Eleanor sat on the balcony, the sunlight warming her skin as she surveyed the manor grounds in silence. The air carried a faint chill, but Vincent had assured her that fresh air and sunlight would do her good.
She stayed only as long as she could tolerate it, then retreated inside, exhaustion pulling at her limbs.
As soon as she lay down, sleep took her.
And then—chaos.
The quiet sanctuary of her bedroom shattered. The air grew heavy with the scent of herbal tonics and parchment. The low murmur of voices swelled into a cacophony, overlapping and insistent.
When Eleanor forced her eyes open, she found herself surrounded.
Physicians. Dozens of them.
"Move aside! I must check her pulse—"
"She's too pale. This could be a blood deficiency—"
"Ridiculous! It's clearly a nervous affliction!"
"Has anyone checked her temperature? Quickly!"
The room was suffocating, filled with people in fine robes, their embroidered sleeves brushing against her as they jostled for position. Hands—too many hands—reached for her, pressing against her wrist, her forehead, her throat.
"Help—"
Eleanor's breath caught.
Her chest tightened, the air around her growing thin. Their voices, distant yet insistent, pressed in on her—clinical, detached, as if she were nothing more than a specimen under examination. She tried to push them away, but they refused to yield.
The crowd closed in, their robes rustling like whispers giving form, their murmurs swelling until the once vast space felt suffocatingly small.
She couldn't breathe.
With a strangled gasp, Eleanor jolted awake.
What kind of ridiculous dream was that?
By the time Eleanor had fully regained awareness, dinner had already passed. The dim glow of a crystal lamp illuminated the cream-colored walls of her unfamiliar yet familiar room.
She barely had time to adjust to her surroundings before Tina rushed to her bedside, her expression filled with concern.
"My lady! You were breathing so heavily in your sleep. Are you alright?"
Eleanor blinked at her, still shaken from the dream, but before she could respond, another presence caught her attention.
Physician Vincent stood nearby, his usual composed demeanor unwavering. But this time, he wasn't alone.
Four other pairs of unfamiliar eyes watched her intently.
A woman in her early thirties with neatly tied brown hair and a serious expression stood next to Vincent. Beside her, a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, adjusted the monocle over his sharp black eyes. His fluffy black hair framed his face, giving him a slightly more approachable appearance—if not for the analytical way he was observing her.
Both of them wore the crisp, well-tailored attire of esteemed physicians.
Seeing the three physicians again jolted her memory, dragging forth the absurd nightmare from earlier. A faint wince flickered across her face as if the very recollection caused the wound on her head to throb in protest.
Who are they?
Eleanor forced herself to stay composed, though she couldn't fully hide the wariness in her gaze.
But before she could voice the question, the three physicians exchanged knowing glances.
"A nightmare," the woman, Rochelle, murmured as if coming to a conclusion on her own. "A common trauma response to a fall of such severity."
The man with the monocle, Blumont, gave a slow nod of agreement. "It is expected. Sudden falls, especially from horses, tend to imprint deeply on the mind. The young lady's reaction is natural."
"..."
Eleanor, still trying to calm her breathing, hesitated.
No, it's not the trauma you think...
She wanted to refute them.
She wanted to say that no, the nightmare hadn't been about falling off a horse, but rather about a suffocating crowd of physicians like them closing in on her.
But admitting that felt… embarrassing.
So instead, she let them believe what they wanted.
In the end, Eleanor could do nothing but hide her face in her hands, longing to disappear into a hole. The three of them began to discuss her condition casually as if they were old friends, oblivious to the fact that she could hear every word.
Whatever... I'm tired.
The conversation came to an abrupt halt when the door to Eleanor's dark oak room swung open, the sound of its heavy creak cutting through the stillness.
A butler stepped inside, followed by two imposing figures, their presence gleaming with authority.
Marquess Gwendolyn and Marchioness Gwendolyn entered together, their hands gently entwined.
The moment her mother saw her awake, she hurried forward, not even hesitating before wrapping her arms around Eleanor's shoulders. The scent of soft roses surrounded her as the Marchioness pulled her into an embrace, warm and reassuring.
"My sweet ginger…"
Eleanor stiffened for a brief moment, still unaccustomed to such unfiltered affection, before reluctantly relaxing into the touch.
Meanwhile, the Marquess approached with steady steps, his gaze gentle. Without a word, he leaned down and pressed a light kiss to her bandaged forehead, his touch careful, almost reverent.
Eleanor didn't know what to say.
She had expected concern. She had even expected questions about her well-being.
But this unwavering, quiet love—so full of relief and gratitude that she was still here—was something she hadn't fully prepared for.
The physicians, sensing the emotional weight of the moment, straightened their posture before beginning their reports.
"Her body is recovering well," Vincent summarized first. "However, the wound on her head remains fragile. Sudden movements will cause more bleeding."
"The possibility of residual trauma from the fall is high," Rochelle added. "If not treated carefully, it may manifest in unexpected ways."
Blumont pushed up his monocle, nodding. "She should avoid stress and overexertion. Rest remains her best treatment."
The Marquess and Marchioness listened attentively, their expressions serious.
As Eleanor tried to focus on their words, Tina leaned in slightly and whispered, "My lady, those two physicians… The woman is Lady Rochelle, a physician from House Emmeline. And the man with the monocle is Sir Blumont, an apprentice of the Emperor's chief physician."
Eleanor's fingers tightened slightly around the blanket.
Emmeline's physician?
It wasn't surprising that the Emperor had sent someone, considering her father's close relationship with him. But why was someone from House Emmeline here as well?
Had Duke Emmeline personally requested it?
Or… had it been her?
The Heroine of this world, the one fated to become the very axis upon which everything would revolve.
A stunning woman, Eleanor's childhood friend, yet one who had callously stolen her fiancé simply because she refused to participate in the Crown Princess Selection, deeming it beneath her. The Heroine, with her naive belief in love, desired nothing more than to marry for the sake of love itself—unaware, or perhaps uncaring, of the family duties and noble obligations that bound them all.
Eleanor's thoughts swirled with possibilities, but before she could linger on them too long, Vincent approached again.
He had already begun preparing new bandages for her head, efficiently and without hesitation. As he changed the wrappings, the other physicians remained engaged in conversation with her parents.
The Marchioness, noticing the way Eleanor subtly winced from the touch, reached out and gently squeezed her hand.
"We'll continue this discussion in another room," she murmured to her husband, her tone soft but firm. "Eleanor should eat first."
The Marquess nodded, brushing another light kiss against her bandaged forehead before stepping back.
"Rest well, my dear."
With that, the physicians bowed politely to Eleanor before following her parents out of the room.
Tina, ever attentive, stepped forward, setting a tray down beside her.
A quick glance at the contents told Eleanor everything she needed to know.
Soup. Porridge. Steamed vegetables.
Again.
She had hoped for something more substantial, but at this point, she knew better than to expect anything different.
With a resigned sigh, she picked up her spoon and began eating.