"Your Ladyship, I've found something you might like."
The scratch of Ett's pen did not falter. Ink bled smoothly into parchment as she signed the final stroke, her posture unhurried, her expression unreadable. Only when the seal was pressed did she glance up at Akan from the corner of her eye.
"Place it."
Akan stepped forward and laid the documents at the center of the desk, aligning the edges with careful precision.
Even before she looked, Ett felt the weight of it not in the thickness of the paper, but in the silence that followed.
"It is the first time," Akan said, choosing his words carefully, "that His Majesty has granted a private audience to someone outside the Six Officials."
That alone was enough to give the room a sharper edge.
The Six Officials were not merely advisors. They were pillars each governing a territory, each carrying generations of influence, their authority second only to Archduke Lakis himself. To stand among them was to be acknowledged by the empire as indispensable.
And to be overlooked by the Emperor… was unthinkable.
From the moment Guren ascended the throne, an unwritten rule had settled into place like iron beneath silk: no one reached the Emperor directly. All petitions passed through Archduke Lakis, Butler Xiwen, or Akan. Even the most ancient houses, steeped in wealth and legacy, were filtered, weighed, judged.
To Ett and Guren, this structure was simply order.
To the Six Officials, an audience was currency proof that their seat remained secure.
Which meant that any crack in that order, any exception, would not go unnoticed.
Especially if that exception was not one of them.
"Well," Akan continued, "if that young man inherits the title, he has the potential to unseat one of the Six. His house once qualified, but the current duke is… gentle. A peace-loving man. Well-regarded, but lacking the sharpness required."
Ett finally picked up the document.
She read it once, quickly. Again, more slowly. Her gaze lingered on the lineage, the annotations in Akan's neat hand, and finally the portrait.
Ett's fingers tightened almost imperceptibly.
"…."
Recognition struck without mercy. This child…he really does resemble that man in the future.
"What do you think, Your Ladyship?" Akan asked.
A headache bloomed behind her eyes slow, insistent.
What is Guren doing?
Ett searched her memory, rifling through the novel's events, timelines blurring together. This meeting was familiar. Too familiar. And yet—
"Where is he now?"
"He is staying under Butler Xiwen's supervision."
So Xiwen had taken him in. Not merely as a guest but as a student.
"He will be trained personally," Akan went on. "Once his apprenticeship concludes, he is expected to handle tasks directly for the Emperor."
Tasks. Singular. Intimate.
For how long? At what cost?
Ett's brows knit together.
This boy—this exact boy—was one of the reasons Guren would die.
Not immediately. Not with a blade to the throat. But slowly.
Systematically. The sort of death that began with trust and ended with proof laid at another man's feet.
Strategically, she could understand it. Keep your enemies close. Shape them while they're young.
But Guren was not subtle. His authority crushed before it coaxed.
Would that boy ever lower his guard around him? Or would every command sharpen his resentment instead?
If betrayal came and it would then Lativ would know the palace better than anyone. The corridors. The blind spots. The truths that mattered.
In short, they would die early.
"Burn this."
Akan did not question her. He took the paper, crossed to the hearth, and fed it to the waiting flame. The ink blackened, curled, vanished.
Names reduced to ash.
Ett watched until nothing remained.
"Keep an eye on him."
It was all she could do.
Without cause, she could not have Lativ killed. Guren's rule already walked the blade's edge—efficient, feared, but still justified. An execution without reason would tip the balance. The nobles would not accuse her, but they would accuse him.
Tyranny required restraint.
"Is that acceptable, Your Ladyship?" Akan asked.
"Why would it not be?"
From Akan's perspective, every capable man Guren gathered weakened Ett's influence. Power diluted itself.
"Do you not worry you may be discovered," he pressed, "if he remains here too long?"
"You will ensure that I am not."
Akan exhaled softly. "As expected of you."
He was disappointed though he would never admit it. The woman he served did not hunger for power, despite holding enough to drown the court. She was like the sea: vast, patient, and indifferent to those who mistook calm for weakness.
"Tsk."
Ett leaned back slightly, eyes distant.
How did Guren even find him?
Lativ of Yushon.
Once, a duke's son. A house that wore neutrality like a mask until it was torn away. When the Noble Faction fell, Yushon fell with it.
And then came the fire.
Not a grand blaze. No bells rang. No soldiers arrived in time.
Just a small hunting hut at the empire's edge, swallowed by trees so dense that even moonlight struggled to reach the ground. The flames climbed quietly, greedily, licking at wood already dry with neglect.
Smoke threaded through the forest like a signal no one answered.
By morning, there was nothing left but blackened earth and the smell of old ash.
No bodies were recovered.
Except that one child survived.
They said Lativ fled into a cave as the fire took hold whether by instinct or by chance, no one knew. He disappeared into stone and darkness, carrying the night with him.
Years later, he returned.
Older. Sharper. Determined to prove that a fallen noble could still carve a place in the world.
And later still, the truth surfaced: the fire had not been an accident.
Revenge, then, was inevitable.
The Yushon Duchy had once been the Noble Faction's eyes and ears.
"How ironic," Ett murmured, "that Butler Xiwen would train a Yushon heir like a knight."
"What a waste," Akan agreed.
In the novel, Lativ had been a scholar ink-stained fingers, a mind built for records and rhetoric. Yet here he was, blade in hand, pledging himself to the Emperor.
A knight who read books.
Absurd. Almost endearing.
"Your Ladyship," Akan said slowly, "is there a noble you have not yet informed me of?"
Ah. Sharp as ever.
Ett smiled and nodded. "I met an assassin."
Akan stiffened. "You—what?"
Then his thoughts raced ahead of his words. Negotiation? Threats? A family leveraged like a chess piece? Whoever hired the assassin must already be under her scrutiny.
"You are not entirely wrong," she said.
He frowned. "Then my assessment is incomplete."
Incomplete plans were dangerous.
"The assassin was a noble."
Understanding dawned. "Ah. I see. How did I miss that?"
"Son of Garth."
"…Son of?"
Akan blinked, then laughed softly. "A duke's son. How very amusing."
The Garths were impeccable. Three children. No obvious weakness. A family famed for generals, for blunt loyalty, for standing cleanly between factions.
Brawlers, not schemers.
And yet an assassin?
"How creative," Akan muttered.
"Did the Emperor know?"
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
"They grow bold," Akan said at last. "To bare their fangs so close to the throne."
He began planning immediately.
"It was not me," Ett interrupted.
"You mean—?"
"I witnessed it. He and his men killed several Imperial Faction members in an unused passage."
Recognition flickered. "So that was the disturbance."
"Xiwen handled it."
Still, unease lingered. She had been alone. Identifiable. Killable.
"Did you make a deal?" Akan asked quietly.
Ett paused.
"Bring me the Thunder's Teeth."
Akan stared. "…Pardon?"
"When thunder strikes," she said, distant, "you can see it."
He had no answer for that.
Later, he would arrange for men from Estera where storms were fierce and frequent. Months would pass before they returned, if they did at all.
For now, secrecy would suffice.
"And Akan," Ett added, "do not worry about the Emperor's plans."
He knelt. "Understood."
"Do you want to personally invite the Duke of Garth?"
She smiled faintly.
"No. His son may come if he wishes."
That buffoon still has his brains, he won't come and would send his son.