Amelia stood at the threshold of Ebonvale, a place whose very soil seemed to drink the dusk and breathe out a pall of cold fog.
The air carried a metallic scent, as though the wind itself had scraped against rusted iron before reaching her. Her cloak, dark as a raven's wing, fluttered against her boots, and the porcelain mask she wore hid the flicker of uncertainty that pulled at the corners of her mouth.
Earlier that morning, she had been granted permission to leave the Vorlachev Manor—though permission was a generous word for the exchange. She had fed the manor's Head a carefully woven lie, a tale of a dying mother whose name she invented on the spot, whose imagined illness she described with trembling detail.
The Head, stern but not unkind, had eventually nodded and dismissed her with a wave of his hand. It was the first victory she had tasted.
Now, alone and unanchored, Amelia scoured the outskirts of Ebonvale for a place to stay the night. Buildings leaned drunkenly toward one another like old men whispering secrets, their timbers blackened by age and storm.
Finally, she found a house broad enough to call itself an inn—though its creaking sign, scrawled with fading letters, looked ready to fall off its hinges.
She pushed the door open.
Inside, a bald man slept in a reclining chair, his legs crossed upon the table as though he had claimed dominion over the entire establishment. His snores rose and fell with an almost impressive consistency. Amelia approached quietly, tapping twice on the table. Not even a twitch.
She exhaled sharply.
Very well, she thought. Let us attempt a more theatrical method.
Drawing a deep breath, she let out a piercing shriek.
"RAAATS! A SWARM OF THEM—CROSSING THE FLOOR!"
The man leapt from his chair with astonishing vigor, nearly knocking himself over as he grabbed a broom from the corner.
"What? Where? Show me—WHERE ARE THEY!?"
Amelia folded her hands politely. "Ah. It appears they have… retreated."
The man blinked, confused, but too groggy to question her further. She cleared her throat.
"I seek lodging. Is there a room available?"
He scratched his chin, still peering about suspiciously for invisible rats. "Aye. Ninth room. Pay first."
She handed him her coins, relieved she still had enough to cover a night.
---
The Ninth Room was small and dim, lit only by the dying glow of a single lantern. Dust motes spun lazily in the stale air. Amelia sat on the edge of the bed, her chin resting against her clasped hands, deep in contemplation. Through cracks in the wooden shutters, moonlight trickled in like water flowing between stones.
She had not come to Ebonvale for rest.
Her mind had only one destination: the Old Market Ruins.
Rumors whispered that beggars gathered there before dawn, exchanging scraps of knowledge for scraps of bread. And Amelia, desperate for answers about the Vorlachev family—especially the mysterious dead wife whose face mirrored her own—had no choice but to descend into that underworld of hunger and secrets.
---
The Old Market Ruins lay like the skeleton of a forgotten era. Crumbled stalls stretched out in uneven rows, the ground littered with shattered pottery and remnants of bygone commerce. Amelia disguised herself as a beggar, smearing dirt across her cheeks, matting her hair beneath her hood, her cloak torn deliberately at the hem.
She walked slowly, shoulders slumped, the gait of someone who had carried defeat for years rather than hours.
A sudden force crashed into her.
A boy—no older than fifteen—had collided with her and stumbled back. His eyes were bright despite the filth smudged beneath them, and his clothes clung loosely to his thin frame.
"I—I'm sorry!" he muttered, looking startled.
Amelia brushed off her sleeve. "Watch your steps."
He nodded quickly, retreating with exaggerated innocence. Yet even as he walked away, Amelia felt the faint tug at her waist—the subtle disappearance of weight.
She sighed.
Pickpockets never change, no matter the world.
The boy rounded a corner, believing himself unseen, then broke into a run. He slipped behind a half-collapsed wall where no passerby ventured. His breath came fast as he opened the pouch he had stolen from her, his eyes glimmering with anticipation.
Only five coins.
He scowled, disappointment twisting his young features.
Before he could curse his misfortune, a vast shadow draped over him. Slowly, he lifted his gaze—and froze.
Amelia stood before him, arms crossed, her expression serenely unforgiving.
"You dropped something of mine," she said with a soft smile. Then she struck him lightly on the head with the back of her knuckles.
"Ow!" He rubbed his scalp indignantly.
"Speak. Why steal from me?"
The boy's bravado vanished. His shoulders slumped as though the weight of his misery suddenly became too heavy.
"I'm hungry," he confessed. " and my mother is sick… my sister too. I just—I needed something to take home."
Amelia stared at him, her sternness faltering. His voice carried the rawness of truth, the kind only desperation could shape.
"Return my coins," she said quietly, "and I will consider accepting your apology."
The boy pouted, torn between guilt and survival. "B-but… my family…"
She sighed. "Then compensate me with something else. Information. If you can provide anything of use, I'll forgive you."
At once, his eyes brightened, as though she had handed him a lifeline.
"I know everything about this place!" he exclaimed, raising his hand as though answering a schoolmaster's question.
Amelia arched an eyebrow. "Everything? Then tell me where I might gain information."
"Phone," he replied confidently.
She blinked, bewildered. "I do not own a phone. I barely possess coins, and I have found nothing in my own research."
The boy grinned, puffing his chest slightly. "Then I know someone. My lolo."
"Your lolo?" Amelia repeated, half confused, half intrigued.
"Yes! He knows everything—about people, secrets, strange things happening in the world. Even before others hear it."
Amelia weighed his words, then nodded. "Guide me."
Together they navigated a crooked path through the ruins, up a narrow side street where fog pooled like spilled milk. The boy, now more lively, hopped over stones and debris, occasionally glancing back to ensure she was still behind him.
Along the way, he began to chatter—unprompted.
"You know, you don't walk like the others here," he said bluntly. "Most beggars drag their feet, like the ground's eating them. But you… you walk like someone who's been trained to move fast. Someone who knows where their enemies are."
Amelia stiffened. "And what makes you think I have enemies?"
He shrugged. "Everyone has enemies. Some just hide theirs better."
Despite herself, she smiled at the child's strange, intuitive wisdom.
Soon they arrived at a small wooden house wedged between two crooked stone structures. Smoke curled softly from its chimney. The boy marched forward and swung the door open without knocking.
"LOLO!"
A rough voice answered from within. "What is it, Choli?"
Choli pointed proudly at Amelia. "I brought a visitor!"
The old man turned, his gaze sharp despite his age. The moment his eyes fell upon Amelia, they narrowed—not in suspicion, but in curiosity laden with recognition of something she had tried hard to hide.
"Choli," the old man said, voice firm, "buy us something to eat."
"Right away!" the boy chirped, rushing out the door.
Amelia remained standing, uncertain.
The old man never looked away from her. "Sit."
She obeyed.
He poured tea from a chipped kettle, placing a cup before her. His hands, though wrinkled, trembled with neither fear nor weakness. The room smelled of aged books, dried herbs, and memories.
"You wear the dirt of a beggar," he said calmly, "but you carry yourself like someone far from broken. Why hide behind scraps?"
Amelia stiffened. How could he see through her so easily?
"What have you come here seeking?" he asked, eyes unblinking.
She lifted the cup and drank, grateful for the moment to steady herself.
"I wish to learn about the Vorlachev family," she said, placing the cup down.
Amelia drew a slow breath. "Specifically… his late wife. I believe her story was never fully told."
The old man's eyebrows rose. "Ah. The one whose name the world is forbidden to speak."
Amelia nodded. "The technologies, the archives—everything is sealed. No 9information remains."
The old man slowly nodded. "I see."
He took a sip of his own tea, inhaled deeply, and seemed prepared to speak—when she interrupted him by pulling off her cloak and removing her mask entirely.
Her face was revealed.
And the old man's eyes widened with sheer disbelief.
"You…" he whispered. "You are her. The wife of the Vorlachev—the one believed dead. Are you a ghost? Or have you returned from the grave?"
Amelia let out a short laugh, though no joy accompanied it. "No. I am not her. I am a stranger who arrived in this world wearing her skin."
She explained everything—her past life within a syndicate, the betrayal that ended her first existence, and the sudden awakening in this new world as a maid in the Vorlachev Manor, where she discovered a portrait of a woman identical to her.
The old man listened silently, shock flickering across his face like lightning behind clouds.
"So," he murmured, "you awakened in the body of a woman whose fate was sealed—wife of a man feared across nations." He leaned closer. "The tyrant of the Eastern Regime.....and the secret overload of the Eastern Syndicate"
He lowered his voice, almost whisper. "His name was…"
He paused, then declared:
"Vargastion Drakov Vorlachev."
A name heavy enough to silence even the wind.
"And he," the old man continued, "was not merely a ruler. The Eastern Syndicate was only one branch of his reach — he and his kin commanded networks of syndicates that crossed borders, weaving shadow and power alike into their hands."
Amelia felt the world tilt faintly.
This was only the beginning.
The lanternlight trembled across the old man's face, sharpening every line of sorrow etched into his features. Amelia sat motionless, the hush of the room wrapping around her like a slow-closing hand. She had come seeking truth—but the truth that now hovered in his eyes seemed heavier than any lie she had ever known.
"Child," he murmured, voice roughened by years he never spoke of, "you have been told many things. But you have never been told the right ones."
Amelia's brow knit gently. "Then tell me."
The old man inhaled, as though drawing dust from an ancient grave.
"Vargastion Drakov Vorlachev," he began, each syllable trembling with old fear, "did not erase his wife because he despised her. No… if anything, he loved her too much."
The air thickened.
Amelia leaned in.
"She was the light in that iron household," he whispered. "Soft where he was stone. Warm where he was winter. Even his sons—yes, those cold-tempered heirs—melted beneath her gaze. She was the spine of their world."
A pause.
A long, aching pause.
"And when she died," he said quietly, "their world broke."
Amelia felt her pulse shiver in her throat.
"But why erase her?" she asked. "Why bury even the memory of her?"
The old man closed his eyes.
"Because her memory hurt more than her absence. Because to speak her name was to bleed. And Vargastion…" His voice lowered to a barely audible rasp. "He is a man who refuses to bleed where anyone can see."
The truth settled like falling ash.
"But you said they despised someone," Amelia whispered. "Then who—liora?"
His gaze snapped open—old, sharp, tragic.
"Liora."
The single word struck the room with the quiet force of a slammed door.
Amelia's breath hitched.
"Liora? But she—why would—"
"She was born," he said, "on the very night her mother died."
His hands clenched on the wooden table, knuckles pale with old pain.
"They looked at her and saw not a child—but the moment they lost everything. The sons, blinded by grief, shaped their sorrow into hatred. And Vargastion…" The old man exhaled, weary. "He could not bear to look at her face. It was too much like the woman he lost."
The lanternlight flickered—gold on tears that never fell.
"So the child was sent away," he continued. "Not for wrongdoing. Not for sin. But because she lived."
Amelia's heart tightened painfully.
"And the mother?" she asked softly.
The old man's voice fell to a reverent hush.
"Her name…" he whispered, "…is the secret this nation fears to utter."
He leaned back, shadows swallowing the rest of him.
"Remember this: They never hated the woman.
They only hated the wound her death left behind.
And the wound… was Liora."
Amelia bowed her head, the truth spiraling through her mind like a storm.
So that is the life Liora carries…
A life born on the night, a world lost its angel.
And outside, night deepened—quiet, merciless, listening.
The old man's voice turned to gravel, rough and low, as though something unseen tightened around his throat. The lanternlight dimmed, flickering like a candle protesting the darkness pressing against the walls.
"There is… another matter," he breathed. "One I had hoped never to speak of."
Amelia felt the room grow colder. "What matter?"
"A gathering," he said. "A parties—at least, that is what they dare to call it. It is to be held at the Baranovich Banquet Hall tomorrow night."
A strange, uneasy pulse slipped through Amelia's chest.
"A… parties?" she murmured.
"Yes," the old man hissed. "A grand one. Lavish. Merciless. And Liora is to be there."
His breath rattled out. "She has been summoned."
Amelia's eyes widened.
Summoned.
Not invited. Not welcomed.
Forced.
In her mind, something clicked like a lock she hadn't noticed before.
No wonder Ekatarina visited her, Amelia thought, dread curdling in her stomach.
Perhaps the message was about this event... About what waits for Liora in those walls.
The old man watched her silently, as if he could hear her very thoughts shifting in the dark.
He continued, slower now, each word dripping like cold rain.
"You may think it a simple gathering. But no. In that court, nothing is ever simple. And with Liora…"
His gaze hardened.
"…there is always danger."
Amelia swallowed. "Danger? Why her?"
"I told you earlier, because she was born," he whispered. "Born on the night her mother died. The night the brightest soul in the Vorlachev lineage was snuffed out so another could draw breath."
He leaned closer.
"They blame her. They have always blamed her."
Outside, something creaked—perhaps the wind, perhaps the house itself shrinking from the truth.
"No one there loves her," he said. "No one will protect her. Not even the blood that should call her family."
His words sank like knives.
"There is a possibility," he said, voice barely audible now, "that the party… may be the last night she walks among the living."
Amelia's breath stilled, her fingers clutching her skirt.
The old man's eyes glistened with a grief sharp enough to bleed.
"That child," he whispered, "owns nothing in that vast, merciless palace except a single portrait."
His face twisted—not in anger, but in sorrow too old to bear.
"A portrait of her mother."
The mother whose name the world was not allowed to speak.
The mother whose death had cursed her daughter's existence.
The mother whose face Liora traced with trembling fingers in the dead of night, seeking warmth where none remained.
The old man stared at Amelia.
And something shifted in his gaze—recognition, horror, and a strange, dark acceptance.
His next words fell like a stone into a grave.
"So…" he breathed, voice cracking,
"…it was you."
The lantern flickered violently, as if recoiling from the meaning in his words.
Amelia's heart froze.
Me? she thought.
What… what does he know?
But the old man only closed his eyes, as if he had finally accepted a truth that had been hunting him for years.
"It was you," he repeated. "The one she would meet. The one she would confide in… before the night claims her."
And outside, the night pressed closer—listening, waiting.
The old man's voice shook—not with fear of Amelia, but with the weight of the truth that clung to her like a second shadow.
His hands, gnarled and trembling, tightened around his teacup before he set it down with a soft, hollow click.
"You must save her," he said.
The words fell between them like a verdict.
Amelia stiffened. "Save… Liora?"
"Yes." His eyes, clouded with age yet sharpened by resolve, fixed upon her. "Even if you are not her mother… even if you are nothing more than a stranger wearing the stolen face of the dead—you must save her."
Amelia felt something cold and sharp twist in her chest.
"I'm not—"
"You are not her," the old man agreed, "but you wear her face. The same eyes. The same jaw. The same sorrow hidden in your breath."
His gaze traveled slowly across her uncovered features—the features she had shown him only moments earlier, not realizing the catastrophe they would ignite in his memory.
"You may not be the woman who died," he whispered, "but you carry her visage. And in a world as cruel as this one… that may be enough."
A gust of wind slammed against the wooden walls, rattling the floorboards as though the night itself protested the old man's words.
He leaned forward, his voice trembling with urgency.
"Liora walks into death tomorrow. Do you understand?"
His fingers tapped the table once—sharp, final.
"No one will shield her. No one will look for her. No one will weep if she falls."
Amelia's throat tightened.
"She has only one thing," the old man continued, "only one remnant of warmth in that frozen household—a portrait of the woman who bore her."
His eyes bore into Amelia.
"Your face."
The room seemed to constrict around her, shrinking until the walls breathed against her shoulders.
"But why me?" Amelia whispered. "Why should I be the one? I don't belong to this world. I didn't grow up with her. I owe nothing—"
"You owe nothing," he cut in sharply, "and yet… you owe everything."
Amelia stared at him, stunned.
The old man's voice softened—not with comfort, but with the gravity of truth.
"You awoke in the body, ended up a servant in the Vorlachev manor," he said. "You were drawn to that place. Drawn to that portrait. Drawn to that child."
His voice broke. "Do you think any of that is coincidence?"
He shook his head slowly.
"No soul crosses worlds without purpose."
Amelia's pulse hammered in her ears.
The old man's tone dropped lower—dark, prophetic.
"You may not be her mother… but fate has chosen the closest thing she has left. If Liora dies tomorrow, this nation will forget her as easily as they forgot the woman whose face you wear."
His fingers curled into the table.
"But if she lives…"
His eyes glimmered with an ancient, fragile hope.
"…then perhaps the cycle of their cruelty will break."
Silence stretched, thick and suffocating.
The lantern hissed as the flame struggled against the press of the dark.
Then the old man spoke once more—softly, but with the absolute weight of a command carved into destiny.
"Save her."
He swallowed, voice trembling.
"Even if the world believes you dead… even if they believe she is cursed… even if they never know your name."
His final words stabbed through the quiet.
"The child has no one except a portrait. And now—whether you wished it or not—she has you."