The morning sun stretched lazily across the rooftops of Rotein City, casting golden threads over its weathered stone walls. The air was crisp, soft with the scent of warm bread and dew-soaked leaves. Ramona Ellett Rhostein jogged through the quieter paths of the outskirts, her breaths steady, her pace unwavering.
She wore a sleek, dark tracksuit — a strange sight in this era. It hugged her figure elegantly, stitched together from "old rags" and military surplus scraps she'd tailored herself. Its modern cut revealed just enough to turn heads — exactly as she planned. The material clung to her movement like silk molded for a blade. Her enemies would notice. And if she was lucky, the dumb ones would come to her.
"Come find me, rats," she whispered to the wind, her smirk cutting through the cool morning air.
She had always hated jogging back then — when she was a noble lady with too many eyes on her and too little freedom. But now, with every beat of her heart, she could feel the new power growing in her body. Her stamina, reflexes — all blooming like dormant seeds awakened by fire.
Her mind, however, never stopped running either.
A communication device, she mused. Something portable, crystal-based, able to connect from city to city. They're still writing letters and lighting gas lamps. Tch. At this rate, I'll make a cellphone before they discover steam power. And a motorbike after that, why not? Would be a pain in the ass, but fun.
After her run, Ramona met up with Cynthia in the market square. She helped carry groceries with a modest smile and subtle pride. It was nice — pretending to be ordinary. Until someone ruined it.
"Oi, what a piece of—" a man whispered behind her.
A hand groped her backside.
Ramona stopped. Her breath did not quicken. Her heart did not skip. But her rage — her rage spiraled.
She turned slowly. One punch. Just one, clean strike to the gut. The man flew backward, crashing into a vendor's stall with an explosion of apples and splinters.
The square fell dead silent.
Ramona walked toward the man calmly, expression blank. She knelt, grabbed him by the collar, and yanked him close to her face.
"That was a very stupid thing to do. Do you know that?" Her voice was like steel wrapped in silk.
The man trembled. "Y-yes, m-ma'am…"
"Do you understand what you did just now?"
"I—I'm sorry! With that buttocks I think everyone would want to—"
SLAP.
A crack echoed across the square. Ramona didn't blink.
"Is that how you apologize?"
"I AM SO SORRY PLEASE FORGIVE ME!"
"Don't ever do that again. To anyone. No matter how they dress."
"UNDERSTOOD! NEVER! AGAIN!"
She stood, brushed off her palms, then sighed. All eyes were on her now. Judgmental, scared, some even admiring. She hated the silence, the muttering. She didn't hate being seen — but the wrong kind of spotlight was always a headache.
"Ugh. I screwed up again."
A voice squeaked from behind her. "My lady!"
Ramona turned.
Cynthia came rushing with wild eyes, holding grocery bags in one hand and panic in the other. "My goodness, my lady! What were you doing?! Are you hurt?! You shouldn't dress like this!"
Ramona pressed her fingers to her temple. "Cynthia… I am fine."
"But my lady—your clothes! People are staring!"
"Exactly. I wanted them to stare. But now I regret it."
Cynthia whimpered. "Let's just go home…"
"I already bought the groceries," Ramona sighed. "I'll cook for you."
Cynthia gasped. "N-No! It must be me who cooks for you!"
"Fine," Ramona groaned, waving her hand. "I just hope you understand my taste buds."
They walked back together, one fuming in silence, the other fretting beside her. A queen in exile and her ever-loyal maid — quietly plotting the birth of a new era.
ack at Cynthia's apartment, the scent of caramelized onions and seared herbs danced in the air. Ramona, now freshly bathed and wrapped in one of Cynthia's borrowed linen robes, sat at the little wooden table. The meal before her was humble — stewed vegetables with wild grain bread and a drizzle of golden oil — but the flavors were warm and comforting.
"You're surprisingly good at cooking," Ramona murmured as she finished her plate, tapping the spoon against her lips thoughtfully.
"I've had practice," Cynthia said, beaming with pride. "My brother… he taught me some recipes. Before he—"
She paused, tone quieting. "Disappeared."
Ramona didn't pry. Silence settled like soft dust, not heavy, not painful. Just real.
Then came the knock.
A soft, practiced rhythm — not frantic, not polite either. Just… sure.
Cynthia blinked. "Were you expecting someone?"
"No," Ramona said flatly.
When the door opened, a gust of wind swept in like the opening act of a royal play.
There, standing with a smile that could rival painted saints, was a young man of striking presence. He wore a white and gold suit embroidered with silk thread, a deep crimson cloak flowing behind him like spilled wine. His hair gleamed like a tamed flame, thick and golden, and his eyes — those haunting dark ruby eyes — shimmered with noble arrogance and curiosity.
"Lady Ramona Ellett Rhostein," he said with elegance. "I am Prince Arthur Adlerthron of the Golden Adler Kingdom. It's an honor to meet you in person."
Cynthia dropped the empty plate she was drying.
Ramona sat still.
"I've come to ask for your hand in marriage," the prince continued, ever smiling. "This very moment, if possible."
Ramona blinked.
She blinked again.
"I… I beg your pardon?" she muttered, rubbing her temple. "Did I get hit on the head earlier…?"
The prince chuckled. "I understand this might be sudden—"
"No, no, you misunderstand," she interrupted, standing up slowly. "I meant, did you get hit on the head?"
She yawned, stretching her arms casually. "Denied. Also, do you think I even have the power to say no to something like this?"
Her voice was drowsy, as if she were bored more than confused. She walked to Cynthia and leaned on her shoulder like a tired cat.
"What's the point of saying all this?" Ramona asked, waving lazily. "I assume you're here because of the mess this morning? My punch made it into the gossip pages already?"
The prince's grin never faded. "That, and more."
"Thought so. Anyway, Your Majesty, don't you need to marry a noble lady? I'm not one. Not anymore."
"You're not just a commoner now," Arthur said, stepping inside without permission, "but also a criminal."
Both Ramona and Cynthia froze.
"And you're right," he continued, walking toward her. "I should just ta—"
He didn't finish.
In the blink of an eye, a shimmer of golden light swallowed the room. Arthur reached forward — too slow.
Ramona had just turned toward the window again, ready to toss one last sarcastic remark over her shoulder — but she never got the chance.
A sudden pull at her wrist. A firm grip.
Before she could react, her back hit the nearby wall with a soft thud — not harsh, but assertive. Arthur stood before her, a little too close. One arm braced beside her head, the other gently letting go of her wrist as if to say I could've held tighter, but I chose not to.
Her body tensed, but her mind faltered the moment their eyes locked.
Those dark ruby eyes—piercing, deep, glowing like coals left in the hearth of a royal bloodline—held her still. They weren't threatening. They were… searching. As if trying to memorize her soul, to read every guarded wall she'd built over years of betrayal and pain.
Ramona's breath caught in her throat.
Too close.
His scent was warmth and wild herbs, like fire and garden after rain. His cloak brushed her hip, the golden embroidery gleaming in the low light. His presence soaked the space around her like smoke—inescapable.
She wanted to say something sharp. Anything. But her mouth didn't move.
Her heart betrayed her first—thumping like war drums against her ribs. She hoped he couldn't hear it.
Arthur tilted his head, just a fraction. "You're scared," he murmured, not as an insult… more like an observation.
Ramona's pride flared. "Of you?" she breathed out, softer than she meant. "Don't flatter yourself."
He leaned in slightly, enough to brush a whisper past her cheek."Then why do you look like you're about to run… when your feet won't move?"
She blinked.
He was right. She couldn't move.
Her mind screamed at her to think, to get a grip, to say something clever—but all she could feel was the overwhelming heat where their bodies didn't touch, and the devastating stillness between heartbeats.
Arthur smiled again—but this time, it was gentler. "You're more than what they fear. And I see that."
Ramona swallowed hard, regaining a sliver of control. She pushed a hand against his chest—not roughly, but enough to say I need space.
"I don't know what game you're playing," she said quietly, still catching her breath. "But I don't lose."
Arthur backed off slowly, respectfully, the moment passed—but the tension lingered like perfume.
"No games, Ramona," he said. "Only truth. And choices."
Ramona exhaled, her breath finally catching up with her heartbeat. Her voice came out steady, cool — the kind that stung worse than any scream.
"Next time you get that close," she said, adjusting the collar of his cloak with just two fingers, "be sure you're ready to bleed."
Arthur raised a brow, not in fear — but in admiration.
Ramona didn't wait for his reply. She turned on her heel, walking past him like a storm in silk, head held high, back unyielding. The silence she left behind was louder than any refusal.
And just like that, the hunter looked stunned… and maybe, a little hunted.