*Johan*
Johan's boots struck the stone floor with a steady, familiar rhythm as he turned down the servants' corridor, hands clasped behind his back.
The tapestries ended first. Then the gilded sconces gave way to simple iron brackets, holding oil lamps instead of candles. The smell, too, shifted gradually. Less perfumed wood and wax, more paper dust and straw. By the time Johan reached the threshold of the mail wing, the transformation was complete. The air was cooler here, tinged with the faint, earthy trace of horses and leather — a reminder that the stables weren't far off, just past the stone arch that led to the back courtyard.
Gone were the marble busts and paintings of long-dead nobles. In their place stood wooden shelves, each row carefully labeled with names — some carved, others just penciled scraps nailed crookedly to the beams. Nobles and servants alike had slots here. Hierarchy faded in this wing. The only division was between who picked up their letters promptly and those who let them rot.
Thin shafts of light came in through high, narrow windows, falling in slanted bands across the dusty floor. The shelves cast long, soft-edged shadows — not sharp enough to feel threatening. More like a library, or a cellar. Quiet. Honest.
Johan slowed his pace. His shoulders eased.
This place didn't lie. It harbored no illusions, maintained no facade. No velvet drapery concealed cracked walls, no marble floors gleamed to blind visiting dignitaries to the truth. Just creaking beams overhead, the comforting scent of parchment and hay mingling in the air, and the occasional soft scuff of boots or rustle of a messenger's coat as they moved past, carrying words that could heal or destroy.
He loved it here.
More than loved it, if he allowed himself the honesty. There was something profoundly settling about the utility of the place. Something viscerally real that soothed the constant vigilance required elsewhere. No posturing, no honeyed words concealing venom. Just hardworking men and women, fingers stained with ink, sorting bundles of news, tying twine with practiced efficiency, brushing hay from unpolished floors, pouring strong tea into chipped mugs that had seen a thousand mornings.
No courtly games. No manufactured smiles carved onto faces like masks. No one calculating their next move in the endless chess match of royal favor.
It was rare, painfully rare, to find such a pocket of groundedness within these walls.
Especially today, when the silence from Nochten pressed against his thoughts like a blade.
He scanned the rows automatically as he passed, eyes catching on names—Sir Halden, Lord Bram, Etta the scullery maid. Sir Halden's slot overflowed again, letters spilling against each other. The man never checked his correspondence. The maids had turned his neglect to their advantage, using his bin to exchange sweets and secret notes. Johan noticed but said nothing. The maids were Julia's domain, not his. He had only one master to serve, and Alexander was burden enough.
His gaze finally settled on the slot marked for the king. Full, naturally. Envelopes neatly tucked inside, sealed with the wax of noble houses—expected and important communications that Alexander would inevitably dread addressing. But Johan wasn't here to judge his king's reluctance. His brown eyes, sharp despite the decades that had weathered his face, searched with barely concealed hunger.
Perhaps this morning would finally bring the letter they'd been desperately awaiting—the letter he had been silently hoping for, even if he hadn't spoken the longing aloud. He needed to see that flash of crimson wax from Nochten, bearing news of Ana.
It wasn't there. Again.
Still nothing.
He was afraid of that.
The absence clawed at his chest—not quite dread, not yet, but something heavier than worry. His mind began its usual circling.
The lack of letters…
"It still isn't cause to worry," Johan muttered, the words tasting false on his tongue, as if needing to convince himself more than anyone who might overhear. The prolonged silence could mean anything, of course. It didn't automatically mean things were…
He'd told Alexander, in a well-practiced tone, that no news might be good news — a statement meant to ease, not convince. It was the softer answer. The one a servant should give to a king trying to keep his footing. But inside, Johan knew better than to believe in the kindness of silence.
The silence… it was growing too long.
Were things repeating themselves again? Johan feared silently. They'd encountered treachery in correspondence before.
Johan still remembered the forged letter. He hadn't forgotten; it was in the back of his mind, the unanswered question. The one that kept Ana away for far too long, thinking it had come from Alexander himself. She believed Alexander sent her away. Believed it for years. And the damage lingered.
Why would someone purposely try to force a wedge and sever them? Johan still didn't know who had forged it, but he had theories. So did Alexander. But theories were dangerous without proof. They were as good as ghosts. No one to blame. No one to confront. Only the silence kept them company.
However now, with Admiral Nugen finally in place, their lifeline to Nochten established—there should have been something.
Anything.
The admiral wasn't the type to hold his tongue. By no means was he afraid to lash out against the nobles if given the chance. Johan knew that. Johan knew the fire that still burned in the man's voice, could hear it in memory—that barely concealed contempt for the Nochten nobles who had tried to subdue Parsul. That contempt now surely blazed even brighter against those who sought to control Ana like some prized hunting hound. Nugen's resentment for the Nochten court ran nearly as deep as Alexander's—another commonality the men would never acknowledge but that Johan could see plainly. The two shared more traits than reasons to quarrel.
So why, then, the continued silence?
Johan's shoulders stiffened beneath his coat, the fabric straining slightly at the seams as he drew in a slow, measured breath. His expression remained carefully neutral, but inside, his thoughts paced the same anxious circles as Alexander's had that morning. What if the admiral couldn't write? What if something had happened—something grave enough to sever their tenuous connection altogether?
Three possibilities haunted him. The admiral imprisoned again. The admiral was gravely injured. Or—Johan's mind flinched from the third possibility, though his face betrayed nothing.
He turned a corner, weaving past a servant hefting a crate of sealed letters, and made for the front desk. Overhead, a stained glass window cast shards of pale color across his sleeve, broken sunlight dancing like secrets over the polished buttons of his coat.
If the admiral had been silenced, it meant more than the loss of simple intelligence. It meant they were blind once more. It meant Ana stood utterly alone—They had maintained no presence in Nochten for years, not since Agent Maddie had been discovered. After her interception, their line of sight had been severed—wholly and utterly. They couldn't risk sending another agent without potentially igniting a diplomatic catastrophe. The White Palace remained their blind spot, and Ana had been left to grow alone in darkness, surrounded by whispers and daggers concealed behind courtly fanged smiles.
And now, when they needed eyes within those marble walls more than ever, with Nochten's court bristling with enemies and thinly veiled threats. The nobles had received Ana with open disdain—Johan had witnessed it firsthand at her coronation, the memory still bitter on his tongue. They'd spoken over her, dismissed her every word, pressured her from all sides, treating her like a child clutching at a crown far too heavy for her young shoulders.
And Lord Mykhol's influence grew daily, like a shadow at dusk, stretching longer and darker with each passing hour. The boy's very existence posed a threat that could only be neutralized through careful, deliberate action. And that would take time. Opportunity.
Johan understood the stakes all too well. Ana's position was more precarious now than Parsul's had ever been.
Worse still, Parsul had possessed certain advantages. She hadn't come to rule as a grown woman with decades of training. Ana had been thrust into power with no hand to guide her. And now, finally, they had placed one—Nugen, their eyes and ears, within Nochten's walls.
And now even he was quiet.
The worried crease between Johan's brows deepened, etching another line onto his weathered face as he rounded another corner—and stopped short, breath catching.
Someone was already there.
A woman, still as a portrait. Slender frame, upright posture. Her white-grey hair was scraped back into a severe bun that gleamed under the hall lights. Her uniform was pressed within an inch of its life, the dark velvet so stiff it barely shifted as she breathed. She stood with her back to him, half-turned at the clerk's counter, waiting as the attendant fetched something from the back stacks. Her fingers twitched slightly against the polished wood—barely perceptible, but there.
Recognition dawned slowly, disbelief momentarily clouding his judgment.
Julia?
Johan blinked, observing the older maid with unconcealed surprise. She hadn't detected his presence yet. She appeared... distracted. Julia didn't fidget. Julia was the kind who could stand motionless for hours, statuesque in her perfect stillness. But now—
Was she alone? Johan's gaze darted past her, expecting to see Queen Belinda materialize from the shadows. Julia was perpetually attached to the Queen's side—rarely so distant from her mistress's presence. And never, in all his years, had he encountered her here.
Certainly not lurking in the mail wing.
Interesting.
Johan's eyes narrowed slightly. His thoughts turned, and the stillness he'd found a moment ago shifted into quiet alertness.
Now what, he wondered, letting a slight frown tug at the corner of his mouth, would she be doing here?
Still out of her line of sight, Johan slowed his steps and quietly cleared his throat. His voice was low but warm.
"Ah, Julia," he said, pleasant but watchful. "Good afternoon."
The woman turned unhurriedly, her expression as impassive as a winter lake, but her tone mirrored his perfectly. "Johan."
It was a cordial exchange between colleagues, but nothing more. Just names. Just a greeting. Courteous. Dry. A brief acknowledgment between the castle's most senior servants, both battle-hardened veterans in the war of whispers that raged behind the castle's ornate façade. Decades of service behind them, their loyalty repeatedly proven to masters who deemed them worthy to remain well into their twilight years.
A loyalty that charged every word between them with unspoken tension. Julia had served Queen Belinda for decades with unwavering devotion, just as Johan had with King Alexander. That devotion, as much as their age or experience, made them equals.
And adversaries. Not openly, of course.
But Johan knew better than to dismiss her presence as a coincidence. Belinda didn't retain servants out of sentiment or nostalgia. If Julia had survived this long at her side, it was because she was effective. Quietly, precisely, ruthlessly effective.
He needed to tread carefully. As, undoubtedly, did she.
"How fares the queen?" he inquired with practiced casualness, noting how Julia's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the wooden board she held.
"She is," Julia said, "as always."
"You mean perfect, then."
It was a gentle provocation disguised as jest, but her chin lifted slightly at the word, eyes assessing him with calculated precision.
"Yes," she said at last. Flat, but resolute. But he caught it—the subtle relaxation of her jaw. He'd passed her test. Julia always softened when praise was directed toward her mistress. Her chest rose slightly, pride swelling like a parent discussing a cherished child.
And if praised with just the right measure of sincerity, Julia could become almost pleasant. Even talkative.
Good. Johan needed that opening.
"And Her Majesty Hildenberg? The prince?" he asked, his gaze drifting to her hands, which clutched a wooden board. Some sort of game. He didn't miss the fleeting frown that darkened her features at the mention of the Almony queen. A flash of annoyance crossed her weathered face like a shadow, before vanishing behind her professional mask.
"Together, they are still engaged in some manner of play," she replied, her voice dropping to a barely disguised whisper. "Again." A trace of disdain colored her words, as though passing judgment. On them both? Or perhaps just Hildenberg? Johan filed the observation away for future use, continuing his careful dance.
"Who's winning?"
"I don't care to keep track," Julia replied with a clipped sigh. "I am simply instructed to fetch more games."
"That must be quite a burden."
"It's childish," she said sharply, then caught herself. "I mean—for Her Majesty." Her features tightened defensively, as if horrified at the thought of criticizing the prince. "His Royal Highness is still young; games are appropriate for him. But for Queen Hildenberg, I don't..."
"Of course," Johan supplied smoothly, silently noting her resentment toward the giant queen. A potential weakness to exploit later. For now, his attention was drawn to something else—a flash of white peeking from beneath the game board. A flutter—barely there. An envelope?
"Indeed. They've grown closer. I imagine that pleases Her Majesty, given her desire for this union."
Julia softened marginally. "It brings her joy these days."
"But not everything does?"
The question landed between them like a dropped gauntlet. Julia's faint smile vanished as she glanced past him, toward the wing housing Alexander's quarters. Her face hardened, emotions withdrawing behind stone walls.
"Her Majesty has been extraordinarily burdened due to His Majesty's... assistance in Nochten." The word twisted on her tongue like something bitter. A flash of raw emotion—anger? Resentment?—darkened her eyes before vanishing behind her carefully constructed façade.
She adjusted the board in her hands, fingers tightening around its edges.
"If you'll excuse me." Her tone was final, brooking no argument.
"Oh, Julia," Johan said, shifting slightly to block her path. "I was wondering—have you encountered Postmaster Nettle yet?"
Johan caught her minute flinch, though Julia recovered with practiced speed.
"Him? Why would I?" The game board trembled almost imperceptibly in her grasp.
"It appeared you were awaiting his return just now." Johan gestured toward the old wooden desk, its chair conspicuously empty as the attendant remained absent.
"Were you... perhaps collecting correspondence for Her Majesty?" His gaze deliberately dropped to her hands, noting the absence of her usual service tray. Just the board. And beneath it, that tantalizing corner of white paper—
The flash of white suddenly disappeared, tucked away by deft fingers.
"No," she stated, voice rigidly controlled. "I was merely dispatched to retrieve this."
"The game." Johan indicated the board, his smile never wavering though it failed to warm his calculating eyes. "For Their Majesties."
"Yes."
"I see." Johan nodded, allowing silence to stretch between them just long enough to make her grip tighten around the board, clutching it more like a shield than cargo. The reaction made his instincts prickle. Perhaps it was time to cast a line into troubled waters?
"I find it rather curious."
"What is?" Julia paused, visibly restraining her impatience. She was clearly agitated. But why?
Was it merely the desire to complete her errand? Or was there a more urgent reason compelling her to hurry? Johan maintained his gentle smile.
"No communications have arrived from Nochten."
"Is that unusual?" Julia countered, "I recall when we had no correspondence for years."
"Yes, about that—" He left the sentence dangling in the air between them, unfinished and pregnant with suspicion. Her mouth tightened into a thin line. Her knuckles whitened around the wooden frame.
"Perhaps they are still en route," she said tersely. "If you'll excuse me, Their Majesties are waiting."
"Of course." He offered a shallow bow, the gesture precise but hollow. "And I'm certain you're right. The letters will arrive soon."
Julia lingered, holding his gaze for a heartbeat longer than necessary. Her face, as ever, revealed nothing. But Johan had known her for decades. He could feel her studying him as intensely as he observed her, two old predators circling, measuring each other's weaknesses.
"Good afternoon, Johan."
He inclined his head. "Afternoon, Julia."
She turned and walked away, her heels ghosting silently across the stark wood floor. Her steps were meticulously measured. Precise. Controlled.
But she clutched that board too tightly, pressed it too close to her chest. And Johan…
Johan knew what he'd seen.
The flash of white had been fleeting—but not fast enough to escape his practiced eye.
She had something. He was certain of it.
An envelope. Perhaps more than one.
Julia had letters.
Were they for her, perhaps? Since when? Johan didn't think he ever saw her cubby full.
And more importantly… why was she trying to hide them?