The first ball of the month unfolded exactly as protocol demanded, grand and immaculate, every detail arranged to project stability, prosperity, and unquestionable authority. Crystal chandeliers scattered light across polished marble floors. Silk skirts whispered against one another like secrets exchanged too freely. Music drifted in measured elegance, neither too lively nor too somber, crafted to please no one and offend none.
From her concealed vantage point above the hall, Ett observed it all.
"Is he truly here?" she asked quietly, her gaze never leaving the scene below.
Akan stood beside her, posture straight, expression composed, every inch the perfect adviser. "Definitely, Your Ladyship," he replied with confidence that left no room for doubt.
Last month, he had delivered the information she asked for without embellishment. Ares, the young man hidden away in the old woman's house. Officially, he was Count Shubert's trusted confidante, the sort of pretty accessory nobles paraded openly to signal influence and refinement. Behind closed doors, however, he was something far uglier.
A plaything. A victim of indulgences that had long since rotted beyond redemption.
Ett pressed her lips together, the faintest crease forming between her brows. This was not unusual. Nobles were skilled at maintaining two faces, one polished for the public, the other reserved for locked doors and unquestioned authority. Count Shubert belonged to the Imperial Faction. That made the matter both simpler and more dangerous.
Mishandled, it would provoke backlash. Handled well, it would serve as a warning, not only to him but to every other noble who believed rank granted immunity.
She was not naïve enough to believe this world could be cleansed of such filth. But she still carried fragments of a conscience shaped elsewhere, fragments instilled by parents who had taught her that cruelty should never be excused by power. By those standards, Count Shubert deserved far worse than disgrace.
After another month of supposed recuperation, she had spent her time tracking similar cases among the nobility. It was exhausting. Even after the Beggar Street incident reduced some of the more reckless offenders, too many remained. Twisted amusements persisted behind velvet curtains, thriving on silence and fear.
If she could resolve even a portion of it, she would secure something intangible but invaluable.
Reputation.
When her death eventually arrived, her son would inherit not just a throne but a quiet ledger of people who remembered being saved. People who would feel gratitude instead of indifference when his reign demanded loyalty.
It was the closest she could come to atonement.
"What a bad mother I am," she murmured to herself. "Already thinking about his death."
No mother should think this way. No mother should prepare for such an ending as if it were inevitable. The realization left a bitter taste on her tongue.
As planned, Ett remained in her hidden gallery, unseen by the revelers below. Akan, meanwhile, entered the banquet hall openly, adopting his familiar role. He lingered at the edges, smiling with practiced warmth, receiving greetings and subtle inquiries with equal grace. Nobles flocked to him instinctively. Information moved fastest toward power, and Akan was one of its most reliable conduits.
Ett watched from above, a plate of desserts set untouched before her. She was never fond of sweets. Sugar felt unnecessary, excessive. She preferred substance. Meat, soups, vegetables she could count on one hand, then meat again. Seafood when available. Richness without pretense.
Other transmigrators could keep their enchanted pastries and whimsical confections. She wanted fat. Real sustenance.
Ironically, this body refused to gain weight no matter what she consumed. Even indulgence failed to leave its mark.
Her eyes drifted through the crowd until they found Cashim.
He stood among the guests with easy familiarity, laughter coming to him as naturally as breath. Of course he would thrive here. Banquets were fertile ground for someone like him, where tongues loosened and secrets slipped through smiles. She had yet to receive any reports. Information took time to ferment properly. She was not impatient.
Her attention shifted again, searching for familiar absences.
The assassin from the northern territory. Garth's son.
They were not present.
Impossible that they had not been invited. An omission that deliberate could only be intentional.
"Still choosing their sacrificial lamb?" she thought.
That was how they responded to royal displeasure. Offering up one of their own in hopes the rest would be spared.
"I could be more forceful," she mused, fingers tapping idly against the table.
"Claim that one of Garth's sons dared to raise his sword to me."
They would never expose her true identity. The risk far outweighed any gain. The young cub knew better. If he wished to avoid obvious pressure on his family, he would act accordingly.
A trumpet sounded, long and clear, slicing through the murmur of conversation. The hall quieted in practiced unison.
Ah. Right.
How could she forget?
"The Daughter of Paralian, Lady Vrana Astielle of the Paralian Duchy, arrives with the Son of Illiannar, Sir Miro Ubefid of Illinnar County."
Titles piled upon titles. Ett suppressed a sigh. Sometimes, the ritual of naming alone was enough to drain one's patience. Politics wore many faces, but at its core it was always the same. Hierarchies. Labels. Power dressed in ceremony.
Her gaze settled on Lady Vrana Astielle.
The girl's brunette hair framed a face too gentle for the sharp edges of court life. She smiled freely, porcelain features animated with genuine delight. Sunlight seemed to follow her, clinging to her movements. Ett immediately categorized her, instinctively and perhaps unfairly, as the cheerful, innocent type. Not the heroine of this story, but close enough to resemble one.
The reaction of the young noblemen confirmed it. Attention gravitated toward her without effort. Her parents were no less revealing. Her father embraced her openly, pressing a kiss to her cheek with unguarded affection. Loved. Deeply and visibly loved.
Could someone like this truly influence the Emperor?
Ett did not pursue the thought further. Once all the familiar faces she favored appeared, she pushed speculation aside.
"What was the original female lead like, anyway?" she wondered.
Bright. Innocent. Cheerful. Kind to a fault. Righteous in that particular way beloved by popular fiction. The sort of warmth that illuminated everything around it.
Maybe it had been too bright for Guren.
Had he felt unworthy of such kindness? Or had it irritated him, a constant reminder of something he lacked? He was difficult to understand even when written plainly.
She found herself considering alternatives. An opposite personality, perhaps. A sub-villainess. Cannon fodder. Someone tempered enough to stand beside him without overwhelming him.
"This is what I get for skimming the novel," she muttered.
The music blurred. Conversations dulled. Without noticing, Ett sank deeper into her seat, fatigue rolling over her in a heavy wave. Sleep claimed her without resistance.
"Hmmm."
In her dream, she was back in her own room, phone in hand, scrolling through downloaded web novels with idle contentment. Familiar.
Comforting.
Then the scene shifted.
She watched dancers move below her. Cashim approached, speaking words she could not hear. She frowned and pushed him away. Her gaze caught Guren, older now, perhaps in his early twenties, eyes half-lidded as he looked at her. The world warped.
Ett gasped and bolted upright.
"What was that?" Her voice sounded wrong. Too familiar.
She was in her room.
Her phone lay on the floor, likely slipped from her hand when sleep overtook her.
"This…" She stared around, realization creeping in. She had not transmigrated. She had been dreaming.
Laughter bubbled up, shaky but genuine. "That was quite a ride."
Her phone was still open to the novel's page. She placed it on the nightstand, plugged it in, and lay back down.
"Scared me to death," she murmured. "Just a dream."
She woke again feeling hollow.
"…just a dream."
The sensation lingered, nostalgic and strange. A dream within a dream.
Meaningless, perhaps, yet unsettling in its clarity.
She rubbed her eyes, trying to dispel the fog.
"The banquet has not ended yet?"
The hall below was quieter. Fewer guests remained. Cashim was gone, likely satisfied with his harvest of secrets.
She stood, ready to return to her chambers.
"Greetings, Your Ladyship," Akan said, appearing at once. "Did you rest well?"
"…How many hours?"
"About two."
"Oh."
She had missed more than she thought.
"What did you find?" she asked. "Speaking with her."
"Lady Astielle is bright, intelligent, and positive."
"Mmm."
"Educated, graceful, with keen perception."
"Overall?"
Akan smiled faintly. "She will bring sunlight into the palace halls."
"Indeed," Ett said softly.
She worried whether that light might be too blinding for Guren. But perhaps it was exactly what he needed.
"Did you test her?" she asked. "Spilled drink. Humiliation. Defense of the weak."
"I did."
"And?"
"She pardoned the lady who spoiled her dress. Defended another when her lineage was mocked. In the garden, she was fiercest when protecting a child born to a concubine."
Ett exhaled slowly.
"Rules of the Empire," she mused.
"She cited them perfectly," Akan said. "And praised His Majesty."
"I helped, of course."
Ett nodded, satisfied. "You've done well."
The nobles would frown. The common people would hope. That balance was acceptable.
"And no one noticed Your Ladyship's interest in the other daughters."
"Good."
"I will brief you on the others."
Ett cleared her throat. "They will have their limelight."
"Limelight?"
"Chandelier."
Akan paused, confused, then inclined his head. "As you say, Your Ladyship."
"Let's go."
He smiled. He was enjoying this far too much.