Ett woke with a sharp intake of breath, her eyes flying open as though summoned by a bell she alone could hear. She pushed herself upright in bed with a stiffness that did not belong to a child's body but to a mind still learning how to inhabit one.
"Hoo."
The sound left her lips before thought could catch it. She blinked, steadying herself. Three days. Ett had been confined to rest for three days, watched, fed, measured, and fussed over until the very act of lying still felt unbearable.
Whatever frailty this body possessed had been indulged enough.
"Good morning, Your Ladyship."
The voice was gentle, precise, placed at just the correct distance.
"Akan."
Ett's reply was half yawn, half acknowledgment. She dragged a hand over her face, stretching her mouth wide without the slightest concern for dignity.
"I have already prepared your bath, Your Ladyship."
Ett nodded, arms lifting above her head as she stretched until her spine protested and then slowly yielded. The sensation was deeply satisfying.
Ah. So good to stretch. Mmmm.
She rolled her shoulders once more, luxuriating in the simple pleasure of movement. The luxury did not last.
Now is the time to see the Dean. Fun times are over.
She had delayed long enough.
Ett dressed, ate, and allowed herself to be escorted without resistance.
During the brief freedom she had been permitted before her return to the palace, she had purchased a modest piece of luggage and several items that had caught her interest, small things that promised novelty in an otherwise suffocating routine. It had been pleasant, almost dangerously so.
Too bad.
She had half believed there might be a chance to meet Cashim again, if only briefly. That hope had dissolved the moment Akan resumed his post with unyielding vigilance. Twenty hours a day, near enough to count as breathing the same air. There would be no slipping away unnoticed.
After the meal, Akan guided her through familiar palace corridors and out into a quieter adjoining structure. The office was private, reserved solely for the Dean, and stood so close to the palace that Ett paused in faint surprise.
"Oh? When was this place made?"
"It was refurbished about a month ago," Akan replied. "It was once intended to be a small shop."
Ett's gaze drifted across the space, calculating without effort.
Yes. A five thousand square meter 'small' shop. I see.
"How understanding," she said aloud, her tone neutral.
The Dean had taken deliberate care. To rebuild so close, to make access easy. It was not difficult to see the intention behind it. Consideration for her health. A visible gesture of sincerity.
Akan lifted his hand to knock, but the door opened before his knuckles could touch the wood. An elderly man stood there, his expression taut with nerves.
When his eyes landed on Ett, the tension broke into a hurried smile that deepened the creases around his eyes. He stepped aside at once, bowing as he opened the door wider.
"Greetings, Your Highness. Welcome to my humble abode."
"Thank you, Dean. You are as considerate as ever."
The old man's shoulders loosened a fraction.
"There is nothing to be thanked for, Sir Akan. Please, have a seat. I have prepared tea."
Ett had every intention of concluding her business swiftly and returning at once. An odd restlessness tugged at her, a desire to be back within the palace walls without delay. Homesick, perhaps. The thought surprised her.
Yet when she looked at the Dean more closely, at the tremor in his hands and the way his breath came a little too fast, she paused.
You were brave enough to say something that would catch my attention, she thought, yet you look as though you are standing at death's door simply by facing me.
Old man, I am only a child now.
"Ah, please forgive me," he said suddenly, stepping forward. "I wished to greet you properly."
Before she could object, he lowered himself to his knees.
"Greetings to Her Elegance, the Matron, the Empire's Majestic Eclipse. Antonel Arcadi, son of Eraz, greets you humbly."
"Kindly sit," Ett said at once.
You do not deserve to kneel.
"Thank you."
He rose unsteadily, reaching for the tea service, only to be stopped by Akan's quiet intervention.
"Allow me the honour, Sire Antonel," Akan said, his smile calm, his hands already taking the pot.
"Let us enjoy the tea," Ett said, settling into her seat.
If only there were coffee. That would be far better. Still, do as the Romans do.
The steam curled gently between them. Ett lifted the cup, then set it aside untouched. Across from her, Dean Antonel watched with careful discretion and released a breath he had not realized he was holding.
Her Grace has physically become a child.
Antonel had been warned. Sir Akan had told him not to be startled, not to ask how such a thing had come to pass. Even so, seeing her with his own eyes was another matter entirely. The disbelief lingered, tangled with memory.
He remembered her as a child.
He had not often taught the Empress Dowager directly. In those days, the previous Emperor had personally taken the schedules and books Antonel prepared and taught his daughter himself.
That was how fiercely the late Emperor held on to her. The affection had been overwhelming, almost unsettling. Even as an observer, Antonel had felt it press upon him, the intensity of a father's love so deep it bordered on something dangerous.
Even now, disguised by youth, even after so many years, he knew she would look the same as she had on that day. The thought dampened his spirit. It had been the most disastrous moment in Adiand's history, the one that nearly toppled the Empire.
Her beauty had never discriminated between age nor proper to women or men.
Antonel shook his head once, sharply.
He would not recall that day. The truth of it was known only to a handful, few enough to count on one hand, after the previous Emperor's purges and conquests had erased the rest. To the neighbouring lands, it was a tale too implausible, too tragic to accept.
Ett broke the silence.
"From where did these ingredients come?"
Antonel paused. She had asked where, not from whom.
"Forgive me. I know little of an Empress Dowager's preferences."
"Young Lady," Ett corrected calmly.
The distinction mattered. If someone slipped through the cracks like a rat, this would be one more layer of assurance.
"Ahem. Yes. Young Lady. The tea leaves are traded from the lower region conquered by His Majesty."
"Roan Island?"
"Yes."
"That is good."
Roan Island was more closed than any other territory. Its people lived by fishing alone. The tides there were relentless, crashing daily with a violence that discouraged all but the most stubborn. In this world, ships did not yet exist. Beyond the sea lay nothing, as far as most minds were concerned.
Once, a man had attempted to challenge that belief. He built a larger boat reinforced with mats and ventured outward. The sea claimed all his companions. He alone survived.
He found nothing of value. No riches, no revelation, only an island where life moved slowly, bound to nets and waves. He returned after fashioning a smaller boat, his efforts immortalized in story and song. Some called him foolish, others heroic. Whether he lived or died thereafter mattered little. The tale endured for centuries.
It was Guren who shattered that long-held view. After he solved the problem of the tides, trade became possible. Islanders could come to the Empire's shores, while only a chosen few from Adiand were permitted to travel there.
"Who oversees the trade?" Ett asked.
"It was debated for months," Antonel replied, "until Baron Zalore's daughter secured the rights. She noticed leaves scattered in one of the islanders' boats, perhaps caught during transport."
"To the islanders, such leaves are abundant. The young lady was eager to accompany them and discovered that the island is filled with trees suited for tea."
"I see."
Does she know how much this will prosper in the future?
It was more than commerce. It was politics. Connections would follow, wealth would multiply. Open the trade to neighboring empires, and the benefits would ripple outward. Reputation would rise. Status would follow.
A tea empress would not be an impossible title.
"The Baron has contributed a substantial sum to the Reserve Fund," Antonel added.
Ett turned her gaze to Akan. "What did the Emperor say?"
"Other than collecting taxes, His Majesty made no comment."
She fell silent.
In short, Guren does not care, so long as you are useful.
The Reserve Funds had been established after the war, a decision still questioned by the aristocracy. Coupled with Guren's tyranny, it gave them cause to whisper of rebellion. Yet no move had been made. For now, they waited.
Enough. This is not why I came.
"What is the situation?"
Antonel straightened at once. "Dire."
"Many of our most talented graduates have been persuaded to serve neighboring empires."
"The ones who remained loyal were either abducted or have vanished. One of the few who returned spoke of condemning their peers for disloyalty, for sharing our knowledge with outsiders."
"Those peers argued that spreading knowledge would broaden horizons, demonstrate Adiand's brilliance to lands that still consider us backward. Yet is that not the same way we regard them?"
He sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.
"They are compassionate and foolish in equal measure. What concerns me most are those who were lost, taken, or killed. Since His Majesty's return, we have been quiet. He has not waged further war. But if he decides it is better to do so again…"
The words trailed off, the implication clear.
The damage had already been done. If this continued, it would only worsen. War might last months, perhaps a year. Adiand lacked the strength to contend with stronger empires. They could not afford to lose minds that might shape their future.
They needed strategists, tacticians, thinkers. There was already a shortage of those strong enough to serve as vessels for such brilliance.
If the Emperor yielded again to anger and stress, if tyranny returned, would they not be destroyed by their own actions?
It was a bitter thought. The path to ruin was advancing even without intervention. And the male lead was still in the academy.
"May I know your thoughts, My Lady?"
Antonel's worry deepened. The Empress Dowager had never acted openly. She had ruled from the shadows, ensuring that those who overstepped fell without mercy.
"I beseech you," he said, voice tightening. "Young Lady. Please share your thoughts."
She was the only one he could turn to. An influence second only to the Emperor himself.
Few knew it, but Dean Antonel was among those who had entered the palace and lived. He had seen her schemes unfold, had watched destruction delivered with cold precision. It had never been for the people's sake.
Always killing. Always plotting.
Is there a way to resolve this without drowning the future in blood?
This meeting, this plea, was his gamble.