The obsidian doors of the private quarters hadn't even fully settled before Natasha was back in her room. The cheerful, clumsy facade she'd worn in the council chamber didn't drop—it simply refined into a focused energy. She moved through the space like a whirlwind, tossing essentials into a travel pack, though she still managed to nearly trip over the corner of her own bedframe.
"Focus, Tasha," she muttered to herself, shaking her head. "Big stakes. Big sister. Big trouble."
A heavy, rhythmic thud echoed against her door. It wasn't the polite rap of a page boy. It was the weight of authority.
The door creaked open, and King Ashveil stepped inside. The room felt smaller instantly, the air growing thick with the gravity of his presence. Natasha froze mid-motion, a pair of travel boots in her hand.
"Sire," she whispered. The playfulness vanished. She dropped to one knee, her head bowed low, the boots clattering softly to the floor.
Ashveil didn't tell her to rise. He stood over her for a long moment, a shadow cast by the dim magical sconces on the wall. Without a word, he reached into the breast of his regal tunic and pulled out a single, weathered photograph. He held it out.
Natasha took it with trembling fingers. The image was slightly blurred, as if the subject were too fast or too volatile for the camera to catch clearly. It depicted a man standing amidst a backdrop of blurred chaos. He didn't look like a knight or a king; he looked like an anomaly.
"I know this mission is impossible," Ashveil said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that seemed to vibrate in Natasha's chest. "But with him with you... it can be possible."
Ashveil turned his back to her, his cape sweeping the floor as he walked toward the exit. He stopped at the threshold, looking out into the hallway rather than at her.
"Go to the country of Rome," he commanded. "He would probably be there. And Natasha?"
She looked up, clutching the photo to her chest. "Yes, sire?"
"Make sure to be in his good books. Do not provoke him. Do not challenge him. Simply... survive him."
Natasha stared at the photo, trying to map the features of the man in the frame. There was a strange coldness radiating from the paper. "Who is he, sire? What kind of 'monster' is he?"
Ashveil turned his head just enough for her to see the grim set of his jaw and the flicker of something that looked dangerously like fear in the King's eyes.
"Someone so dangerous I can't even stand against," he said quietly. "Safe journey."
The door clicked shut, leaving Natasha alone in the silence. She looked back down at the man in the photo, the weight of the task ahead sinking in. If the Ghost was a storm, the man in this picture sounded like the end of the world.
The heavy obsidian gates of the palace groaned open, and Natasha stepped out into the world. She had traded her formal Black Pursuer uniform for something more practical, yet still distinctly her: a vibrant red shirt tucked into a pleated black skirt, paired with long, polished black boots that clicked against the cobblestones. With her travel bag slung over one shoulder, she looked less like a kingdom's hope and more like a high-spirited traveler—which was exactly how she preferred it.
The walk to the harbor was a sensory overload. The city was a sprawling maze of commerce and anxiety. At the marketplace, the air was thick with the smell of roasted spices, salted fish, and the metallic tang of machinery.
"Did you hear?" a merchant whispered to a customer, his hands trembling as he wrapped a loaf of bread. "They say the King of the Nai continent fell in a single night. Not an army—just one person."
"Quiet," the customer hissed, glancing around nervously. "The Black Pursuers are everywhere. You want to be hauled in for spreading Ghost rumors?"
Natasha wove through the crowds, a cheerful blur of red and black. She narrowly avoided colliding with a porter carrying a stack of wooden crates, executing a clumsy-looking stumble that somehow allowed her to glide right past him without losing her stride.
The harbor was a forest of masts and steam-pipes. Massive ironclad ships hissed as they vented pressure, preparing for the long trek across the Great Sea. Natasha boarded her vessel, navigating the deck where sailors hauled thick, salt-encrusted ropes and passengers murmured in hushed, fearful tones about the state of the continent.
She found a spot at the ship's edge, leaning against the cold metal railing. The vibration of the engine hummed through her boots as the harbor began to shrink in the distance. The spray of the sea caught the light, but her focus was inward.
She reached into her bag and pulled out the photograph Ashveil had given her. She traced the blurred silhouette of the man—the man the King feared.
"Grey Rosanate. Huh!"
She let out a small, sharp chuckle, the sound lost in the crashing of the waves against the hull. The playfulness in her expression didn't vanish, but it was anchored by a look of absolute, unwavering resolve.
"Big sister..." she whispered, her eyes fixed on the horizon where the sun met the sea. "I am going to save you. No matter what kind of monster I have to make a deal."
[END OF FISHMAN ISLAND ARC]
[NEXT ARC: THE SFERA CHRONICLES]