A handful of maids lingered outside Ett's chamber, though none dared cross her threshold uninvited. The palace rules were strict enough, and so was she. Only one maid entered, twice a day now, down from three to slip in a tray of food, bow silently, and vanish. Ett had suggested the reduction herself. Meals were just background noise anyway. Unless she got hungry. Then, of course, exceptions existed.
"At least I'm not mistreated like other ancestors." she muttered one evening. Which was her way of admitting: she wasn't the main character.
And yet, she wasn't no one either. Queen Dowager. Court strategist. Holder of an obscene amount of wealth. A role cushy enough compared to other walking tragedies in this world.
Less acting. Yippie.
Her gaze fell blankly onto the desk. Mountain of parchment. Documents demanding her signature. She wanted more than to toss the whole pile into the nearest brazier.
Paperwork, the world's eternal torment.. Some things transcended time and genre. If only she had her laptop, Excel alone would have cut these nightmares into neat columns and pivot tables. Color-coded tabs. Conditional formatting. Progress tracked in seconds. Instead, she had quills, ink stains, and enough parchment to deforest a kingdom.
"I can see my future," Ett sighed, lifting a paper like it might bite her. "Promoted office worker. Medieval edition. Hooray. Rejoice."
No, thank you.
She ignored the documents for a week straight, cloaking her idleness under the convenient excuse of 'resting'. The truth: she was lazy. The reward: endless spirals of philosophical thought. A dangerous habit.
Because yes, she was the Emperor's last living relative. Yes, she should act like it. And yes, that made her an excellent target. Two birds, one assassination attempt.
"If they knew I was alive," she whispered, "they'd be sharpening daggers already."
Then she groaned, "I miss my masterpiece."
Here she sat, marooned in luxury, surrounded by wealth that could bankroll cities. Yet her mind reached back to her modern life: the cramped flat she rented, the half-broken kettle, her stack of novels on the bedside table. Overworked freelancer. Always broke. Always tired. But at least free.
Well, ,free to binge books until dawn. Free to sketch her OCs no one cared about. Free to scroll through fan forums in pajama pants while eating fried chicken, French Fries, Spaghetti, oh lala.
"Most importantly," she mumbled, "my bed." Her voice cracked with longing. "I'd just bought a new duvet, too." She wasn't able to enjoy it!
When the river had stopped the flow as she was on the territory of the barbaric tribe it was mentioned in the novel that she is, "disgraced," 'injured," "unconscious." Whatever "disgrace" meant in this story, it wasn't pretty.
Now that didn't happen because she wasn't swayed by the river's current. Nor did she fall. Nearly fall.
"Where's the Emperor?" Ett asked one maid idly, breaking her own silence.
"In his study, with Butler Xiwen."
"How long?"
"Two hours."
"I see."
Of course, Guren. The workaholic child. In the book, he was so consumed by duty that even the female lead needed an appointment to see him. Their 'chance encounters' were anything but. And now here he was, still a boy, already grinding himself into exhaustion under imperial duty.
The pile of papers he has three times more of what was on top of her table.
Ha. Was it even fair to call it unfair? Oof. He was eleven, ruling an empire. She was his mother, sitting here sulking in lace curtains. They were both part of the same tragedy.
"Empress Dowager, your dessert and tea."
"On the table." She waved, curt.
The maid retreated. The chamber closed. Silence wrapped around her again. Ett chewed the inside of her cheek, eyes drifting toward the distant horizon. There, framed against the dusk, the Hian Tree's massive branches scraped the sky like they were reaching for her.
Are you waving? Calling me back to the plot I've been dodging?
Sleep. Maybe if she just slept long enough, she'd wake up back home.
But she knew the story's beats too well. Nothing beats a Jet2 Holiday~. Right now, you can save up to 50 pounds~!.
Okay enough.
"I don't even know how to treat a child."
Her history with kids was short: Smile politely, keep them at arm's length, then retreat before things got messy. In the novel, her relationship with Guren was a battlefield of its own. Complicated. Fractured. Cold. And here she was, about to live it firsthand.
Let's go people!
Ett waited. Maybe a trigger would come. A twist. Something to shove the plot forward.
"A novel once said, 'The silence was deafening.'" Ett snorted.
Outside these walls, the world knew nothing of her. As far as the public is concerned, Ett had died in childbirth. Guren was the miracle survivor. The late Emperor's one and only heir.
Ett's father, the old tyrant, had locked her away like treasure. Worse, he'd blinded her meant to be arranged husband, Guren's father, just to keep his eyes out from staring at her. A temporary blindness before doing the deed.
Like what in the world. That's just messed up. Good thing, he found the right hole...
Ett sneered at her reflection.
"Congratulations, Ett. You lived long enough to watch that scumbag die."
She held up a mirror. There it was again. That face. Too beautiful to be safe. Not cute, not soft, but dangerous. Lethal.
A beauty that could topple nations. A beauty that had shackled her life.
"Fantastic," she muttered. "Now what?"
This little porcelain girl had a son older than her own body. Incredible. Truly, what a plot.
She groaned. "At least make him younger. What's cute about being the child of your own child?"
The child of your own child...
"..."
Enough sulking. Strategy time. Step one: grow taller. Step two: survive. Step one...how to grow taller...can she grow taller?
"Oh Prince of Vitamin D, A, C, Calcium, and Zinc," she intoned theatrically, "wherever you are, deliver your goods. My life for your supplements."
Her head dropped into her hands. Of course, the one who could 'help wouldn't appear until in the end of the story. Plot convenience was cruel like that.
Too late to matter. Too late for survival.
"No, Sherlock. I'll find him early."
The sooner she did, the better her chances. Better to ambush fate than wait for it to chew her up.
Because if not? Then history would repeat. Ett would die. Guren would die. The male lead would sweep in, overthrow the Adiand Empire, and gallop into his happily-ever-after with the female lead. Curtain call. Roll credits. The end.
"..."
No wait, why bother? So what if she dies early? That's just her concern anyway, to die early than her appointment novel time.
She doesn't want to be affected with the tides of emotion in the story either. Ett continues to debate with herself.
"Nope," Ett whispered, curling back against her pillow. "Nuh-uh. Too selfish for that." But selfishness had its uses. It keeps her alive.
And if she had to play the role of the villainess mother? So be it. She's more comfortable than acting kind and sweet.