Ett forced herself upright, the ache in her bones protesting as she lifted the sachet to her lips. The water tasted faintly stale, but it cooled her throat enough to steady her breathing. She sealed it again, tucked it away, and resumed walking, her steps measured and deliberate.
"Then I will follow you."
The words left her mouth without ceremony. There was no grand resolve in them, only an acknowledgment of reality. Whatever waited ahead, she had already committed herself to it. Turning back was no longer an option, not with her body in this state and the clock already pressing against her spine.
It was not as if she had any real choice.
They did not walk much farther before the air itself began to change. The narrow passage opened into a stretch of shadow that seemed to swallow sound, then release it in fragments. Low moans seeped through the walls, layered with breathless cries and slurred laughter. Women's voices rose and fell in uneven rhythms, punctuated by the hoarse grunts of men. Even before seeing the place, Ett knew where they were.
The second boss's den.
Her jaw tightened. The novel had never lingered on this part. It never did. Such scenes were always brushed aside, labeled implicitly and abandoned, as though the suffering behind them did not merit ink. Yet standing here, listening to it live and unfiltered, Ett felt a familiar, bitter disgust coil in her chest.
"Stay there," she murmured.
She lifted a hand to stop the boy from stepping closer, her palm held out with quiet authority. He looked at her, then smiled, soft and unguarded, like a child who had never learned fear the way he should have.
"This is normal," he said lightly, shaking his head.
Ett stared at him.
Normal. The word echoed unpleasantly. She swallowed back a retort, the sharp one that rose instinctively to her tongue. This was not the place, and he was not the one who deserved it.
"…Right," she said after a beat. "I forgot."
Forgot, as if it were something she could ever truly forget. This world was built on such contradictions. On the surface, it spun tales of destined love between a radiant heroine and an unyielding hero. Beneath that veneer lay filth, blood, and countless nameless lives crushed to support a narrative no reader ever questioned. The mobs. The side characters.
The disposable bodies whose pain was never worth recording.
She exhaled slowly and bent down, unlacing her shoes.
The moment her bare feet touched the ground, cold bit into her skin like teeth. The stone sucked the warmth from her soles, sharp and unwelcoming. She winced despite herself as she took a step forward.
Broken glass glittered faintly in the torchlight, scattered carelessly across the floor. She adjusted her steps, avoiding the worst of it, but the uneven surface still scraped her skin.
Behind her, the boy stiffened.
He watched, transfixed, as her pale feet moved across the grime. To him, it felt as though each step pressed directly against his chest. Pain flared, not his own, but mirrored and internalized.
He had known from the moment he first saw her that she was someone of status. Her bearing, her skin, the way she spoke without hesitation. Noble, without question. And yet here she was, barefoot in a place even rats avoided.
Those feet, unmarked and white as snow, should never have touched such filth. If he could, he would have gladly taken her place, would have lain himself across the ground to spare her even a single blemish.
The thought startled him, then disgusted him.
This place was too filthy for her. Too degrading.
"May…May I ask for your name?"
"No."
"Well that's fine, I'm—"
"No need."
Ett stopped him. She had a very unwell feeling knowing another person. She doesn't know why. But no.
"Then, at least let me know if I'll be of help to you…"
What kind of desperation drove a noble to lower herself like this? What could she possibly be searching for, to endure such indignity without complaint? He saw the faint red lines already forming where the ground had scraped her skin. They were small, insignificant injuries, yet to him they felt unforgivable.
Did nobles not care about such things? Or was she simply different?
"Hey…" he whispered, unable to stop himself.
Ett did not turn around.
The distance between them suddenly felt vast. He replayed his words in his mind, searching for offense. Had he said something wrong? He prided himself on reading people. It was how he survived. Yet with her, his instincts faltered. Her face remained placid, composed, but something fleeting had passed through her eyes earlier. Discontent.
Dislike, perhaps.
"Ahm…"
A voice floated down from above, followed by laughter.
"Boss~"
The boy flinched internally but did not show it. He had long since grown numb to such sounds. They echoed through this place daily, etched into the walls, into his bones. Still, each time, they left a dull ache behind.
Those women were no different from him. Slaves, all of them. Goods to be used, then discarded or sold.
He shook his head sharply, banishing the thought, and noticed Ett scanning the area, her gaze sharp despite the dimness. She was searching for an entry, something discreet.
"Here," he whispered, pointing toward a low opening near the wall.
It was a hole meant for dogs, half-hidden behind crates.
The boy froze immediately after indicating it. Noble. She was noble. Surely she would not…
"I will do it for you," he gestured urgently.
Ett shook her head.
Without another word, she clenched her jaw, lowered herself to the ground, and knelt. The cold stone seeped through her thin garments as she pressed her palms down. Then, with controlled movements, she crawled forward and slipped into the narrow hole.
"Miss…this is…you shouldn't…"
"Hush."
Cold.
The word barely formed in her mind before something wet and sticky smeared against her hand.
Ugh. She bit back a gag, forcing herself to keep moving. Whatever this was, she did not want to identify it. She could not afford to stop. She had not expected the crawl to be so long, or so constricting. Her shoulders brushed against the sides, and each breath felt shallow and labored.
Hold on. Just hold on.
Behind her, the boy exhaled shakily, relief and worry tangled together. He followed after a moment, heart hammering.
He gestured again, asking what she needed him to do.
"I will follow," she whispered, her voice tight.
"All right," he murmured.
She truly did not trust him. That was clear. He accepted it without resentment. Trust was expensive here. Still, he resolved silently to protect her, whether she acknowledged it or not.
Elsewhere, Akan sat with a porcelain cup cradled in his hand, eyes fixed on the mouth of the alley where Her Ladyship had disappeared. The tea had long since gone cold.
Time stretched.
"Adviser," Commander Gammarad said quietly, "what are we waiting for?"
The imperial knights were scattered nearby, dressed as commoners.
Some nursed mugs of rum, careful to remain alert. Others leaned casually against walls, their eyes sharp beneath lowered brows.
"A ruckus," Akan replied.
"A ruckus?" Gammarad frowned. This district housed beggars and those without permanent shelter. It had been neglected precisely because nothing of interest ever happened here.
"Should I send scouts?"
"Not yet."
Her Ladyship had asked him about Beggars Street earlier. Its history. Its layout. An abandoned estate, once owned by a merchant, fallen into ruin decades ago. At the time, Akan had felt unease prick his instincts. When she failed to answer his summons before dinner, that unease had hardened into certainty.
Be patient, he reminded himself. She would not act without reason.
Still, when the explosion sounded, tearing through the night, his eyes sharpened.
"Once you hear the whistle," he told Gammarad, as his already rising from his seat, "move without restraint."
Back underground, Ett felt the tremor through the stone.
Moran, she thought grimly.
The plan had unfolded as expected. The explosion would draw attention. Akan would notice her absence. He always did.
Then came the whistle. Clear. Sharp.
Akan.
"Nice timing," Ett muttered.
She gestured for the boy to help her up. When he did, she noticed him flinch. Her gaze narrowed as she took in his body more closely. Scars.
Old and new. Wounds that had never healed properly.
"It is nothing," he said quickly.
"I apologize," she replied, and meant it.
They moved toward the southern alley, slipping through shadows as men rushed past, drawn toward the fire.
Her foot slipped.
Pain flared.
She leaned heavily against the wall, breathing carefully.
"There will be knights," she said. "Find them."
He protested, desperation breaking through his composure.
She whistled.
Blood filled her mouth.
The boy stared, horrified, as crimson stained her veil.
She waved him away.
"I hope we meet again Little Miss, and at that time I may know your name."
"G-Go…"
Ett glared at him. What of it if you know my name? Are you going to be my servant? My friend?
The boy smiled, "Until then." He ran.
Alone again, Ett tilted her head back, staring at the sky fractured by flame and smoke.
Now, all she had to do was wait.
When Akan reached her, she could see the anger in his eyes, "Truly Your Ladyship, you like danger."
"Quiet," she murmured.
He lifted her without hesitation, shielding her from view.
As darkness closed in, she thought she saw a shadow watching from afar.
"Who…"
Was it the boy…why did he return? Was it him?