*Lady Funda*
Funda was practically vibrating with energy, her entire body humming like a plucked string, her ears buzzing with all the delicious things she had heard. The gossip was too exquisite, too perfect to contain a moment longer. She reached the study door and paused—for half a heartbeat—before abandoning all pretense of decorum.
To hell with knocking.
She burst through the entrance with the force of a summer storm, throwing back the heavy oak door with such violence that the hinges screamed in protest. The door crashed against the wall, trembling the entire room. The crystal decanter on Charles's desk danced dangerously close to the edge, its contents sloshing crimson against the glass while loose parchment took flight across his meticulously organized desk like startled birds.
"You won't believe what I heard going around today!" Funda's voice exploded into the room, each syllable crackling with barely contained glee. Her words didn't merely fill the space—they conquered it, flooding every corner of what was usually her husband's quiet sanctuary with the intoxicating energy of scandal. The delicate atmosphere of contemplation didn't just break—it shattered spectacularly, leaving both men inside momentarily stunned into silence by her theatrical entrance.
Both vampires halted abruptly, glasses of fresh blood poised halfway to their lips, their faces briefly shocked by the unexpected interruption. The scent of smoldering pine from the fireplace swirled with the metallic tang of blood as the room's atmosphere shifted instantly from quiet calculation to her demanding chaotic energy.
Still riding the crest of her exhilaration, Funda swept in without waiting for a response from either of them. Her silk gown rustled against the Persian carpet, her head high, and she felt her new diamond earrings sway with each step. The white stone caught even the faintest light from the arched windows to glint, announcing her presence like a herald. Her crimson eyes gleamed with barely contained excitement, her movements almost careless in her joy as she knocked a stack of books askew. Behind her, a silver tray of freshly brewed coffee steamed near the hearth was brought in moments before by their household feeder, who had since been dismissed.
When they realized it was only her, Charles lowered his thick brows around his round glasses, a flash of irritation crossing his face. But Mykhol—her brilliant, perfect son—lit up instantly. His vermilion eyes glittered, catching her energy like kindling catches flame.
"Let me guess," he said, fangs gleaming as his lips curved into an amused smile, "you had a good walk around the palace then, Mother. What are they saying? What's the gossip now?"
"Gossip?" Charles finally showed interest, forgetting to straighten his precious books and papers, as a possible development could be underway. The perpetual weariness etched into his face softened slightly as he turned to face her fully, his eyes looking wide like an owl behind the circular glasses. "What are they saying? Is everything going to plan?"
"Oh, it's even better!" Lady Funda gushed, cheeks flushed crimson as her hair. The excitement coursed through her cold veins like liquid fire, warming her cold flesh more thoroughly than any cup of blood. "Everyone is talking about it—it-everyone."
She inhaled sharply, savoring the moment like the bouquet of a rare vintage. Without pausing for breath, she glided to her son, nails sinking into the brocade of his sleeve.
"They are damning Anastasia left and right," she whispered, voice quivering with satisfaction. "They blame her for the massacre. They say she can't rule—that someone else, a man should be on the throne. And of course you are–" Funda's radiant glow dimmed perceptibly as she noted the shift in the room.
The slow creak of the door opened just wide enough for a silent and unwelcome presence to pile into the room behind her. His very entrance caused the room to drop in temperature several degrees despite the working fire.
Her smile froze in place as her eyes narrowed. The taste of something bitter lingered on the back of her tongue as her eyes followed the said boy. Watching him with growing distaste, his presence more than ruined her mood by a mile. Like seeing him could suck out the very air from her lungs.
"--the favored choice." She finished flatly as she met eyes with the boy.
Bruno immediately knew to look down, all too aware of what his presence meant to her. Her distaste for the bastard child was all the more clear. His pulse quickened audibly in the sudden silence. The scent of his fear—sweet and sharp—cut through the comfortable aromas of the study like a blade. He was afraid of her.
Good. At least he knew his place unlike his damned mother. But that didn't make her like him any better to be with them.
What is he doing here? She openly glared at the child, her eyes narrowing to slits, pupils dilating until there was almost no iris visible. Hoping the child would run off by her harsh stare alone. But alas, he seemed fixed to stay.
The small five-year-old scurried from hugging close to the wall to a spot not on but beside the couch—a wise choice, she recognized was intentional. The boy was getting smarter, at least in that regard, to keep out of reach. Hiding there,the furniture shielded him halfway from view and entirely from reach. If she wished to strike him—and she often did—it would now require the inconvenience to walk around the furniture. A hassle and effort she didn't want to waste at the moment.
Still, she could hardly pretend he wasn't there. The child's existence was an indelible blot—not upon her son, of course, never upon Mykhol, but upon the unfortunate circumstances that had produced him.
She would have loved nothing more than to scrub it clean—his mother, too. But unfortunately, that would have to wait. Because she hated to admit it, both were…still useful to Mykhol and them. How very annoying.
Fine. Funda exhaled, the sound barely audible, more disdain than breath. If the boy had business in her husband's study, so be it. Let him wait.
She was here first. And what she had to say bore far more weight than whatever trivial errand had dragged that in from the halls.
"See, what did I tell you, Mother?" Mykhol remarked, meanwhile leaning in to kiss his mother's cold cheek, his lips lingering just long enough to show genuine affection. The scent of him—pepper and tobacco—wrapped around her like an embrace. "I told you I had a plan. And look how fast it's working."
"Yes, of course, I never doubted you." Funda cooed as her husband approached them from the desk, the floorboards creaking beneath his considerable weight. She ran her fingers through Mykhol's auburn locks, pride swelling in her chest, her heart swelling in motherly pride and affection for him.
"And all this is making us rich!" Charles spread a great smile over his chubby cheeks, revealing the tips of his fangs, polished to a pearlescent gleam. His breath carried the copper-sweet tang of his recent meal. "Who knew the Bulgeons carried so much gold?"
"And jewels," Funda added, the memory of gemstones glittering like stars against dark velvet making her lips curl with satisfaction. "We've made quite the pretty coin." Her rings caught the firelight as she gestured expressively, casting prism-like reflections across the room.
"And there is still more to come." Mykhol's voice carried a knowing edge that made even Funda's already excited heart skip with anticipation.
"More?" Both parents looked up with surprise, Charles's eyes then taking on a hungry shadow as her mouth began to water. Would there be more? More money? More gems?
"My son," Funda held her husband's hand, feeling his ancient skin's cool, papery texture against hers. Excitement made her voice tremble slightly. "What next?"
"You'll see." Mykhol tapped his lip with one long finger before a mischievous grin formed, revealing teeth that seemed too white, too sharp in the flickering light. "It's a surprise."
"Mykhol," Funda pouted, her lower lip jutting out, not liking to be teased. If he knew, then he should tell them now. She wanted to know—needed to know. But her son was looking past her now, his attention drawn elsewhere. His smile waned for a flick of the moment at the sight of the newcomer, as if forgetting himself a moment, lost to something Funda had yet to recognize.
But a new light filled his eyes as quickly as the smile waned. An energy, nervous, slightly desperate look filled his face like a child about to receive his favorite toy.
"What is it this time? Is it about Ana?" There was a slight lift in his voice when he said her name, an almost imperceptible softening around the edges that made Lady Funda's skin prickle like touching ice. His expression grew soft with a warmth that was unlike usual. It wasn't the smile he made for his parents, nor was it the perfected smile he gave at court to make the ladies swoon and the lords gather to his charm and power.
No, this was the smile Funda was growing more wary of with each passing day. It was an expression that she had seen Mykhol make more often. An expression he only made when thinking about her. Talking about her. The realization sent a violent shudder down her spine, her rings clinking against one another as her hands trembled imperceptibly.
She both knew, but at the same time, she couldn't possibly think that Mykhol could…
I'm just imagining things again. Funda quickly dismissed it again. She swallowed the acid taste of suspicion that rose in her throat. She forced herself to ignore the thread of unease pulling at her gut, the sensation of wrongness that coiled within her like a serpent. Mykhol wasn't actually in love. The thought was too disturbing to contemplate, too revolting to acknowledge.
How could anyone actually love that disgusting child? The very idea made her want to retch, bile rising at the back of her throat.
The fire crackled in the hearth, sending a shower of orange sparks upward, breaking the sour light of grey from the windows. Making the room appear warmer for a moment before settling back down. In the silence that followed, Mykhol's question hung in the air, still awaiting an answer. The boy looked between them, his burgundy eyes finally settling on Mykhol, expectant.
"No," Bruno shook his head, his overgrown bangs getting long enough to half-veil one eye like a curtain. "It's not about Ana."
"Then get out," Funda snarled, the words forming before she could even complete her thought: You are ruining our happy moment. The boy's presence was like a splinter under her skin—irritating, impossible to ignore. But before she could dismiss him, Bruno continued speaking, his voice barely louder than the crackling fire.
"It's Admiral Nugen. He went to the armory."
"He what?" Funda stood straight up, her spine snapping rigid as a steel rod. The earrings snapped sharply in a jerk against one another with the sudden movement, a sound like tiny bones breaking. "Admiral Nugen? Him? Are you sure?"
"Yes." The boy pointed to his eye as if to mimic the scar. It was a small childish attempt, but he clearly saw the man. No one else had that scar. But the clarification only made her lips curl back against her fangs in apprehension.
"Why is he even there?" Her voice took on a razor's edge, slicing through the room's warmth. "Admiral Nugen has no business being in the armory."
The wine-red velvet of her dress rustled with her shift in weight, the fabric suddenly too tight, like a skin she wanted to shed. Her thoughts raced. If Nugen had even an inkling—if he stumbled across the wrong door, the wrong ledger, the wrong crate—
Bruno blinked at her, "I don't know why—" But Funda cut him off, her patience evaporating like morning dew in harsh sunlight.
"You stupid child!" Funda snapped with venom, her fury blooming too fast to cage. "You should've stayed and listened! Watched! What good are you if you can't even do that?"
She stormed across the floor, abandoning her husband and son like a woman possessed. Her heels struck stone with murderous intent. The scent of her rage filled the air—hot, metallic, cloying. It drowned out the fire, the blood, the coffee. It drenched the room.
She raised her hand, rubies glittering like bloodied stars, her fingers curled for the blow. She needed to hit something. Needed to see the bruise. Only when she could see it would her anger possibly recede.
The boy, helpless to stop it, flinched below her, tucking his head deep into his knees, all but waiting for the blow.
A blow which Funda was about to give until Mykhol's light-hearted snort broke through her ears beside her.
"Mother, please." Mykhol's voice, calm as still water, slid into her ears and halted her like a leash around the throat. "There's no need for theatrics."
"There's s not?" Funda dropped her hand, stunned by his rather collected expression. But that only made her more confused. How was this not something to worry about?
"But son, if he finds the ledger is wrong—" A tremble ran across her body, her jewelry tinkling softly like distant wind chimes. On instinct, Charles moved to hold her waist, his touch a cool anchor against the hot tide of her panic. Panic, she still thought, was warranted.
"If he finds out the crates are missing—" The words caught in her throat, tasting of ash and terror. The ideas of doom were already bubbling in her head. Their scheme was already being spoiled just as it was starting to work.
"Oh, he will." Mykhol's casual tone fell upon the room like a headsman's axe.
Funda's stomach dropped.
"What do you mean?!" Funda's jaw dropped, her fangs flashing. Panic flooded her mouth—bitter, sharp, undeniable. "Mykhol? How are you not in a panic? What if he gets hold of Mr. Nimble. What if that damned man talks and spills everything–?" She leaned in, trying to grasp his plans.
Mykhol only smiled, comfortable as can be.
"Mr. Nimble has already been dealt with, Mother." The confidence in his voice contradicted her's for a moment.
Funda blinked. Once. Twice.
Dealt with?
The woman stared after her son a beat before slowly, slowly, it began to dawn on her. His smile, once jarring in her confusion, was a balm to her frayed nerves.
"It... oh?" Funda paused, her frame softening like wax near flame as the recognition hit her. "So I take it that Mr. Nimble isn't coming to any more of our meetings moving forward?"
The smile on Mykhol's face was more than enough to answer her questions. It was a slow, predatory expression and satisfied, like a cat who had cornered a juicy mouse. Something that immediately made Funda purr as she was suddenly all too aware.
"No, I'm afraid we just couldn't see eye to eye in the end of things, Mr. Nimble and I. Not that we didn't see it coming. But, I'm afraid, Mr. Nimble's sense of honesty…just didn't have a place in our plans anymore." Mykhol confessed. Each word dripped with smug satisfaction.
Funda gave a soft laugh, the sound like silk sliding over steel. Relief flooded through her veins, sweeter than the richest blood.
"And the position?" She leaned forward eagerly, her earrings swaying with the motion.
"Filled with Mr. Brunce," Charles spoke calmly, his glasses reflecting twin points of firelight that made his eyes appear unnaturally bright.
"That fool?" Funda had to laugh, the sound bubbling up from her chest like champagne. "You picked him?"
"Yes, because Brunce doesn't ask questions." Charles adjusted his glasses with one plump finger, the gold of his signet ring gleaming dully.
"Or thinks, you mean." Funda shared a conspiratorial smile with him, her teeth flashing white in the firelight. Her husband only pushed up his glasses, the gesture familiar and oddly endearing.
"It never hurts to find good help," Charles said, voice mild but a sliver of a proud smile danced on his lips.
Funda had to chuckle, the sound rich with satisfaction. The tension in her shoulders melted away, leaving behind a pleasant warmth that spread through her limbs.
"Well, I guess I needn't worry." Funda looked back with undisguised affection at her perfect boy, her heart swelling with maternal pride. "It seems you both have the situation at hand." But of course he would. I should never have doubted you.
"In fact," Mykhol said with a meaningful look at his father, "we just finished the new 'budget cuts.'"
"Did you?" Funda cooed. "Steep, I hope."
"Oh, they're steep. But still..." Mykhol's smile faltered, a shadow passing over his features like a cloud across the sun. "I'm surprised he thought to investigate this fast." His expression shifted, hardening into something calculating and cold. "I guess I'll need to beat him to it."
"Son?" Funda blinked in unison with her husband, confusion dampening her elation. But Mykhol was already moving toward the door, his long legs eating up the distance with graceful strides.
"Mykhol? Where are you going?" Funda released her husband to follow, her hand outstretched as if she could physically pull her son back. The scent of his cologne lingered in the air as he moved away from her, slipping through her fingers like smoke.
"Why, I will alert Mr. Brunce of the new cuts." Mykhol paused only to look down at the boy, his gaze barely lit with some passing interest before growing dark again.
"Good work, again." he admitted, but that was all. He walked past Bruno as if he were nothing more than a piece of furniture.
Bruno turned his head to watch him leave, his little frame unnaturally still, like a prey animal hoping to avoid a predator's notice. His eyes, too large, too knowing in his small face, tracked Mykhol's departure.
"Mykhol? Must you go so soon?" Funda's voice dropped, low with disappointment. She had imagined more time—enough to bask in the triumph of their shared strategy, to revel in the satisfaction of finally being ahead. But now he was pulling away again, off to chase down the next thread. It stung, but she schooled her expression.
"Well," she sighed, smoothing the front of her deep red tunic, "I suppose your father and I will just have to celebrate on our own."
She watched him go with narrowed eyes, standing in the echo of his absence until the heavy door shut behind him. A thick and close silence bloomed in the room. Her chest tightened, not with excitement this time, but with something hollow—something left wanting.
Funda turned from the door and strode toward the low couch near the fire, her skirts whispering over the ornate tile floor. The silver tray waited with its small, delicate cups and the lingering heat of poured coffee. She seated herself stiffly and reached for one, her movements deliberate. The steam curled like smoke, perfuming the air with cardamom and dark roast.
Behind her, Charles had already returned to business. Always ready to return to his mundane order of life, Funda sank deeper into the cushion. She heard the soft shuffle of his sandals, the usual low hum he liked to make when he was falling back into his routine. Her ears perked up at the soft, muted click. His hand guided the hidden panel that opened behind the desk. The safe, seamlessly integrated into the wall paneling, was heavy and ornate with a combination lock. He was turning it with a casual flick of his hand like he did every time.
Funda watched on with mild amusement. She liked it when she could see inside the vault, enjoying the sight of their piles of gold building up inside. And she planned to see it again as he spun the lock to the last number before something caught her ear.
It was faint, almost lost to the fire but she could hear the steady sound.A child's voice—low, breathy, and oddly focused.
"Forty-five... sixteen..."
Funda paused with the cup halfway to her lips to see the boy sitting up from his protected spot now. His shag of red hair nearly covering his eyes, almost obscuring his view. But he wasn't looking at her—he was staring fixedly at something by the desk.
What is he doing? Counting? Whispering nonsense? Funda followed his gaze, momentarily distracted by his odd behavior. But there was nothing unusual in that direction. Only the safe was there, its brass fittings gleaming dully in the firelight.
"What are you muttering about now?" she asked, more to the room than to him. For once, her tone was less harsh because she was still in a good mood. But that didn't mean it couldn't turn at a moment's notice. She was merely not willing to leave her seat yet, enjoying her coffee.
But the boy didn't answer. His burgundy eyes were fixed on Charles's back as the safe door opened. His gaze was surprisingly steady for someone so young. Almost as if he were looking for something inside the small space. Something between the bags of golds and jewels, as if looking for the only other thing–the ledger.
Funda's brow twitched at the thought. Something about that quiet voice raised a flicker of suspicion. Or perhaps annoyance? She considered snapping at him, but dismissed it.
Mindless child prattle, she told herself. It was nothing.
Perhaps the knock to the head earlier had left him dazed? She considered that she might not keep striking at his head, moving forward. However, he'd deserved it, if she were honest.
Still, a dumb servant is worse than a bastard child. Less useful... she turned back to her coffee and took a long sip, savoring the bitter edge. Enjoying the sensation of the warmth spreading through her limbs.
She didn't see the wide, satisfied smile spreading across Bruno's face then, as Charles closed the safe. Not right away.
But as the boy rose to a small stance and quietly made his way to the door, Funda caught the movement in her peripheral vision. A flash of silent red hair slipping out with barely a sound, like a shadow peeling away from the firelight. A funny, inward smile still clung to his lips—oddly mature, as if he'd just won something no one else had noticed. There was a flicker of determination in his eyes, too focused for a child.
Funda blinked, her cup paused at her mouth. What was that look for?
But just as quickly, she let it go, not caring to know anymore.
Whatever foolish notion the boy had gotten into his head, it didn't matter. He was gone, and that was enough. She sipped again and sank into the cushions, warmth spreading through her chest.
Good riddance.