*Ana*
It's finally here. I can't believe I've made it to this day–My coronation. The day I've been waiting for, hoping, preparing for.
Years of being left alone to wander the rose gardens, the only place where the walls didn't whisper or stare after my hair. Years of tracing the spines of old books, clutching stories of rulers and empires as if they could tell me how to belong. When no one would meet my gaze, I studied. When the maids refused to touch my hair, I had to comb out the knots in tears, learning to braid it myself. When voices curled with disdain, sharp whispers reminding me I was neither fully vampire nor human, mocking my silver hair, I dreamt of this day.
The day I can finally show them. Prove to them that I am worth it.
I swallow the knot of nerves twisting in my stomach. My hands tremble despite my best efforts. Breathe, Anastaisa. Just breathe. You've made it this far.
Soon, you will be Empress of Nochten.
This is what you've been waiting for. I tug at the hem of my shawl, grounding myself. Then I glance toward the cheval mirror.
The reflection staring back is almost unrecognizable. The tunic clings to my frame, embroidered with threads of gold that shimmer in the light. Rubies and emeralds catch the glow like tiny embers. The golden thread juts out to match the gold chains over my head that hold my shawl. Hidi's careful hands wove my hair into a crown of braids, braiding the thick curls into a neat crown. Pulling my hair back suddenly makes my face more shapely. My round cheeks, sharp chin, thick lower lip, and clear scarlet eyes are large in the looking glass. The sight leaves me breathless momentarily as it dawns on me that this is the first time I can truly say I look almost beautiful.
Almost. My eyes catch the loose spiral of silver hair slipping from the updo. As if stubborn against the hold. I move to tuck behind my ear before lifting my head. I turn at last to meet them both. Licking my lips at last to speak.
"So, here it is." My scarlet eyes find his sapphire. I squeeze my fingers in a nervous pump, waiting for his reaction. "How do I look?"
I would take a spin to show Father the whole dress, but that might prove to be too difficult. All the jewels and embroidery make it heavy. Just extending my arms, I can feel the weight pulling me down.
After all this work, the dress remains impractical. I can't help but feel renewed distaste for it. Not only is it gaudy, but it's also non-functional, which I see as the worst sin. However, I console myself with the thought that this will be the first and last time I must endure it.
It will be over soon. I keep repeating it to myself. It helps calm me down.
"Papa?" I check on the uncharacteristically silent man. He has yet to speak. His mouth is pursed between his beard, and his gaze drifts down the tunic. He is studying the design, lost in thought. And for a moment, a shiver of fear comes up my spine.
Why has he not said anything? Does he not like it? But before I start worrying or even thinking of opening my mouth and asking, he is reanimated with a deep breath.
"You look like a beacon of hope." His voice is warm, his smile grand. His sapphire eyes sparkle with all the warmth as he meets mine. "You are breathtaking."
"Papa." I reach out to take his hands. Father kisses my hand before leaning down to kiss my forehead, the chains of my shawl shifting as his beard brushes against them.
His eyes glisten with tears."Your mother would be so proud,"
"I—thank you." The words tremble from me. I feel the ache bloom in my chest, the moment's weight pressing down. "I've waited so long for this day to come."
"And now it's here," Father says softly, kissing both my cheeks. His beard scratches my skin, and I can't help but push him back gently.
"Papa—my makeup." I try to sound stern, though the warmth of his affection has already left my cheeks pink. He only grins, the pride radiating from him.
A knock at the door draws our attention, and Aunt Funda steps in, her presence commanding. Her hair is pulled up into another high bun as her ruby earrings dangled from her ears.
Her currant colored eyes flicker over us a moment, linger on Father before finally sliding down to me. Her thin lips barely moving. "Your Empress, it is time." Her words settle heavily, final and absolute.
Father releases me, stepping aside to stand next to Hidi.
"Yes. Then I will see you inside." His voice is steady, but his eyes linger on me as though committing this moment to memory.
"Goodbye—" I barely turn before I'm yanked back.
Hidi's lips slam into my cheek, the force of her kiss making me stumble. I pull away, startled, only to find her beaming — all teeth and laughter.
"Hidi!" I reel back, my shock quickly melting into exasperation.
"Kiss for good luck!" she booms, practically glowing with pride.
My poor father looks appalled, though it seems he's already resigned himself to Hidi's antics.
Father shakes his head, though he even has to fight a smile."Hildenberg," he huffs, but I can hear it's good-natured already.
"Thank you," I mutter, hastily wiping at my cheek, half-worried that my lip stain has smudged. "But I know what I'm doing."
Hidi's broad grin softens. "Of course you do." She straightens slightly, a rare glint of solemnity in her peridot eyes. "You've earned this, Ana. No one can deny it. And whatever comes next, remember—" Her voice lowers, but its conviction is unshakable. "You're going to show them all what a woman can do, what we can do. Twice the ruler any man could ever hope to be, ja?"
Her words root themselves deep in my chest, giving me strength I didn't know I needed.
"And I'll be here, always. If you need me." She winks.
A thousand emotions swell within me–gratitude, pride, friendship. I nod, unable to voice the overwhelming feeling.
"And so will I," Father adds gently, touching Hidi's shoulder. Considering her height, which is a bit of a stretch, but the Hidi tilts in to help. The gesture taken. The unity between them, so different yet unwavering, Almony's giant queen and my father the ruler of Dawny, both standing side by side like this somehow makes me stand a little taller.
Hidi's voice softens even further. "And don't let them give you any shit. You're Empress — half vampire, half human — none of that matters. The only thing that does is that Nochten is yours now. And you'll rule it like no one else could."
"As you meant to." Father agrees, his own voice softer as tears fill his eyes even fuller. "This is your birthright, Ana. You are your mother's daughter."
My mother. Tears prick the back of my eyes, but I blink them away. There is no sadness in this moment. Only determination.
"I don't need luck." I lift my chin, suddenly feeling lighter, ready. "But thank you."
With that, I follow Aunt Funda out of the room.
"Ana!" Hidi's voice calls after me, and I glance back to see her smile. "Break a leg!" she says with a teasing grin.
I pause, cringing slightly. "Why would I need to break something?"
Hidi groans, rolling her eyes dramatically. "Oh, Ana." She looks to my father with some hidden message. He only shrugs, though the amusement in his eyes is evident. Their laughter follows me down the hall.
Mykhol is already waiting, as expected. His arm extended. "Are you ready, Cousin?" He holds his head high, his vermilion eyes gleaming with pride for me. As if he, too, had been waiting for this day.
For the first time since I can remember, I find myself stepping out into the hall, sure of myself and my purpose, my step never wavering, my head high. For the first time since I stepped into Nochten back then on that bitter winter's day, I feel like I belong here.
"Yes," I say, and I mean it. "I've never been more ready."
-x-
Typically, a simple five-minute walk to the courtroom has now extended to half an hour, but neither of us complains because this is tradition.
Every new ruler must walk this hall. My mother has done it, her father before her, and his father before him. And now, I, too, will take the Hall of Remembrance.
The Hall of Remembrance is seldom used. A stark white hall with high ceilings, it has no doors leading to rooms, no purpose other than leading directly to the courtroom. The white walls are interrupted only by the golden frames. From top to bottom, the walls are adorned with paintings, each representing a significant moment in Nochten's history.
The air is still thick with the weight of its long history. Not a breeze nor a shift disturbs it. Only our sandaled feet' soft, rhythmic sound echoes against the polished stone floor, rising to the arched, domed ceiling above. The sound fills the hall's vastness, as though the walls themselves are listening. This silence is not empty. It is reverent, as if the past lingers here, watching. Only a few have ever had the grace to travel this path, and now, I am one of them.
Most of the paintings are from the First Emperor's time. They detail the great battles and the joining of the different sub-kingdoms–the Aramantie Tribes, the Dulic Tribes, and the Sulwo tribes. He brought them together by either taking one of their princesses as a wife or defeating them in battle, leading the path to Nochten's greatness.
Among them are sprinkles of the Emperors after him and their accomplishments. Some are from my grandfather's reign. He established the colonies and made us a true empire.
And then, there is my mother.
Her painting is small, almost easy to miss among the grand depictions of war and triumph, but its presence is undeniable. It is a piece of her Rose Garden, the blooms caught forever in a sea of crimson and deep green. Unlike the others, there is no blood in this frame—only beauty—the kind of beauty that lingers, that refuses to be forgotten.
I slow my steps, seeing it pulling at something deep within me. She once walked this very hall, just as I am now. Her footsteps echoed against these same walls, her gaze passed over these same paintings. For the first time, the act of walking this path feels like more than just a duty. It feels like a connection — not just Empress to Empress, but daughter to mother.
I never knew her. Nochten made sure of that. She died the day I was born, and since then, the weight of her absence has shaped so much of my life. Even now, the old taboo forbids me from asking too much about her. The dead are not to be disturbed. They are to be left in the past or bring their anger. Silent to what was. But how can I not wonder?
I know it is wrong of me, but I can't help myself and what to know. What would she say if she saw me now?
Would she be proud? Would she cry, like Father did? He tried to hide it, but I saw the tears back there. Did Father see her when he saw me? He said I resembled her. But I'll never know. There are no portraits. But that is what he says. Even Admiral Nugen, whose words are rarely sentimental, has offered praise in his own stern way. Each memory they share is like a sliver of light, but it is never enough.
I ache for more.
I picture her standing at the end of this hall, waiting for me. Would she smile? Would she reach out for my hands like Father does? Would she whisper words of encouragement, telling me that I belong here? That I am enough?
Or would she see the same doubts I try to hide?
I know I shouldn't think of the dead like this. The customs of Nochten are clear — so to dwell on what cannot be is a waste. Yet, whenever it comes to her, I can't help but wonder.
Would she understand the burden I carry? Would she know how hard I've worked, how much I've sacrificed just to stand here?
Or perhaps she would see past all that. Maybe she would simply hold me, as a mother should, and tell me that I am not alone.
I blink, my gaze lingering on the crimson roses in her painting. They bloom with a vibrance that defies time, as though still basking in the warmth of her care. I wonder if I will ever be remembered like this — not just for what I rule, but for what I grow.
The thought makes me quiet. But that is proper.
The first Emperor created this hall for remembrance. It is not only to honor how great the past Emperors were, but also to remind me that I, too, must add something. I must prove myself a worthy ruler in my own right. It is my responsibility to achieve even more than they could.
I can't let them down.
And most of all — I can't let her down.
"So," Mykhol is the first to break the silence. His voice is soft, but it echoes faintly in the still air. "Do you like it?"
"Like what?" I'm still staring at my mother's painting, the crimson blooms capturing my attention. "The Hall?" I hesitate. Am I supposed to like it? "I don't think that's what this is for."
He hums — a low, thoughtful sound that makes the space between us feel heavier. "Ana, honestly," he sighs, though it's not quite frustration. There's something else. "I swear, sometimes I wonder if you do this to tease me."
"Tease you?" His words are strange. I turn from the painting to look at him, searching his expression for meaning. What is he going on about now? What have I done? "Cousin, I would never—"
"We're matching, Ana." Mykhol cuts me off with a small gesture toward his gown.
"Oh." I blink. Only now do I notice it. Our robes — his a deep, wine red, and mine a darker shade, like blood beneath moonlight. The embroidery mirrors mine, the patterns twisting like vines. The only difference is the lack of jewels on his. He is far more modest. A choice, perhaps. Or a statement.
"I wanted us to match," he continues, his eyes holding mine.
"Oh," I say again, though the word feels inadequate. I can't tell if this pleases or irritates him. I fidget, feeling as though I should respond more. But whatever I offer isn't enough. His smile wavers — not entirely gone, but dimmed.
"It's important we do," he says quietly, leaning in slightly. His voice lowers, like it's meant just for me. "Do you understand?"
Important. The word lingers. But important for what?
"Is it… nice to match?" I ask carefully, unsure what he expects. My voice feels too small in the vast hall. "I suppose it is, if it's important to you."
"That—haa." Mykhol's sigh is long and slow. He pulls me along once more, his hand clasped firmly around mine. "You don't catch on at all. You didn't even see the heart on the scarf…"
"Mykhol—" His tone is sharp enough that I start to protest, but he's already smiling again. The sudden shift leaves me unsteady, like I've missed some crucial part of this conversation.
"But I plan to make you understand my real intentions," he says, his gaze lingering ahead. The words slip from his lips so quickly, like they're meant to be a comfort. They aren't.
"Real intentions, Cousin?" The phrase unsettles me. This is the first I've heard of them. "Do you… have plans?"
"Something I've wanted for a while." Mykhol stops just short of the waiting servant. The door looms ahead, tall and imposing. The servant bows, hands poised to pull it open. But Mykhol doesn't move.
"Something you've wanted?" My hand slips from his. I observe him now, searching for any hint of what he means. The smile he wears is almost too deliberate. "What's that?"
His eyes catch mine — vermilion, darkened like embers behind a veil of amusement. There's a flicker of something more profound.
"I want to be your first in everything." His smile widens, fangs peeking through. "I'm going to take it all."
My breath snags.
"Cousin—"
But the word barely escapes before I scoff, the tension breaking beneath my disbelief. It has to be a joke. It must be. That's just how Mykhol is — dramatic, impossible. He always says strange things just to get a reaction.
"Cousin, you are awful." I shake my head, forcing a laugh, though the unease still lingers.
"Your Empress? It's time." The servant goes to open the door.
"I will see you inside," I turn away, greeting the servant with a nod. But just as the door creeps open, the world flashes red. Mykhol moves without warning — swift, like a shadow.
Before I can recoil, I feel the warmth of his lips against mine.
It's over in an instant. When he pulls back, I see the smudge of my lip stain now painted against his mouth. The crimson mark stands out against his pale skin, vivid and unmistakable.
And Mykhol only smiles.
"For good luck," Mykhol bows and steps back. His lips, now smudged with the same shade of red as my own, curl into a sly smile.
I stand frozen, the heat of the kiss still lingering on my mouth. It wasn't the first time Mykhol kissed me. Mykhol has always been pushy, touchy, and always finding ways to be close. He takes my hand without asking, pulls me to his side, or even forces me onto his lap as though it's his right. I've long grown used to brushing it off. Mykhol being Mykhol.
But this…
His eyes linger on mine, a beat too long. Something dances behind those vermilion depths, smoldering like embers. There's a certainty there — a knowing. What is it? What does he see that I can't?
My lips tingle. The sensation spreads, a flush creeping up my neck. My heart stumbles, then races, as if my body has only just realized what happened. I reach up, brushing trembling fingers over the place he touched. It's as if the air is heavier, wrapping around me, pulling me back to that fleeting moment.
Why does it feel like this? I can't understand this strange feeling twisting inside me. It was just a kiss. A cousin's kiss. That's all. But my stomach twists, and the warmth that settles there is nothing I've felt. It prickles beneath my skin, something between bewilderment and… something else. Something I have no name for.
My thoughts search for reason, but all I find are scattered fragments — passages from books about lingering gazes and stolen kisses, about how hearts race when desire blooms. But that's not what this is. It can't be.
I shake my head. No. Mykhol is my cousin. I don't have time for these foolish thoughts.
But even as I try to shove it away, the memory of his lips remains. The warmth, the pressure — it clings to me, unwelcome and unsettling. My chest tightens, though I can't say why.
"I…" My voice barely escapes, lost within the tangle of thoughts snaring my mind.
The servant bows low, waiting. Mykhol's gaze hasn't shifted. He's pleased. Triumphant, even. That grin — it's as though he's claimed something.
But he hasn't. He can't.
It was just another of his ill-timed jokes. I dismiss.
"I… need to go." I force the words, though my feet feel unsteady. The sensation of Mykhol's lips lingers, the echo of it refusing to fade. I keep my gaze forward, refusing to glance back. Mykhol remains behind me, but his presence looms far too close, as if lingering just beneath my skin. Still, I push forward. Even as the weight of the doors creak open and the sea of faces beyond turn toward me, I refuse to falter.
Some eyes gleam with hope, others with guarded expectation. A few betray thinly veiled judgment—nothing new. But still, I hold my head a little higher.Let them look. Let them think what they will.
Because I will show them that I can. My heart pounds, not from the kiss, but from what lies ahead. This is not the time to dwell on foolish distractions.
This is the day I've been waiting for. The day I become Empress. The day I claim what is mine.
The memories of that small, frail girl who once stood in these very halls flicker through my mind. She had waited, endured, and prepared — not for Mykhol, not for anyone, but for this. For Nochten.
I square my shoulders. The trembling in my hands ceases.
It's time.
I step forward—the first of many.
I, Anastasia Brokenoff, daughter of King Alexander of Dawny and the late Empress Parsul of Nochten, the current ruling Empress of Nochten, have arrived.