Ett woke to noise.
It was not the sharp, alarming kind that jolted one from sleep, but a layered murmur that pressed insistently against consciousness. Soft footsteps. Low voices. Fabric brushing against fabric. The sound of water being poured somewhere close by. For a brief moment, she thought she had woken in the wrong place, that the ceiling above her was unfamiliar because she was still half-lost in whatever fever-dream had claimed her these past weeks.
Then irritation surfaced, slow and heavy.
"What in the world…"
Her voice came out hoarse, the words scraping against her throat. The moment sound left her lips, movement exploded around the bed.
"Leave already," she added, turning her head away from the gathered figures. "I am fine."
She was not, strictly speaking, fine.
Every part of her body carried the dull ache of overuse and neglect, and her chest still felt tight when she drew in too deep a breath. Even so, the presence of so many attendants crowded her senses far more than the pain ever could.
Look at me, she thought sourly. I am being harsh again.
She did not need this many servants hovering over her. She had lived long enough with far less. The East Wing, in particular, was rarely this populated.
Normally it felt almost abandoned, its quiet halls echoing more with memory than with footsteps. Now it felt as though an entire household had been condensed into her chamber alone.
"Pardon our boldness, Empress Dowager," one of the maids said carefully, her tone respectful but firm, "but your health is of the utmost importance. Adviser Akan has ensured that we must properly take care of you."
Ah. So that was how it was.
They were invoking their backer now.
Ett clicked her tongue softly, annoyance sharp enough to cut through her lingering grogginess.
"Tsk."
She rolled onto her side, turning her back on the group entirely. The silk sheets whispered against her skin as she settled, drawing the blanket higher with a small, defensive motion.
"Summon him," she said, voice muffled against the pillow. "Then leave."
A pause followed. She could feel the hesitation ripple through the room.
"Understood."
She heard them withdraw in stages. First the closer steps, then the softer retreat toward the door. It was only when the room finally quieted that she allowed herself to breathe out slowly.
Only moments ago, she had still been unconscious, drifting in and out of dark, formless dreams. The instant one of the elderly maids realized she had woken, it was as if a signal had been sent. Doors opened. More maids poured in. Hands reached for her hair, her sleeves, her blanket, each tasked with a different part of her body.
Too many hands.
Too much concern.
It felt excessive to the point of suffocation.
Why now? she wondered. Why this sudden vigilance?
Had she truly been unconscious for so long that it warranted this kind of reaction?
The answer arrived sooner than she expected.
Akan entered just as the last maid slipped out, the door closing quietly behind him. He did not speak at once. Instead, he approached the bedside and offered her a glass of water with both hands, his posture composed but his eyes carefully searching her face.
She accepted it and drank slowly, savoring the relief as the cool liquid slid down her throat.
"How long?" she asked.
"About a month."
The glass stilled in her hands.
Before she could process the weight of that answer, Akan had already dropped to the floor, prostrating himself fully.
"I am sorry, Your Ladyship," he said, his voice low and steady despite the position. "If I had arrived earlier, you would not have suffered to this extent."
She stared at him for a long moment.
Then she exhaled.
"You did well."
The words were simple, but they carried finality. If Akan had not acted when he did, the outcome would have been far worse. She knew that. He knew that. There was no point in burdening him with guilt that served no purpose.
She set the glass aside.
"I knew you would come."
He lifted his head slightly, surprise flickering across his face before he masked it.
"Great job," she added, softer now. A dismissal of blame. A reassurance.
"I am undeserving of your complete trust," Akan replied.
It sounded sincere. It also sounded like the sort of phrase that could, in another context, carry a blade beneath it. Ett noted the ambiguity and decided she did not care enough to challenge it. She waved a hand lightly.
"It is fine. Tell me. How was it?"
"Commander Gammarad has already handled the matter," Akan said. "Who would have thought they were operating right beneath our noses? It was a sobering realization of our own incompetence, not discovering it sooner."
Ett listened in silence as he continued.
Slaves existed in every empire. That much was known, accepted, even regulated under the guise of tradition and festivity. What they uncovered in Beggars Street was something else entirely. Illegal traders who hid themselves among the poorest districts, dominating the area so thoroughly that the residents lived worse than animals. No law reached them. No authority questioned them.
"Has the commander seen you with me?" she asked.
Akan shook his head.
"Although he can be trusted and knows of you," he said carefully, "I assumed Your Ladyship would prefer fewer people knowing your identity." Specially, he has his men around him as of the moment.
Good.
That meant her contingency plan had worked as intended. The boy had been sent to seek help without knowing who she truly was. As commander, Gammarad would act on instinct and protocol.
He would not hesitate.
Her thoughts flickered briefly to the boy. His anxious eyes. His wounded body. Whether he remained in that place or escaped it was no longer within her control. Nor was it her responsibility.
"You must be curious how I escaped," she said.
"Indeed," Akan replied. "However, if Your Ladyship prefers not to speak of it, I will not press. Still, if I may be so bold, I would willingly accompany you should you ever require such a rendezvous escape again."
"Bold," she remarked.
Rendezvous. As if it had been a secret meeting rather than a near-fatal excursion into filth and fire.
"Forgive my choice of words."
She huffed faintly. "What else?"
"The Emperor said nothing," Akan continued. "However, your former butler, Xiwen, was… displeased. He was furious upon hearing that you disappeared and returned injured, reeking as though you had been buried alive."
Akan remembered it vividly. The way Xiwen, who had not wielded a sword in decades, drew steel in a single fluid motion. The slash had not been meant to kill, but had Akan been slower by even a fraction, his neck would have borne the mark.
Age had not dulled that man nearly as much as others believed.
"I suppose you reasoned you were my accomplice?" Ett asked.
"Yes," Akan answered without hesitation. "As it should be." That's why it made Butler Xiwen more furious at him.
"Is that all?"
"Yes, Your Ladyship."
Good. That meant her tunnel remained undiscovered.
"The citizens will be pleased by His Majesty's actions," she said.
Akan bowed, his mind already following the implications. Public approval. A softened image. Each decisive act carved away at the deeply rooted belief that the royal family ruled through tyranny alone.
"Your Ladyship is wise."
She did not respond at once. Her thoughts drifted further ahead, to a future that diverged sharply from the one she remembered. The Emperor would never be gentle. That was unrealistic. But if the people depended on him, supported him, then perhaps the cruelty would not metastasize as it had in the novel.
Ambitious. Impractical. Still worth attempting.
Dizziness crept up on her, subtle but insistent. She pulled the blanket higher around herself.
"Remember," she said, her voice quieter now, "all good deeds were done by His Majesty."
A reminder. A boundary.
"Understood, Your Ladyship."
"The satchel."
Akan looked up. "Do you wish to see it?"
"Have you seen what is inside?"
"I would not dare."
When he had carried her back and the physician stripped away her ruined garments, she had concealed the satchel beneath her cloak. Small. Unremarkable. He had noticed it, of course. He had simply chosen not to open it.
"Return to Merry House," she said. "Bury it beneath the largest burnt tree. In secrecy."
"Is that all?"
"Yes."
"Understood."
She closed her eyes. "Then leave. And rest."
Akan bowed once more and withdrew. Outside, he issued instructions with calm authority. Selected maids entered to attend her. Others dispersed.
Akan did not linger.
Instead, he took his cloak and departed the palace, boarding an unmarked carriage. The inn he entered later was unremarkable. The room at the top floor, less so.
"You really came," a man said with a grin.
"The son of the Count of Montecraso would do well to be direct," Akan replied coolly.
The man laughed. "Just call me Cashim."
They sat opposite each other.
"Speak."
"Patience," Cashim said, waving for drinks. "Their rum is quite pleasant."
"I prefer it unsweetened."
"Hoho."
"I do not recall being your companion."
"Oh, come now," Cashim said easily. "We serve the same Emperor, do we not?"
"Enough."
Akan pinched the bridge of his nose.
"You know about the traders," Cashim continued. "That fire was impressive."
"He always knows," Akan said vaguely.
They fell silent.
Then Cashim leaned forward. "You asked me to investigate Beggars Street discreetly. You were not the first there."
Akan's gaze sharpened.
"Someone else incited the fire?"
"Yes."
"Tell me more."
"The First Boss was killed by a young boy," Cashim said. "He took the Han Herb."
"That Han Herb," Akan murmured.
"Exactly."
After a moment, Akan nodded. "Leave it."
"And our deal?"
"Do not expect constant assistance."
Cashim laughed. "Fair enough."
A contract slid across the table.
"I will read it," Akan said. "Make it quick."
Cashim sighed, amused.
People from the palace truly were troublesome.