back before being immediately hushed.

Below the dais, smug expressions crumble into uncertainty. Lord Tressil, resplendent in gold-threaded robes that match his mining fortune, shifts his weight from foot to foot while his eyes scan the room for allies. Beside him, Lady Fenya's fingers worry at her emerald earring, twisting the stone in endless, desperate circles.

The change in atmosphere is palpable—thick as honey, sharp as broken glass.

"Admiral Nugen," I call, my voice cutting through the whispers like a blade. "Present your findings."

The Admiral steps forward with the measured pace of a man who has faced death and found it wanting. His weather-beaten boots thud against stone, each step echoing in the sudden quiet. Dust motes dance in the golden light streaming through the windows, and I can smell the road on him—leather and horse and honest sweat.

He stops before the court and raises a thick, leather-bound book like an offering to the gods.

"Your Empress," his voice rasps like wind through desert stone, "we have recovered the original bookkeeper's ledger."

"The original—no, that's impossible—" Funda's voice shatters mid-sentence, the words tumbling over each other like stones down a hill.

Uncle Charles has gone gray as old parchment, sweat now running freely down his temples despite the gentle breeze. His hands shake as they grip his forgotten scroll.

"Perhaps we're being hasty," Funda blurts, nervous laughter bubbling up like blood from a wound. "This evidence—surely it should be reviewed privately first? Don't you think, Your Empress? Mykhol?" Her eyes dart to her son with naked desperation, seeking the lifeline he's always provided.

Finally—finally—he moves.

It's barely perceptible, just a breath, a flicker. But I catch it because I've been watching. His eyes peel away from Admiral Nugen with the slow deliberation of someone pulling a knife from a sheath.

When they meet mine, something cold runs down my spine like ice water.

He's pale, but not with fear. His face is unreadable as carved marble, but there's a sheen to his skin that wasn't there before—sweat beading along his hairline despite the careful composure. His throat works once, swallowing something that might be words or might be bile.

And then I see it: the smallest upward twitch of his left eyebrow.

Click. Like a lock opening. Like a puzzle piece sliding into place.

Understanding floods his features—not the slow dawn of realization, but the sudden blaze of revelation. His lips part slightly, and for just a moment, I see something that might be... relief?

His gaze breaks from mine and returns to Admiral Nugen, but the quality of his attention has changed. No longer alarm or confusion, but interest. The sharp, predatory interest of a hunter who has just spotted his prey.

Why would he look like that unless he already knew—

I force myself to focus. Whatever game Mykhol is playing, whatever he knows or doesn't know, it doesn't matter right now. I have a duty to my empire, to my people.

"Admiral Nugen," I say, my voice carrying clearly through the chamber, "present your findings."

"This ledger," Nugen continues, raising the book higher so all can see its worn binding and yellowed pages, "shows discrepancies that cannot be explained by error or accident. Shipments redirected without authorization. Funds misreported by significant margins. Dates that conflict with the empire's official records."

He pauses, letting the words settle like dust in a tomb.

"It proves, without question, that there were meant to be sixty boxes of crossbows delivered from Almony to strengthen our border defenses."

The silence stretches tight as a garrote.

"And only forty were recorded as arrived in our armories. Twenty boxes missing—twenty boxes I can prove were diverted to the Bulgeons. Our enemies received weapons meant to protect our own people."

"Twenty boxes!" The scream tears from Lady Telra's throat, her blue-gloved hands pressed to her cheeks as she staggers backward. Lord Vent, standing behind her, makes no move to catch her as she stumbles.

The court explodes.

Voices crash together like breaking waves—gasps of horror, cries of outrage, the sharp crack of disbelief. Bodies surge forward and back, silk rustling like autumn leaves in a storm. Fans snap shut, jewelry chimes discordantly, and the air fills with the acidic smell of fear-sweat beneath expensive perfume.

"What are you saying?"

"Someone sold our weapons to our enemies?"

"This is madness!"

"Good men have died because of this!" Lord Marrin's voice cuts through the chaos like a blade, rough and raw with grief. His son was among those who fell in last month's skirmishes with the Bulgeons, cut down by weapons that should have been in our hands, not theirs. "I demand justice! Who is responsible?"

"Yes, Your Empress!" Other voices join his, sharp with newfound outrage. For the first time since I took the throne, they're not mocking me—they're looking to me for answers. For leadership. For justice.

But not all of them. Some faces in the crowd have gone pale as winter snow, eyes darting toward the dais where my family stands. Following the implications like a trail of breadcrumbs leading to an inevitable conclusion.

Aunt Funda's fan has frozen in her grip, her painted lips parted as if she might faint. Uncle Charles stands catatonic beside her, his eyes locked on the ledger like a rabbit watching a snake.

Their shock is almost perfect. Almost convincing.

But it's not them that draws my attention like a lodestone draws iron.

It's Mykhol.

He still hasn't spoken—hasn't so much as drawn breath loudly enough to be heard over the chaos. But something fundamental has changed in his posture. The rigid tension has melted away, replaced by something that looks almost like... peace.

He brushes an invisible speck of dust from his doublet with the casual elegance of a man who has just solved a particularly challenging riddle. His chin lifts slightly, and his eyes—those rich, calculating eyes—shine with an inner light that makes my stomach clench.

He looks like someone who has just figured out how to win a game he was losing badly. Someone who has found the move that will topple the king.

"Go on, Admiral Nugen." I grip the armrests harder, feeling the carved wood bite into my palms through the fabric of my gloves. "Continue."

Admiral Nugen's weathered face is grim as winter stone as his gaze sweeps the room. "I have here evidence that proves there is a traitor among—"

"It's because of me, Anastasia."

The words slice through the chaos like a sword through silk. The court falls silent so suddenly I can hear my own heartbeat, can hear the soft whisper of dust settling on stone.

I turn to stare at him, stunned into stillness. He looks back at me with eyes calm as still water, no trace of the tension that held him rigid moments before. He stands tall, elegant shadow stretching across the dais and down the steps like a dark river.

His smile is gentle—the private one he saves for me alone, not the courtier's mask he wears for others. It transforms his face, makes him look younger, more vulnerable. More like the cousin I grew up with instead of the political creature he's become.

When he speaks again, his voice carries clearly through the chamber, but it feels intimate, as if he's speaking only to me. As if this confession—this revelation—is meant for my ears alone.

"It's because of me."

The words hang in the air like smoke, like the last breath before an execution, like the moment between lightning and thunder when the world holds its breath and waits for everything to change.