Something important—something that would change everything—was about to unfold.
And Aneria, ever the careful, perceptive soul, was ready.
The door to her room closed softly behind her.
For a long moment, Aneria did not move.
She remained seated on the window seat, diary open on her lap, lantern light flickering faintly across the pages. Outside, the estate slept in peaceful ignorance. Crickets sang. A distant guard's footsteps echoed and faded. Somewhere down the corridor, Elio's laughter from earlier had dissolved into quiet snores.
It should have been comforting.
It wasn't.
Her fingers trembled as they traced the familiar handwriting—notes she had written long ago, when her thoughts were still arranging themselves, when memories surfaced like fragments of a dream she wasn't sure was real.
But now—
Now she knew.
The scent from the market lingered in her mind.
Medicinal herbs. Tonics. Powders stacked too neatly, sold too confidently.
"…Too early," Aneria murmured.
She flipped back several pages, eyes scanning quickly.
In the novel, the illness appeared later. Much later. It was something people spoke about in hindsight, after damage had already been done.
But today—
Today, she had smelled it.
Her pen hovered over the page before she finally wrote a name.
Velkaris Dominion.
The enemy empire to the west.
A nation praised for its scholars, its healers, its refined medical knowledge.
A nation that never began wars loudly.
Velkaris did not march its armies first.
"They sent sickness," Aneria whispered. "Just like before."
Her brows knit together, cheeks puffing slightly as irritation bubbled up. She crossed her arms and glared at the diary as if it might argue back.
"How rude," she muttered. "At least declare war properly."
The illness in the story had crept in quietly.
Border villages first—places too small to matter, too poor to complain loudly. A cough here. A fever there. People assumed it was seasonal, nothing more.
By the time the Empire paid attention, the sickness had already spread inward, following trade routes, slipping into slums and crowded districts.
Aneria inhaled sharply.
The worst part was that no one realized it was intentional.
"They thought it was natural," she said softly. "That was the trick."
She wrote quickly now.
Velkaris specializes in medicine.
Illness outbreaks coincide with western trade increases.
Pattern repeats.
Her grip tightened around the pen.
In the novel, Athriea had been slow. Too proud. Too confident in magic and divine blessing. They believed illness was something healers could manage, not something that could cripple an empire.
They were wrong.
Her thoughts shifted—and her expression crumpled instantly.
Ian.
Aneria's shoulders slumped as if the air itself had grown heavier. She leaned back against the window, hugging the diary to her chest, eyes unfocused.
In the novel, it had been only a few lines.
A boy with dark magic survived the illness.
That was all.
But she remembered more than that.
Ian, younger than he should have been to look that tired. Sitting on broken stone steps in the slums, knees pulled close, staring at the ground as if hunger itself might answer him if he waited long enough.
"…You poor thing," Aneria whispered.
Her lips trembled, then curved into a small, fond smile—one filled with helpless affection.
"So this is what you went through," she murmured softly. "Hungry. Surrounded by sickness. And still pretending you were fine."
She sniffed dramatically, pressing the back of her hand to her eyes.
"My sweetheart really had it rough, huh?"
She imagined it too clearly—Ian watching other children cough and collapse, clutching his empty stomach, not crying, not asking, just… enduring.
"That's just cruel," she muttered, voice thick. "Who lets a child like you wander around during a plague?"
Her cheeks puffed, eyes gleaming with mock indignation.
"If I had been there," she declared quietly, "I would have fed you properly. Warm meals. Every day."
She nodded to herself, utterly serious.
"And anyone who caused that suffering?" Her lips curved into a sweet, dangerous smile.
"I'll make them pay. Slowly."
Ian hadn't caught the illness.
His mana—wild, instinctive—had protected him, burning the sickness away before it could take hold.
But that didn't make it kind.
It didn't make it fair.
"Just because you survived," Aneria whispered, fingers tightening around the diary, "doesn't mean it didn't hurt."
She exhaled, pressing the diary gently to her chest as if it could hear her.
"This time," she said softly, resolve settling deep within her,
"I won't let children like you suffer quietly."
Children without mana. Families without coin. People who had no protection against something invisible.
Aneria swallowed.
"This isn't just about Ian," she said quietly. "It never was."
She flipped to a fresh page.
Illness weakens lower districts first.
Creates panic, scarcity, unrest.
Empire loses stability before realizing it.
In the story, by the time Athriea understood what was happening, their people were exhausted, their healers overwhelmed, and their resources strained thin.
That was when Velkaris offered "help."
Medicine shipments.
Experts.
Negotiations.
A treaty followed soon after.
Peace, they called it.
Aneria scoffed, nose wrinkling.
"Peace after poisoning everyone," she muttered. "How generous."
She scribbled harder.
Treaty signed under pressure.
Immediate relief.
Long-term disadvantage.
Trade concessions. Border adjustments. Political imbalance that haunted Athriea for decades.
A war that began with illness ended with ink on paper.
Aneria leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
"I don't want that ending," she whispered.
She thought of Lyria, sleeping safely under a warm roof.
Of Elio, loud and healthy and blissfully unaware.
Of slum children who would never know illness was already being sharpened into a weapon.
"If sickness is their blade," Aneria said softly, eyes sharpening, "then prevention is mine."
She straightened, posture suddenly far too composed for a child.
Monitor herb circulation.
Watch western traders closely.
Protect slums and border villages first.
A quiet laugh escaped her.
"Who would believe a five-year-old talking about plagues and politics?" she muttered, cheeks puffing again.
She flopped backward dramatically onto the bed, staring at the canopy.
"Ridiculous," she sighed. "Absolutely ridiculous."
Then her expression settled.
Her parents would return soon.
Count Rohan, who listened.
The Duchess, who trusted instincts over appearances.
"I'll wait," Aneria murmured. "I'll prepare."
She closed the diary carefully and tucked it away, then curled under her blanket, eyes still open.
Tomorrow, she would smile.
Play.
Be a child.
But tonight—
She remembered how a war once began without soldiers.
And this time—
She would make sure it never reached the streets.
...