*Admiral Nugen*
The desert air hung thick and motionless, a dry weight pressing down on the entire camp like a hand smothering flame. Yellow sand clung to everything—folds of tents, leather straps, even the inside of boots. It invaded nostrils with each breath, coating tongues with grit and scratching between shoulder blades and along inner thighs like tiny claws. The canvas tents flapped halfheartedly in the weak breeze, their sun-bleached fabric stretched between leaning poles like tired skin over brittle bone. A haze of heat shimmered above the dunes in dancing waves, where shadows barely clung to the pale hills like dying things.
Admiral Nugen sat hunched on the edge of his cot, sweat-soaked linen plastered to the grooves of his back like a second skin. Salt crystals had dried in white lines along his temples and jaw, marking the paths of countless rivulets. The cot creaked beneath his weight with each labored breath, its rusted frame and sagging canvas protesting every movement with metallic groans. His calloused fingers dug into the stiff flap of his leather satchel, the familiar texture rough as bark against his skin, searching for the worn atlas. The leather was hot to the touch, baked by hours under the merciless sun.
Need to determine their next course, he thought, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. This route is leading nowhere.
Every spot was turning up nothing. The realization darkened Nugen's thoughts like storm clouds, his shoulders sagging as the weight of failure pressed him deeper into the groaning cot. His chest tightened with each shallow breath of the suffocating air. No. He shook his head, jaw clenching. Push it aside. Stay busy. Stay active. Keep going.
His weathered hand dug deeper into the old satchel—his constant companion through years of campaigns and battles. The leather had molded to his grip, worn smooth by countless hands, like his second skin. Everything inside was familiar territory: the flat, smooth weight of his sharpening stone, the cold metal of his shaving razor, the—
But something unfamiliar met his searching fingers.
"What is this?" His voice cracked slightly in the dry air.
His fingertips brushed something smoother, softer than the cracked oilskin he was expecting—silk-soft and supple where everything else was rough and practical. Curious, he pulled it free, his pulse quickening with unexpected anticipation. The sight stunned him into motionless silence, his breath catching in his throat.
It was a book. Unmarked. Bound in supple black leather—too supple, too perfect. The kind of leather that whispered of wealth and luxury with every touch. Nugen's weathered brow furrowed deeply, creating canyons of confusion across his forehead. The contrast was jarring against the rough pragmatism of everything he owned, like finding a diamond in a pile of stones. He didn't travel with anything that luxurious. Couldn't afford to. He was a soldier—scarred, practical, surviving on military wages. What need did he have for such finery?
Hell, he couldn't afford it at all on his meager salary.
He ran a calloused thumb along the spine, feeling the leather warm from the sun's kiss, smooth as silk beneath his coarse skin. It didn't even drag against his rough hands. Just feeling it, he knew this was expensive. Personal. The kind of thing nobles carried, not weathered soldiers like himself.
"I don't remember packing this." The words escaped as barely more than a whisper, lost in the tent's stifling air.
No insignia marked its surface, no ribbon bookmark, no obvious clue to its mysterious origin. His scarred brow furrowed deeper, creating a topography of confusion. He shifted the book's weight in his palm, testing the give of the supple leather between his fingers. Definitely not standard-issue. His own bag, scuffed and hardened from years of abuse, was built for survival—stitching frayed and white with age, corners rounded smooth from sand and time. It held only the bare essentials: a knife with a bone handle worn smooth by use, a dented tin cup, two water skins that gurgled when he moved, hard biscuits wrapped in muslin, a sealed letter that crackled when touched, and maps creased until they felt like bark under his fingers.
This elegant thing... did not belong.
"How'd you get in there?" he muttered, his voice hoarse from the dry heat. His thumb traced the book's edge as he slowly opened it. "Who—"
"Admiral Nugen?"
A voice preceded the soldier who stepped through the tent flaps, letting in a blast of furnace-hot air that made the canvas walls flutter. Nugen's shoulders tensed like a coiled spring as he snapped the book shut with a soft thud and set it beside him on the rough blanket, his heart hammering against his ribs.
Lieutenant Eras looked like death warmed over and left to rot. His brick-red hair clung to his forehead in damp, matted clumps, and the pale flesh beneath his sunken eyes had turned blotchy purple with fatigue and brutal sun exposure. His uniform was dust-coated and wrinkled, his collar limp with sweat that had long since dried into salt stains. He stood tall out of ingrained habit more than actual strength, though his knees trembled visibly and looked ready to buckle at any moment. Dark circles shadowed his red eyes like bruises.
Nugen gave him a once-over and mentally cursed, his stomach dropping.
Sun poisoning.
The heat out here was no joke. Even for him—a human hardened by decades under various suns—it was becoming unbearable, like breathing through wet wool. But for the vampire soldiers under his command? It was potentially lethal, their pale skin was never meant for such brutal exposure.
They would have to depart soon, or risk losing his best soldiers to heatstroke. But damn it all, he hadn't expected they would have to be out here this long, searching for ghosts in the sand.
"Do you have an update?" he asked, though his tone suggested it was more formality than hope. His shoulders tensed as he braced for disappointment. The news was going to be the same as every other time. And sure enough, Nugen watched Eras shake his head slowly, eyes downcast with the weight of repeated failure.
"We still haven't found anything." Eras's voice dripped with frustration and regret that almost matched Nugen's own gnawing disappointment. The vampire's hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, clearly as perplexed and worn thin from the fruitless search across the trading route as his commander. "Nothing is out of place. We don't see any broken caravans, no scattered supplies, no abandoned wheels. No sign of a skirmish—not even a single arrow or broken sword. It's almost like the supplies just..." He gestured helplessly at the empty air. "Disappeared into thin air."
But both men knew that wasn't possible. Not unless the Bulgeons had suddenly sprouted wings and learned to fly. And as far as Nugen knew, the Bulgeons were just pirates and cutthroats, not wizards wielding magic. So that left only one other possibility—one they both already knew in their guts, one that twisted like a knife in both their stomachs.
Sabotage.
Nugen's jaw clenched so hard his teeth ached. He pressed his thumb against the thick scar running through his left brow—the raised cord of tissue felt tighter in the oppressive heat, throbbing with a dull, pulsing irritation that matched his mood. The old wound was again a constant reminder of his stress, like a barometer for his emotions.
"Then I was right," he said grimly, the words tasting like ash in his mouth. But being right didn't make him feel any better—no, what did it matter if he was or not? Not when there was nothing to show he was right, save the feeling in his gut and the obvious lack of signs. The sensation of coming up to the dead end only stung deeper. "The supplies weren't taken by force."
Eras swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing visibly. The gravity of the revelation settled over both men like a shroud. It was the worst outcome they could have found, and the rest of the sentence didn't need to be spoken aloud—they both knew exactly what it meant.
"So what now?" The lieutenant turned slightly, casting a weary glance outside the tent's flaps toward the merciless landscape. The sun was higher now, a ruthless white orb hanging over the dunes like a malevolent eye. The sand reflected its fury upward, baking them from both directions until the air itself seemed to sizzle. "We could press on. It's only another twenty miles to the port."
Nugen rubbed his scarred brow thoughtfully, feeling the raised tissue catch against his calloused thumb. The heat of the afternoon was just beginning its daily assault. It would be brutally hot, but not as deadly as summer—that was the only mercy they'd been granted. Nocthen in summer was absolutely lethal, the desert consuming any life foolish enough to venture into its embrace. But in spring... it was still bearable to travel, if barely. They could continue following the trade route if he gave the order.
But would it be worth it at this point? They'd already come so far, following nothing but empty sand and bitter disappointment. It wouldn't be long before they hit the coastline, and that would be the absolute dead end of their investigation. Nugen stared down at his hands—callused, dirt-streaked, and frustratingly empty of answers.
"I'm not surprised," he said quietly, his voice barely audible above the tent's creaking. "There's nothing to find out there." He'd known it in his bones since the second day, when the complete absence of evidence had started to paint its own damning picture. No footprints in the sand, no drag marks from heavy cargo, not even the metallic scent of spilled blood. The disappearance was too clean, too surgical, too deliberate. Even after coming this far up the route, there was nothing but endless, mocking sand.
It was obvious what had actually happened. There was no dramatic ambush, no battle, no thieves or desperate scavengers. This was planned. Orchestrated. Sold.
Someone had told the pirates exactly where the new trade route would be, when the caravans would pass, what they'd be carrying. That's why there were no signs of struggle. But knowing the truth and proving it were two entirely different beasts.
"But I still don't have proof." The words came out like gravel. If I don't have proof, then Ana won't listen. She wouldn't heed his warnings about Lord Mykhol, wouldn't see the danger coiled around her throat like a silk noose. And as for that treacherous son of a bitch—
He closed his fists tight enough that his knuckles went white, leaning forward as frustration filled his lungs like smoke. The flash of Mykhol's practiced smile flooded across his vision like an unwanted banner—that perfect, political expression that never reached his cold eyes. Mocking him. Knowing he would return with nothing but sand and suspicion.
Worse still, Ana was now alone in the palace without his protection, surrounded by vipers who smiled while they sharpened their fangs. She was a sitting duck, and he had nothing concrete to show for weeks of searching, nothing to shield her with.
"Damn it." His fist slammed against his knee with a meaty thud, pain shooting up his arm. "Damn it all to hell."
Eras shifted uncomfortably but didn't flinch at the outburst. His boots scuffed softly against the sand-covered tent floor, kicking up fine particles that filled the confined space with the omnipresent smell of salt—it was everywhere now, coating everything, getting into their food and water until some of the men had started getting nosebleeds from the constant irritation.
The salty, gritty air was almost as suffocating as Lord Mykhol's knowing laugh that rang in Nugen's ears now, making him clench his jaw until his temples ached. Damn that smug bastard!
"Should we keep going?" Eras asked, carefully.
"You and I both know no thief would be stupid enough to hit this close to the port." Nugen scoffed, shaking his head. "It'd be suicide to ambush caravans with port guards so near. Too risky, too many witnesses."
Eras nodded slowly, understanding. Sweat rolled down his pale temple in a steady stream, gathering at his chin before dripping onto his already-stained uniform. "Then... we turn back?"
"Turn back?" Admiral Nugen leaned back heavily on the protesting cot, the question hitting him like a physical blow. It was a perfectly valid question, logical even. But it turned his stomach inside out, made bile rise in his throat.
The thought of returning empty-handed, of facing Ana with nothing but failure and suspicion... it tasted like defeat, bitter and choking.
"No," Admiral Nugen said finally, the word coming out like a death sentence. The cot's metal frame groaned ominously as he shifted his weight. He hated the very thought of continuing this charade, but the alternative was worse. "We'll keep going."
Eras blinked in surprise, his red eyes widening. "No? But Admiral, if it's pointless, then why—"
Nugen rose slowly from the cot, every joint in his weather-beaten body crackling in protest. He stared at the canvas flap that served as their doorway, his eyes distant and hard as steel, seeing not the desert beyond but the cold marble halls of the palace, where they would no doubt be pleased to see him, anticipating the failure.
"We ride all the way to the boats. We return with a complete, thorough report." His voice was flat, emotionless. "That we found nothing. Not one damn thing." Nugen filled his lungs with a long, dragging breath, already anticipating his return to a court as cold and unwelcoming as winter stone.
If we turn back now, they'll just use it as another weapon against her. Admiral Nugen could already see it happening in his mind's eye— more thinly veiled accusations, the raised eyebrows, the increased suggestions that perhaps Ana's judgment in choosing her advisors was... questionable. They would blame her, twist his failure into her fault.
And I will not let them have that satisfaction.
If he was going to lose this battle, he was going to lose it thoroughly and completely, leaving his enemies nothing to work with, no ammunition for their political cannons.
Not this time. Admiral Nugen was all to familiar with their games of political warfoare. He learned from his mistakes, was still learning, but he was learning all the same. And each lesson carved into his soul with scars both visible and hidden. Ana was not going to suffer the same fate —not if it was the last thing he ever did.
"We are not giving them the excuse to call us cowards," Admiral Nugen said firmly, his voice carrying the weight of absolute conviction. "Or to question our dedication."
He waved a dismissive hand toward Eras. "Tell the men to prepare the horses. We leave in an hour."
Eras gave a reluctant nod, clearly unhappy with the decision but unwilling to argue further. He was about to turn toward the tent flaps when something made him pause. His gaze flicked downward toward Nugen's cot, and his pale red eyes widened with readable shock, then sharp curiosity, as he spotted something that clearly didn't belong.
"Admiral... what's that?"
Nugen blinked in confusion for a moment, following the vampire's stare before understanding clicked into place. He meant the book—the mysterious, expensive tome that had somehow found its way into his practical soldier's pack. He'd nearly forgotten about it in the frustration of their conversation.
"Oh, that." Admiral Nugen scratched his head, feeling damp strands of hair stick to his fingers while the slight, coarse grab of embedded sand scratched against his scalp. "Just something that showed up in my pack. Don't know how it got there."
But the vampire was already shaking his head, his expression shifting from curiosity to recognition. His pale red eyes narrowed as they focused on the leather binding with laser intensity. "I know this brand. My mother uses books just like it."
"Your mother?" Nugen raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself.
"It's from a specific printing house. Very expensive. They specialize in custom ledgers for wealthy merchants and nobles."
Nugen lifted both brows now. "That's... why are you telling me this?" He wondered if the vampire might be stalling, trying to delay their departure. "Why don't you go and tell the rest of the men—"
But Eras was already stepping forward, brushing sand from his sleeves with quick, nervous movements. He reached toward the book with obvious familiarity. Nugen didn't stop him, too curious now to object.
"Here, see these lines?" Eras flipped the book open with practiced ease, turning it to display the interior. "Look at how straight and precise they are—that's their signature work. I didn't think you'd own one of these. They cost more than most soldiers make in six months."
"That's—" because it isn't mine, Nugen started to say, but the words died in his throat as he leaned closer. His scar began to prickle with sudden intensity as his eyes focused on the writing scattered across the ruled pages. The book was filled with columns of numbers and carefully scripted words, but there was one word that seemed to leap off the page and grab him by the throat.
Almony.
"Let me see that." Nugen barely waited for permission before snatching the book from Eras's hands, his heart suddenly hammering against his ribs. He flipped through the pages with growing urgency, his eyes scanning line after line of meticulous entries—something deep in his gut telling him that within these pages lay the answer he'd been desperately seeking.
And there it was.
His eyes locked onto the line and refused to let go. He read it once, twice, three times. The words seemed to shine in the dim light of the tent like burning brands, unchanged each time, the ink permanently stained into the thick parchment like the tattoo of a sailor.
Almony shipment: Crossbows x 60. The exact number was staring right back at him. Not forty. Sixty. Just like the first ledger.
Admiral Nugen expelled all the breath from his lungs in a rush that left him lightheaded.
"My god." His voice was barely a whisper. There it was—actual, tangible, irrefutable proof. The missing twenty boxes were accounted for, right here in black ink on expensive paper.
"Who–" He didn't know how the ledger had materialized in his pack, didn't know who was responsible for this miraculous appearance. But right now, in this blazing moment of vindication, none of that mattered. He had something concrete in his hands. Something undeniable. Something he'd needed more desperately than water in this godforsaken desert.
PROOF.
Real, solid, damn-them-all-to-hell PROOF.
"Admiral Nugen?" Eras's voice seemed to come from very far away. The lieutenant was staring at him with growing concern, his pale features creased with worry as he looked from Nugen's expression to the ledger and back again. "Is something wrong?"
Nugen laughed—a raw, breathless sound that bordered on hysteria. The sound echoed strangely in the confines of the tent, mixing relief and vindication and something that might have been the edge of madness. "No. Nothing's wrong." He clutched the book to his chest like a lifeline, not caring about the heat or dust or anything else. "Everything's finally going right."
For the first time in what felt like months, he could honestly say something was working in their favor. The break they'd needed, the weapon he'd been searching for. But Admiral Nugen couldn't afford to gloat for long—there was too much work to be done, too many people who needed to see what he held in his hands.
He spun on his heel with renewed energy, adrenaline flooding his system and washing away the heat and exhaustion like a cold wave. "Forget my previous order. We're going home."
"Home?" Eras tilted his head in confusion, clearly struggling to keep up with his commander's sudden transformation. "But Admiral, I thought you said—"
But Nugen was already moving, his mind racing ahead to palace corridors and political maneuvering, to the moment when he could watch that bastard Mykhol's perfect mask crack and crumble. For too long—far too long—he'd been forced to watch that snake slither through court, untouchable, protected by his web of influence and careful manipulation. Watching him smile that cold, calculating smile while he slowly poisoned everything. But not this time.
For the first time in months, he felt genuinely optimistic. Hopeful, even. This ledger was exactly what they needed—a sword sharp enough to cut through lies, politics, and treachery. But more than that, it was his chance for the reckoning that had been years in the making.
He saw her face in his mind—Ana, shoulders squared in that courtroom, silver hair catching the light like a blade unsheathed under her shawl. Brave and too young, carrying the weight of an empire and a court that scourned her, wanted her broken. He'd been forced to watch from sthe idelines, unable to stop those vultures from circling. His lack of power without Alexander– The taste of helplessness had been bitter as wormwood on his tongue—standing there in his captain's uniform, sworn to protect, yet powerless against the whispered poison that threatened to destroy her.
But she would not break. She was her mother's child—Parsal's blood singing in her veins like steel given form. Same red eyes that could cut through pretense, same stubborn set to her jaw when faced with impossible odds. The same fierce love for their kingdom that had burned in her mother's breast until the very end.
Nugen's chest ached with a familiar grief. Their child. The words lodged in his throat like thorns. Ana carried Parsal's strength, yes, but also her father's quiet intensity—that dangerous calm before the storm. Even if Nugen could never make that claim aloud, even if the truth would destroy them both, he hadn't forgotten. Would never forget the weight of Parsal's touch in the last moment together, the trust in those unfocused but passionate eyes that burned in the back of his mind always. His choice sealing his fate.
Whoever had helped them by placing this book in his pack, Nugen, could have kissed them. The timing was perfect, arriving just when hope had nearly died completely, as if Parsal herself had reached from beyond the grave to arm him for this fight.
"Yes." The word scraped raw from his throat. Nugen looked upward through the tent's opening, past the sun-bleached canvas toward the endless blue sky that stretched away like an ocean of possibility. The desert heat pressed against his skin, but for the first time in months, it didn't feel suffocating. The open space called to him, no longer oppressive but liberating—as if the very air itself dared fate to try and stop him now.
His pulse hammered against his wrists where he gripped the ledger. He had a real weapon in his hands—not steel or crossbow, but something that could actually protect Ana from her most dangerous enemies. Something sharp enough to cut through the web of lies they'd spun around her throne. Something he could finally wield with devastating effect.
Mykhol's face rose unbidden in his mind—that cold, calculating smile, those pale eyes that looked at Ana like she was a problem to be solved rather than a person to be cherished. The memory of the man's hand on Ana's shoulder during the last court session made Nugen's jaw clench until his teeth ached. How dare he touch her. How dare any of them think they could break what Parsal had sacrificed in order to protect her?
The thought of wiping that smug, superior smile off Mykhol's face sent savage satisfaction coursing through his veins like liquid fire. Let's see how untouchable you are now, you bastard. Let's see how confident you feel when your dirty secrets are spread across the throne room floor like entrails.
Nugen let out another laugh, a sound that blended a sense of vindication with a hint of barely controlled fury. The taste of coming victory was sweet as honey on his tongue, made all the sweeter by how long he'd waited for it.
Nugen let out another laugh—a sound that blended vindication with barely controlled fury, rough as gravel and twice as cutting. The taste of coming victory was sweet as honey on his tongue, made all the sweeter by how long he'd waited for it. How many sleepless nights he'd spent planning, plotting, dreaming of the moment he could finally act instead of watching from the sidelines.
For Ana. For Parsal. For the kingdom they'd both loved more than their own lives.
"Things are about to get really interesting in court, Eras. And it's about damn time."
Nugen smiled with all the suppressed rage and the intoxicating promise of revenge. It resonated with a sense of vindication and barely restrained rage, embodying a man who had finally seized his opportunity to strike back.
And strike hard.