The thread of light in the air shimmered one last time before vanishing into the ether. The gate closed behind her with a soft hum, and silence settled.
She stood alone in the middle of her old room.
It was dark. Dust floated in the air like ghostly memories, catching the moonlight that spilled in through the cracked window. Cobwebs stretched across the corners of the walls like forgotten whispers, and the scent of wood rot and stale perfume lingered beneath the silence. The room had been left untouched since her death sentence. Or rather… since Ramona's death sentence.
She didn't cry. Didn't scream. There was no time for that.
Instead, she acted.
She found her old hidden drawer still intact and pulled it open. Makeup, a cracked mirror, a sewing kit, a half-empty bottle of cleansing oil. Good enough.
Her hands moved fast—her mind even faster. She wasn't Ramona now. She needed to become someone else. Someone unrecognizable.
She slipped into the servant quarters, as silent as a shadow, until she found what she was looking for: a gardener's room. She stole a loose set of dirty overalls, a patched shirt, and rugged boots. A straw hat hung on the wall. Perfect. She grabbed it all and snuck back to her chamber.
Back in the dusty mirror, she didn't recognize herself already—but that wasn't enough.
She darkened her skin with ash and contour, rubbed oil into her hair, and pulled it into a messy knot, staining the strands darker. Still, hints of her natural color peeked through—a soft pink hue she couldn't completely hide. She dragged dark pigments over her face to fake acne scars, added heavy eye shadows to sink her eyes, and gave herself a crooked, uneven beard with smudged charcoal.
By the time she was done, Ramona was gone.
In her place stood Ellijah Harvert, a 20-year-old male gardener from the palace. Dirty. Shy. Unnoticeable.
He collected a few stolen coins, dry food, and tucked away a knife under his boots—just in case. He slipped out the back alley of the estate as if he'd done it a hundred times before.
No alarms. No guards. No one suspected the filthy gardener limping into the misty night was the same woman once praised as the prodigy of Rhostein.
ROTEIN CITY
The palace, once a gilded cage of luxury, now seemed like nothing more than dust and old perfume — but even that felt more honest than the suffocating heaven she used to endure. A world of rigid rules, fake smiles, and painted nobility where she had to act like a doll, pleasing men — and women — obsessed with beauty, status, and control. None of them cared about knowledge, science, or sharpening their minds. Remembering her "past life" as a noble lady didn't bring pride. It brought a gnawing irritation, like a splinter under her skin.
Now, as Ellijah Harvert, her boots hit the stone road that curved into the heart of Rotein City — a beautiful realm where gossip moved faster than wind and danger dressed itself in charm. With her new identity carved out and her disguise hiding every glint of the woman she used to be, she adjusted her stolen cap, slung the borrowed bag tighter over her shoulder, and took her first step into the city where the real game would begin.
Ellijah kept his head low, hat drawn down to his eyes. He only entered the cheapest restaurants, ordering the most basic meals—bread, boiled eggs, salted fish. And every day, he listened.
He trained in abandoned courtyards and forest edges when no one was around, slowly regaining strength and adapting to his new body. He kept to himself, but not too much. If he seemed too strange, they'd start asking questions.
He smiled when needed. Laughed when he had to. Told stories that weren't his. And 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 packed with laughter and spilled beer, he heard it:
"Have you heard? That noble girl—Ramona—they're still hunting her. Price on her head is ten thousand gold coins now."
The man at the bar laughed and slammed his drink.
"They say she slaughtered the guards like a beast, then vanished into thin air. Hah! I'd marry a devil for ten thousand golds!"
Ellijah didn't flinch. Didn't move. Just sipped his drink.
But inside—his blood boiled.
Ten thousand gold for his head.
It wasn't just survival anymore.
It was war.
So that no suspicion would fall on him, Ellijah joined in with the bravado, throwing his arms up and exclaiming loud enough for half the bar to hear,
"Ah, if only I had the strength to hunt that monster! Ten thousand gold? I'd be rolling in it! I'd treat you lot to a feast fit for the king himself!"
The bar erupted in cheers and clinking mugs.
"I like this guy!" one man slurred, slapping Ellijah's back hard enough to knock the breath out of him.
"You're a real man, not like those stuck-up cowards hiding behind their curtains!" another shouted, raising his cup.
Ellijah just grinned, laughing with them, careful not to overplay his part.
But in the middle of the drunken praise and booming laughter, something caught his attention — something still. Too still.
At the far end of the room, a young man with a head of striking red hair had been slumped over the table for what felt like hours. His drink untouched. His fingers curled loosely around the base of his cup. Nobody else seemed to notice. Or maybe nobody dared.
A strange tension coiled in Ellijah's stomach. That man — he was waiting for someone. Or worse… he might have been waiting for him.
He made his way over with calm, cautious steps, his disguise still firm. When he reached the table, he tapped it once with his knuckle and leaned down, feigning a naive concern.
"Excuse me, sir," he said with a half-grin, tilting his head, "are you dead? Or just bored to death?"
The man stirred slightly, a lazy groan escaping his lips before he blinked slowly up at Ellijah. His crimson hair tumbled over his forehead like a flicker of flame in the dim bar light.
"...Who the hell—" His voice was rough with sleep. But as his gaze adjusted and met Ellijah's, something in his expression shifted. Not recognition, not exactly. But a strange pause.
"Sorry, I thought you might've been dead. Or worse, ignoring me," Ellijah said with a light, awkward chuckle.
The man gave a dry snort. "Not dead. Just... wasting time." He sat up straighter, running a hand down his face before glancing around. "You look like you don't belong here."
"So do you."
They locked eyes for a second, both reading into the other's words. Then the man gave a bitter smile.
"Name's Oswald," he said at last, offering a hand. "Former knight of the capital. Now just a drunk idiot looking for a ghost."
Ellijah took the hand, gripping it with enough restraint not to give himself away. "Ellijah Harvert. Gardener. Wanderer. Occasional drunk idiot, I suppose."
Oswald's eyes darkened with memory. "I'm searching for someone," he said after a beat, as if it weighed down his chest just to admit it. "She was... my best friend. A lady from the palace. Ramona."
Ellijah's heart almost stopped.
"Oh? The criminal?" he said, keeping his tone light and casual. "Everyone's talking about her. What makes you think she didn't do it?"
"I know she didn't," Oswald said sharply, eyes blazing. "She wouldn't. Couldn't. She's not like that. Something's wrong, and I'm going to prove it. Even if the whole realm wants her head."
He slammed his empty mug onto the table. "I owe her my life."
Ellijah's lips curled into a wry smile. "That's quite a devotion for a criminal."
"She was a hero before she was a 'criminal.' Funny how fast the world forgets."
The bar crowd roared with laughter behind them, but the two stayed in their quiet bubble of tension and unspoken truths.
"So... what will you do if you find her?" Ellijah asked.
Oswald's response was quiet, solemn: "Protect her. Even if she doesn't want me to."
Ellijah settled into the seat across from Oswald, brushing dust from his tattered sleeve. "So, what was she like? This Ramona you're chasing?"
Oswald's eyes softened at the question. "Smart. Stubborn. Had this fire in her — the kind that made people either fear her or follow her. She hated injustice more than anything. Always got herself in trouble standing up for someone else."
Ellijah listened silently, the corner of his mouth twitching with an emotion he couldn't quite name.
"She also had this look in her eyes," Oswald added, "like she carried the whole world in her head. People adored her for it, or envied her. But deep down, she just wanted to be free."
Ellijah tilted his head. "Sounds like she was a handful."
Oswald smiled faintly, gaze locked onto Ellijah's face. "She still is."
A long pause passed between them. Ellijah's fingers tightened slightly on the rim of the glass.
"I take it you've been to the palace before?" Oswald asked, too casually.
"Maybe," Ellijah replied with a shrug. "Passed by once. Place stinks of perfume and pretense."
Oswald gave a low chuckle, but didn't break eye contact. "You've got her eyes, you know."
That caught Ellijah off guard for a split second — froze in disbelief of what he just heard. But he quickly leaned back with a smirk. "You flirt with every stranger you meet in bars?"
"Only the dangerous ones," Oswald said quietly.
Another silence. Deeper. A little heavier.
But then, Oswald looked away first, picking up his mug and taking a sip of nothing. "Well, if you ever hear anything about her, let me know. I have a feeling she's not gone. Just hiding. Somewhere close."
Ellijah nodded. "Yeah. I think she's watching her back... and choosing who to trust."
The two of them sat in a quiet understanding, unspoken but certain. Neither of them said the truth — but they both knew it. And for now, that was enough.
At first, he didn't recognize her.
Not really.
The man who called himself Ellijah Harvert was nothing like the noble girl Oswald had known — the girl who used to walk like the floor belonged to her, who wore silence like a weapon sharper than any blade.
But something… clung to him.
It wasn't just the way Ellijah stirred his drink absentmindedly — Ramona used to do that when she was thinking too hard and didn't want anyone to know.
Or the way his eyes scanned the room in half-second intervals, already mapping escape routes. Or how his voice dipped low when speaking of injustice, as if he still believed in justice.
That laugh though…
Rougher now, jaded and hoarse, but still edged with the same bitter amusement.
Oswald stared too long.
Ellijah noticed. "What?"
"Nothing," Oswald lied, raising his glass. "You just remind me of someone."
"Oh yeah?" Ellijah leaned back, cocky and careless, eyes half-lidded like a man who'd seen too much and dared you to ask. "Someone handsome, I hope?"
Oswald chuckled lightly, but it didn't reach his eyes.
He wanted to say You're not her. And yet… I think you are.
He didn't say it. Not yet. Not until he was sure.
Not until he found the right words to ask: Why are you pretending to be dead?
And deep down, he feared the answer.
Because this wasn't the same Ramona.
This was someone forged in fire. Someone who had crawled out of the grave with knives for bones and secrets in her breath.
So Oswald waited.
He waited, quietly watching, letting her keep her mask.
Because maybe, just maybe, she needed someone to see through it — and still stay.
As the laughter faded and the last few drunks began to slump against tables, Oswald rose from his seat with a quiet sigh. He rolled his shoulders, shot a glance at the barkeep, then turned toward Ellijah — who sat cross-legged on a creaky stool, twirling a spoon in his soup as if it were some grand performance.
"You got a place to sleep tonight?" Oswald asked, voice steady and casual.
Ellijah looked up with a grin that stretched too wide to be purely polite. "Why, that's such a generous offer, Mr. Knight!" he beamed, his teeth practically sparkling in the dim candlelight. "A warm bed sounds divine compared to another night dancing with alley rats."
Oswald blinked. That smile... too familiar. It hit like déjà vu, tangled in fog and memory.
"Well then," he said slowly, "lucky for you I've got an extra bed. Quiet place, solid lock, and no one looking for trouble."
Ellijah slid off the stool with a dramatic stretch, voice softening to something almost genuine. "Then lead the way, kind sir. I won't bite — unless you snore."
Oswald chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he led them through Rotein's winding streets. He didn't press for answers. He didn't need to.
The air between them felt thick, charged with unspoken words and the weight of years apart. Oswald, still holding her tightly, seemed to tremble as if the mere touch of Ramona — the real Ramona, not this disheveled stranger in disguise — was all it took to unravel him.
Ellijah, still stiff from the embrace, pushed him back gently, his eyes narrowing as she gave a pointed glance around the room.
"Aight, let's get to the point," she muttered, her tone suddenly sharper. She stood up, pacing the small room, her fingers still clenched tightly to the fabric of her disguise.
Oswald pulled away, blinking in confusion. "What are you talking about? You—"
Ramona sighed and threw a glance at the door, checking again to make sure no one was outside listening, then squatted down, pulling at the hem of her jacket. "I thought you weren't lying about the extra beds. It's fine. I'll sleep on the floor if you don't want to share."
She said it flatly, eyes not meeting his, as though testing the waters for his reaction.
Oswald froze, a knot in his chest. "What's going on, Ellijah?"
She straightened up and locked eyes with him. "...I thought you'd realize, it's me. Ramona. I wore makeup to disguise myself. I believe you're not chasing me because you want to bring me to trial, no?"
For a long moment, Oswald just stared at her, blinking rapidly as he tried to process everything. His brain was still trying to catch up to the reality of the situation. He'd spent years hoping to find her, praying she was alive, and now she was here, right in front of him, disguised as a commoner. The fact that she'd changed so much, from the proud noblewoman to this, made his heart ache.
"Wait," he muttered, eyes widening. "Ramona...?" His voice cracked. "How—how can it be?"
She scoffed and crossed her arms. "How do you think? It's me, and I know what you're really after. You didn't come here to turn me in. You're not here to make me stand trial, so what's really going on, Oswald?"
Oswald stood frozen, lost in his confusion, his mind racing with all the impossible questions he couldn't answer. Then, as if something clicked in his chest, he stepped forward, his hand reaching out before he pulled her into another hug, this time tighter than before.
The tears he had held back for so long finally spilled over, his grip strong but trembling as he murmured, "I know it's you. I knew it was you all along! I've been praying for your safety... for your well-being every single day. I've always been hoping we'd meet again... that we could go through this together..."
Ramona's breath caught as she tried to push him away, but his arms were like iron around her. "Oswald..." she whispered, a pang of guilt in her chest. She knew what this must've felt like to him. "Stop yelling, you idiot! What if someone hears us?" she hissed, her tone sharp but filled with concern.
Oswald's face crumpled as he pulled back just enough to wipe his eyes. "You're alive. That's... that's all that matters right now. I've thought I lost you. I thought the world had taken you from me."
Ramona bit her lip, staring at the floor as she steadied her breath. "I'm not the person you knew. I've changed. I've… regained something that's beyond you or me. Tenibris awakened in me. The power is stronger now, and it's making me stronger, too. But it doesn't change what happened to me. The accusations, the betrayal... everything that's been twisted."
Oswald blinked. "Tenibris... That's what's been changing you? But you're still you. You're Ramona."
She shook her head, a soft laugh escaping her lips. "Not anymore. I'm not that same noble woman. I've seen too much. And I'm not about to let the world forget what happened to me. I need to uncover the truth. The ones who betrayed me… the ones who are after me... I have to know why. What happened to me—why I became the target." She gritted her teeth, a fierce determination in her eyes. "And I will make them pay for it."
Oswald's hands gripped her shoulders, his face serious, but there was a fire in his eyes, too. "We'll do it together. I don't care what it takes. We'll take them down, one by one. Just... just don't push me away, okay? I'm here for you, Ramona. I always will be."
Ramona met his gaze. Her expression didn't soften — it sharpened.
"I'm not going to say 'yes' just because you're crying," she said flatly, stepping away from him. "This isn't a fairy tale reunion, Oswald. If we're doing this, we're doing it my way. I need your help. But that doesn't mean we'll be sticking together the whole time."
Oswald blinked, caught off guard. "Huh?"
Ramona rolled her eyes, already turning to examine a rolled-up map tucked behind a dusty shelf. "We're splitting up. Different directions. It's been three months since I disappeared. We don't have time to waste."
She turned back to him sharply, hands on her hips. "So? After I vanished—what've you found? Any progress? Leads?"
He straightened up as if about to give a re
port, proud even. "Well… I've been going city to city, asking people—'Have you seen Ramona?' I describe you in detail. Hair, face, attitude. You know, all of it. Like a lunatic sometimes, but—"
"You—what?" Ramona's eye twitched. "You what?"
"I—uh—just asked around?"
Ramona stared at him in stunned silence. Then slowly, she covered her face with both hands and groaned into her palms. "Gods, forgive me for forgetting how stupid Oswald can be sometimes…"
"H-Hey—!"
She dropped her hands and turned serious. "Let's get back to the point. Here's the list of accusations leveled against me. Memorize them. I need you to stop being an emotional idiot and start using that knight brain of yours."
She cleared her throat and listed them off with chilling clarity:
"One. Embezzlement of health and education funds.
Two. Conducting prohibited experiments on humans.
Three. Illegal gambling dens, prostitution rings, and human trafficking.
Four. Exploitation of workers and destruction of nature.
Five. Distribution of illegal drugs."
She crossed her arms. "You got any ideas where those operations are actually happening?"
Oswald opened his mouth. Closed it. Thought. "Uhhh… no. But I can ask my father? He might know something. I'd have to go home first—"
"Aight," she interrupted, already grabbing her bag. "Since you're too dumb to go full covert, don't make it obvious that you're helping me. You can handle that much, right?"
"...I think?"
"I'll go to the city library," she continued, "dig up anything on the day of my execution. Cross-reference guards, witnesses, legal reports—anything I can find. You get anything useful from your father, good. We'll meet back here."
"When?"
"In five days. Exactly this room," she said, pointing to the floor with a hard jab. "Not another lodge. Not another bed. Not another town. Here. Five days."
Oswald gave a small nod, still overwhelmed but obedient.
"And bring food," she added.
He blinked. "Food?"
"I'm not skipping dinner just to hear you cry again."
He laughed nervously. "Right. Of course."
The night grew deeper, and after their conversation faded into silence, Oswald rubbed the back of his neck, glancing at the single bed in the corner.
"I… I can sleep on the floor if you want. Or maybe I can ask the innkeeper for a—"
Ramona already kicked off her boots and threw herself onto the bed with zero grace. "Don't be weird. Just get in."
Oswald froze.
She looked over her shoulder, half-lidded eyes already drooping from exhaustion. "You're not thinking something nasty are you?"
"I—I wasn't—!"
She pulled the blanket over her body and patted the empty space beside her. "Don't be dramatic. Sleep. We're burning daylight already."
Oswald, still stiff, lay beside her like a soldier on duty, staring up at the ceiling with wide eyes.
She noticed.
"You're so tense," Ramona murmured, her tone amused. "I didn't take you for the type to go rigid over sharing a bed."
"I'm not tense," he replied, much too quickly.
She smirked, then said in a casual tone, "I've slept with a couple of men before, you know."
Oswald choked on his own breath.
"I meant my brothers, calm down," she added, her grin stretching in the dark.
"…Right."
They both fell quiet, the silence stretching like a held breath. But then, as though something had been gnawing at his heart this whole time, Oswald finally spoke.
"Speaking of wich do you know why you can untie the rope easily?"
She blinked, rolling over slightly to face him. "Why?"
"I was the one… I was the onein charged to take you to the trial" His voice was low, almost ashamed. "They told me to keep it formal. No talking. No eye contact. No hesitating."
Her breath hitched, but she said nothing, waiting.
"I didn't know if I could trust the plan. I didn't know if there was any plan. But I—" He hesitated. "I loosened the ties on your wrists. Just enough. I hoped you'd notice. That you'd take it as a sign."
Ramona stared at him, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Her lips parted slightly, then slowly curled upward.
"…So it was you," she whispered.
"I couldn't let them do it. Not to you. Even if I couldn't stop it entirely, I had to do something."
"I thought my strength was coming back because of my old power," she murmured. "But that loosened tie… gave me a chance to fight back. If you hadn't done that, I wouldn't be here."
A pause passed between them. Quiet, but full.
"…Thank you," she said softly.
Oswald turned his head toward her, his expression caught between relief and vulnerability. "I didn't say it then, but I'm saying it now—I never stopped believing in you."
They didn't say anything else that night. But as Ramona's eyes slowly drifted shut, and Oswald laid still beside her, both could feel the air had shifted — not with the tension of awkwardness, but with the weight of a bond reforged under the veil of truth.
He wasn't sure if he was still breathing — not because of embarrassment, but because he had finally, truly exhaled.
Oswald turned his head toward her, his expression caught between relief and vulnerability. "I didn't say it then, but I'm saying it now—I never stopped believing in you."
They didn't say anything else that night. But as Ramona's eyes slowly drifted shut, and Oswald laid still beside her, both could feel the air had shifted — not with the tension of awkwardness, but with the weight of a bond reforged under the veil of truth.
He wasn't sure if he was still breathing — not because of embarrassment, but because he had finally, truly exhaled.
And before his mind could spiral any further, exhaustion finally pulled him under too.
But neither of them saw the shadow that lingered outside the window, barely visible under the moonlight — a dark silhouette that stood still… then vanished into the wind.