"Help!"
The cry tore from Ett's throat as she jolted upright in bed, eyes flying open as though wrenched from the depths of drowning. Her body reacted before her mind could follow. Breath rasped violently from her chest, and she bent forward, coughing hard enough that the mattress creaked beneath her sudden movement.
Cold sweat soaked the back of her night garments. It slid down her spine in rivulets as though she had run through winter rain.
She pressed a hand to her chest and drew in air, slow and deliberate, until the room around her came back into focus.
"What was that," she muttered hoarsely. It's embarassing to shout like that, still, what was 'that'? Why such dreams?
The lingering image refused to fade. White silk. Red cords. A ceremonial hall filled with voices chanting blessings she did not want. And at the center of it all, smiling as though the world were his to claim, stood the male lead.
Her groom.
Her stomach twisted.
She had dreamed of marrying the male lead.
Absurd. Entirely absurd.
If there is FBI counterpart here, then she's dead. Dead.
Is she going to be a groomer? No way in sherlock's global amnesty rights would that happen!
No. No. No. No. No.
Why did she even dream about it when they haven't met yet? When she haven't thought of him yet? Could it be, like the rumors she hears? The ML is thinking of her? No way? Nobody knows she's alive! It's impossible that the Duke and Veralis would have told him. Unless…he overhear it somehow, somewhere?
"Ahhhhh."
Aiya.
She had a son already. A son whose age brushed dangerously close to that man's. Even stripped of story roles and narrative weight, even if she pretended time itself had stalled for her alone, the thought was intolerable.
Her skin crawled.
"No," she said aloud, shuddering. "Absolutely not."
Age difference aside, morality aside, the sheer wrongness of it made her gag. She rubbed her arms as though she could scrape the sensation away.
Even if she were some ageless being, some eternal Peter Pan who never changed while the world marched on, it was still unacceptable. A firm rejection, marked in blood red ink.
"Hah."
Ett let out a breath that was half laugh, half cough.
She had barely exchanged more than words of necessity with Ercid. There had been no intimacy, no familiarity that could ever justify such a dream. The idea alone was repulsive.
Dreams truly were perverse things.
She pressed her fingers to her temple and squeezed her eyes shut.
Do not let it happen.
Do not even entertain it.
Of all the things not to come true, let this be the foremost.
If it ever did, she suspected her body would simply give out, coughing blood until there was nothing left.
"Your Ladyship," came a gentle voice from beyond the screen, "it is time for your bath."
"Coming," Ett replied.
Ett swung her legs over the side of the bed and stood, steadying herself before the dizziness could take hold. When she stepped beyond the partition, she was greeted by the sight of her attendant waiting with practiced patience.
Akan was beautiful. Distractingly so.
Even after days of seeing him, the sight still unsettled her.
It was not merely his features, though those alone could turn heads. It was the ease with which he carried himself, the confidence that clung to him like perfume.
The thought slipped out before she could stop it.
"You could sit upon the imperial throne itself," she said, studying him, "and no one would question it so long as you kept your manhood hidden."
"Aiya," Akan replied lightly, eyes curving as he smiled, "even if I did not, Your Ladyship, I fear they might still desire me."
He punctuated the remark with a wink.
"Ugh cough!"
The sound tore free before she could restrain it. Ett recoiled, shivering as though something foul had brushed her skin.
Akan placed a hand over his chest, expression wounded. "Your Ladyship's look has made me sad."
Ett pursed her lips in disgust. "Tch."
That confidence, paired with that face and that voice. It was unsettling. There was nothing overtly masculine in his tone, yet nothing fragile either. It made her wonder, not for the first time, what sort of youth he must have lived.
Whatever it was, she suspected it had not been gentle.
"Your Ladyship," Akan asked carefully not teasing anymore, "why do you gaze upon me as though you pity me so? Pray tell what curious thoughts you have come upon."
"Nothing."
"Shall I assist you with your garments, then?"
"Scram."
"Yes, yes."
Akan withdrew with exaggerated obedience, still smiling.
Ett exhaled slowly.
Thus began her second day.
"Where would Your Ladyship wish to go today?"
"Superior."
Akan halted mid-step. "That is quite far. With this pace, we shall reach it by evening."
The Academy was vast beyond what most imagined. Even with a carriage, one could expect the journey to last well into the afternoon.
"…"
"May I ask why you seek that place in particular, Your Ladyship?"
"Just because."
"As you say."
Akan did not question further. If his lady wished to walk a thousand miles, he would see it done.
He had prepared well. Water, light provisions, and a parasol large enough to shade her entirely. As he adjusted it, a thought struck him.
Who was she paying a visit to. Ah.
"Could it be," he said slowly, "that Your Ladyship seeks that Garth?"
Ett frowned. "Veralis Garth is in Superior?"
"He is."
Her gaze sharpened. "He is here?"
"Then it is not him?" Akan asked, surprised.
"I see," she replied after a moment. "Very well."
Her intention had been to observe each grade as they passed through the Major grounds before proceeding onward. The Superior Grade housed not only the highest students but also the Dean's private residence.
If that assassin had truly remained so close without once appearing before her, then this was as good a greeting as any.
"You truly did not know," Akan said.
"You are the one who gathers such whispers," Ett replied coolly. "Not I."
She had not visited Cashim in recent days. There were matters better handled from afar.
"Ah. Forgive my lapse."
He did not need to know her other sources.
They walked at a measured pace, resting when necessary. Ett ate sparingly, always at a slight distance from Akan. Around them, the sons and daughters of noble houses filled the grounds, their laughter and discipline weaving together in equal measure.
Few were absent. Only those unwell or unfit had been excused.
The Academy justified its fame.
Stone walls rose high, thick with ivy, their towers spearing the sky like relics of an older age. Stained glass windows cast shifting colors across the courtyard, where young nobles trained beneath the unblinking gaze of statues carved from granite. Within the halls, the air carried the scent of parchment and leather, and footsteps echoed softly beneath arched ceilings.
Akan paused.
His gaze fixed on a young man standing among his peers.
Ett followed it. "Who is that?"
"That is Veralis Garth."
"Oh?"
The eldest son of Garth. Ah, so it's him.
She studied him. Similar height. Similar build. That night, she had seen only his eyes, sharp and intent in the dark. Without Akan's guidance, she might not have recognized him.
Why was he here, lingering in the Major grounds during class hours.
"Ah," she murmured, frowning. "What did I call him again."
"Shall we approach, Your Ladyship?"
Veralis stood among youths from the northern and western houses. He appeared reserved, far removed from the intensity she recalled. His smile was gentle. Clean.
He did not look like a killer.
"Oh," Akan said softly, "he has noticed us."
"Then let us go," Ett replied. "You will speak for me."
"Understood."
Veralis Garth was gifted. Sword, bow, pen. Whatever he turned his hand to, he honed without complaint. He was spoken of as the next duke without question.
For months he had driven himself relentlessly. Training, study, discipline.
"Veralis," a girl beside him said, "I cannot find my sister."
"Is this not the hour they gather in the Open Hall?"
"Oh, that is right. They should be at physical training."
She smiled. "It is good you are here. My sister would be pleased."
"I do not share the feeling," he replied.
"Oh hush."
Veralis shook his head.
There was no room in his thoughts for such things. Not when his sister's illness worsened by the day. Not when the Adiand princess remained silent.
He had expected a summons. None came.
What was she thinking.
"…Veralis!"
He turned.
"The lady crossing the fountain aisle appears to call for you."
"How dare a mere attendant call upon a duke's son," another scoffed.
"Enough. She is still a noble."
"At what rank?"
Veralis did not hear them.
His eyes locked onto the girl in the wheelchair.
Recognition struck like ice.
No.
It could not be.
"Greetings," Akan said smoothly, bowing. "Forgive the intrusion. My Lady wishes to see her old friend, Garth's second son."
Friend.
Ett's face remained unmoved.
"My Lady's health is frail," Akan continued. "Allow me to present her. Ettna, daughter of Archduke Froiz."
Shock rippled outward.
Veralis bowed at once. "I am Veralis of Garth. I shall guide you."
Akan guided his hand to the wheelchair.
Veralis hesitated, then complied.
He spoke as they walked, explaining each hall and tower with care.
"Does it please you here," Ett asked suddenly.
He froze.
"Veralis."
Ett drawled, she looked up at him, hazel eyes dull and unblinking.
Surprised?"
Veralis stepped back, colliding with Akan's steady grip.
Strong, he thought distantly.
"Calm yourself," Akan murmured. "Her Ladyship only wishes to speak."
"You," Veralis began.
"Ralis."
"It's Veralis…Your, Your Grace."
Ett ignored him.
"Make your choice Sir Ralis."
Impatience, laid bare.
"We return," she said.
"As you wish," Akan replied, tapping Veralis' shoulder lightly. "Your father must be most concerned."
The words struck deep.
As they departed, Veralis stood rooted, then broke into a run.
This was bad.
He should not have delayed.
"Father," he prayed under his breath, "please be safe."
The Archduke's daughter had been nothing but a veil.