"Here it is, dear customer."
Ett's gaze flicked away instinctively.
The humble abode seemed too quiet, too carefully arranged for casual intrusion. She felt the weight of being an outsider in a place where every creak and shadow suggested unspoken rules.
The old woman's movements, slow and deliberate, marked the rhythm of a life accustomed to patience and secrecy.
At last, the vial appeared. The woman cradled it in her wrinkled hands, wrapping it in cloth before setting it carefully inside a simple wooden box. The act, though unremarkable in itself, carried the kind of reverence reserved for something precious and dangerous.
"It took many days to gather the ingredients for this one," the old lady said, her voice steady but heavy with effort. "Should your lady wish for another, or two, it will take much longer to prepare them."
Ett inclined her head, acknowledging the weight of the task. "I understand."
"Did something befall the Empire's reserves to make these herbs so rare?" she asked.
The woman nodded gravely. "The labor was difficult before, but now… it has become ever more arduous. Especially these rare herbs. When the Emperor opened the doors for the banquet, nobles scrambled to offer gifts for His Majesty. Discretion has become nearly impossible."
"And the ingredients themselves?" Ett pressed.
"Some come from the outer provinces, via traveling merchants. Their prices have doubled of late."
Ett let the words settle, absorbing the subtle tension in them. Despite the Empire's outward appearances of wealth, its edges were frayed, and even the simplest luxuries carried hidden effort, hidden danger.
"Oh, forgive my seriousness," the woman murmured, her gaze softening. "Your manner reminds me of an adult. I cannot help but speak freely."
"It is not displeasing," Ett replied. Information often came from corners untouched by gilded walls and political maneuvering. The ordinary eye saw what the nobility could not or refused to see.
Silence stretched, heavy with unspoken histories, before the old lady spoke again. "My child…"
"Yes?"
"It may be bold of me, presumptuous even but might I entreat your ladyship to watch over my son, in secret?"
Ett froze mid-sip of her milk, the warm liquid grounding her nerves.
A mother's concern was a force unto itself, fierce and unyielding. She had felt it before, in fragments of memories not entirely her own.
Savoring the milk, Ett paused. This is surprisingly good, she thought. The creamy sweetness sharpened her awareness, each swallow a reminder that even the smallest comforts could mask the weight of responsibility.
"I shall honor your request," she said finally. "Though I know nothing of him, I trust your judgment."
The old woman's eyes crinkled with relief. "I believe your ladyship does no harm without reason."
Ett allowed herself the barest nod. The world moved on threads invisible to most, threads that pulled life and death into delicate balance. She had learned long ago that appearances rarely told the whole story.
"My son serves as a butler at Count Shubert's estate," the old woman continued, producing a small, framed portrait. "It has been two years since he last visited. Letters come rarely, and I cannot ascertain their truth."
Ett studied the portrait. The young man depicted was remarkable refined and commanding, yet soft in expression, with an understated grace that would rival many nobles.
His long hair fell in careful waves, framing a face that would have drawn admiration even in courts far grander than this humble home.
"His name?" Ett asked.
"Ares McLurrey."
The syllables themselves carried weight, elegance, and a touch of romance like the hero of a novel long forgotten, yet hauntingly familiar.
"I shall see to his safety," Ett promised, voice even.
"Knowing he is watched… it is worth more than a hundred thousand gold," the woman murmured, the depth of her emotion evident even in her measured words. Ett could understand the sentiment, though she would never truly feel it herself; the intensity of parental concern, the raw vulnerability, lay beyond her practiced detachment.
"I shall take my leave, then. Many thanks," Ett said.
"Until we meet again," the woman replied, her voice warm yet tinged with worry.
Stepping into the street, Ett lingered, gazing at the modest dwelling in the distance. It seemed ordinary, yet its simplicity concealed a truth: its owner valued the protection of a child above wealth, above comfort.
That alone spoke volumes.
"Protecting a human is far harder than offering gold," Ett mused.
A hundred thousand, a million these numbers were meaningless to her. Labor, supply, and secrecy could all be bought, but vigilance? Loyalty? Life itself? Priceless, irreplaceable.
Her thoughts lingered, even as she followed the main road. She had almost forgotten to ask the woman's name, a detail now lost in the weight of her contemplation.
Ahead, the familiar street had transformed. More people had gathered than before. Curiosity pricked her attention. Something unusual something urgent drew her closer.
Ett's jaw fell as she read the crude sign overhead: Dance of Kissing—Your Partner Awaits! New Adventures from 100 Silvers!
A slave auction in broad daylight? Guren, what in the Empire was this?
She stepped closer, her pulse quickening.
The stage was small but commanding. A young girl, bound at hands and feet, struggled against her restraints, tear-stained cheeks glinting in the sunlight. A guard forced her into view, pulling at her hair, exposing her to the crowd.
"Ah, please be gentle!" the girl cried, voice trembling with fear.
"200 silvers!"
"250!"
"300!"
"400!"
"1,000!"
A corpulent man leered from the front, his eyes glinting with perverse satisfaction. The girl was claimed, like a possession, her humanity reduced to currency.
Ett's gaze swept to the side, where a man with a solemn, frowning expression noticed her stare. She tugged at his sleeve.
"Mister, what is the Dance of Kissing?"
He looked down, startled, then around to ensure no one else watched.
"Is this your first time?"
"Yes," Ett answered.
"A child shouldn't know of such things yet."
"I am already here. Better to know than remain ignorant."
The man hesitated, then sighed. "You are wise beyond your years. Dance of Kissing… it is a practice among nobility, a display, a contract. At day's end, the arrangement concludes."
Ett's eyes narrowed. "A week?"
"Yes. But extension depends on both parties' agreement. One dissent, and it is void."
"Can the buyer harm the slave during that time?"
The man's gaze softened. "The law forbids killing within the festival week; otherwise, imprisonment or execution follows. The festival's importance is enforced."
Ett swallowed, mind racing. And the novel didn't mention this… it was just scenery, decoration for the ML and FL.
Real life is far crueler.
She turned her attention back to the stage. Among the captives and bidders, a figure drew her gaze scars etched across his arms, a subtle resistance in his posture. Even restrained, he radiated defiance, an aura she could not ignore.
A spark of recognition flashed in her mind. Who would have thought… he exists here? Ett's lips curved in a dark, knowing smile. This boy, this setting it was all far more intricate, more dangerous than she had imagined.
The festival was a stage of cruelty, display, and power and she was no longer merely a spectator. And ironically, she felt grateful for this power she have now.
Ett narrowed her eyes.