"Ah, thank goodness."
The words left Ett's lips in a soft exhale as she lay sprawled across the bed, limbs loose, body sunk deep into layers of fabric too extravagant for any sense of necessity. The mattress yielded beneath her weight like a thing trained to obey.
For once, she felt… good. Not triumphant, not relieved, not particularly happy. Just good in the most uncomplicated sense, the way one felt after sleeping far longer than intended with no alarms screaming reality back into place.
Sleeping like this was the greatest luxury of unemployment. That, and waking without dread.
And yet, even as she indulged in it, the faint, persistent scent of money lingered in the air. Not the honest kind earned by effort, but the passive, ever-flowing kind that required nothing from her but existence. Royal power was obscene like that. It fed you even while you did nothing at all.
Ett stared at the canopy above her and felt, strangely enough, full of life.
That sensation had almost betrayed her earlier.
Just a while ago, when sleep had barely loosened its grip and the morning sun had waved at her shamelessly through the windows, she had jolted upright with a sharp intake of breath, heart pounding as if chased.
"I'm going to be late!"
The cry had torn itself out of her throat before she could stop it. Her hands had already clenched the sheets, muscles preparing to move, to rush, to obey a schedule that no longer existed.
Habits were terrifying things. They survived worlds.
She pressed a hand to her face now, half amused, half exhausted by herself.
"Should this body have another action film escapade outside," she muttered, voice muffled against her palm, "I might wake up a decade later."
If she woke up at all.
That thought lingered longer than she liked.
Later, she had migrated to the balcony, umbrella resting idly against her shoulder as she sat with her legs tucked beneath her. She had dismissed any offers of assistance with a lazy wave of her hand.
Twelve servants stood at a careful distance behind her, far enough that her muttering could dissolve into the open air before reaching their ears.
Before her stretched the garden, an intricate maze of hedges and paths, entirely consumed by pitch-black roses. Their petals drank the light rather than reflecting it, velvety and ominous, endless in number. They should have been unsettling. Instead, they were… quiet.
For hours, Ett did nothing but stare.
She did not count the time. She did not mark the sun's movement. She simply existed in stillness, gaze fixed on the roses as if waiting for something to happen, though she did not know what that something might be.
Her mind gradually emptied, thoughts thinning until they slipped away entirely. What remained was not peace, exactly, but a drifting sensation, as if her consciousness had untethered itself and floated off somewhere vast and borderless.
Her heart mirrored it. Hollow. Void. Untouched by direction.
An hour passed. Then another.
Was this even a feeling?
"It's always like this," she murmured.
Just like when she had still been on Earth.
There had been days like this back then too. Days when her chest felt wrong in a way language refused to capture. Not tight, not heavy, not painful, but stuffed, as if something invisible had been wedged inside her ribcage where it did not belong. It made her want to tear herself open just to make it stop. The urge was maddening, paired with a hollowness that contradicted it entirely.
An inexplicable sensation. In simpler terms, an unbearable nuisance.
She should not have time for this. She was supposed to think constantly, to plan, to scheme, to arrange her life like an intricate calendar management system that accounted for every month, every variable, every threat. That was how survival worked here.
And yet, here she was. Sitting. Drifting. Doing nothing.
"Ah," Ett sighed, fingers tightening around the umbrella handle. "I'm going mad."
She gestured lazily, and one maid hurried forward at once, head bowed.
"Lead me to the river."
The maid froze.
"Empress Dowager, that is…" Her voice trembled, fear breaking through training. Memories rose unbidden. The last time. The cold water. The illness that had followed.
Is Her Ladyship wishing to drown herself again?
"I value my life," Ett said flatly.
The maid's shoulders sagged with relief.
"Not," Ett added under her breath.
"Oh."
What Ett wanted was not death. Not precisely. She wanted cold. Something sharp enough to cut through the fog pressing against her mind, something cool enough to quiet the strange, creeping sensation of suffocation in her heart. It was odd. She felt bereft and stuffed all at once, and neither state resolved the other.
"See if the Adviser is busy," she continued. "If not, call him for me."
"Yes, Empress Dowager."
"And prepare me a robe."
"Yes?" Several maids exchanged uncertain glances.
"The thickest."
A collective, silent confusion spread through them.
"Still standing?" Ett asked mildly.
They were absolutely thinking it. That she intended to weigh herself down with fabric and sink where no one could pull her back up. It was, admittedly, an efficient method.
It still would not guarantee anything meaningful. Waking up. Answers.
Peace.
"We will prepare it at once, Empress Dowager," they said hurriedly.
"Mmm."
By the time they reached the river, their caution had escalated. Fearing her health still fragile but unwilling to deny her request for fresh scenery, they seated her in a sedan chair. One maid held an umbrella above her head, shading her from the sun.
The river stretched before her, wide and unspoiled. The water shimmered blue beneath the sky, untouched by contamination, alive with movement. A breeze brushed her cheeks, light and cool.
This is it.
Ett stepped down from the sedan chair with a small hop. Her hair bounced, and for the first time, she looked almost… cheerful. Like a rabbit startled into motion.
"Please be careful, Empress Dowager," the maids pleaded, anxiety tight in their voices.
If she falls again…
"Fret not," Ett replied.
She had no intention of reenacting what the novel had already written.
She knelt by the riverbank and began to remove her shoes and socks.
"Ugh," she muttered almost immediately. "Why is even taking shoes so complicated?"
The laces climbed all the way to her knees in maddening intricacy. Every ribbon demanded a specific knot, decorative and unnecessary. Even the final tie insisted on style over function.
"D-Dowager," one maid stammered, horrified. "W-We can do that for you!"
If you ask us to jump, we will jump. Please stop doing things yourself.
"I want to dip my feet in the water," Ett said simply.
Silence followed.
She had barely finished tugging the last sock from her right foot when a familiar voice cut through the air, breathless and sharp.
"Your Ladyship, what are you playing at?"
Akan stood a few paces away, hands on his knees, chest rising as he caught his breath. His arrival was anything but composed.
His table had been buried under duties that morning. He had just returned with important information from Cashim when he noticed a maid lingering near his office, glancing at him before fleeing without explanation. Unease had settled immediately. The Empress Dowager had been… strange lately.
One discreet inquiry later, and he was running.
"I thought you were busy," Ett said, glancing back at him.
"Even if I were," Akan replied without hesitation, "I would accompany Your Ladyship first."
"I'm not doing anything dangerous," she said bluntly, pulling off the last sock.
"Then sit beside me."
"Your Ladyship, you cannot be exposed to the air for too long."
Despite his protest, Akan complied. He removed his shoes and socks, rolled his trousers up to his knees, movements practiced but weary. He lowered himself beside her with a sigh that sounded as though ten years had been added to his life all at once.
His gaze flicked, involuntarily, to her bare feet.
Porcelain pale. Exposed.
A woman's feet were not meant to be seen. Shoulders, perhaps. Never below. Such things were reserved for husbands and the maids tasked with care.
And yet here she was, drifting effortlessly away from norms as if they had never existed.
Ett ignored his internal turmoil entirely and dipped her feet into the river.
Cold surged up instantly.
She inhaled sharply. "Feels like I'm having a brain freeze."
"Brain… freeze?" Akan echoed, baffled.
"Nothing."
Her thoughts stilled. The sensation was immediate, as if her empty mind had been flooded and frozen in place. The pressure in her chest eased, loosening its grip. For a fleeting moment, it felt as though imaginary microbes had stopped crawling through her head.
"I heard the ball was rescinded because of me," Ett said.
"No, Your Ladyship. His Majesty was simply too bored to continue it."
"Same," she replied lightly.
Without her watching, without her observing the consequences of her own preparations, the event lost its purpose. The Emperor knew that.
"It is only for a month," Akan continued. "The nobles will consider it one of His Majesty's peculiar whims."
"Hm."
Power made everything permissible. With enough of it, even the strangest decisions were dismissed as eccentricities. Only those foolish enough to argue would lose their heads.
"And the aristocrats?"
"They have already begun selling gossip as information."
"Gossip should be taxed," Ett said, half amused. "Its value exists even without proof."
"That is a wonderful idea," Akan said, chuckling. He paused, genuinely considering it. With Her Ladyship, it was difficult to tell where jokes ended.
The gossip surrounding Ett was sparse and grim. Illness. Isolation. Death along the way. The Emperor's father murdered after the birth of his son. Such things were not unheard of in Adiand. Bearing a child was sometimes enough to vanish without a trace.
One rumor, however, had been accurate.
Guren's father had indeed been of noble blood.
The truth had been erased too thoroughly for anyone to notice. In Ett's case, the Emperor himself had ensured it. Only a reader would ever glimpse that detail.
Thinking too far ahead tightened something in her chest again.
"It's not enough," Ett murmured.
Her gaze drifted downward, into the depths of the river. She wanted to dive. To sink. To fall despite her poor swimming.
"What do you mean, Your Ladyship?" Akan asked carefully.
"Akan."
"Yes?"
"Can you swim?"
"I can."
"Then pull me up whenever I want to dive."
"Dowager!"
The maids nearly screamed in unison. Akan stared, stunned.
After a moment, he laughed softly.
"Very well," he said. "If that is what you wish."
"Thirteen seconds. Lift me three times."
"What is a second?"
She explained. He immediately refused.
"Ten seconds, four times."
"No."
"Nine, three times."
"No."
"Eight seconds, twice."
"No."
"Ten, once."
"Four seconds," Akan snapped. "Twice."
"Adviser."
"But you are still recuperating."
Her gaze sharpened.
"It seems I have been too lenient with you."
Silence.
"Fine," he sighed.
"Prepare the robe," he ordered sharply.
SPLASH.
Ett plunged into the river.
Cold swallowed her whole. She opened her eyes beneath the surface, watching fish scatter as sunlight fractured into ribbons above. The deeper she fell, the darker it became. The water embraced her, calm, silent, beckoning.
Come deeper.
Surrender.
Her body protested. She exhaled, bubbles rising.
Then strong arms wrapped around her.
Ah.
It was over.
Just like that.
Wrapped in a thick robe, shivering violently, she shook her head at Akan's worried questions.
"It's not bad."
"That should be the last time."
"Could be."
She coughed.
"I'll call the physician!"
"I feel better."
"No, you don't."
Thud.
Mentally, she did.
"Your Highness!"
Akan stopped the maids gently, sighing.
"Truly," he muttered, "what a stubborn person I serve."