Nightmare

It was late into the night; usually, the Nixet Royal Palace would have been quiet at this hour, but this night was different. The entire palace was ablaze with decorated lamps, and exquisite decorations adorned every inch. It was indeed a grand banquet. The sounds of singing and dancing filled the vast halls, mingling with laughter and joy that resonated even among the beautifully dressed maids.

The palace shimmered with beauty and color, as people moved in and out of the grand hall. Every notable figure within the capital was in attendance, and even a few nobles from distant lands had made their way to the celebration. The opulent decorations shone brightly, a stark contrast to the darkness that loomed in a small, secluded corner of the palace.

In a forgotten courtyard, a faint, flickering light from a solitary room hinted at the presence of life within. The light struggled against the wind, much like the old woman inside who lay on a bed, her breath weak and labored.

"Cough, cough, cough."

The sound of suppressed coughing came from the dimly lit room. On the bed lay the empress, a woman once envied by all, now frail and withered. Her life seemed as fragile as the flickering lamp beside her.

"Your Majesty, please eat something," a maid pleaded, bending beside the bed and placing a tray on the small table.

"What's the point?" The old woman's voice was unexpectedly clear, betraying her otherwise lifeless state.

The maid sighed, looking at the woman who had once been the epitome of grace and power. "You can't give up like this. As long as you live, she can't take your place," the maid said earnestly. As a servant, she could wish nothing more than the survival of her master.

The old woman smiled faintly, her wrinkled face unmoved, her eyes dull. "Do you really think they'll let me live?" she asked. The maid opened her mouth to respond but decided against it, her silence speaking volumes.

"Listen, the celebration has already started," the old woman said, her smile widening, though it lacked any warmth. She seemed to mock her own fate. Once a young bride full of hope, she had become the envy of her peers when she married into the royal family. She had believed her years of suffering were over, but reality had disappointed her deeply.

Years of pretense and struggle had left her exhausted. Being a part of the royal family had been far from the glamorous life she had imagined.

"Even if I am not his mother, I raised him with love for twenty years. The doctor says I have only a few days left; he could have honored me, just this once…" The old woman sighed and closed her eyes, feeling like a thousand arrows were piercing her heart. Her body ached, and her breath came in short, painful gasps escape her lips.

Seeing her struggle, the maid rushed to a small cabinet and returned with a small bottle. She poured its contents onto a spoon and urged, "Your Majesty, please take your medicine." The maid said. She wished her Master would not think of the ungrateful father and Son.

But the empress did not respond. Her frown softened, and she seemed to struggle less, until finally, she stopped breathing altogether.

*Bang.* The bottle and spoon slipped from the maid's hands.

"Your Majesty, Your Majesty," the maid called out in panic, shaking the empress despite their difference in status. But there was no response. The empress had closed her eyes, never to open them again.

While the palace should have been draped in mourning, the joyful music from the banquet hall played on, oblivious to the loss of the mother of the nation, who died cold and alone...

---

Anastasia's eyes snapped open as she gasped for air. Her heart raced, and a shiver ran down her spine. She pressed her hand to her chest, feeling relief at the strong heartbeat beneath her fingers. Her gaze fell on her hands—young, vibrant. She leapt from the bed and hurried to the old, cracked mirror in her room.

Her legs trembled with each step. As she looked at her youthful face in the mirror, she began to calm down, but scenes from her dream flashed vividly in her mind, as if she were watching a play.

In the dream, a beautiful young girl had smiled brightly as she married the crown prince at eighteen. She became the envy of all, much to the chagrin of her step-sister, who had tried and failed to steal the marriage. Though many said she was unworthy, she had married the crown prince and become the empress, the mother of the nation.

Her life seemed one of luxury and power, yet it was filled with bitterness. She was barren, forced to adopt her husband's mistress's child and raise him as her own. For over twenty years, she had loved him, but when he learned she was not his birth mother, he saw her as a villain who had separated him from his real mother. Despite the doctor's diagnosis of illness, she knew she had been poisoned. She died just before fifty, looking as though she were over eighty, cold and alone with only her personal maid to bid her farewell.

"Crazy," she muttered, trying to shake off the vividness of the dream. She splashed water on her face from a jug beside her bed, telling herself, "It's just a dream."

Yet, as she cleaned her face and glanced around her familiar room, she felt a tightening in her chest. The dream seemed so real. Was she cursed to suffer? The thought froze her, making her heart race once more.

"No, no, it's not true. It was just a dream," Anastasia repeated to herself, trying to push away the overwhelming fear. No one wants to suffer their whole life. No one wants to die cold and alone. Everyone hopes for a bright and better future. How could she accept such a fate?

"Lady Anastasia," a cold voice called from outside the door, followed by a rude knock. Though the voice addressed her as 'lady,' the manner in which the door was knocked showed how little respect she commanded in the household.

Anastasia usually despised hearing the woman outside, but today it felt like a melody. Leah, the Duchess's personal maid, had come. Anastasia's stepmother would never allow her to have such a good marriage, she realized with a rush of relief. It was impossible. Her dream was nothing more than that—a dream. The crown prince was the ideal match for any lady, but Anastasia knew her stepmother's daughter, just a year younger, was the one vying for him. She shook her head, feeling foolish for her earlier fear.

"Open the door, you damned girl. I don't have all day. You still have to prepare a bath for your sister. Hurry up and fetch the spices needed," Leah commanded sharply, though in a lower voice than usual. Anastasia smiled; the only reason Leah wasn't shouting was because the Duke was still home. Even with little chance of him hearing or intervening, Leah and her mistress were careful not to risk exposure in the early hours.