The evening sun dipped below the horizon, bleeding a bruised purple into the sky. Natasha remained by the railing, a solitary figure in red and black against the vast, darkening expanse of the sea. She pulled the photograph of Grey Rosanate from her pocket, the edges already slightly curled from the salt air.
Rome is a big place, she thought, her brow furrowing. Finding a ghost in a city of millions is one thing... finding a man the King is afraid to name is another.
The transition was sudden. The humid air turned a sharp, biting cold, and the first heavy droplets of rain began to crater the surface of the ocean. Within minutes, the sky had turned a violent charcoal, and the sea transformed into a churning, angry beast.
As the wind whipped her hair into a frenzy, Natasha realized the deck was no longer safe. She turned to head for the cabin, but a deafening roar of thunder shook the very hull of the ship. Startled, her boot slid on the rain-slicked wood, and she went down hard on her back.
She didn't get up immediately. Instead, she lay there, the freezing rain lashing against her face. The sensation triggered a memory—sharp and warm despite the cold.
Ten years ago, the palace gardens were flooded after a summer downpour. A younger Natasha had been racing a terrified Nana toward the gazebo when she'd wiped out in a spectacular puddle of mud. Nana had skidded to a halt, her eyes wide and brimming with tears, ready to scream for a medic.
But Natasha hadn't cried. Covered in brown sludge and soaking wet, she had looked up at her sister and let out a wheezing, infectious laugh that echoed through the rain.
Back in the present, a small, sad smile touched Natasha's lips. She whispered into the howling wind, "We will relive this when I save you from their hands, Nana. I'll make you laugh again. But first... I need to find this man."
She scrambled to her feet just as the situation turned dire. On the bridge, the Captain was screaming orders, his knuckles white as he fought the wheel. The ship groaned, tilting at a terrifying angle. "Brace yourselves!" he roared, pointing toward the bow.
A rogue wave, a wall of black water taller than the ship's masts, was looming over them like a falling mountain. The passengers huddled on deck let out cries of despair, sensing the end.
Natasha stepped forward. Her movements were no longer clumsy; they were deliberate and terrifyingly smooth. She reached into her bag and pulled out a simple, serrated kitchen knife she'd snagged from the galley earlier.
She didn't take a stance. She simply exhaled.
A violent, crimson glow—Red Fantasia—erupted from her hand, bleeding into the steel of the knife until the blade hummed with a jagged, predatory energy. With a single, horizontal flick of her wrist, she slashed the air.
A crescent of red light tore through the atmosphere. It didn't just cut the wave; it seemed to bisect the very storm. The massive wall of water collapsed into harmless spray, and the thick clouds above parted in a straight line, revealing the silent stars.
The wind died instantly. The ocean went flat.
The silence that followed was heavy. The Captain stared from the bridge, his jaw hanging open. One of the sailors leaned against a mast, trembling. "She... she cleared the storm... with a kitchen knife?"
"How terrifying," another passenger whispered, recoiling as if she were a demon in human skin.
Natasha's sharp gaze lingered on the horizon for a second longer before the "monster" vanished. She turned back toward the onlookers, a sheepish, nervous smile plastered on her face.
"Ah, sorry about the noise!" she chirped, waving the knife dismissively. She turned to head inside, but her heel caught on a raised rivet in the deck.
THUD.
She went face-flat onto the wood with a muffled groan. From the floor, she let out a long, frustrated sigh. "How does this always happen to me in front of guys?" she muttered into the deck boards.
The deck of the ship cleared out faster than a sinking vessel. Passengers scurried to the opposite side of the ship, and even the Captain found a very sudden, urgent reason to examine his compass. No one wanted to lock eyes with the girl who had just cleaved a natural disaster in half with a kitchen utensil.
Natasha scrambled up, rubbing her nose with a heavy sigh. As she dusted off her skirt, she noticed she wasn't entirely alone.
Sitting on a nearby wooden crate was an old, weathered man with a thick gray beard and skin like wrinkled leather. He wore a patched heavy coat and was calmly lighting a wooden pipe, entirely unbothered by the fact that the sea around them had just been violently tamed.
He took a slow drag, watching Natasha stumble over her own feet as she walked toward the railing. "Quite a show, kid," he rasped, a gravelly chuckle escaping his lips. "Most folks use a sword for that kind of work. Saves on the knuckles."
Natasha offered a weak, sheepish laugh, scratching the back of her head. "Ah... well, you use what you have, right? It was a very good knife."
"Right," the old man nodded, blowing a ring of gray smoke into the newly cleared night air. He glanced at the photograph she was still loosely holding. "Heading to Rome, I take it? If you're looking for someone out there, you've picked a hell of a time to visit."
Natasha blinked, her playful demeanor shifting just an inch into curiosity. "Is it always that bad?"
"Not always. But since the news hit about the kingdoms heir being kidnapped by those Ghost bastards, Rome has turned into a tinderbox," the old man said, leaning forward. "The city is practically a fortress right now. If you're looking for someone who doesn't want to be found, you won't find them in the open streets. You'll want to look down—the old underground sectors beneath the new city. That's where the rats and the ghosts hide."
Natasha committed the words to memory, giving the old traveler a genuine smile. "Underground. Got it. Thanks, mister."
By the next morning, the ship finally drifted into the massive harbor of Rome.
The scale of the country hit Natasha the moment she looked up. Towering stone arches and imposing coastal walls loomed over the water. But what stood out the most was the sheer density of the military presence.
The docks were swarming with Roman port authorities. Unlike the heavy armored knights of other homelands, these guards wore pristine, stark-white military uniforms with sharp gold epaulets. They moved with rigid, mechanical precision, and nearly every single one of them was holding a sleek, black rifle across their chest. The atmosphere was suffocatingly tense; every traveler was being lined up, their papers thoroughly scrutinized under the barrel of a gun.
If I show them my Black Pursuer crest, they'll follow me and blow my cover, Natasha thought, looking at the long queue of nervous civilians ahead of her. Time to play dumb.
When it was finally her turn, she stepped up to the inspection desk. The guard behind the counter looked exhausted, his white uniform immaculate but his eyes dark with stress. Two guards with rifles stood directly behind him, their gazes locking onto her.
"Purpose of your visit to Rome?" the inspector asked, his voice entirely devoid of life.
"Oh! Hi!" Natasha chirped, giving a bright, overly enthusiastic wave. She went to pull her paperwork out of her bag, but in her excitement, she yanked too hard.
The zipper snagged, and the bag flew out of her hands. It hit the ground with a loud slam, bursting open. A chaotic avalanche of travel snacks, extra socks, a hairbrush, and a half-eaten pack of crackers spilled out across the pristine boots of the armed guards.
The two guards instantly flinched, their hands tightening on their rifles as they took a defensive step back, expecting a weapon.
"Oh my gosh, I am so, so sorry!" Natasha wailed, dropping to her knees immediately. She began frantically scrambling around the floor, accidentally kicking a stray apple across the dock and knocking her own forehead against the edge of the inspector's desk with a loud crack. "Ow! Sorry! The floor is just... very flat here! I'm just a tourist! I wanted to see the big arches!"
The inspector stared down at her, rubbing his temples as Natasha accidentally handed him a stray sock instead of her passport. The two armed guards looked at each other, the tension draining out of them, replaced entirely by second-hand embarrassment. This girl couldn't even manage a zipper, let alone pose a threat to national security.
"Just... gather your things and move along," the inspector sighed, stamping her papers without even looking at them, desperately wanting her out of his line. "Next!"
"Thank you, sir! Have a wonderful day!" Natasha squeaked, stuffing her messy belongings back into her bag.
As she hurried past the white-uniformed guards and stepped into the bustling streets of Rome, the clumsy smile on her face slowly faded. Her eyes grew sharp as she looked up at the towering architecture.