Ett was silent, letting the faint scrape of her shoes against the polished floor mark her presence. The room felt heavier somehow, as if her arrival had shifted the air.
"I'm curious," Guren said, his tone even, yet carrying a quiet weight, "why the Dowager has chosen to come to me instead of seeking Akan."
For the briefest moment, the sight of her presence caught him off guard. She was a figure usually confined to her canary cage of a chamber, invisible in her own quiet orbit. And now here, standing deliberately before him she was unmistakably real, a force intruding on his controlled domain.
The Dowager had never come directly to him.
Not for counsel, not for strategy, not even for ceremonial obligations. His mind churned through possibilities, probing motives like a blade scanning for a weak point: a move against a rival empire?
A subtle test of loyalty? Or something else, inscrutable, hidden in plain sight?
The room felt suddenly colder. Ett felt it too. Each movement, each silence, carried weight, a pressure that was more than spatial it pressed against her chest, demanding attention, alertness.
"I shall return, Your Majesty," she said indifferently, well as indifferent as she could mimicking Ett, eyes flicking to the neat piles of papers on his desk before diverting to the floor.
Her mind wandered despite her outward composure.
A memory rose unbidden the younger Ett, hunched over an impossibly large stack of books, tears streaking her cheeks, nose running, trembling as she struggled to absorb every line of text.
Every word drilled, every mistake noted, every hour weighed in quiet despair. That solitude, that relentless expectation, had sculpted her into someone cautious, precise, wary.
Strange, why now? This kind of thought, is so random.
And yet, watching Guren now, bearing burdens that dwarfed even her own harshest memories, she felt a flicker of something tight and unrelenting emotion. If he faltered… if the empire crushed him under its weight, who could navigate the world she had carefully measured, controlled, observed?
"That—" she began, pausing.
"Hm?" Guren's eyes flicked toward her, a subtle crease between his brows betraying curiosity.
"Just small things," she muttered, dismissing it. But the quiet tension in her voice said otherwise.
"It must be worth the empire's survival, seeing as the Dowager came in person."
Well, not really.
"What does Mother wish to say?" His words were precise, cutting, commanding. "You may raise your head."
She lifted her chin, and for an instant, the space between them became intimate without intimacy, charged with the unspoken. She was close enough to see every line of his face, every nuance of his calculated control. The proximity drew her focus, sharpened her awareness.
Despite the coldness of his demeanor, his viridian eyes shone with a steady, radiant composure, unshaken and unyielding. It was a jewel that refused to be dimmed.
Every angle, every detail the set of his shoulders, the quiet authority, the unspoken command in his posture drew her in, tethered her attention.
And beneath it, Ett could sense the weight he bore. The empire, the endless decisions, the demands that consumed him… if he cracked, if he allowed the strain to bend him toward tyranny or exhaustion, the consequences would ripple outward.
The thought tightened something deep inside her chest. She could do nothing but watch and measure, guarding what she could, silently, privately, as if holding a fragile flame against a storm.
Guren, in turn, studied her quietly.
Her stillness, her pale, calculating gaze, the tension in her posture it betrayed more than she intended.
The warmth returning to her cheeks did not escape him, subtle as it was, signaling a vitality he hadn't anticipated. If he remembers, she was far too pale before. Although, Adiand have the palest skin, she's nearly close to a corpse than the whitest of snow.
"Have a seat, Dowager," Guren said, voice calm, courteous, almost ceremonial.
She did, settling into the chair with the precision of someone who had rehearsed the motion countless times. The papers she brought lay before him, each edge straight, each sheet pristine. She slid them forward, offering them with the quiet ritual of submission and command interwoven.
"Allow me to present this plan," Ett finally uttered, well whatever. It's just a draft anyway.
Guren's eyes skimmed over the documents slowly, deliberately, his expression unreadable. When he finally spoke, his words were measured, precise, free of embellishment: "Judging by your plan, we share the same trail of thought."
It was for observing useful nobles.
Ett's careful preparations had anticipated every move every ball, every rotation of factions, every guest. His approval, while understated, acknowledged the precision and intent behind her actions.
"Three within three months will suffice," he said, succinct, as though the brevity of his words alone could enforce the order.
"And the families?" Ett asked, naming her selections with the quiet authority of experience: the Paralian Duchy, Count Ecluss' household, Baron Zalore. One noble, one neutral, one imperial each chosen with care, each bringing distinction, influence, and subtly woven prestige.
Guren nodded. "Good." Just that. No further comment, no warmth, no indulgence. But she read the acknowledgment in the tilt of his head, the shadow of satisfaction behind his practiced neutrality.
"And the Duke of Ostenian?" she pressed, asserting her claim on the matter. That suspicious fellow she could never fully read.
"Certainly," he replied, terse, impassive.
"Similar with Archduke Froiz?" Ett asked, her tone careful but deliberate.
"He is already in the Jushen Empire, just as planned."
Guren crumpled the papers and let them fall into the fire, watching the flames consume the ink, the hiss of scorched parchment punctuating the quiet. Ett inclined her head, satisfied that the points she had come for were secured, and prepared to withdraw.
"Alright," she curtsied with deliberate grace.
Yet she did not move immediately. She straightened slowly, the arch of her back measured and controlled, yet a shadow of hesitation flickered across her features. The room seemed to pause with her, the air thick with unspoken questions, the faint scent of burning ink lingering like a memory.
Guren's viridian eyes followed her with sharp, calculating focus, though his voice remained calm, almost deceptively casual. "You've come far for so little explanation, Dowager. What is it you truly seek?"
Ett's lips curved faintly, almost imperceptibly, as she met his gaze. In truth, she had come on a whim, curiosity alone, yet the weight of the moment demanded restraint.
"Perhaps it is not what I seek that matters… but what you are willing to offer without being asked."
A pause. The only sound was the rustle of papers as Guren adjusted the stack on his desk. "You speak as if I would ever withhold… yet perhaps that is exactly what I am capable of."
Her eyes narrowed slightly, tracing the subtle tension in his expression, the minute tells of thought and strategy beneath his composed exterior. "Capable," she echoed softly, "but willing?"
Guren inclined his head fractionally, a gesture small but heavy, carrying more than words could hold. "That is a question only time will answer."
A fleeting smile touched Ett's lips, enigmatic, unreadable. She dipped into a small, deliberate bow once more.
"Then I shall take my leave, Your Majesty," she said, her words measured, though the underlying challenge lingered like a silent pulse in the room.
Guren returned immediately to his work, his attention drawn to the pressing weight of empire laid out across his desk. Ett lingered just long enough to watch him, noting the intensity, the careful deliberation, the rare glimpses of vulnerability that even power could not fully erase.
For a brief moment, "Were you always this mature?"
Guren's eyes flicked up, a shadow of curiosity darkening the otherwise unreadable features.
"Such a foolish question," he said simply, dismissive yet not entirely without acknowledgment.
Ett lowered her gaze, conceding silently. Some truths were not hers to claim.