Dream of Affection

The Empress’s voice quivered with fury, each word sharp and venomous: “They all must be eliminated. Every last one of them… insolent, every one…!”

She erupted into loud, dramatic sobs. Though the tears were barely real, the sound was loud enough to alarm me. Fear gripped me—what if someone overheard? Yet, the idea of asking an Empress to stop crying was inconceivable, even if I was terrified of who might listen.

What kind of relationship did Princess Yoom share with the Empress? Surely, they must have been open, honest, able to express happiness, sorrow, and anger freely.

As I stood there, silent, the Empress’s cries intensified, echoing through the room, even though only a few tears fell. I felt helpless but reached out to take her trembling hand.

“Mother,” I whispered.

What solace could a twelve-year-old princess offer? Still, in this moment, the Empress seemed to have no one else by her side, no ally but me.

“May I see?” I asked.

You?

Her eyes narrowed, surprise mingled with doubt. What could you possibly do? But that doubt shifted, replaced by a desperate, fleeting hope. She seemed lost, reaching for anything to hold onto. I wouldn’t have expected anyone, especially an Empress, to rely on a child for counsel, but here she was, without another option.

Reluctantly, she handed me the scrolls—guest lists, seating charts, menus for the banquet, wine selections, lists of flowers, instructions for each department—each detail meticulously outlined. I read through them, puzzling over what I saw until realization dawned on me. I lifted my gaze to the Empress, suddenly understanding why the Dowager Queen did not favor her.

The Empress did not understand the intricate workings of court politics. Left unchecked, resentment would inevitably grow.

The Emperor’s birthday celebration was one of the most significant events of the year, a coveted opportunity for nobles to gain recognition and secure their positions. The Empress should have used this event to allow others to take credit, to recognize their contributions. The courtiers thrived on such validation; it defined their worth and position.

Planning the entire event to claim all the glory herself would make her a target. No matter how esteemed she was, opposition would rise, bolstered by the support of logic and reason. “Your Majesty, this is difficult for these reasons” would become a refrain she’d hear constantly.

Could she push ahead despite the resistance? Yes, but the consequences would be hers alone. Was she prepared to bear the brunt when those tasked with carrying out her plans subtly sabotaged them? The officials, skilled at turning the tide, would hold her accountable for any failure.

Already, opposition was piling up—petitions overflowing with objections, some baseless, others rational. The real issue, however, was that beneath these formal protests was a simmering hostility toward the Empress.

When a leader fails to inspire respect, loyalty from their subordinates is hard to come by. The Empress’s fierce, uncompromising nature instilled fear rather than loyalty, fostering quiet rebellion.

This animosity hadn’t sprung up overnight; it was the result of long-standing issues. The Dowager Queen had always held a firm grasp on the palace, orchestrating the court with skill and finesse. Without such leverage, the Empress’s efforts seemed doomed to collapse.

I tapped my fingers on the table, thinking. Was there a path forward through this mess?

“Father once said, ‘In difficult times, the straight path is the quickest,’” the Crown Prince’s words echoed in my memory, surfacing unexpectedly. The straight path… what did it mean in this context?

With a sigh, I glanced at the towering petitions and the workload awaiting attention. Part of me wanted to avoid getting involved. Helping in situations like this was a gamble—there was often no reward, and if things went awry, the blame was sure to fall on the helper.

And my feelings for the Empress were conflicted at best. There was guilt, pity, but also jealousy at seeing her possess what I had once painstakingly built. It wasn’t her fault, and this was only a dream, yet the longer I spent here, the more real it felt.

We’re in the same boat, I reminded myself. As Princess Yoom, I was under the Empress’s protection. If she fell, I would too. Being an Empress’s daughter carried weight, but only while the Empress held power. Her position was as high as it was perilous.

Stifling a sigh, I picked up the scrolls. The task ahead was monumental, and the Emperor’s birthday celebration was only a week away.

Imitating Princess Yoom’s fierce demeanor didn’t come easily to me. I was trained to express myself with elegance and restraint, not to raise my voice or throw things in a fit of anger.

But I adapted. When persuasion failed, I channeled Yoom’s boldness, issuing commands and threats. I debated with the Ministry of Rites, summoned the official responsible for the Emperor’s meals, and reminded him that failure during such an event would be a grave offense, implicating not only him but his entire family.

This celebration was too significant to allow mistakes.

I also took a closer look at the Empress’s circle and noted a weakness: she didn’t know how to effectively use informants. She kept only those she trusted close, never nurturing a network to keep her informed. The Dowager Queen had perfected this skill, keeping the palace tightly in her control.

Without such knowledge, I had limited information. Preparing for an event of this scale required detailed intelligence. The Dowager Queen’s grip had allowed her to balance all the moving parts smoothly.

Would what I knew from reality hold true here in this dream? If this world mirrored reality, I had some choices to make. But they were few.

This dream was set over a decade after I had been banished to the Cold Palace. Most of it was unfamiliar. I still didn’t understand why the Emperor of my dreams, once my husband, was so different from the man I had known.

Over the next week, I began identifying potential informants: those in need of money, perennial second-in-commands, officials with a history of misusing funds. These were the ones with ambition or vulnerabilities—ideal candidates for informants.

“It must be demoralizing to hold the same rank for decades, especially at fifty, never rising beyond second-in-command. It breeds resentment. A person like that could be a reliable informant,” said the head maid, Seo Jung-won.

The person she suggested had indeed been trapped in a secondary role for years, frustrated and less than honest, making her a reasonable candidate. But there was a significant problem.

In reality, she had been an informant for the Crown Prince.

Was she still in that role in this dream? Had she moved on over the years? If I used her and the Emperor discovered it… the consequences would be disastrous. No ruler in history had ever looked kindly on an Empress or princess who employed informants.

“She’s not an option,” I said.

“But she’s the most fitting candidate,” Seo Jung-won insisted.

I turned to face her.

Seo Jung-won had once been my most loyal aide—sharp, precise, and unmatched in her work. By rights, she should have held a higher position, but her stubbornness kept her from serving in the Dowager’s or Empress’s court, landing her in the Eastern Palace instead.

The position of Crown Princess’s personal maid was an ambiguous one. It appeared to promise a bright future, yet that promise was distant and uncertain. In the meantime, a personal maid might be replaced dozens of times. It was a difficult role.

Still, I had always liked her. She wasn’t skilled at flattery, but she was steadfast and reliable—a person who repaid any kindness shown to her. She was one of the people I had nurtured with care.

When I was dethroned, I worried about what would become of her. The fall of a master often signaled a narrowing of opportunities for those who served under them. Fortunately, the Empress had chosen to keep her on, though not as the personal maid she once was.

Seo Jung-won, once a chief maid, was now the nursemaid to Princess Yoom. It was a position that underutilized her considerable abilities.

“Chief Maid Seo.”

“Yes, Your Highness?”

“She seems the most suitable candidate in my eyes, but if no one has taken her on as an informant in all these years, it means she’s already been claimed. The palace operates on unyielding logic. Someone as fitting as she would already be working for someone else. And we cannot rely on someone who’s been in another’s hands, can we?”

I couldn’t outright say that she was an informant for the Crown Prince, so this was the extent of what I could explain. Seo Jung-won’s eyes widened slightly. She paused, staring at me, and then muttered, as if to herself, “Could it be…?” before shaking her head. “No, forgive me.”

It was an oddly tentative gesture for her. I debated letting it pass but felt compelled to ask.

“What is it?”

“Nothing, Your Highness. For a moment, I thought I saw a ghost.”

“A ghost of whom?”

“…Of my late sister, Your Highness.”

Seo Jung-won didn’t have a deceased sister. I had no idea who she was referring to. All I knew of her family were her brothers, whom she spoke of as if they were thorns in her side, always scheming how to squeeze money out of her. This shared struggle was part of what bonded us.

Who could she have thought of to fabricate a story about a dead sister?

The day of the Emperor’s birthday celebration dawned. That morning, I wasn’t feeling my best. I had been awake since before dawn, embroidering. Amidst the flurry of preparations for the celebration, I realized I hadn’t yet prepared a gift for my father, so I decided to create a small piece of embroidery.

As dawn broke, I contemplated what to stitch. Then I remembered the flowers he had once given me. He’d probably forgotten about them by now, but they had meant so much to me. Quietly, tenderly, I stitched those flowers into the fabric. If I had known the trouble that little embroidery piece would bring, would I have done it?

Some things can’t be predicted.