The thread of light shimmered one last time before dissolving into the ether. The dimensional door closed behind Ramona with a soft hum, leaving only silence.
She stood alone in her old room.Dust drifted like ghostly memories, catching moonlight that seeped through a cracked window. Cobwebs draped the walls like forgotten whispers, and the air carried wood rot and stale perfume, heavy with neglect.
The room hadn't been touched since her death sentence—or rather, since Ramona's death sentence.
She didn't cry. Didn't scream. There was no time.
She acted. Her old hidden drawer, still intact, yielded its treasures: makeup, a cracked mirror, a sewing kit, a half-empty bottle of cleansing oil. Good enough.
Her hands moved swiftly, her mind faster. She wasn't Ramona now. She needed to become someone else—unrecognizable.Slipping into the servant quarters, silent as a shadow, she found a gardener's room.
She took a loose set of dirty overalls, a patched shirt, rugged boots, and a straw hat hanging on the wall. Perfect. She carried them back to her chamber.
In the dusty mirror, she barely recognized herself—but it wasn't enough. She darkened her skin with ash and contour, rubbed oil into her hair, and tied it into a messy knot, staining the strands to dull their soft pink hue. Traces of her natural color persisted, defiant. She smeared dark pigments to mimic acne scars, applied heavy shadows to sink her eyes, and crafted a crooked beard with smudged charcoal. And craft a quick beanie-hat to cover her flashy eyes as an additional for final touch.
By the time she finished, Ramona was gone.In her place stood Ellijah Harvert, a 20-year-old gardener from the palace. Dirty. Shy. Invisible.Ellijah tucked stolen coins and dry food into a bag, hiding a knife in his boot—just in case. He slipped through the estate's back alley, moving as if he'd done it a hundred times.No alarms. No guards. No one suspected the filthy gardener limping into the misty night was the prodigy of Rhostein.
No alarms. No guards. No one suspected the filthy gardener limping into the misty night was the prodigy of Rhostein.
in Rotein City
The palace, once a gilded cage, now felt like dust and faded perfume—more honest than the suffocating heaven it had been. A world of rigid rules, false smiles, and painted nobility, where Ramona had played the doll, pleasing men and women obsessed with beauty, status, and control. None valued knowledge, science, or sharpening their minds. Recalling her life as a noble lady stirred no pride, only irritation, like a splinter under her skin.As Ellijah Harvert, his boots struck the stone road winding into Rotein City—a realm where gossip traveled faster than wind and danger cloaked itself in charm. With his disguise complete, he adjusted his stolen cap, slung his bag tighter, and stepped into the city where the real game began.
Ellijah kept his head low, hat shadowing his eyes. He frequented the cheapest taverns, ordering bread, boiled eggs, salted fish. He listened.
He trained in abandoned courtyards and forest edges, alone, regaining strength and adapting to his new guise. He stayed reserved, but not too distant—too strange, and questions would follow.
He smiled when needed. Laughed when required. Told borrowed stories. When asked, "Who are you?" he'd say:
"Ellijah Harvert. Just a gardener lookin' for work. Lost my home after the war. Don't wanna talk about it."
It worked.
Until one night, in a smoky tavern thick with laughter and spilled beer, he heard it:
"Ramona, that noble girl—they're still huntin' her. Price on her head's ten thousand gold now."
The man at the bar laughed, slamming his mug. "They say she slaughtered guards like a beast, then vanished. Hah! I'd marry a devil for ten thousand gold!"
Ellijah didn't flinch. He sipped his drink.
But his blood boiled.Ten thousand gold for his head.
This wasn't just survival. It was war.
To deflect suspicion, Ellijah joined the bravado, throwing up his arms. "If I had the strength to hunt that monster, I'd be rollin' in gold! I'd treat you lot to a feast fit for the king!"
The bar erupted in cheers and clinking mugs. "I like this guy!" a drunk slurred, slapping Ellijah's back. "A real man, not like those cowards hidin' behind curtains!" another shouted.
Ellijah grinned, laughing with them, careful not to overplay his role.
But amid the chaos, something stood out—too still.
At the room's far end, a young man with striking red hair slumped over a table, his drink untouched, fingers loose around his mug. No one noticed. Or no one dared.
A coil of tension tightened in Ellijah's gut. That man was waiting—for someone, or worse, for him.
Ellijah approached with cautious steps, his disguise firm. He tapped the table and leaned down, feigning concern. "Excuse me, sir," he said with a half-grin, "you dead? Or just bored to death?"
The man stirred, groaning softly before blinking up at Ellijah. His crimson hair fell over his forehead like a flicker of flame in the dim light.
"Who the hell—" His voice was rough with sleep. But as his gaze met Ellijah's, something shifted—not recognition, but a pause.
"Sorry, thought you might be dead. Or ignorin' me," Ellijah said, chuckling awkwardly.
The man snorted dryly. "Not dead. Just… wastin' time." He sat up, rubbing his face, glancing around. "You don't belong here."
"Neither do you."
Their eyes locked, each probing the other's words. The man gave a bitter smile. "Name's Oswald. Former knight of the capital. Now just a drunk fool chasin' a ghost."
Ellijah shook his hand, gripping lightly. "Ellijah Harvert. Gardener. Wanderer. Occasional drunk fool, I suppose."
Oswald's eyes darkened. "I'm lookin' for someone," he said after a beat. "My best friend. A lady from the palace. Ramona."
Ellijah's heart stuttered but he kept his tone light. "The criminal? Everyone's talkin' about her. What makes you think she's innocent?"
"I know she is," Oswald snapped, eyes blazing. "She wouldn't. Couldn't. Somethin's wrong, and I'll prove it, even if the realm wants her head." He slammed his mug down. "I owe her my life."
Ellijah's lips curled wryly. "That's some devotion for a criminal."
"She was a hero before they called her that. Funny how fast the world forgets."The bar's laughter roared, but their corner held a tense, quiet bubble.
"What'll you do if you find her?" Ellijah asked.Oswald's voice softened. "Protect her. Even if she doesn't want me to."
Ellijah settled across from him, brushing dust from his sleeve. "So, what was she like? This Ramona?"
Oswald's gaze softened. "Smart. Stubborn. Had a fire in her—made people fear or follow her. Hated injustice. Always in trouble standin' up for others." He paused. "She had this look, like she carried the world in her head. People loved or envied her. But she just wanted to be free."
Ellijah's mouth twitched with an unnameable emotion. "Sounds like a handful."
Oswald smiled faintly, staring at Ellijah. "She still is."
A heavy pause lingered. Ellijah's fingers tightened on his glass.
"You've been to the palace?" Oswald asked, too casually.
"Maybe," Ellijah shrugged. Along with the beanie-hat that she wears to cover her eyes so as if the universe want her to see Oswald's clearly without any obstruction
"Passed by once. Stinks of perfume and pretense."
Oswald chuckled, but his eyes held steady. And caught Ellijah's eyes "You've got her eyes, you know."
Ellijah froze for a split second, then leaned back with a smirk. "You flirt with every stranger in bars?"
"Only the dangerous ones," Oswald said quietly.
Silence fell, deeper, heavier.
Oswald looked away, sipping his empty mug. "If you hear anythin' about her, let me know. I think she's hidin'. Somewhere close."
Ellijah nodded. "Yeah. She's watchin' her back… choosin' who to trust."
They sat in quiet understanding, the truth unspoken but shared. For now, it was enough.
Oswald didn't fully recognize her. Not at first.
Ellijah Harvert was nothing like the noblewoman Oswald knew—the woman who walked like the floor was hers, wielding silence sharper than any blade. But something lingered. The way Ellijah stirred his drink absently, as Ramona did when lost in thought. The quick scans of the room, mapping exits. The low dip in his voice when injustice came up, still believing in justice.
That laugh—rougher, jaded, but edged with her bitter amusement.
Oswald stared too long.
"What?" Ellijah asked.
"Nothin'," Oswald lied, raising his glass. "You remind me of someone."
"Oh yeah?" Ellijah leaned back, cocky. "Someone handsome, I hope?"
Oswald's chuckle didn't reach his eyes. You're not her. And yet… I think you are.
He didn't say it. Not until he was sure. Not until he could ask: Why are you pretending to be dead?This wasn't the same Ramona. This was someone forged in fire, with knives for bones and secrets in her breath.
Oswald waited, watching, letting her keep her mask. Maybe she needed someone to see through it—and stay.
As the tavern quieted, Oswald stood, rolling his shoulders. He glanced at Ellijah, perched on a creaky stool, twirling a spoon in his soup like a performer.
"Got a place to sleep tonight?" Oswald asked casually.
Ellijah grinned, too wide. "Why, that's generous, Mr. Knight! A bed sounds divine compared to alley rats."
Oswald blinked. That smile—too familiar, tangled in memory.
"Lucky you, I've got an extra bed," he said slowly. "Quiet place, solid lock, no trouble."
Ellijah slid off the stool with a dramatic stretch. "Lead the way, kind sir. I won't bite—unless you snore."
Oswald chuckled, leading them through Rotein's winding streets. He didn't press for answers. Not yet.
At the inn, the air grew thick with unspoken words. Oswald offered the bed, but Ellijah—Ramona—paced the small room, checking the door, her fingers clutching her disguise.
"Let's get to the point," she muttered, sharper now. She squatted, tugging her jacket. "Thought you meant extra beds. I'll take the floor if you're fussy."
Oswald froze. "What's goin' on, Ellijah?"
She stood, locking eyes with him. "You know it's me. Ramona. This makeup's my disguise. You're not here to turn me in, are you?"
Oswald stared, blinking rapidly. His heart ached—she'd changed, from proud noblewoman to this. "Ramona…?" His voice cracked. "How?"
She scoffed, crossing her arms. "How do you think? I know you're not after the bounty. So what's your deal, Oswald?"
He stepped forward, pulling her into a tight hug, tears spilling. "I knew it was you. I've prayed for you every day, hopin' we'd face this together…"
Ramona's breath caught. She pushed him back gently. "Stop yellin', idiot! What if someone hears?" Her tone was sharp but concerned.
Oswald wiped his eyes. "You're alive. That's all that matters. I thought I'd lost you."
Ramona stared at the floor, steadying her breath. "I'm not who you knew. I've changed. The Tenebris woke in me—stronger now. It doesn't erase the betrayal, the lies." Her eyes blazed. "I'll uncover the truth—who betrayed me, why I was targeted. And they'll pay."
Oswald gripped her shoulders, fierce. "We'll do it together. I don't care what it takes. Just don't push me away."
Her gaze sharpened. "This isn't a fairy tale. If we're doin' this, it's my way. I need your help, but we won't stick together."
Oswald blinked. "Huh?"
She rolled her eyes, grabbing a map from a dusty shelf. "We split up. Three months since I vanished—we can't waste time." She faced him, hands on hips. "What've you found since I disappeared? Leads?"
Oswald straightened, proud. "I've gone city to city, askin' about you. Describin' your hair, face, attitude. Like a lunatic sometimes—"
"You what?" Ramona's eye twitched. "You what?"
"I—uh—asked around?"
She groaned, covering her face. "Gods, forgive me for forgettin' how dense you can be…"
"Hey—!"
She dropped her hands, serious. "Here's the accusations against me. Memorize 'em. Stop bein' an emotional fool and use that knight brain."
She listed them coldly: "One: Embezzlement of health and education funds. Two: Human experiments. Three: Illegal gamblin', illegal prostitution, traffickin'. Four: Worker exploitation, nature destruction. Five: Drug distribution."
She crossed her arms. "Any idea where those are happenin'?"Oswald hesitated. "Uh… no. But my father might know. I'd need to go home—"
"Fine," she cut in, grabbing her bag. "Don't make it obvious you're helpin' me. You can handle that, right?"
"…I think?"
"I'll hit the city library" she said, "dig into the execution—guards, witnesses, reports. If your father knows somethin', good. Meet back here in five days. This room. Not another lodge or town. Here."
Oswald nodded, overwhelmed but obedient.
"And bring food," she added.
"Food?"
"I'm not skippin' dinner to hear you cry again."
He laughed nervously. "Right."
The night deepened. Oswald glanced at the single bed. "I can sleep on the floor, or ask the innkeeper—"
Ramona kicked off her boots and flopped onto the bed. "Don't be weird. Get in."
Oswald froze.
She glanced back, half-lidded. "You're not thinkin' somethin' nasty, are you?"
"I wasn't—!"
She pulled the blanket over herself, patting the empty space. "Don't be dramatic. Sleep. We're burnin' daylight."
Oswald lay beside her, stiff as a soldier, staring at the ceiling.
"You're so tense," Ramona teased, amused. "Didn't take you for the type to fret over sharin' a bed."
"I'm not tense," he said, too quickly.
She smirked. "I've slept with men before, you know."
Oswald choked.
"My brothers, relax," she grinned.
Silence settled, heavy but warm. They were together since childhood but Oswald didn't remember Ramona has siblings. Yet, he doesnt asked about that. He speaks with low tone of voice.
"You know why you untied the ropes so easily?"
She rolled over, curious. "Why?"
"I was in charge of takin' you to trial," he admitted, ashamed. "They said no talkin', no eye contact, no hesitatin'. I didn't know if there was a plan, but I loosened your ties. Just enough. Hopin' you'd notice."
Ramona's eyes flickered, lips curling softly. "So it was you."
And she countinued her line, "what was your plan after i sucessfully escaped from that situation?"
"Carry you like a sack of rice and run faraway. I couldn't let them do it. Not to you. I had to try."
"I thought my strength came from my old power," she murmured. "But that loosened tie… it gave me a chance. Without it, I wouldn't be here." She has no comment for the part when Oswald plan to carry her like a bag of rice... she's too tired, yet still think it would be funny, bring her smile just thinking about it.
A quiet pause bloomed.
"Thank you," she said softly.
Oswald turned to her, relief and vulnerability in his eyes. "I didn't say it then, but I'm sayin' it now—I never stopped believin' in you."
No more words passed. As Ramona's eyes drifted shut, and Oswald lay still, the air shifted—not with awkwardness, but with a bond reforged in truth.
He wasn't sure he was breathing—not from embarrassment, but from finally exhaling.
Neither saw the shadow lingering outside the window, barely visible in the moonlight—a dark silhouette that stood still, then vanished into the wind.