The coins jingled faintly in my pocket as I stepped out into the crowded streets. Money. Blood money, if I was honest with myself. Those merchants… they had died in the flames and in the mouths of the cursed ones. And in that chaos, I had gathered what they left behind. I told myself it was survival, nothing more, but the weight of those coins was heavy, heavier than gold should ever feel.
Still, hunger does not bow to guilt.
I had not eaten a proper meal since the riverbank. My body ached, my head swam, and the gnawing emptiness inside me had become unbearable. Food was my first priority, but I could not walk into any fine store dressed as I was—singed coat, soot-stained trousers, and blood that no washing could fully scrub away. I needed new clothes. Something plain. Something forgettable.
The shop was not hard to find. The city was alive with commerce; tailors' banners hung from narrow lanes, and mannequins stood proudly in glass windows. But most of what I saw was far too fine, far too noble. Bright silks, velvet coats, feathered hats—things that would draw eyes, not deflect them.
passed them all by until I found what I wanted. A quieter shop on a quieter street. Its window displayed simpler wares—long coats, boots, hats meant for travel rather than court. Inside, the air smelled of dust and worn leather.
The shopkeeper looked up as I entered, then quickly looked back down at his sewing, unimpressed by my soot-stained state. Good. The less attention, the better.
I browsed the racks until I found something that suited me. A dark, heavy coat, fitted but not flashy. Trousers of rough cloth, durable but ordinary. A plain vest, white shirt, and gloves. When I put it all together, the reflection in the mirror was not Adrian Blackthorn, heir of the family. No. The face that looked back at me was sharper, colder, like a detective in the crime serials I once read back in Japan.
Practical. Observant. Anonymous. That was what I needed.
With my new clothes clinging to me, I stepped out into the street once more, the air of the city biting sharper against my skin.
That was when I saw them. Passenger carts lined near the square, their drivers calling out destinations to lure riders.
"Elicia! Two days' journey, meals included!" one shouted.
I paused, considering. I had wanted to return to the capital, but when I asked, the driver only shook his head.
"No carriages to the capital," he muttered. "Only to Elicia. You'll have to go there first, then make your way from the princess's city."
The princess. I had heard her name whispered already from fellow travelers. Elicia—youngest daughter of the emperor, only eighteen, yet entrusted with ruling this prosperous city. An odd choice, but one that intrigued me.
I climbed onto the cart and settled among the passengers. Farmers with baskets. Merchants with sealed crates. A young scholar clutching his books like a lifeline. All of them looked ordinary. All of them cast wary eyes toward the stranger in the dark coat.
The driver cracked the reins, and the cart lurched forward, wheels grinding against the stone before finding rhythm on the dirt road beyond the gates.
Hours passed before the driver finally broke the silence. "Where are you bound, traveler?"
I hesitated, then spoke the words I had already chosen. "The capital."
He shook his head again, spitting to the side. "Told you. No carts to the capital. Only Elicia. You'll take it or you'll walk."
"I'll take it," I said quietly.
He studied me from the corner of his eye, his wrinkled face lined with suspicion. "And what's your trade?"
The answer came to my lips before I could stop it. A lie, born days ago when I first used it to cover myself.
"I'm a hunter."
The reins went slack. The cart jolted to a halt so suddenly the passengers muttered in protest. The driver twisted around, eyes wide.
"A hunter?" His voice trembled slightly, though he tried to mask it with a gruff cough.
I met his gaze steadily. "Yes."
The others in the cart turned to stare. Their eyes were not admiring. They were fearful.
Hunters. I had heard enough whispers by now to understand. They were not noble protectors, not saviors. They were feared—men who lived on the edges of humanity, cruel, selfish, ruthless. And yet… the lie had become my mask, and I wore it as easily as the coat on my back.
The driver looked away quickly, clicking the reins again. The horses moved forward, though slower now, as if they too sensed the tension.
The days passed in silence after that. Few dared to speak to me. The food was poor, little more than hard bread and watered-down broth, but I ate it gratefully. By the second night, my body ached from the endless jolting of the cart, and my stomach felt as though it was eating itself.
Finally, at dawn of the second day, the spires of Elicia rose on the horizon.
When we arrived at the city gates, I stepped down onto the cobblestones, my legs stiff and sore. The passengers hurried off, eager to be rid of my presence. I hardly noticed them. My mind was consumed with a single thought: food.
I wandered the streets until the scent of roasted meat drew me like a spell. A restaurant. Plain wooden walls, but clean, filled with the chatter of locals. I pushed the door open and walked inside.
The warmth of the place wrapped around me instantly, and the waitress led me to a table with only a passing glance at my coat. I ordered stew. When it came, steaming and fragrant, I devoured it as though I had not eaten in years.
Only when the hunger dulled did my eyes wander the room.
And then they stopped.
On the far wall hung a poster.
A drawing. My face.
The words above it:
"Missing. Young Master Adrian Blackthorn. Heir to the noble house. Report any information to the imperial guard."
My spoon froze halfway to my lips. My chest tightened, the stew suddenly tasting of ash.
Of course they were searching. My father. Catherine. They must be frantic, believing me kidnapped or worse. And here I was, alive, sitting in a tavern, pretending to be a man I was not.
If anyone recognized me now…
I rose quickly, leaving coins on the table, and slipped out into the street. My pulse pounded in my ears. I needed to hide. I needed a mask.
The answer came soon enough. A costume shop, tucked between taller buildings. The window displayed spectacles, masks, and cloaks—perfect for disguises.
Inside, the air was stale. The shopkeeper barely looked up as I entered. That suited me fine.
I found what I needed. Round spectacles. A thin moustache. A pipe. I put them on before the cracked mirror. The face that stared back at me was not Adrian Blackthorn. It was someone else entirely. Someone forgettable.
I allowed myself a thin smile. For the first time since seeing that poster, I could breathe.
And then the door burst open.
A man stumbled inside, gasping, mud-stained and trembling. His eyes darted around the shop until they landed on me.
"You!" he shouted, rushing forward. His voice cracked with desperation. "I heard from a rider—a hunter was here! Please! You must help us!"
The word echoed through the shop. Hunter.
The shopkeeper froze, eyes wide. My hand trembled slightly against the counter, though my face remained calm behind the disguise.
Hunter. Phantom. Devil.
Whatever mask I wore, it seemed fate was not done with me yet.