Perfect Act

*Mykhol*

Now, left behind on the dais, the applause long faded and the last traces of heavy perfumes and scented oils of the nobility thinning in the air, Mykhol let out a slow breath. The sound escaped him like steam from a kettle—soft, controlled, yet carrying the weight of barely contained pressure. He hadn't realized he was holding it—not until the burn in his chest released with a faint tremble that rippled through his shoulders and down to his fingertips.

The silence was oppressive in the great vaulted room, thick as velvet curtains drawn against sunlight. Not the kind that soothed, but the kind that scraped against his eardrums like fingernails on stone. The echo of his own breathing seemed to bounce off the marble walls, amplified until it felt like a stranger's lungs working beside him. He almost wished he was surrounded by Lords and Ladies pawing for his attention, their cloying voices and desperate laughter anything to drown out the hollow thrum of his own pulse. Anything to keep the sense of disaster, of how close things had come to his ultimate downfall, from clawing at his thoughts like hungry ravens.

Too close. The words tasted bitter on his tongue, metallic and sharp.

His smile, once firm and charming as polished silver, dropped by degrees until only a hard line remained. Cold. Clean. Bloodless as winter moonlight on snow.

"How," he whispered under his breath, the word scraping past his teeth like broken glass, "did he get the book?"

The question made his jaw tense, sinew tightening like iron cords beneath pale skin that had gone waxy in the afternoon light filtering through the stained glass windows. He gripped a fold of his tunic at his side, balling the velvet until it wrinkled in his fist like paper catching fire, the expensive fabric protesting with tiny, almost inaudible tears.

That could've gone very, very wrong.The thought hit him like ice water in his veins.

He could feel it now, in the hollowness at the pit of his spine, in the sweat chilling beneath his collar. That ledger wasn't supposed to resurface. It wasn't even supposed to be a threat.

And yet—it had been there. Solid. Real. Damning. In his weathered hands.

Admiral Nugen. Of all people.The man's gruff voice still echoed in Mykhol's ears, each word like a hammer blow against his carefully constructed facade.

Mykhol's fangs pressed against the inside of his cheek. Slowly, deliberately, he flicked his tongue against one—hard enough to draw blood. The metallic taste filled his mouth like rusted coins.

No, that wasn't a coincidence. That wasn't luck. That wasn't random. His eyes narrowed to crimson slits as he clenched his jaw tighter, veins straining against the surface of his pale skin like dark rivers beneath ice. The implications lined themselves up in his mind like dominoes waiting to fall—each one more damning than the last.Things were just not adding up. 

Nugen had left for the desert empty-handed, his expedition was meant to be a failure written in sand and sun-bleached bones. The book was far from the coast, hidden behind thick walls and steel locks in Father's personal safe—a fortress within a fortress, protected by more than mere metal and stone. There was no way the man could've gotten it on his own, not without leaving a trail of bodies and broken locks in his wake.

Which meant…

Someone gave it to him. The realization slipped from his lips as a soft hiss, like air escaping from a punctured lung.

Someone opened the safe. Someone knew the code. The thought clicked like glass cracking in Mykhol's mind. Yes, how else would the damn human ever get it? Someone knew they had it. Knew where it was in his fathers safe.

Someone who shouldn't.

Father. Mother. Himself. Those were the only ones who should've had access, the holy trinity of their conspiracy.

Unless… there was another.

So we have a little mouse on our hands, do we? Mykhol flicked his tongue against his fang again, drawing a thin line of blood that painted his teeth pink. The taste made his pupils dilate slightly, a predator's response to the scent of prey. His mind reeled, spinning through possibilities like cards in a deadly game of chance. Who could move so easily through their world that they wouldn't notice? Who was invisible enough to slip through their defenses like smoke through a keyhole?

Or perhaps... who could move right in front of them without raising suspicion? His vermillion eyes cut toward the far shadowed corner of the courtroom, instinct curling around a single memory: a child's quiet eyes. Watchful. Too still. Too careful. But the corner was empty now. The boy was gone, likely already slipped away just as he came—a ghost in boy's clothing. Unseen. Unnoticed. Vanished like mist at dawn.

Bruno. 

The name fell into his mind like a stone into still water, sending ripples of unease through his thoughts.

No. Impossible. He's five years old, barely tall enough to reach a door handle. But Mykhol's gut twisted with something that felt suspiciously like recognition, a predator's instinct recognizing another predator despite the innocent packaging. The boy was too silent, moving through the palace like a shadow given form—something Mykhol had used as a benefit, a tool in his arsenal. The boy could spy on Ana, on those around her, slipping through conversations like a fish through water. He had done it before, bringing back secrets like a cat brings back mice. Telling them everything with those wide, innocent eyes that seemed to see far too much.

But perhaps…he was too clever? A thing that small shouldn't move so freely. Shouldn't know how to disappear right in front of people.

And yet… he did. The boy had mastered the art of being overlooked, of becoming part of the furniture in a room full of important people.

Could he have…? Mykhol shook his head, slow and deliberate, but the thought was like a thorn in wool. Unwanted. Embedded.

Still, it didn't matter now. The danger had passed. The court had believed him—of course they had. They always did. And if any suspicion lingered, the merchant's greed had made him the perfect scapegoat. All it had taken was a few carefully planted suggestions and one dramatic act of contrition.

He'd even managed to look sorrowful, his expression a masterpiece of regret and wounded honor.

"I should have been more careful," he'd said, his voice carrying just the right note of self-recrimination, and they had eaten it up like children at a feast, their faces glowing with the satisfaction of witnessing nobility's humility.

No, not just eaten it—they had adored him for it. Loved him for his honesty, his willingness to admit fault. The court had practically glowed with approval, their whispers of admiration floating through the air like incense.

It's a saving grace that I planned for something like this to happen. Mykhol had to give himself credit where it was due, a mental pat on the back for his foresight. Mr. Nimble may have turned out to be too much of an honest man—honesty being such an inconvenient trait in their line of work—to the point they had to eliminate him with surgical precision.But the merchant was clearly of a different mindset, his moral compass as flexible as heated gold. He didn't have any problem getting in on their little scheme to make money.

Mykhol was glad he had put up with the merchants' costly demands. He exhaled sharply through his nose. "Greedy bastard turned out to be more useful than expected," he muttered, already cataloguing the merchant's worth down to the last coin. "He'll hang for it soon enough."

The thought of the merchant swinging from the gallows brought a smile to his lips—not the practiced, charming smile he wore in public, but something sharper, more honest in its cruelty.

Now, no one—especially that damn Admiral Nugen with his weathered face and suspicious eyes—could hold this against them. Mykhol and his parents were in the clear, their hands clean as fresh snow. They could not be blamed, not even with evidence staring the court in the face. With Nugen clutching the ledger like a sacred relic, like a priest holding scripture, the court would see justice done. The truth—as they understood it, as Mykhol had crafted it—was sealed with the wax of their belief. Perfect and inviolate.

Even sweeter yet, people think better of my honesty. The memory of how quickly the room had shifted in his favor made his chest swell with pride. His story had worked without a hair of resistance, sliding into their minds like a key into a well-oiled lock. They took it in full without a single question, their trust in him as complete as their faith in the sunrise.

Even Ana had smiled at him, her face lighting up like candles in a dark room.

That thought should have filled him with triumph, should have lifted him high on wings of satisfaction, wrapped him in the warm embrace of victory like a lover's arms.

And yet...

Mykhol stared at his open hand, the pale skin seeming to glow in the filtered light. His fingers were long and elegant, musician's hands that had never known honest labor, never been stained with anything more common than ink.

His pulse was still too fast, hammering against his throat like a trapped bird. Unsteady. Erratic. His skin prickled with the sensation of something missed, something wrong lurking just beyond his perception like a predator in tall grass.

Why am I not happy? He flexed his fingers, watching the tendons move beneath the skin like harp strings. The question echoed in his mind, bouncing off the walls of his skull. He closed them into a fist, knuckles going white with the pressure.

What is this feeling? Mykhol examined his hand as if it might hold answers, as if the lines in his palm might spell out the source of his unease. He thought he would be happier, should be dancing with joy. It worked, after all—his plan had unfolded like origami, each fold perfect and precise. It was another victory for them, another step closer to their ultimate goal.

 If anything, I should want to celebrate. He should be drunk on success, giddy with the intoxication of power. Yet he felt... empty. Hollow as a bell with no clapper, silent when it should be ringing with triumph.

No, not quite empty, Mykhol could feel something soft and strange inside. It's because of her. It's because of her simple words, spoken with such casual certainty that they had hit him like arrows finding their mark.

"I trust you," Ana had said it so easily, the words falling from her lips like water from a fountain. Like the thought that Mykhol could ever betray her was as impossible as the sun rising in the west, as unthinkable as snow in summer. He'd expected that declaration—had planned for it, orchestrated it like a conductor guiding an orchestra. She had said it exactly as he knew she would, her voice carrying the weight of absolute faith.

But instead of triumph, the words had left behind something else. A weight pressing against his chest like a hand not his own, fingers made of guilt and longing. A pressure that made breathing feel like work, like each inhalation was a conscious effort against invisible resistance.

His fingers curled unconsciously into a fist, nails digging crescents into his palm.

She'd said it. Ana had said those three words that should have been music to his ears. The phrase repeated in his head like a mocking echo that wouldn't fade, wouldn't grant him peace.

"The same reason I need you," she had said, voice soft and assured, "I trust him. Like I trust you."

Those words. Those damning, beautiful, devastating words.

That should've been enough. Should have satisfied something deep in his chest, filled the hollow spaces in his soul like water filling a well.

But it didn't.

It scraped against his insides like sandpaper on raw wood. It was the division of it that burned, the dilution of something that should have been pure and undiluted. Her trust—his trust—reduced to a shared commodity.

She trusted Nugen. In the same breath, with the same casual certainty. As if they were equals, as if the old soldier deserved to share the same sacred space in her heart.

As if the old soldier—grizzled and humorless, with his stiff jaw and brooding silence—belonged anywhere in the same breath as him. As if that common-born human could ever understand Ana the way he did, could ever love her with the same desperate intensity.

Mykhol clenched his jaw so tightly he felt the faint creak of his molars grinding together, the sound echoing in his skull like breaking bones. The sour heat of bile crawled up the back of his throat, burning like acid, like the taste of swallowed rage.

I've given her everything. Every breath, every heartbeat, every moment of his existence had been dedicated to her like offerings on an altar. Every thought that crossed his mind was filtered through the lens of her needs, her desires, her happiness.

He was always there—beside like a shadow, like a guardian angel in silk and silver. Always thinking of her, planning around her, protecting her in ways she would never fully see or understand. The countless hours spent anticipating her needs, the sleepless nights spent crafting strategies to keep her attention, to keep her happy. No one knew her better—not her preferences, not her fears, not the way she tucked her hair behind her ear when she was thinking. No one understood her like he did, could read the subtle shifts in her expression, the meaning behind her silences. He tailored every word, every glance, every gesture to weave her world tighter, safer—with him at the center like a spider in a web of devotion.

But still… there was room for another. Space in her heart that should have been HIS alone.

There was still room for Nugen, for that gruff old soldier with his simple mind and simpler loyalties.

She thinks of him too.

A shadow fell across his thoughts, bitter and cloying as poison honey. Dark as storm clouds gathering on the horizon.

Even when Ana smiled at him—soft, trusting, warm like firelight dancing on skin—he felt no complete victory in it. Not when her heart had other names etched into it like scars, other faces that brought her comfort in his absence.

It's not enough. The thought was a knife between his ribs, twisting with each breath.

He tasted copper again as he bit the inside of his cheek, the iron tang blooming behind his teeth like an omen of violence to come. The pain was sharp and clean, cutting through the fog of his thoughts like a blade through silk.

He should feel triumphant. Should be drunk on success, giddy with the knowledge that he had turned the court like a key in a lock. Cast doubt aside like yesterday's clothes. Redirected suspicion like a master of strings pulling puppet dancers across a stage.

And yet...

It felt like a half victory. Incomplete. Hollow. Like winning a battle while losing the war.

Because Ana still hadn't chosen him. Not completely. Not the way he chose her—with unwavering, suffocating certainty that left no room for doubt or alternatives.

The pressure in his chest mounted again. It wasn't panic. It wasn't fear. It was something worse, something more dangerous. Something raw and wounded and hungry. A silent rage coiled beneath his ribs like a serpent waiting to strike, fed by months of careful patience and growing frustration.

Nugen still stands in the way.

That explained everything. The tension knotting his shoulders, the unease crawling under his skin like insects. The emptiness where satisfaction should have lived. Ana's loyalty was still divided, her heart still shared like bread among beggars.

But it wouldn't be forever. Time was on his side, and patience was a virtue he had cultivated like a garden.

He would find a way to remove the Admiral.Not destroy him—not yet. But erase him. From her thoughts. From her side. From her life. Irrevocably, so there would be no chance of return. And then—

Then she would be his. Fully. Completely. Without reservation or division.

The thought steadied him like a anchor in rough seas. Almost.

Until the sharp click of heels echoed behind him, cutting through his thoughts like a blade through silk.

He didn't need to turn to know. The rhythm was as familiar as his own heartbeat, the particular cadence of urgency barely contained.

"Mother," he said, his voice smoothing into velvet like oil over water, his expression settling like a mask sliding over fractured porcelain. Whatever strange thing had stirred inside him—that writhing, hungry thing that whispered of possession and violence—buried itself beneath the practiced weight of control, coiled and waiting for its moment to strike.

*Lady Funda*

"Mykhol!" As soon as Ana disappeared into the corridor, Funda hiked up her velvet skirts and nearly tripped over her own feet in her rush across the dais. Her heeled shoes clicked frantically over the marble, echoing like applause in the empty hall. "Oh, my god—Mykhol, that was wonderful!"

She could barely contain herself, her voice trembling with adrenaline and delight, pitched high with the kind of joy that comes from watching a masterpiece unfold. Her rings clinked against his sleeve as she grabbed his arm with fingers that shook slightly from the aftershock of witnessing perfection. She shook it slightly in her excitement, her grip surprisingly strong for her delicate appearance.

"It was such a show. Far better than anything I could've imagined." Her eyes were bright as polished glass, reflecting the filtered light like mirrors. "You were brilliant! Absolutely brilliant!"

"He certainly was," Charles chimed in, waddling up behind her with puffed cheeks flushed red as ripe apples and jowls that shook with each step. Despite his usual stiffness—the careful, measured dignity he wore like armor—even he looked giddy, his eyes sparkling with an enthusiasm that made him look years younger. "Word will be all over the palace before dusk settles. You're a hero now, son. A genuine hero."

"Better," Funda cut in, her voice sharp with triumph, her eyes gleaming like polished steel in candlelight. She turned to face Mykhol fully, her expression fierce with pride and satisfaction. "You've demonstrated yourself better than Her Empress. Superior in every way that matters." She paused, savoring the moment like fine wine on her tongue. "Even after admitting failure, they fell over themselves to forgive you. They'll praise you to the heavens and damn her to the depths. Exactly what we needed."

"I know," Mykhol said softly, his voice carrying an odd note of distraction that made Funda's maternal instincts prickle. His smile was slower to come than she liked—muted, reflective, as if he were seeing something she couldn't. "That's why I did it."

Funda blinked, her excitement faltering slightly. "You planned this? All of it?"

Even Charles looked startled, his eyes widening behind the soft folds of his face. "You mean, you expected the scheme to be exposed? You wanted this to happen?"

"It was bound to happen eventually." Mykhol's voice was even as still water, but his gaze slid back toward the shadowed corners of the hall, searching for something—or someone. "Not necessarily through the second ledger... but something like this was inevitable."

There was a shadow behind his eyes, something unreadable and almost wary that made Funda's skin prickle with unease. But then it vanished beneath a breath-light chuckle that didn't quite reach his eyes as he shrugged and turned back to them. "The trick is making sure someone else takes the blame. That's why I gave the merchant such a generous cut—his greed sealed his fate like wax on a letter."

"Ah! So it wasn't just to keep him quiet!" Funda beamed, her worry dissolving like sugar in water. She clutched Charles's arm with both hands, her nails digging slightly into the fabric of his sleeve. "You were playing him like a fiddle. My clever, ruthless boy."

Pride swelled in her chest like a balloon filling with air. She reached up to cup his cheek, her palm warm against his cool skin, but before her hand could land properly, something rudely pushed between them with all the subtlety of a charging bull.

"What the—?" Funda stumbled a step back, her balance disrupted, as Naska barreled forward like a ship cutting through waves, nearly hip-checking her in the process. The maid's elbow caught Funda's ribs, sending a sharp jolt of pain through her side.

"Lord Mykhol," the maid cooed, her tone breathy with admiration that dripped like honey from her lips. Her eyes were wide and bright, drinking in the sight of him like a desert traveler finding water.

"You—!" Funda's nose scrunched with revulsion, her face twisting as if she'd smelled something rotten. "Why aren't you with my niece!? Where you belong!"

But Naska ignored her completely, gazing up at Mykhol as if he were carved from starlight and moonbeams, as if he were a god descended from heaven to walk among mortals. Her voice sparkled with awe, each word polished to a shine. "I only caught the end of it, but it was breathtaking—"

"Yes, but something bothers me," Mykhol interrupted, his tone sudden and sharp enough to slice through the air and draw immediate silence. His eyes, sharp as cut rubies, flicked toward a column on the far left side of the chamber, his gaze intense and focused as a hunting hawk's.

"What is it?" Funda turned her head, following his gaze with growing concern. At first, she saw nothing but shadow and stone. Just the marbled stretch of architecture and the play of light and darkness. Then—

A flash of movement. The suggestion of a small form.

Tch. The bastard.

That ragged little boy was tucked behind a pillar like a secret, just barely visible if you knew where to look and had the eyes to see. A quick head tilt, the movement of a child trying to hide, had betrayed his presence like a flag waving in the wind.

Funda rolled her eyes, her expression shifting to one of dismissive annoyance. "Just him. He's nothing more than a dust mote."

But Mykhol's eyes lingered on the spot, his lips curling with the faintest flicker of amusement that didn't quite reach his eyes. "So he didn't leave after all. Hm. He's pretty good at this, isn't he?"

"Good?" Funda turned to him, startled by the note of what sounded almost like... admiration? "Son?"

But Naska was already wedging herself between them again, her thin body arching in a pose that was anything but subtle, arms crossed just tightly enough to push up her chest in a display that made Funda's blood pressure spike. The maid's breathing was deliberately shallow, making her chest rise and fall in a rhythm clearly designed to catch attention.

Funda's jaw went slack for a second, her mind struggling to process the sheer audacity of the display. You little hussy. You shameless little harlot.

Before she could unleash the sharp words gathering on her tongue like storm clouds, Charles cleared his throat nervously. The sound was small and guilty, like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Her gaze flicked to him—and caught the direction of his wandering eyes, saw exactly where they had been lingering.

"Charles?" Funda hissed slowly, her voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. He was wise enough to dart his eyes away from the girl's displayed assets, but it was too little, too late. Funda had seen his wandering attention, caught him in the act like a cat with feathers in its mouth. The betrayal stung worse than a slap. She pinched his arm sharply, her nails digging into his flesh through the fabric.

"Ow!" he winced, withdrawing like a scolded puppy, his face flushing with shame and pain. Funda glared at him with the intensity of a thousand suns, and he lowered his gaze dutifully, properly chastened.

"Mykhol," she returned to the important matter at hand, her tone brisk and expectant, demanding his full attention.

"It's nothing," he said with a chuckle that seemed to come from somewhere deep in his chest, that warm, unreadable smile returning to his lips like a mask sliding into place. "I'm sure this will be a one-time thing."

Funda narrowed her eyes, her maternal instincts screaming that something was wrong. "Who? Who are you talking about?"

She looked around the room again, her gaze sweeping across every corner and shadow. But everyone was gone, vanished like smoke on the wind. The great hall was empty save for the four of them.

Save for the boy. Bruno. But again, Funda automatically dismissed him from consideration. He was no one important. He was less than a fly on the wall, beneath notice, beneath concern.

"Who indeed?" Mykhol murmured, his voice carrying an odd note of fondness that made Funda's skin crawl with unease. Then he turned, his attention shifting to the maid beside him, and brushed a lock of hair behind Naska's ear in a gesture so intimate, so proprietary, that Funda's claws nearly itched to show themselves.

"Lord Mykhol," Naska giggled, the sound high and breathy, almost swooning with delight at the casual touch.

Disgraceful. Absolutely disgraceful.

But Mykhol's gaze still flicked—pointedly—back to the column where the boy had been hiding.

"Though I hope they're not stupid enough to try it again," he said aloud, his voice carrying clearly across the marble expanse, as though speaking to the shadows themselves, as though delivering a warning to invisible ears.

Funda followed his gaze—but the column was empty. Vacant. The boy had vanished as if he'd never been there at all.

She hadn't even heard him move, hadn't caught the whisper of footsteps or the rustle of clothing. The silence of his departure was absolute.

"How does he do that?" she whispered, a chill running down her spine like ice water.

"Still," Mykhol added, with a crooked grin that carried sharp edges, "it's not like it helped anyone. Ana and I are as close as ever."

Then, like clouds passing over the sun, his grin faltered. "I didn't expect her to still want Admiral Nugen around, though."

"Ah, well," Funda patted his arm with maternal reassurance, jutting herself forward and pushing Naska out of the way with her hip. The maid stumbled slightly but Funda ignored her completely, focusing only on her son. She curled closer to him, claiming her rightful place at his side.

He's my son, you hussy. My blood, my pride, my perfect boy. Funda lifted her chin with maternal pride and territorial satisfaction.

"You tried, Mykhol. That human is a persistent cockroach. Even I haven't quite gotten rid of him from my sister's reign."

"Yes," Mykhol patted her arm before turning to go. "Though, I wonder if Ana does it on purpose"

"Do what?" Funda asked, instantly intrigued. Naska mirrored the question like an echo.

But Mykhol didn't answer right away. He paused, considering, his expression thoughtful as he gazed into the distance.

"Maybe... she's afraid," he mused, his voice soft as silk over steel. "Afraid of what will happen if she's alone with me."

"Son," Funda scoffed, the sound carrying easy dismissal. "That's the goal. Her Empress alone and isolated, cut off from all support. It will make things so much easier for us." No King Alexander to interfere, no Admiral to protect her, no supporters to rally to her cause, no power base to resist their influence. No one to resist or fight against the inevitable tide of change they represented.

"It will." Mykhol laughed. "I won't have to hold back."

"No, of course not." Funda went on, thinking it obvious that Mykhol would simply take over the political reins, as it was all a part of their carefully laid plans. Control the Empress, control the Empire. But just as Funda saw nothing more complex to the statement than political maneuvering, Naska, however, oddly stiffened up beside them.

"What's wrong with you?" Funda asked, noticing the maid's sudden tension, the way her face had gone pale and drawn. She was lingering back with a strange, dark look on her face that spoke of thoughts better left unspoken.

"It's-" Naska flicked her eyes from Mykhol down to her hands, which she pressed together as if in prayer. "If his lordship does end up being alone with Her Empress, he wouldn't actually-"

"Actually what?" Funda asked, genuinely puzzled by the strange maid's behavior and the fear creeping into her voice.

"No, it's nothing." Naska shook her head quickly, as if trying to dislodge unwelcome thoughts. "I was just having... odd thoughts. Dark thoughts."

"Then don't," Funda snapped, waving her off with imperial dismissal. "Maids don't need to think. That's not what you're paid for."

"Yes, Lady Funda," came the quiet reply, barely audible above the echo of their footsteps. But Funda was already done with her, her attention already shifting away from the servant's concerns.

She didn't want to spend any more time thinking about the maid or her strange fears. She didn't want to spend any more time on anyone, save for her wonderful and perfect son, her masterpiece of manipulation and charm.

My sweet boy. Funda relished the sight of her son leading the way, his gait so proud and certain, like a king walking through his domain. Her perfect boy—untouchable, unchallenged, beloved by the court like a prince from a fairy tale. Even that disastrous Admiral couldn't touch him now, couldn't diminish his shine or shake his position.

Yes, she thought, a wicked little grin curling her lips, everything is going exactly to plan. Every piece was falling into place like a complex puzzle finally revealing its picture.

So long as that damned King Alexander stayed buried in whatever business kept him in that godforsaken country of his... As long as King Alexander stayed tucked away in Dawny, or wherever that relic had buried himself in his self-imposed exile, nothing—nothing—could possibly stop them now.

Just behind her, Charles trailed a few steps behind, rubbing the sore spot on his arm where Funda had pinched him, the skin still tender beneath his sleeve. His thoughts had already drifted back to his books and the money still to be counted, his mind occupied with ledgers and calculations. As he rounded a bend in the hallway, he caught a small flicker of movement near one of the side columns—a shadow that didn't belong.

A flash of burgundy fabric, rich as spilled wine in the dim light.

There, half-shadowed beneath the curve of a wall sconce where the flame cast dancing shadows that seemed to breathe with life, was the boy. Small as a sparrow, still as carved stone. Always silent as the grave.

Bruno? Charles's eyes rested briefly on the mop of maroon hair, on the burgundy eyes that gleamed like garnets in the shadows—deep, watchful, far too knowing for a child's gaze. The boy's face was pale in the flickering candlelight, his expression as unreadable as ancient script. Charles merely assumed the boy was on some errand for the kitchens or perhaps for Naska, or someone else who had need of small, quiet feet. Always underfoot, that one, like a cat that appears wherever food might be found.

But Charles didn't trouble himself with it, his mind already drifting back to more pressing concerns. He'd never had the energy or inclination for bastards, political or otherwise—they were complications he preferred to avoid, loose threads in an otherwise orderly tapestry. And he was already floating back to the comforting thoughts of his books with their neat columns of figures, and the money still to be counted in his private study, coins that would sing their golden song as they passed through his fingers.

So he said nothing. Charles thought no more of it, dismissing the child as easily as one might dismiss a shadow.

He didn't see the absolute stillness in the boy's limbs, the way Bruno held himself like a predator frozen in the moment before the strike. Didn't catch the focused gleam in those deep burgundy eyes that followed Mykhol's retreating form like a hunter tracking prey through dense forest. Didn't notice the intensity of that gaze, sharp as broken glass and twice as dangerous.

Didn't notice how Bruno wasn't walking away, wasn't moving toward any errand or destination.

He simply watched with the patience of stone, with the focus of a scholar studying a particularly complex text. Or rather, the steadfast loyalty of a knight who still needed to protect his Lady.