"Now, what's on the agenda today?"
Ett hummed under her breath, a rare note of calm joy. The paperwork that had once threatened her existence no longer loomed like a storm cloud. That alone deserved a small, fleeting smile.
A knock at the door punctuated the moment.
"Your Ladyship," Ares's crisp voice announced. "These documents were sent by His Majesty, the Emperor."
Ugh. The serious mode activated instantly.
She sighed sharply, half-dramatic, half-resigned.
"Uhmp."
A cough, then two more. The last carried a metallic tang.
"Mistress!"
Perfect timing. Ett wiped the small trickle of blood from her lip with the practiced grace of someone who had grown accustomed to the taste.
"Are you all right?"
"As you can see," she replied dryly. No, she wasn't. Thanks for asking anyway.
Ares, ever composed, offered a strained smile. "Shall I summon Physician Franz?"
Not him again. That bitter concoction he called medicine might as well have been a potion of mild torture.
"Stay."
He hesitated, then bowed. "As Mistress commands."
"Mm." Ett returned to her desk as if the world hadn't tilted. Honestly, she thought, I should have married this paperwork. It pays more attention than my own health.
Anything was preferable to running into Guren. Ares hovered as usual, managing her medicine with Franz's help, the physician ever competent and unavoidably theatrical. Ett chuckled at the memory of Franz praising Akan's gift in medicine, practically begging him to become his apprentice.
Not surprising. Ares' mother had once been Ett's mentor, capable of crafting poisons and antidotes from ingredients that were half-legal, half-legendary.
Back to work.
Another cough. Ah, what's with todays coughing. Is it because she is low in KPI? Tsk.
"Mistress…"
"Hush."
"Would you care for some tea? Something warm?"
A pause.
"…Go ahead."
Ares never failed to offer. Every cough, every pallid moment, he was there, like clockwork.
"You'll get used to it," she said casually. "Panic only if my cough starts changing colors."
Today wasn't terrible. One of her experiments showed mild improvement. Not perfect, but better than nothing. Fainting was almost routine now, predictable based on the weight of her paperwork. Today? Three collapses, maybe four. She had already checked her schedule and was prepared.
Fufu. Something to be proud of, she mused. Oddly enough.
Another knock.
"Who is it?"
"It is I, Physician Franz, Empress Dowager."
"Enter."
"My thanks, Your Grace."
"You should have opened with something more poetic."
"Pardon, Your Grace?"
"Pardon who?"
Franz looked genuinely puzzled. Akan glanced away, barely suppressing laughter. These were the moments when Ett indulged her oddities for entertainment.
"Your expression is delightful," she said straight-faced.
Franz blinked. "I… I'm not sure I understand?"
"Exactly." Ett dipped her pen in ink. "The joke's dead now. You missed it."
Franz froze. Was there even a joke? Did jokes exist in this timeline?
"Was it a success?" she asked, cutting the awkwardness.
"Yes, Your Majesty. The young lady from House Ecluss is stable. The Garth heir suffered a few bruises, nothing a week won't fix."
Franz omitted the third party involved. Smart.
"Anything else?"
"I assured the guests that, since the incident occurred in His Majesty's Banquet Hall—a domain of the crown—it was only proper for me to intervene and ensure all was well."
Ah, a subtle self-promotion. Well-played.
"Very well. We wait."
"Shall I take my leave?"
"You've done well."
The praise came effortlessly, even surprising Ett. Franz bowed as if he had just witnessed the moon sing, then practically sprinted from the room.
Ett furrowed her brows. "Was that a mistake?"
Ares, silently observing, replied without hesitation. "Not at all, Mistress. He was merely overwhelmed. Speechless, even."
"Mm. Right."
Later, after her fourth collapse of the day, Ett reclined on her chaise, now a glorified nap couch.
What's the word for this again? Lounger? Recliner? Throne of exhaustion?
Ares stood patiently.
"Do you need help, Matriarch?"
"Yes. When I sleep, sit."
"…Matriarch?"
"If you keep standing there, roots will grow from your heels."
"Ah… yes, understood."
Compared to Count Shubert's estate snow-filled vigils, sleepless weeks, punishments designed to break men this was practically a holiday.
"This is nothing, Matriarch," he said, genuine and bright.
"Troublesome."
"Matriarch?"
"From now on, only come when I call."
Ares tensed. "Did I… err in some way?"
"Akan is not here."
"True…"
"And Xiwen? Busy in another wing."
"Yes…"
"Then go do your actual job. Oversee the staff. Rest for once."
Ares blinked. "Rest?"
"Yes. Unless you prefer eternal rest. I can arrange that."
"No, Mistress! I only meant—"
"Odd?"
"…Yes. It's just unusual, Mistress."
"Tell the maids to rest too. Just for this wing."
Ares gave her a look. She coughed. Again.
"Unless the Emperor declares a holiday empire-wide, which, knowing him, is unlikely."
He handed her a glass of water.
"Thank you. If the nobles hear of it, perhaps it will catch on. They love a fashionable trend."
"Shall I notify Butler Xiwen?"
"Can you draft the letter for me?"
"As you wish."
"Lovely. That's all. Off you go."
Night fell. The palace quieted. Ett stepped onto her balcony.
"This… this is better than city lights."
Cool wind kissed her skin. Crickets hummed below. The garden shimmered under starlight. For a moment, she allowed herself to just be.
"At least he didn't come here again."
Guren. That first encounter was burned into memory. She avoided him, memorizing every detail. She wasn't the Ett from the novel—but even so, she couldn't get close.
She wanted him to survive. But proximity came with risk. Affection came at too high a cost.
"This is better."
If she perished, Guren wouldn't fall apart. He'd move on. He'd survive.
"So sorry," she whispered. She couldn't be his mother. She wasn't cut out for it. Let the story play out. Let her role remain distant.
Because if Guren cared too deeply, he'd lose everything. And so would she.
She pulled the whistle from her neck and blew softly.
"…Eru."
Silence. Not even a flutter of wings.
"Of course not," she muttered. "Too far from the Duchy. What did I expect?"
Years had passed since she'd seen her lyrebird. Would Eru remember her? Would anyone?
She opened her little black notebook, her ever-faithful to-do list. One name lingered at the bottom, faded but not forgotten.
Eru.