Chapter 152 Gilded Fool
*Lady Funda*
The silk samples were perfect—imported from the eastern provinces of Sulick at considerable expense, each thread worth more than most servants saw in a month. Lady Funda's fingertips traced over the lustrous fabric with the reverence of a priest handling sacred relics. The morning light streaming through her study windows turned the material into liquid gold, and she could already envision how the finished gown would pool around her feet like molten treasure.
"My Lady? Did you hear—"
"Yes, I heard you—" Funda's voice cracked like a whip before she caught herself, the words dying in her throat as awareness flooded back. Her sharp red eyes flicked to Sir Pendwick's face, taking in his carefully neutral expression that didn't quite hide the flicker of surprise.
Damn. She forced her lips into something resembling civility, though it felt like swallowing glass.
"I mean... a meeting? Now?"
The words cracked through the air like a whip. Lady Funda's mouth pinched in a sharp frown, deep lines pulling tight around the corners like drawstrings. The finery of her study—velvet drapes heavy with dust motes dancing in late morning light, gold-etched cabinets lined with perfume bottles that caught the sun like captured amber, the cloying scent of powdered lilac mixing with something sharper, more metallic—seemed to contract around her displeasure like a closing fist.
Not when I was just about to order more dresses. The silk samples beneath her palm felt suddenly coarse, irritating against her skin. Funda's jaw clenched so tight she could taste copper on her tongue. What right did her niece have to suddenly demand everyone drop everything and come running like trained hounds?
Her manicured fingers twitched and curled, nails scraping against the fabric swatches. The spring breeze drifting through the cracked windows carried the scent of blooming roses, but it might as well have been rotting flowers for all the pleasure it brought her now. She could feel heat creeping up her neck, a flush of irritation that made her collar feel too tight.
Funda's sharp red eyes flicked back to the messenger, taking in every detail with predatory precision.
She thinks too highly of herself still. But that would change soon enough—Funda would make certain of it. The thought sent a cold thrill down her spine, momentarily soothing the burn of annoyance.
Seeing the meek lord just standing there, shoulders hunched as if trying stuck in place out of etiquette, waiting for her reply and not to leave until then, left her with little choice.
"Very well," Funda sighed through clenched teeth, the sound like steam escaping a kettle. She waved off the royal tailor and jeweler with a sharp flick of her wrist, the gesture dismissive as shooing away flies. They bowed so low their foreheads nearly touched their knees, slipping out with whispered apologies that buzzed in her ears like mosquitoes. Funda barely looked up—her mind already calculating how quickly she could summon them back once this tedious nonsense was finished.
This inconvenience burned in her chest like swallowed acid, made worse by the fact that it had to be Sir Pendwick delivering the news, and not her own son. The insult cut deeper than the interruption itself. Her gaze sharpened on the boy's false fang, noting how the porcelain caught the light differently than real bone. The craftsmanship was admirable—almost deceptively realistic—but who in court didn't know the boy was born incomplete? Missing a fang like a broken doll.
Who sent him, of all people? Her pulse quickened with fresh irritation. Where was her Mykhol? Funda pressed her lips together until they nearly disappeared, tasting the metallic tang of barely controlled rage.
"Thank you, Sir Pendwick," Charles offered mildly, his voice carrying that particular tone of obligation masquerading as warmth. His rounded glasses had drifted down his fleshy nose, and he pushed them up with a damp finger as he gave a perfunctory nod. The natural light streaming through the windows made his bald head gleam like polished marble.
"We'll be done shortly."
"Of course," Pendwick replied, his bow so stiff it looked painful. His jaw was set like granite, shoulders rigid beneath the formal doublet that seemed to strain against his tension. But it was his eyes that caught Funda's attention—the skin beneath them tinged with that telltale pink. His eyes somewhat glossy, the whites slightly bloodshot. His breathing was too careful, too controlled, like someone trying not to choke on poison without letting the taste show.
Did something happen? The thought slithered through her mind. She recalled seeing him and Mykhol together in her niece's study earlier. Had there been an argument? A confrontation?
Their eyes met for a heartbeat—his wide with something that looked almost like fear, hers narrowing with predatory assessment. She didn't smile. She didn't need to. The power dynamic was clear enough.
The young lord bowed again, deeper this time, before turning with jerky, too-quick movements. His boots struck the marble floor in rapid staccato beats, the sound echoing off the vaulted ceiling as he hurried down the corridor. His dark tunic billowed behind him like he was fleeing something more than delivering messages.
"That boy—" she muttered through her fangs as the door clicked shut, the sound sharp in the suddenly quiet room. The words tasted bitter on her tongue. "Why him? Where's Mykhol?"
"Probably busy," Charles replied with that infuriating calm of his, already rising from his desk with a grunt of effort. His chair creaked in relief. "He'll find us soon enough. You know he won't miss a chance to steal the spotlight."
Funda sniffed, a sharp sound of dismissal that flared her nostrils. "Word must have come to her by now about the second shipment going missing." The thought sent a warm flutter of satisfaction through her chest, like wine spreading through her veins.
"Indeed. I suppose she wants to beat them to the punch," Charles offered with a shrug that made his doublet strain across his rounded shoulders. "Try to control the damage before word spreads."
"Much good that will do her," Funda snickered, the sound sharp and bright as breaking glass. She turned in a rustle of silk, her gown whispering across the thick bear-fur rug beneath her heels. The sensation was luxurious, grounding—a reminder of her elevated status.
Charles pushed his glasses up his nose again, leaving a small smudge on the lens. "What, did you already—?"
"What do you take me for, dear husband?" she cooed, laughter bubbling up from her throat like champagne. Her smile bloomed wide and predatory, all white teeth and cruel satisfaction. "Of course I did. As soon as that guard came huffing up the stairs with his message—face red as a boiled lobster, I might add—I made sure to discuss it loudly near the most gossipy maids I could find." She paused, savoring the memory like fine wine. "The whole palace is buzzing with it by now."
Funda glided to her private cabinet, fingers dancing over crystal decanters until she found her favorite—a bottle of spiced wine mixed with fresh blood from their prized feeder girl, Erica. The liquid poured like liquid garnets, rich and dark. The metallic scent rose to greet her, making her fangs tingle with anticipation.
"Her little Empress has lost yet another shipment," she practically purred, taking a delicate sip. The blood was still warm, mixing with the elderberry wine in a symphony of copper and sweetness. "The Lords and council will devour her alive by the time court begins."
And I'm going to enjoy every moment of it. The thought sent delicious shivers down her spine.
It would make up for the poor timing. A wicked thrill fluttered in her chest. It was almost enough to make up for the lost shopping time.
"Come," she snapped her fingers at the nearest maid, the sound sharp as a whip crack. "Help me into the emerald gown—the one with the silver threading."
She surveyed the three young women standing stiffly near the wardrobe like frightened deer. All new acquisitions. All expensive. All uncertain of their place in this dangerous household. Two vampire girls—one barely out of her teens with porcelain skin and trembling hands, the other in her twenties trying to project confidence she clearly didn't feel. The third, a human girl in her late twenties with intelligent green eyes, seemed to be their natural leader.
The human stepped forward first, though her hands shook as she approached. Her pale green eyes stayed fixed on the floor, her breathing shallow and quick. Funda could smell her fear—sharp and acrid, like vinegar and sweat.
Clearly afraid. Not a native of Nochten. Funda's inner smile was cold as winter moonlight. The girl's accent was faint but detectable—somewhere from the southern provinces, perhaps immigrated not long ago? Maybe even from Pave?
Had they hired too many servants? The thought flickered through her mind. Three personal maids seemed excessive, but—
We can afford it. She took another satisfied sip, the wine coating her throat like liquid silk. With the money flowing in from their various... enterprises—skimming from the treasury, Almony's generous aid, and now selling the very weaponry meant to fight them back to the very Bulgeons–they could afford to indulge in luxuries for years to come.
Just for the pure pleasure of it. Funda ran her tongue along her fangs, finding the lingering pockets of flavor nestled between her gums. The metallic tang mixed with wine residue was intoxicating.
A distant clatter of hooves suddenly drifted through the thick-paned windows, cutting through her reverie like a blade. The sound was muffled but unmistakable—multiple horses moving at speed across cobblestones.
Funda froze, her glass hovering midway to her lips. The wine trembled, sending tiny ripples across the dark surface.
"Are those horses?" The words came out sharper than intended. She stepped closer to the window, her silk slippers silent on the marble floor. Her heart beat a little faster, eyes trained for the dread flag of blue.
Below in the southern courtyard, a small group of riders had entered through the main gates. Their armor caught the afternoon light in dull, battle-worn glints. Dust rose from their horses' hooves in small clouds that spoke of hard travel and urgent purpose.
"Guests?" Charles asked, waddling to her side with surprising speed for such a round man. He pushed his glasses up with a moist finger, leaving another smudge.
Funda studied the banners fluttering behind the riders, her eyes sharp as a hawk's. The fabric snapped in the breeze, revealing the familiar crimson field emblazoned with Nochten's bat and crescent moon sigil. "No. They're ours." But something about their formation, their urgency, made her stomach tighten with unease.
"Then they're no one important," Charles exhaled with visible relief, his shoulders sagging. "Just soldiers returning from... some patrol or another."
"Likely," she echoed, but her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass until her knuckles went white. A cold curl of unease settled in her stomach like a coiled snake. She could feel Charles harboring the same silent apprehension—the weight of King Alexander's absence pressing down on both their minds like a storm cloud.
If King Alexander returned today— No. Funda crushed the thought like a roach beneath her heel, but not before ice water seemed to flood her veins. As long as he stayed away in his own kingdom, the better it was for all of them.
And the more damage they could inflict while he was gone.
"Go change," she commanded Charles, spinning away from the window with deliberate grace. Her skirts swirled around her ankles like liquid shadow. "We must look spectacular for this. All eyes will be on us."
Charles groaned, the sound like a deflating balloon. "Must I? These formal occasions make me sweat, and you know how the fabric sticks—"
"Of course you must." Funda rolled her eyes but linked her arm through his anyway, feeling the soft give of his flesh through the silk sleeve. "Think of it as a celebration of Mykhol's inevitable ascension. The brighter we shine, the more brilliant he appears by association. Surely you can see the logic in that?"
"That... yes. Yes, that makes perfect sense." Charles nodded with growing enthusiasm, his round face brightening. She could practically see the gears turning in his head, calculating political advantage.
That pleased her. She tugged him along, humming a little melody under her breath—a children's lullaby about wolves devouring sheep. How fitting.
Charles suddenly stopped, his attention caught by something that made his eyebrows rise. "Boy. You may go," he said, his voice carrying that particular tone reserved for dismissing servants.
Funda turned, startled. Bruno was there—standing perfectly still by the far corner of the hearth, half-blended into the deep shadows cast by her embroidery frame. How long had he been there? She felt a chill run down her spine that had nothing to do with the spring breeze.
"You're still here?" The words came out more accusatory than she'd intended.
Bruno gave no reply. His burgundy eyes simply blinked slowly between the unruly curls of his dark hair, studying her with that unnerving intensity that always made her skin crawl. There was something ancient in that gaze, something that didn't belong in a child's face.
He stepped quietly from the corner, moving with the fluid grace of a shadow given form. His pale face caught the light for a moment—those large, dark eyes unreadable as midnight pools, expression carefully blank. He took the cue to glide toward the door with that eerie silence of his.
"How long was he standing there?" she hissed, watching him move, aware of his movements now, her voice tight with something between anger and unease.
Charles shrugged, seemingly unbothered. "Didn't you notice him when we came in?"
"No," Funda said slowly, the word heavy with implications. "He was here the entire time? Just... listening?" The thought made her skin crawl. How much had he heard? How much did he understand?
What was he doing? Just standing there in the shadows, absorbing every word like a sponge?
"He's remarkably good at going unnoticed," Charles offered with an awkward smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Quiet as a church mouse, isn't he?"
From the courtyard below came the soft snorting of horses and the creak of leather saddles as riders dismounted. The sounds were muffled by distance and glass, but distinct enough to carry through the morning air.
Bruno paused at the door, his pale hand resting on the brass latch. Something about those sounds made him turn back, with sudden intensity. Not at her, not at Charles, but directly at the window overlooking the courtyard. Whatever he saw there made his entire demeanor shift like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. His eyes widened, brightened, and for the first time in Funda's memory, a genuine smile flickered across his features—small but radiant, transforming his entire face.
"So the cavalry has arrived," he whispered, the words barely audible but carrying a weight of profound relief. His voice held a note of something that sounded almost like... hope?
The words echoed in her mind like a warning bell. Funda's eyes narrowed. "What is he looking at?" she muttered, tapping her nails against the glass of her chalice before shoving it into the maids hands to rush over.
"Boy!" she barked. "What are you staring at?"
Bruno flinched slightly at her voice but said nothing. By the time she leaned out, whatever had caught his attention was gone. No movement. No horses. No people. Just empty horizons of sand, the wind curling over neatly trimmed hedges.
"There's nothing there," she muttered.
She turned back to the doorway, but Bruno was already gone.
Her fingers twitched at her side. What was that about?
The boy unsettled her more than she cared to admit, more than she dared show Charles. There was something fundamentally wrong about Bruno—something that slipped through her fingers whenever she tried to grasp it. And in her experience, quiet things were often the most dangerous.
She briefly considered calling him back, demanding answers, but—
No. Not today. Striking him might draw exactly the kind of questions she couldn't afford to answer, not with court gathering and so many eyes watching. Better to let him slip away like smoke for now, file away his strange words for later examination.
Funda pulled back from the window, her jaw set with determination. "Little creep," she muttered under her breath, though the words lacked their usual venom. "Probably imagining things."
Charles gave her a sidelong glance, his expression carefully diplomatic. "Wife, please—" His tone carried a world of gentle warning.
"I'm not going to hit him," Funda said quickly, waving off the concern with false brightness. "But that child..." She paused, searching for the right words. "There's something deeply wrong with him. Something that doesn't add up."
Her husband, showing rare wisdom, said nothing.
"Regardless, let's go," she commanded instead, forcing steel into her spine and honey into her voice as she tugged on Charles's soft arm. The silk of his sleeve was damp with nervous perspiration.
What a foolish thing to worry about. Bruno was just some strange child—damaged goods from a damaged fool like his mother. She wouldn't waste another precious moment thinking about his cryptic words or unsettling smiles.
He was nothing. Less than nothing.
The excitement buzzed beneath her skin again, overwriting the unease.
"I want to be ready for the show."
*Naska*
The Empress's dressing room felt like stepping backward through time—everything once grand, now quietly surrendering to age. Naska's hand hovered above the drab grey gown like it was a dead thing, her fingers curling instinctively as if the coarse fabric might snap at her with tiny teeth. Her stomach twisted into knots just looking at it, bile rising bitter in the back of her throat.
The massive wardrobe that dominated the far wall had been magnificent once—carved oak inlaid with mother-of-pearl that still caught the light in places where the dust hadn't settled too thickly. But the wood had darkened with decades of use, and one of the hinges creaked with arthritic protest every time it opened. The Persian rugs beneath her feet, while still beautiful in their faded way, showed threadbare patches where countless feet had worn paths between wardrobe and mirror. The deep burgundies had mellowed to dusty rose, the gold threads tarnished to bronze.
Even the heavy curtains framing the tall windows spoke of bygone luxury—thick brocade that had once been jewel-bright now muted to the color of old wine. They hung in the same positions they'd occupied since before Naska was born nineteen years ago, their edges frayed where the morning sun had slowly devoured the fabric thread by thread. The matching settee near the window was older still, its once-plush velvet cushions compressed into tired submission, the wooden frame scarred by decades of use.
Nothing here was beautiful anymore. But everything was serviceable. And that, apparently, was enough for Ana. Like other things…like her choice in fashion. Naska had to bite back the sneer as she flicked a gaze back at the offensive gown.
The same dress. Again.
Technically, it wasn't the exact same one as yesterday—this one's neckline dipped a finger's width lower, revealing more pale throat, and the buttons were mother-of-pearl instead of tarnished brass—but the difference was laughably negligible. Dusty brown, storm-cloud grey, soot-black... a funeral palette as bleak as Ana's perpetually somber moods. For someone barely past her thirteenth birthday, the girl dressed like an ancient vampiress whose fangs had gone dull and flat with age.
How many times could anyone wear such plain-looking things?
Why can't she wear one of these? Naska's eyes drifted longingly to the other side of the massive wardrobe, where color still dared to live and breathe. Silks in coral and emerald hung like captured sunsets, gowns sewn with threads that seemed to hold actual starlight, sapphire beads that caught every flicker of candlelight and threw it back in brilliant cascades. Spidersilk so fine it felt like touching clouds, and Damask cloth that cost more per yard than Naska could earn in five grinding years of service.
So many of them had never been worn. Never even touched.
She doesn't deserve them.
The thought burned through her chest like swallowed acid. No, she couldn't do this anymore. Naska had reached her limit with this suffocating monotony. It was time for change or she'd go genuinely insane, screaming mad in this tower of grey despair.
She pushed the offensive grey dress aside with visible revulsion, her lip curling as if it smelled of decay, and reached instead for a gown the color of summer marigolds—bright and alive and joyous, with sapphire stones stitched in an intricate sunburst pattern at the collar. The sleeves caught the light and shimmered like liquid gold when they moved. One of Lady Funda's personal commissions, of course, but still pristine and new.
Perfect.
"This one," Naska announced, spinning with theatrical flair, her brick colored hair whipping around her shoulders. "What about this one, Your Empress?"
She held it up like a prize, smile expectant, almost girlish with hope. It was a dress she'd dreamed of wearing herself, just once. A dress she could rightfully wear once Mykhol finally claimed his throne and she stood at his side as she deserved. A dress that would make every woman in court burn with envy.
"It's so pretty and—" Naska's voice caught as her eyes fell to the sapphires again, her heart swelling with desperate longing. She could practically feel the silk against her skin, imagine how the jewels would catch the light at her throat, how the color would bring out the warm undertones in her complexion—
"Naska, be serious." Ana's voice sliced through her fantasy like a blade across silk.
Naska's radiant grin crumbled, her face falling so completely it was almost comical. "I am serious." She shook the dress again with increasing desperation, making the gems catch the waning morning light streaming through the tall windows, sending tiny rainbows dancing across the stone walls. Surely if Ana could just see how magnificent it was—
It didn't work. Ana shook her head with maddening certainty, not even glancing at the masterpiece Naska held. The gentle clink of her gold chains tapping against her silver crown was the only sound in the suddenly tense room.
"I need something somber," Ana said with finality.
"Somber?" Naska's nose wrinkled in disbelief as she looked back at the radiant fabric. "Why would anyone want to look somber?" Who wants a somber anything when you can wear silk and jewels?
Who chooses mourning clothes when you could wear silk and jewels? Who actively tries to look like death when you could be a sunrise?
Naska simply couldn't fathom Ana's mind—she never had, never would. How could anyone say no to such perfection? Why wouldn't you want to look breathtaking every moment of every day? Make everyone else burn with jealousy and desire? The dress was so beautiful it hurt to look at.
Ana didn't even spare the gown a glance, her dark eyes fixed somewhere beyond the window.
"Come on," Naska pleaded, her voice taking on a wheedling tone as she shook the dress gently, desperately. The silk whispered like secrets. "If you'd just look at it, you'd want to wear it. I swear."
"This isn't a celebration," Ana snapped, her pale hand cutting through the air in sharp dismissal. "Put it back. Get the grey one."
"But Why!" The word exploded from Naska's chest like a physical blow. She slammed the gorgeous gown back into the wardrobe with enough force to make the wooden hangers screech against the rod, the sound sharp and grating as nails on stone.
Such a disgusting thing. Her hands shook with frustration.
"You have all these gorgeous dresses just hanging here, rotting away like forgotten corpses. It's criminal. How can you be so deliberately cruel to beauty?"
"I'd wear them," she muttered under her breath, her voice thick with bitter resentment. "I'd wear every single one." And all the jewelry too—the diamonds and rubies and pearls that Ana never bothered with, never even noticed.
Why, she hasn't worn anything except that damn threadbare shawl—
She glanced over to the shawl Ana always wore. The same one, always the same one, frayed at the edges where nervous fingers had worried the fabric, the once-golden embroidery now faded to the color of old brass.
It had been magnificent once, Naska could tell. Now it just looked... tired. Defeated. Boring. Like everything else about Ana.
"Why do you even keep that ratty thing?" The words burst out before she could stop them. "You could wear literally anything else. Anything at all."
"You don't understand," Ana said softly, raising her arms with the resigned patience of someone accustomed to being dressed like a doll.
Her voice was tired—more then usual when they'd have these little arguments, differences in opinions. Her voice carried a bone-deep weariness that seemed far too heavy for someone this young. As if her bones hurt from standing too long, bending her spine with burdens Naska couldn't see. Wouldn't begin to comprehend. Her expression looked pulled, darkened by something on her mind.
"There's a time and place for everything," Ana continued, her words careful and measured. "And there is no reason for celebrations right now."
A time and place? What the hell does that mean?
"But you're the Empress," Naska protested, tugging the plain grey dress over Ana's head with more force than strictly necessary. The fabric smelled faintly of lavender and resignation. "You can do whatever you want. That's what being Empress means."
"What I want—" Ana's laugh was hollow, brittle as old parchment. It didn't reach her eyes, didn't even try. "No, that's not true at all."
"What I want has nothing to do with it. An Empress has to do many things but not because they want to. Being Empress means obligation."
Gods, not this drivel again. Naska didn't bother hiding the dramatic roll of her eyes. Ana was so boring, so determined to be miserable when she had everything anyone could dream of. Everything Naska didn't have. Yet.
"If you don't want to do them, then don't," Naska said, her fingers working the tiny buttons with practiced efficiency despite her irritation. "I'm just saying, if I were you, I would be so much more—"
"You are not me."Ana cut over to step away. Her eyes quickly scanned the mirror, but not to see her appearance, but just to see things that were in place- her shawl, especially. Her cursed hair was hidden neatly beneath the red cover.
Ana squeezed a corner of her shawl, quietly looking down. For a moment, she looked much older. Like there was an unbearable weight on her shoulders that seemed to only grow heavier.
Naska watched this pathetic display, feeling a familiar sneer build behind her lips like venom. "Clearly," she said, the single word dripping with contempt.
"I need to stop by my study. I won't be long." Ana announced abruptly, as if she'd heard the poisonous thoughts forming in Naska's mind. "I won't be long." She stepped away before Naska could respond, her gaze already shifting toward the door.
"Whatever," Naska muttered, crouching to retrieve a pair of silk gloves that had fallen to the cold stone floor. Her knees pressed into the unforgiving marble, sending sharp jolts up her legs. "So what if I'm not you," she grumbled under her breath, not bothering to watch Ana's departure. "No need to be so touchy about it."
Who'd want to be you, anyway? Naska folded the discarded dress in her arms, the fine fabric soft against her work-roughened palms. No, she wanted to be something else entirely. Something grander. Something worthy of standing beside Mykhol when he finally claimed what was rightfully his. Something infinitely better than all those simpering little girls he still had to meet with, doing... whatever the plan demanded.
Naska sank back on her heels, the folded dress heavy in her lap, her fingers fidgeting with the delicate embroidery as she felt that familiar bitter sting behind her heart. The jealousy that still gnawed at her even after Mykhol had explained, had reassured her it was all just necessary theater. He had to meet with those vapid creatures. To maintain support, to secure alliances, to—
"I just want to be—" The click of the door had Naska close her mouth. Someone was at the door.
"What? Did you forget something?" Naska called out, already turning to expect Ana's return. Or better yet—please, please let it be Mykhol. Her pulse quickened at the possibility.
She flew to the door and threw it open wide, her face already arranged in welcoming anticipation. She was prepared for the flash of Ana's red shawl, or hopefully, hopefully, the tall, commanding figure of Mykhol in his dark coat.
But the person standing in the doorway was neither.
The sight hit her like a physical blow. The carefully folded dress slipped from her suddenly nerveless fingers, silk whispering against the polished floor like a dying breath.
The man before her was dust-streaked from hard travel, his broad shoulders squared beneath a heavy military coat that had seen recent use. The insignia on his collar was unmistakable, the silver threading dulled by road grime but still gleaming with authority. Sunlight from the corridor window caught the edge of his scar—that jagged line that cut across his weathered face like a permanent warning—and Naska's blood turned to ice water in her veins.
"You—" The word barely escaped her lips as she stumbled backward, her thin muslin shoes slipping on the smooth stone. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a caged bird trying to break free.
The man didn't speak. Not yet. He simply stood there in the doorway like judgment incarnate, watching her with those steady, battle-worn brown eyes that seemed to see straight through to her guilty soul.
Naska's hands flew to her throat, clutching the collar of her simple muslin tunic as if the thin fabric might somehow shield her from the crushing weight of his presence. Her mouth had gone desert-dry, her tongue sticking to her teeth as she tried to form words that wouldn't come.
But this wasn't right. This wasn't possible.
He was supposed to be gone—far away, chasing shadows and false leads. That's what Mykhol had said. That was the plan. He should be searching empty coastlines and abandoned harbors, following carefully planted clues that led nowhere.
He was not supposed to be standing here, now, in Ana's doorway, looking like a hunter who had finally cornered his prey. Looking like a man who had found exactly what he'd been searching for.
Naska's voice cracked on his name, the syllables breaking apart like poorly fired pottery. The sound almost deafening, the sound of her own voice as she had to step back in heart-clenching retreat. But no retreat could ever be far enough. And why—gods help her—why was he looking at her like that?
"Admiral Nugen?"