Dozens of crumpled tissues lay strewn across the floor like fallen petals, as a woman in a gold-contoured nightgown collapsed onto the velvet couch, her sobs echoing through the chamber. Draped in sorrow, she wailed without restraint, while her loyal maids hovered around her, cooing soft comforts, coaxing her as tenderly as one might soothe a weeping child.
"Your Highness, please don't cry," one of the maids whispered gently. "You've just given birth—tears may only weaken your already fragile body."
It had been a week since Printzel began to face the harrowing truth—she was now trapped inside a novel. Worse still, she had possessed a character fated to die within a year. And as if the heavens hadn't been cruel enough, the final sting—the real heartbreak—was knowing that the thesis she had poured her soul into for years was finally about to be published in Y University's prestigious research journal… but she would never live to see it.
"Wuwuwuwuwuw... My thesis... My thesis..."
Printzel sobbed uncontrollably, burying her face into the silken cushions.
A maid in blue leaned toward another and whispered urgently, "Disease… who has a disease?"
"What?"
Printzel abruptly stopped wailing, blinking through her tears in confusion.
The maid in blue stepped forward and bowed politely.
"Apologies, Your Highness. You were crying out just now... we thought you said 'my disease'."
Printzel stared at her for a moment, then let out a half-choked laugh.
"It's thesis, not disease!"
And with that, her sobs turned into hiccuping giggles as the maids exchanged sheepish glances.
"Ah, that… No, no—it's not disease, it's thesis. Thesis!"
Printzel sniffled as she corrected the maid, waving her hand in frustration.
The maid's lips pressed into a thin, thoughtful line as she furrowed her brows.
Printzel sighed, rubbing her temple.
"Haaa… a thesis. You know—a thesis is when someone chooses a question, studies it really hard, and then explains what they believe and why. Got it?"
The maid's eyes lit up with realization.
"Oooooh! Okay, okay! Got it, Your Highness."
She nodded earnestly, as if she'd just unlocked a royal secret.
"Hmm."
Printzel barely had time to respond before the door burst open. A maid hurried in, cradling a red-faced baby who wailed loud enough to shake the heavens.
"Your Highness!" she called breathlessly, "The Second Prince is crying—he must be hungry. It's nearly his feeding time."
The little prince's cries pierced the air like a battle horn, and Printzel blinked at him in disbelief.
First, a thesis. Now, a baby.
Her new life in this novel wasn't just tragic—it was chaotic.
As the approaching footsteps of the maid drew nearer, Printzel's briefly smiling lips began to wobble—then pouted dramatically, like a sulking fish.
Noticing the shift, the maid beside her frantically signaled the oncoming maid to take a detour—abort mission, turn back!
But the warning was ignored. Determined, the maid marched forward and gently offered the wailing baby to the Empress.
And just like that, Printzel burst into tears again.
Louder. Messier.
The head maid stood frozen, blinking slowly, her expression blank with despair.
Now she had two babies to coax—one in royal silk and the other in swaddled cotton.
With a sigh that came from the soul, she muttered, "This palace needs more hands... and more patience."