The night outside seems almost eager to play accomplice. The sky is a rich, suffocating black—the kind that swallows its own depth and makes you feel as though you could fall upward forever. Thin strands of cloud stretch across it in pale ribbons, parting here and there to let the moon spill her silver light across the rooftops. The wind moves in low, deliberate currents, brushing past the trees and teasing the grass into long, rippling waves. Every sound is softened, folded into the dark as though the night itself has decided to keep my secrets.
It is, by any reasonable measure, the sort of night that promises cover.
Technically, there are still three full days before my intended departure. That was the plan. The sensible, well-measured plan. But why should I endure three more tedious, stifling days when every piece is already in place? My preparations are finished, my route decided, my supplies packed. The plan has been sitting in my mind for so long that it has begun to ferment, turning restless and sharp, fizzing in the back of my skull every time I so much as glance toward the door. And if I stay any longer, who's to say what else might go wrong?
Dinner has long passed. The doors are shut, the fires banked low, the servants tucked away in their quarters. The household has sunk into the quiet lull that only deep night can bring. Perfect. If I slip away now, my absence won't be discovered until morning, and by then I'll be comfortably far from here— perhaps even across the border if everything goes smoothly. The darkness will handle its part, and I will handle the rest.
But first comes an equally important task: dealing with this face. Because, seriously, this face strolling through some muddy roadside village isn't fooling anyone. No commoner has skin this clear or hair this smooth— not because there's something wrong with their genes, but because they simply don't have the time or means to keep themselves like this. And no, this isn't the face of a hunter, either. If anything, it's the face of someone who's never needed to chase anything except an idea.
I stand before the mirror in my room. Sebastian Rhett Colden stares back— the well-groomed, well-fed, politely indifferent third son of a baron. His hair is neatly combed, his clothes perfectly tailored, his expression… practiced. I know the shape of that mask well enough to know it's not coming with me.
This will be the last time I see him, and I feel no pang at the thought. In fact, the corner of my mouth curves upward of its own accord. Good riddance.
I reach for the scissors on the desk. The first lock of hair falls without a sound, curling on the floor like a pale question mark. I keep cutting, the blades snapping through strand after strand, each one dropping like a tiny execution. Golden fluff collects on the floorboards, a fragile testament to the person I am leaving behind.
The dye comes next—a cheap, utilitarian black much like any other commoner's. I work it through until every glint of blond is gone, replaced by the flat darkness of anonymity. When I step back, the reflection staring at me is not Sebastian anymore. It is someone who could walk through a crowded street without drawing a second glance. Exactly what I need.
The makeup follows. For days now I've been using it— light enough to hide the shadows under my eyes without anyone noticing. Now, I drag a damp cloth across my skin, wiping it all away. What emerges underneath is the faint purplish hue of sleeplessness, stark and unflinching. These are the trophies of the strange, persistent dreams that stalk my nights. They no longer unsettle me, but they steal my rest with petty consistency, leaving behind these dark crescents as proof.
I study the reflection again. Without the cushioning frame of my old hair, my features look sharper, more angular. My eyes… they've changed, too. Not just shadowed from fatigue, but colder, narrower, carrying the sort of unspoken warning that says: you do not want to ask me questions. Quite unapproachable if you ask me but usefull nonetheless.
The transformation is almost startling, though maybe I shouldn't be surprised. Strip away the hair, the color, the polish, and you're left with someone who doesn't belong here.
Sebastian, as the world knows him, is gone. In his place stands a figure with a gaze like glass— clear enough to be unsettling.
Much like a vampire— though, in my defence, I didn't see that coming. How was I supposed to know that giving Prince Charming black hair would turn him into Dracula? The fair skin and dark circles certainly aren't helping the case.
I take one last glance at the mirror. The stranger looking back at me tilts his head slightly, as if assessing me in return. There is a flicker of satisfaction in his expression—mine, I realize, reflected back at me. Well I guess I quite like my handiwork.
Tonight, the house sleeps peacefully, convinced Sebastian Rhett Colden is exactly where he should be.
By morning, they will learn how very wrong they were.
And I intend to be far, far away when they do.
I slide the spatial ring onto my finger, its weight a quiet reminder of the life I'm about to step into. Everything I need is already stored inside— clothes, rations, coin, a few items I pray I won't need but took anyway. The robe comes next, its dark folds settling over my shoulders like a shadow I can carry with me. I pull the hood low. The mirror now shows no baron's son, no noble heir— only a nameless figure ready to vanish into the night.
With that, I step onto the balcony and secure a crude rope to the railing—something I'd found stuffed in the back of Sebastian's closet. And no, I don't know why he had it but it's obvious it couldn't have been for anything good. But that doesn't concern me anymore, Sebastian doesn't concern me anymore.