What in the world…
SLAM!
"Fvcking cockroach… so fvking big, fvking gross!" Ett's voice rang through the otherwise quiet chamber. Her slippers slammed against the wooden floor, flattening the intruder with satisfying finality. "You piece of shvt… you're the only thing that makes me curse this much."
A pause. Her chest heaved as she stared down at the tiny carcass. Disgust rolled over her in waves. How could a royal palace allow such creatures to exist?
Even the cleanest halls, the most meticulously polished floors, weren't immune. She had read plenty of accounts from other isekai'd people they'd gone to palaces, too, yet somehow, none of them had mentioned this horror.
Was this palace meant to be more pristine, more perfect? Ett snorted in disbelief.
No matter. She would request a muslin immediately. Absolutely nothing of this nature could come anywhere near her again. Not in her bed, not in her clothes, not even in the corner of her eye while she schemed and planned. These creatures disrupted concentration far more effectively than any noble faction, any scheming, any whispering court intrigue.
Abominable things.
Relief washed over her as she watched the motionless cockroach. Even now, an almost irresistible urge to continue surged within her tear it apart limb by limb, shatter it with precision like some grim ritual, slippers gripped like deadly chopsticks. She shivered at the thought, and the familiar fire of killing intent flared specifically reserved for cockroaches, nothing else.
"Your Grace… may I tend to it?" The voice of her maid trembled as she entered with a tray of tea. She froze under Ett's murderous glare.
Anyone would have shivered in that intensity; the maid felt as though she were the cockroach itself, waiting for judgment. She silently vowed never to let insects cross Her Grace's path again. If one appeared again, the consequences would not be trivial.
"Good. And do get a muslin. I do not want it anywhere near my bed," Ett said, her voice sharp but controlled.
"Yes, Your Grace. Understood," the maid replied, stepping carefully, her hands trembling slightly as she busied herself with the cleanup.
Only then did Ett relax, settling back onto her bed. Her usual languid, composed demeanor returned, childlike in its calm but edged with the subtle sharpness of someone always calculating, always observing.
She allowed her mind to wander, not to any "butterfly effect" or distant consequences of her actions, but simply to the people around her: Moran, the uncle, and the delicate threads of trust and obligation that bound them in her mind.
The uncle seemed like a good man simple, steady, capable of kindness. That alone was enough for Ett to note him, to file him in her mental ledger of potential allies and useful instruments. Plans would continue. She can't help but nod in satisfaction. Surely, Moran had found a good person, right?
"Hmm." Ett exhaled, dismissing extraneous thoughts. The current event, the here and now, demanded her focus.
She watched the maid work with efficient precision: sweeping the remnants, discarding the old carpet, replacing it with a new one. Even when the maid left, Ett's gaze lingered on the spot where the cockroach had met its end. She considered, clinically, what might come next.
Should she tear the next this roach apart limb by limb as a statement? Or simply remove it, exile it, leave no trace of disruption? Control mattered above all. Timing, the flow of events, the appearance of seamlessness these were crucial.
Too much interference, and chaos might ripple through even the most carefully structured plans.
Her thoughts turned toward matters of the plot. Veralis. She knew there had been a deviation when she met him. In the story, she shouldn't have lingered, shouldn't have engaged, should have walked away in the way she had. Still, its useful for that person to be on their side even though its forced.
Guren, although aware of Veralis, would not act against him yet the timeline for his death was effectively paused. Ett would need to manage that, speak to Guren carefully, preserve both her influence and the coherence of events.
"…Man," she muttered softly. Avoid someone, and yet seconds later, find yourself face-to-face with them. Life had a cruel sense of timing, and Ett, though accustomed to the peculiarities of her existence, could not help but exhale in mild exasperation.
"How can I even face that child?" she asked herself, frowning.
Communication with ordinary humans was challenging enough; children were exponentially more unpredictable. Patience, Ett reminded herself, was required.
"Drafts first," she murmured, reaching for her black notebook. Hidden securely in her own private corner, written in a dialect of secrecy, it contained the record of her calculations, observations, and plans.
Pages turned, ink smeared in the urgency of thought. Another day passed, then night. Candlelight flickered, shadows danced, and the quiet, repetitive rhythm of her work continued.
The palace outside her chamber remained largely silent. Peeking through the window, one could see piles of papers on the carpet, fragments burned in the hearth, a room occupied by the solitary diligence of its mistress.
A week passed in this suspended quiet, undisturbed, except for the faint movement of servants, the occasional distant sound of the city, and the whisper of the wind outside.
***
Meanwhile, in his own chamber, Guren worked with quiet intensity. His lamp cast steady light over his study table, the faint outline of his silhouette shifting only with the turn of a page or the scratch of a pen.
He concentrated fully, immersed in work, as though nothing else in the palace existed. The silence of the palace amplified his presence, made his diligence almost spectral in contrast to the emptiness around him.
"The Dowager seems always in her room," Butler Xiwen observed softly, drawing the heavy curtains. Outside, darkness pressed against the palace, yet Guren's study glowed, a beacon of focus in the otherwise still night.
"Isn't she always like that?" Guren asked flatly, voice neutral, casual, though attention flickered in subtle acknowledgment.
Mother and child. Blood ties, simple yet complicated, threaded with duty and past dealings, nothing more.
Xiwen nodded, careful in his observation. "Always on the balcony, watching the moon. Since… the incident, she rarely leaves her chamber. Her presence has become distant, detached, as if the palace itself were a stage and we mere performers under her gaze."
Guren's expression remained impassive, detached.
Detached, yes, but not unobservant. Calculating. Every movement, every word, measured. He had long learned to recognize the signs: a mother who watched the world as a spectator, a court that whispered, and a son who navigated both with indifference.
"You spoke too freely," Guren said, voice sharp yet casual.
"I… was lost in thought, Your Majesty," Xiwen admitted. Attempts to bring mother and daughter closer had failed repeatedly; they were like oil and water, incompatible and subtly hostile to each other's presence.
Even the smallest mention of one another's activities provoked irritation or silence.
"I just hope she doesn't unravel like before," Guren uttered. The day she just left nearly killing herself in the river. Such a disgrace, and harmful move.
"…You are right, Your Majesty," Xiwen said quietly, his tone weighed with the awareness of fragile balances. Without her role, without her presence, the Dowager could vanish tomorrow, and the court would scarcely notice. The words hung in the air, a subtle echo of what could easily unravel if left unchecked.
Guren set his pen down deliberately, the slight scrape of metal against parchment marking the end of one thought and the pause before the next. He leaned back in his chair, fingers interlaced, gaze tracing the edge of the lamp's flickering light.
For a long moment, he said nothing, as if measuring time itself, letting the quiet stretch like a taut string.
"Rest, Xiwen. I do not require your assistance tonight." His voice was calm, almost detached, but the deliberate cadence gave the words weight. He was aware of every movement in the room, every shadow cast by the flickering lamp, every soft whisper of the palace settling into its nightly rhythm.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I will summon the maids if necessary," Xiwen replied, sensing the unspoken rhythm, the slow unfolding of Guren's attention.
"Mmm," Guren murmured, his gaze dropping to the papers in front of him. He lifted one sheet, studying the subtle shifts in ink, the faint smudges, and the precise lines of thought.
His eyes lingered, narrow and discerning, tracing each calculation, each note as if reading not just the words but the intent behind them.
The silence settled again, heavy yet measured. The lamp flickered once more, casting moving shadows that stretched across the polished floor. Guren moved slowly, deliberately, leaning forward just enough to adjust a book at the corner of the desk, the motion subtle but precise.
Fingers tapped lightly on the wood, a rhythm that was almost inaudible yet carried the unmistakable weight of thought in motion.
A knock interrupted the quiet, sharp and urgent, slicing through the careful cadence of the room. Guren's head lifted almost imperceptibly.
"Xiwen, I told you—" he began, his voice calm, but the pause before the next words was deliberate, almost savoring the tension in the air.
"I see, Your Majesty is busy. I shall leave immediately," the voice at the door was calm, feminine and familiar.
He frowned. This is a first.
"Hold on…" Guren's voice softened, low and cautious, measured with intent. His hand reached slowly for the lamp beside him, adjusting the flame just slightly so that the shadows around the room shifted, small and controlled.
"Come in, Dowager."