TMLST C1

Chapter 1. A Tedious Terminal Life (1)

“What’s so great about a tyrant male lead?”

That was the thought I had after finishing the main story of [The Tyrant’s Queen].

It was a love story between Lotte, a queen with a dark past, and Llewellyn, a tyrant who suffered under the shadow of his half-sister and could never escape it.

No matter how difficult it must have been for him as the child of a concubine… was there really any need for him to become that twisted?

In the end, he was going to inherit the throne anyway.

“Hmm.”

If anything, the truly pitiful one was the sister who lived a terminal life and died—Elia.

Since the story centered on Llewellyn and Lotte, Elia’s story wasn’t explored in much detail. Still, she was described as intelligent and broad-minded, someone who earned the trust of those beneath her.

But that was only when she was healthy.

Once she was stricken with an incurable illness of unknown origin and began to waste away, her position gradually diminished. Llewellyn stepped forward to build his standing, while Elia could no longer participate in social or political affairs.

The very people who once looked down on him for being a concubine’s son immediately switched sides once the future of the princess seemed uncertain.

“Like parents who’ll buy you anything you need, but never come to see your face.”

I couldn’t help but feel for Elia. Her situation was too similar to mine.

I had once lived in a warm, loving family. Now, I had become someone no one came to visit. All the support that had once been directed toward me shifted entirely to my younger sibling, and nothing was left for me. I remembered my mother’s cold voice over the phone, saying that even the private room, the treatment expenses, and my “unproductive hobbies” were more than enough support.

She said it was a privilege I could only enjoy because I was born into this family.

Even without her saying it, I already knew. I knew how many people died without ever receiving treatment. How many couldn’t even get into a six-person hospital room and died without proper care. How many, even when hospitalized, could do nothing but stare out the window.

But why didn’t they understand that losing my parents’ love hurt more than all of that?

“Elia must have felt the same way as she slowly died…”

Lotte, who lost her parents at a young age and rebuilt the nation in their place.
Aaron, who had to watch the person he loved fall for someone else.
And Llewellyn, who struggled desperately to overcome the invisible wall that was Elia.

All the characters were tragic in their own ways, but Lotte and Llewellyn at least had a happy ending, so they didn’t weigh on me as much. The one who bothered me most, after Elia, was Aaron—the man who lived solely for Lotte.

A man that devoted and pure would have made the perfect male lead!

I couldn’t understand why he had to remain trapped in Lotte’s shadow until the very end.

“A man who’s incredibly kind and steadfastly protects you from your side… what’s not to love?”

Just imagining it made me smile. Aaron was exactly my ideal type. Even the small silhouette on the cover and the brief descriptions of his appearance in the novel sparked endless imagination.

If Elia and Aaron had met… wouldn’t they have been a little happier?

Neither Elia nor Aaron was deeply explored in the story, but it was clear they had lived upright lives without shameful pasts. Most of their presence came through mentions by those who followed and were loyal to them. Though their direct appearances were few, they were referenced here and there in conversations.

Still, the fact that they both met tragic ends left me with a sense of regret.

“Am I the only one who stans Aaron? Why is there nothing but Llewellyn fan art?”

With my laptop open, I browsed fan art of The Tyrant’s Queen on social media. Everywhere I looked, people were obsessing over Llewellyn.

Was this the sorrow of liking a second male lead?

There wasn’t much information about Aaron in the original work, so it seemed people just weren’t that interested. It was disappointing. Even in his brief appearances, I thought he made quite an impact.

“Time for your blood draw.”

Pulled out of the novel, it was time to return to reality—the life of a terminal patient with an incurable illness that didn’t even have a name.

The familiar scent of disinfectant and medicine filled my nose, mixing with the damp yet cool mist from the humidifier.

“Shall we use this hand today?”

“Yes.”

Both my arms had grown thin, bruised countless times from needles inserted for blood draws and IVs. Today, it was the back of my left hand—where the bruising had finally begun to fade—that was chosen again. Each day, as soon as the bruises lightened and veins became visible, another needle would pierce through.

“How are you feeling today?”

The nurse asked as she transferred the drawn blood into a vial. The same question, every time. And my answer was always the same.

“The same.”

“No improvement? No new pain anywhere?”

“No.”

Perhaps my end was truly approaching. There were days when the pain was so unbearable that all the lights in the hospital would be turned on in the dead of night. But now, I had grown so numb that even the sting of the needle barely registered.

“Don’t stay up too late reading today. Try to sleep early.”

“But there’s still the side stories…”

I knew a regular routine—sleeping early and waking early—was better for my health. I used to live like that before I got sick. But I loved the quiet emotions of dawn. I didn’t want to fall asleep. I would resist my heavy eyelids, reading novels until I drifted off without realizing it. And when I woke up, sunlight would already be filling the hospital room.

“Then how about this—sleep early today and wake up earlier than usual to read?”

“Reading feels better at dawn.”

“The moments just before sunrise, and right as the sun comes up—that feeling is nice too.”

It seemed she had come prepared to persuade me today. I wanted to resist more, but she looked like she wouldn’t leave until I agreed. Reluctantly, I nodded. I couldn’t keep her from tending to other patients any longer. Only then did the nurse leave the room.

“Let’s just sleep a little.”

When the promised bedtime arrived, I decided to be a good patient for once. I turned off the lights and lay down. It was rare for me to go to bed at a time when some rooms were still lit, the night view visible outside.

I should sleep quickly and wake up to read the side stories.

Murmurs of voices filled the air.

In my hazy state, I couldn’t make out what people were saying. It felt unfamiliar—never before had I heard such noise just before waking. What could possibly disturb the usual silence of my hospital room?

It didn’t sound distant, like from beyond a door—it was close.

“Ugh…”

I let out a small groan to signal that I was waking up. Instantly, the room fell silent.

“Your Highness!”

…What?

My heavy eyelids snapped open at the shout, and I found countless gazes fixed on me.

There shouldn’t have been any unfamiliar faces—I’d been confined to the hospital long enough to recognize everyone. Even if new staff had arrived, at least one familiar face should have been mixed in.

“I’ll fetch the physician!”

“You collapsed so suddenly, we were all so worried. Are you feeling unwell anywhere?”

Looking closer, the women surrounding me weren’t wearing nurse uniforms, but maid outfits. They addressed me with honorifics, calling me “Your Highness.”

This is a dream.

Ignoring the chattering maids, I closed my eyes again.

I must’ve read too many fantasy romance novels. I’m no royalty—‘Your Highness’ and maids? This is one extravagant dream.