*Ana*
"I don't wanna go," I whimper, my bottom lip trembling so hard I have to bite it until I taste copper. My scarlet eyes—the ones servants whisper about when they think I can't hear—search the angry sky where clouds twist like smoke from Papa's fireplace, only darker and meaner.
The air stings my nostrils, sharp and bitter like the medicine Nurse makes me take when I'm sick. Snow is coming; I can feel it in my bones, the way Papa says old people can feel rain. My fingers—pudgy and flame-red despite the scratchy wool gloves Nurse forced onto my hands—shake so badly I can't make them stop.
The old nursemaid turns back to me, her face like a shriveled apple forgotten in the cellar, creases deepening around eyes the color of mud after horses trample through. Her eyes glisten wet, like mine.
She's sad too. But it doesn't stop her from taking me away.
She yanks my hand again, pulling me down another icy step. My boots—the special ones with silver buckles Papa gave me for my nameday—scrape against white stone that sparkles cruelly in the weak sunlight. A sound like a wounded kitten escapes my throat.
"Please, I'll be good for Stepmother," I beg, feeling hot tears spill down my cheeks, the warmth vanishing instantly as they freeze into tiny beads against my throat. The cold burns worse than fire.
"I swear. I swear, so please don't." My voice breaks like thin ice on the castle pond. My tongue feels too big for my mouth, clumsy with terror.
If I promise hard enough, if I mean it with my whole heart, maybe she'll believe me.
Maybe we can turn around and go back inside where the air smells like cinnamon and pine, where fires crackle in every hearth. Where Papa waits. Where no one looks at me with frightened eyes.
But my magic isn't strong enough. Or the wind takes my voice away. Because the nursemaid doesn't stop, she keeps moving.
"You'll be happy in your mother's homeland of Nochten, Princess Anastasia." The nursemaid's voice strains like an overtuned violin string. She tries to look at me with kindness, forcing her lips to curve upward, but the smile crumbles beneath the weight of tears that leave glistening trails on her wrinkled cheeks.
"You will be back with your kind," she adds, as if those words should comfort me. As if they explain why I'm being torn from everything I've ever loved.
My kind? I've heard those whispers a hundred times. My kind this, my kind that. Hissed between servants when they think I'm not listening. Stepmother's voice behind locked doors.
What does it even mean? And why must I leave Dawny, the only home I've ever known? The castle with its big and winding hallways, the mazes in the garden where I chase butterflies in summer, the kitchens where Cook sneaks me honey cakes when no one's looking.
Why does Stepmother keep saying it's not safe? She points to what I am—whatever that means—and insists I must go. That I might hurt the baby growing in her belly.
But I'd never! Never ever!
I already love my to be brother or sister. I want to meet them. To show them the pretty birds in summer. Teach them all the best hiding spots in the castle.
But how can I if I am not here?! Why does Stepmother look at me like a bug when Papa isn't looking? Why does she keep saying I could be so mean?
It's all lies.
I'm a good girl. Everyone says so. Even Papa.
"Please, I swear—" A gust of wind howls through the courtyard like a hungry wolf, slamming into us with icy claws. My teeth chatter so hard I fear they might break. The wind tears at our cloaks, snapping the ribbon apart in my hair with a sharp crack.
Silver strands whip free, swirling around my face like moonbeams come to life, sticking to my wet cheeks and eyelashes. My vision blurs behind this curtain of silver. No one else in all of Dawny has hair this color. Not one person.
Papa always said it was special—magical—a sign of the deep love between him and my mother before she died, bringing me into the world.
But I don't it. I don't want to be special if it means being sent away!
I want my bed with its silk canopy and soft feather pillows. I want my collection of painted horses. I want Papa's scratchy beard against my cheek when he kisses me goodnight.
"Don't make me go!" I wail, snot mixing with tears as I dig my heels into the ground. Stone scrapes against leather as I make myself heavy, unmovable as the ancient oak in the castle garden. Anything to stop us from reaching that horrible black carriage waiting at the bottom of the path, its windows like dark, watching eyes.
"Your Highness." The nursemaid's voice trembles like leaves in a storm, but her grip only tightens, fingers digging into the soft flesh between my knuckles.
"The vampires will take care of you. They will love you." She speaks faster now, words tumbling over each other like stones down a hillside. "You won't ever feel unloved again."
Unloved? The word lodges in my throat like a fishbone, impossible to swallow or cough up.
Is that why Papa is sending me away? Because he doesn't love me anymore?
Because Stepmother's new baby will take my place in his heart?
"Papa!" I scream, my voice raw with desperation. My silver hair lashes behind me as I twist toward the castle, eyes frantically searching the grand window above the entranceway. Searching for him. For rescue.
There!
Papa stands behind the glass, tall and proud in his royal blue uniform. Stepmother stands beside him, her hands curved protectively over her swollen belly like she fears I might snatch away what grows inside. Papa's sapphire eyes—so different from my strange red ones—stare down at me, cold and distant as stars.
"Papa!" My voice shatters like a dropped crystal goblet. "Papa, I don't want to go—"
But Papa isn't smiling.
He always smiles at me. Always. Even when I'm naughty. Even when I spilled ink all over his important royal papers. He never not smile.
And he should be rushing down these steps to save me—he promised once that he'd always protect me from monsters.
But maybe… I'm the monster now?
The thought hits harder than the wind.
"Papa?" My whisper catches on the cracks in my chapped lips, carried away by the bitter wind.
Slowly, deliberately, he turns his back. Sunlight reflects off the window, momentarily blinding me. When I can see again, he's gone. Vanished into the shadows of the only home I've ever known.
He left me.
He chose Stepmother and her baby over me.
"Yes, they will love you so much, Princess Anastasia," the nursemaid murmurs, her voice thick with sorrow as she lifts me—so small and light in her arms—into the waiting carriage that smells of leather and strange perfume.
The door slams shut with the finality of a tomb, sealing me inside. The world beyond the glass instantly becomes distant and muted: the howling wind, the bone-deep cold, even my own desperate cries.
"Be good," she mouths through the window before stepping back to join the other servants—the people who've bathed me and fed me and told me bedtime stories every night.
They stand in a huddled line, faces wet but trying to smile. As if they'll see me tomorrow at breakfast. As if this isn't forever.
A whip cracks like thunder overhead. The carriage lurches forward violently, nearly throwing me from the velvet seat.
And gradually, sickeningly, Dawny—with its golden towers and familiar halls and the father who no longer wants me—disappears behind a thickening curtain of snowflakes that dance indifferently in the wind.
-x-
When the carriage finally rocked to a stop, I exhaled a shaky breath, forcing myself to look through the small glass window. Curious—terrified—to see my new home.
A long pathway of smooth limestone stretched before me, bone-white and cold-looking despite the absence of snow. Its pale surface gleamed dully under a sky that wasn't blue like Dawny's, but a smothering blanket of gray that made everything look flat and lifeless. The clouds hung low and heavy, not fluffy white like sheep but smoky and thin, casting the world in a colorless haze.
At the end of the path, a palace carved from the same white stone rose, its towers and walls like giant teeth jutting from the earth. Gold and teal domes crowned the towers, with sharp metal antennas piercing skyward as if ready to stab through the gloomy clouds. The colors should have been pretty, but they looked wrong somehow—too harsh against the dreary sky.
The pristine white stone was a stark contrast against the endless yellow sand that stretched in every direction. Not the golden sand of a beach, but a sickly pale yellow, like someone had bleached all the joy from it.
A fountain gushed before the grand doorway, water spilling forth with a hollow splashing sound that echoed across the empty courtyard. The noise felt like it was mocking the cruel, arid land. But I barely noticed—my attention was drawn instead to the heavy line of people standing on either side of the path.
Waiting.
They must have come to welcome me. A sea of red hair filled my vision, not warm and friendly like autumn leaves, but slick and dark like old blood. Their skin was too pale, like fish bellies. Vampires.
Nochten—the empire of my Mother's. Of my supposed kind.
A wave of sudden dizziness strikes. The smell here is all wrong—dry and dusty with something like salt and earth that tickle my nose and make me want to sneeze. Nothing like the sweet pine and fresh bread smell of home. I clutch the cushion, squeezing my eyes shut as the carriage rocks slightly.
Please don't make me go out. Please don't–
Then, the door creaks open with a sound like old bones.
"Your Majesty?" The coachman—a small man with wary eyes that dart around like nervous mice—holds out his hand to me, but I see something move past his shoulder. Three people, no, vampires, are approaching, each with the customary red hair and eyes that glow like hot coals in their pale faces.
The tallest, a broadly built woman with thick legs and a thin nose pinched between a diamond-shaped face, seems to be leading the way. Her footsteps make no sound against the stone—nothing like the comforting clip-clop of the servants' boots in Dawny's halls.
Holding her arm, struggling to keep up with her long strides, is a portly man, bald as an egg, with circular glasses that catch the dull light. The third is a boy of ten years or so, a clear combination of features from the first two but leaning on the handsome side like his mother. His eyes, though the same red as the others, seem to cut right through me.
"Your Majesty?" The coachman's voice trembles slightly, and I can smell his fear—sharp and acrid like vinegar.
I jolt, remembering myself. Nodding stiffly, I take his hand and step down. But the moment my feet touch the limestone, the cold seeps through my boots like it's alive and hungry. My breath hitches tightly in my chest, and I begin to shake my head, feeling my silver curls bounce against my cheeks.
"Take me back," I whimper, curling my fingers around his like a death grip. "Please."
"Your Royal Highness," He looks down at me, furrowing his brows. His hand is warm and rough—the last bit of Dawny I have to hold onto.
He pauses, as if unsure what to do. But before he can react, before I can even think that I have a chance–the air is split by a chorus of voices that hit my ears like icy needles.
"All praise to Empress Anastasia!" As one, the crowd drops to a knee, hands over their hearts. The sound of fabric rustling and knees hitting stone echoes across the courtyard, making my stomach twist.
Why are they doing that? I shrink closer to the coachman, my tiny claws poking through my mittens as fear makes them extend without my permission. The wool catches and tears as my nails sharpen.
If I didn't want to let go before, I definitely don't want to let go now.
A voice curls through the air—low, rich, laced with authority but cold as the winter wind back home.
"Your Empress."
The broad woman stands first, her movement stiff and formal like a puppet on strings. The portly man follows, then the boy. Their sashed robes shimmer with silk, metallic thread, and fur, but not in a friendly, festive way like at Dawny's winter celebrations. These clothes look like armor, not decoration.
Their crimson eyes land on me—no, not me, but my hair. Their nostrils flare, wrinkling their noses at the sight as if they've smelled something rotten. In Dawny, servants would sometimes touch my silver locks with wonder. Here, these people look at them like they're watching a snake slither across their path.
"Welcome to Nochten, the empire of vampires—"
"I wanna go home." I don't even let her finish before I turn back to the coachman. His familiar human smell—sweat and leather and horses—makes my throat tighten with longing.
"Please, take me back." I yank his hand, clinging to him as though my life depended on it. His skin turns white where my tiny fingers press.
"Your Highness—"
"Please!" My voice bounces off the stone, making some of the vampires wince at the volume.
The tall woman steps forward, her shoes making no sound at all on the stone. Like a ghost. Like something not quite real.
"Empress Anastasia?"
But I shake my head. Refuse to look at her. The air here tastes wrong—metallic and stale, nothing like the sweet, crisp air of Dawny.
"Take me with you." I turn to the coachman, swallowing back fresh tears that burn behind my eyes. "Please, I don't want to be here."
His grip wavers, warm fingers loosening around mine. "Your majesty?"
"Ahem,"
A sharp throat-clearing from the broad woman made him tense. A muscle jumped in his jaw before he bowed his head, the last warmth in his eyes fading like a snuffed candle.
Then, without another word, he pulled his hand from mine, leaving my palm cold and empty.
"No, don't—" Don't leave me with these strangers. These cold-eyed people who look at me like I'm a stain they can't remove.
I reach out into the air, my fingers grasping nothing but the bitter chill. But it's too late. He climbs the small ladder with quick, desperate movements, as if escaping something dangerous, and cracks the whip. The horses snort, a sound that reminds me of home, hooves striking stone with sharp clacks, and the wheels begin to roll.
I drop my hand to my side as the last bit of my hope drives off into the distance, the carriage growing smaller and smaller until it vanishes behind a gray veil of dust. Leaving me all alone in this colorless, joyless place.
"Your Empress," The woman coughs into her hand, irritation flickering across her face like lightning. The sound is sharp, deliberately loud. Not like Nurse's gentle reminders when I forgot my manners.
"I am Funda, your mother's sister. Making me your aunt." She announces, her voice cutting through the silence like a knife through butter. "And this, your Uncle Charles. And our son Mykhol."
The boy—Mykhol—stares at me, expression unreadable beneath perfectly combed red hair. Not a single strand out of place, unlike my wild silver curls that Papa used to call "untameable as moonlight."
Funda continues, standing so straight it looks painful. "Until you're first blood, your uncle and I will serve as regents of the empire."
She lifts a foot to step closer, reaching for me, but then hesitates. For the briefest moment, doubt crosses her features before she pulls back, as if afraid to touch me. As if my silver hair might be catching, like a disease.
"Tomorrow will be the beginning of your lessons. We will first take you to your room to wash." Her nose wrinkles slightly. "After that, you will be dressed in our Nochten gowns." Her eyes linger on my Dawny clothes with distaste, as if I'm wearing rags instead of the finest velvet and silk Papa's gold could buy.
She turns sharply, robes swaying like flags in a stiff breeze as she moves toward the palace. Charles and Mykhol follow in sync behind, as if rehearsed, their feet making no sound on the stone path. In Dawny, servants chattered, boots clomped, skirts swished.
But here, it just feels so silent. Heavy and cold.
It is only when she looks over her shoulder again, does she notice I haven't moved. I'm still standing where the coachman left me, as if my feet have grown roots through my boots.
"Your Empress." Funda raises her brow, a single perfect arch above those burning eyes. "You must follow."
"No!" The word bursts from me like water from a broken dam.
Her brow twitches. "What was that, your Empress?" Her voice drops to a dangerous whisper that carries across the courtyard nonetheless.
"Take me back!" I cry and drop to my knees, the hard stone bruising my legs through my dress. In Dawny, someone would have caught me before I fell.
"I don't want to be here! I wanna go home! I want Papa!" The words tear from my throat, raw and desperate.
I don't care about my kind or how nice they are supposed to be. I don't like it here at all. It's too strange and bare. Too quiet and colorless. And vampires look scary with their blood-red eyes that don't blink enough and their too-sharp teeth that flash when they speak.
"I want—" My words die on my lips as I look up through tear-blurred eyes. No one is moving. But that's not right.
Someone always comes. Some kind-hearted person always picks me up, rocks me, tells me it's going to be okay. Nurse would stroke my hair and hum a lullaby. Cook would offer me a sweet. Even Papa would lift me into his strong arms and kiss away my tears.
But now? They only stare, as still as the stone statues in Dawny's garden.
Funda makes a strained expression, pulling in her lips thin until they nearly disappear. Charles and Mykhol exchange glances but say nothing, their faces masks of perfect control. It's the same for the rest of the crowd.
Around me, red eyes glance at each other, but no one dares go further. It's almost like they don't want to touch me. Or are afraid to.
Save for one.
A human man.
He stands among the vampires, a scar slicing through his brow like a silver worm, his choppy brown hair unruly against the perfect red manes surrounding him. His deep, brown eyes—warm like the chocolate Cook would sneak me—fix on me, not with sympathy, but with something else. Curiosity, maybe. Still, he doesn't move.
Why...isn't anyone coming? I suck in a choppy breath, jerking my eyes around at this unfamiliar sight. The air feels too thin, like I can't get enough of it no matter how hard I try.
Didn't she say I would be happy and that they would love me? The nursemaid's promise rings hollow in my memory now.
But there was no warmth in their gazes. No gentle smiles. Only cold, calculating red eyes were watching me like I was a strange insect they'd found in their food.
No—it was my hair. My hand trembles as I touch it, fingers threading through the silver curls Papa once said were beautiful. The only other hair color besides red in this entire place, making it stick out like a white crow among ravens.
"Your Empress," Aunt Funda repeats, pulling her long lips into a hollow smile that doesn't reach her eyes. "Are you finished?" The words drip with impatience.
"I, yes, er, Aunt Funda." I stiffly nod, wobbling as I push myself up on legs that feel like pudding. My feet shift, catching sand underneath that scrapes between my boot and sock, almost making me topple forward and fall. But still, no one moves to help me.
The three just stand by, waiting, like statues come partially to life.
"This way," Aunt Funda repeats, again turning with her men effortlessly toward the doors that look more like the entrance to a tomb than a home.
"Hold on—" I gasp, struggling to pull up my heavy velvet skirt as they walk too quickly, their long legs carrying them far ahead while my small ones struggle to keep pace. The fabric catches on my boot buckle, nearly tripping me.
"Please, it's too fast." But they must not hear me because they keep walking, or maybe they simply don't care. The gap between us widens with each step.
"She's so weak." Someone snickers around me, the voice soft but clear in the still air.
"That's what you get for a halfling." Another chimes in, the word spat like something dirty.
"Half?" My feet halt at the word, looking back into the crowd, but I can't tell any of them apart. It's just a sea of red hair and pale faces, watching me with those burning eyes that hold no love, no welcome.
Everyone looks so similar. Everyone looks like they belong, except for me. But that doesn't make sense.
Aren't they "my kind"?
The words echo in my mind like stones dropped in an empty well. If these are my people, why do I feel like a snowflake in summer? My silver hair catches the dull light, gleaming against the crimson surrounding me.
I can feel eyes tracking the movement, judging, cold, unwelcoming.
"Empress Anastasia?" It's Aunt Funda again, her voice carrying across the courtyard like a winter wind, sharp enough to cut. "What is the delay?"
The stones beneath my feet seem to vibrate with her impatience. I can taste my own fear—metallic and sour at the back of my throat. The heavy velvet of my Dawny dress clings to my legs, trapping heat in all the wrong places while the rest of me shivers.
"My dress," I mumble, the words barely making it past my lips. "It's too heavy. Could you—could you walk a bit slower?"
Funda barely glances back. Her perfect red eyebrows arch like angry birds. I can smell her irritation—like burnt sugar and something else I can't name.
"Are your legs broken?" Each word falls like a chip of ice.
"No, but—"
"Then use them."
And with that, she strides ahead, her husband tucked into her arm like a favorite doll. Their footsteps make no sound—nothing like the reassuring clack-clack of boots on stone back home. It's as if they're floating, ghostlike and unreal.
But Mykhol doesn't follow immediately.
He lingers.
His crimson eyes flicker over me—my silver hair, my wet cheeks, my trembling fingers still clinging to my dress. A look of something crosses his face. Not the cold blankness everyone else wears. Something... thinking. Considering.
My breath catches.
Maybe... maybe not all of them are like this?
The thought flickers, delicate and trembling like the wings of a moth. Maybe he wants to help. Maybe he doesn't hate me. Maybe he could even—
My first friend?
For a moment, hope flutters in my chest like a trapped butterfly. I lift my hand toward him, feeling the weight of my mittens, now damp with sweat and tears.
"Could you—"
"Slowpoke." He mutters, the word slithering from between perfectly white teeth. Then he turns his back to me and follows after his parents, his small shoulders rigid beneath expensive silk. He doesn't look back. None of them do.
As if I'm not even here. Or maybe... they don't want me to be?
She lied to me. My chest tightens as I grip my dress, the fabric bunching between my fingers.
They don't love me.
The nursemaid's promise rings hollow in my ears again. "The vampires will take care of you. They will love you." But there's no love in their crimson eyes. No care in their rigid postures. No warmth in their perfect, practiced movements.
But even if it's a lie… my eyes drift behind me to the empty spot where the carriage was. Long gone.
Just like home. Papa. Gone and far, far away.
No. That's not my home. I have to tell myself. Papa sent me away. He doesn't love me anymore.
And I am no longer Princess Anastasia. I am Empress Anastasia of Nochten.
This truth settles over me like a too-heavy cloak, smothering and inescapable. The title should make me feel important, powerful. Instead, it feels like another chain binding me to this colorless place.
Is this… to be my life now? No one will hold my hand? No one will slow their steps for me?
The realization burns behind my eyes, but I blink back the tears. They would only freeze on my cheeks anyway, showing these cold people another weakness to judge.
No, I need to get up. Papa said big girls don't cry.
And if no one will help me…
Wordlessly, I press my feet harder into the limestone, quickening my pace. The fabric of my dress swishes around my ankles—too loud in this silent place. But I can't stop.
My breath comes faster, puffing out in little clouds that vanish almost instantly in the dry air. My silver hair bounces against my back with each hurried step, catching the weak sunlight, drawing more disapproving glances.
But I can't stop. Even if they won't wait for me, it doesn't mean I can't catch up.
I can catch up.
I have to be a big girl now.
Because Empresses don't cry.