It had been her fifteenth birthday, and Emberlyth had been brimming with anticipation. Her Ascension Path—her long-awaited, promised Ascension Path—was finally within reach. This time, they had assured her. Truly, genuinely promised her. She’d asked so many times, peppering her family with questions to guard herself against disappointment. They wouldn’t be so cruel as to lie, not about this. Would they?

And then, instead of the grand moment she’d imagined, she got this.

She still remembered the awkward way her uncle had scratched at the back of his head as he delivered the news. “The Ink Master we found,” he said hesitantly, “the one who could solve all of this… Everything was settled, but at the last minute, someone outbid us…”

She hadn’t been able to find words.

Any other birthday, and the gift they offered might have been wonderful. No, it would have been brilliant. A deactivated and reconstructed trap from an Abyssal dungeon—exactly the kind of relic that would have made her younger self giddy for weeks. She would’ve adored it. But it wasn’t her Ascension Path.

And she wasn’t even allowed to use it on the maids who had whispered behind closed doors, “They’ve no sense of the danger. Just as well she didn’t get it. Would’ve burned down the house before the week was over…”

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With her lantern raised, Emberlyth stepped closer to the young man, awkwardly sprawled before her. Perhaps it was naïve, but she doubted her toy trap—no matter how ingeniously designed—could hold any true danger at bay. Besides, she had Silent Kiss, and he was unarmed, tangled with his leg in the air like a marionette left half-forgotten by its puppeteer.

Like this, he certainly didn’t appear the part of some common gardener. Not at this time of night. Not here.

“Who are you?” she asked, leaning in to get a proper look at his face.

He wasn’t bad-looking per se—was he?—but he wasn’t the kind of handsome that sweeps princesses from towers, either. The kind you hoped would rob you in the dead of night. Then again, how many living beings could match the illustrations in A Tale of Light and Dark: The Forbidden Romance? Emberlyth tried to shake the thought. That novel was ridiculous—its prose heavy-handed and its plot laughable. Who hoped to get robbed in the first place? But the illustrations… Those had been something else entirely.

The artist clearly had a curious understanding of the human form. Sometimes, evocative, often too liberate.

A blush threatened her cheeks as her thoughts wandered, but she wrenched them back under control. She examined him again with an objective eye—or tried to, at least. She only had so many reference points for men in her life, and none at this age. Compared to the rough-hewn figures of her family and the scarred, weathered guards patrolling the estate, he seemed delicate, somehow. His features were smooth, almost androgynous, the kind of look A Tale of Light and Dark might have called a “forbidden beauty.”

No, she firmly decided a moment later. He wasn’t that. There were too many stains—garden soil smudged across his hands and ink blotting his fingertips. His forehead bore the ghost of fingerprints, as if he’d pressed his hands there in exasperation during some futile mental battle.

“…Are you even listening to me?”

His voice, dry as dust. pulled her from her spiraling thoughts. His smirk—impossible to miss, even while bound and dangling—leaned into something approaching irritation.

Caught off guard, Emberlyth straightened, her blush deepening. “Of course I am,” she lied.

“Good,” he said, eyebrows raised with a smile tilting into something sly. “Because if you are done staring, I’m running out of clever things to say before this blood rush gives me ideas neither of us will enjoy.”

Emberlyth felt her face flush warmer. “I wasn’t staring,” she snapped.

“Of course not,” he said, a touch too smoothly. “But if you’d like to keep studying me, you mind doing it under more cordial circumstances? Trust me, I’m a lot more impressive standing on my feet, and there are parts of me I can only show if I’m allowed to move freely.”

He gave a wink, but rather than deepen her embarrassment, it snapped Emberlyth out of it. She narrowed her eyes. Too many stains, she thought again. Whatever else this boy was, he was no dashing hero.

And yet, for reasons she couldn’t name, she kept her blade ready.

Right, right…

Emberlyth’s frown deepened, the lantern light swaying faintly as her grip steadied.

How many tales hadn’t she read of tricksters and silver-tongued villains? Those who fought not with blades but with winks and whispers, weaving charms as subtle as spider silk. The kind of people who could make you thank them even as they slipped the coin purse from your belt.

Taking a cautious step back, Emberlyth leveled Silent Kiss at the stranger’s face.

“Stop smiling,” she said, her voice low and sharp.

The grin vanished immediately, replaced by a flicker of uncertainty. His gaze darted first to the blade hovering a breath away from his nose, then back to her. “I asked who you are,” she said, her tone brooking no argument. “Tell me.”

The hesitation in his eyes vanished as swiftly as it had come, replaced by a look of theatrical exasperation. He exhaled heavily and fell back against the floor, hands weaving casually behind his head as if reclining on a summer hillside instead of sprawled out on cold stone.

“Brilliant,” he said, addressing the ceiling. “You weren’t listening, and now you’re trying to cover it up by pointing a sword in my face. Truly inspired.”

“Your tricks won’t work on me,” Emberlyth said, though doubt prickled at the edge of her thoughts. How would she even know if she was being charmed? Would she feel it? Or worse—not feel it? “Just answer the question. Directly.”

“Already did, though,” he replied with a huff, his tone as breezy as if they were discussing the weather. “But I can repeat myself, if her ladyship so wishes. I’m a victim of inhuman treatment, disgraced beyond all reasonable means. You know,” he added, his voice gaining a tragic lilt, “in certain places, it’s considered a war crime to threaten a bound and unarmed man? Not to mention how I hit my head terribly when your little trap flung me upside down. Who’s going to pay reparations if I’m seriously injured? Did you think of that before setting it up?”

He paused, as if waiting for her to feel the weight of her guilt. She didn’t.

“Didn’t think so,” he said, wearing a faint smirk as her stance shifted slightly. “But here’s an idea. Let me down, and maybe I won’t press charges. Do it quickly enough, and we could pretend this whole unfortunate incident never happened. You go your way, I go mine. Everyone’s happy. Sound fair? A wonderful evening to both of us.”

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Emberlyth stared at him, her grip tightening briefly on the hilt of Silent Kiss before sliding it back into its sheath.

“Yeah, no,” she muttered under her breath. I’m definitely not charmed. What was I even worrying about?

If anything, she was starting to feel irritated. Lantern light pooled at her feet as she set it down with deliberate care, placing Silent Kiss beside it.

“First of all,” she said, straightening, “it’s already well past evening. So I wouldn’t waste time hoping for a ‘wonderful’ anything for either of us.”

The young man opened his mouth, but whatever he was about to say vanished as Emberlyth grabbed his collar with both hands.

“Secondly,” she continued, lifting him clean off the floor with the ease of someone who’d grown up wrestling heavier things than garden-variety trespassers, “you are not in a position to negotiate.”

He dangled precariously, one foot still caught in the trap, the other scrabbling awkwardly for balance. For a moment, he looked less like a clever trickster and more like someone trying—and failing—not to tip over. Emberlyth allowed herself the faintest of smirks.

“Comfortable?” she asked, voice dripping with mock sweetness.

The man glanced down at himself, then back up at her. His grin returned, smaller but no less insufferable.

“Not particularly,” he said. “But I’m willing to negotiate.”

“Negotiate?” Ember huffed. He wasn’t much to hold, and even as he tried, subconsciously, to straighten himself, he failed to gain any height on her. He was like a bundle of twigs in her hands—long, spindly, and oddly delicate. Where Emberlyth had a lot of frame to fill out from years of growing too fast, her wiry muscles were still carved by effort and endurance. He looked as though he’d been made slender by neglect, as if he’d grown tall by accident and never quite figured out what to do with all that height.

His hands were the worst of it. Thin, ink-stained fingers that bore no hint of calluses. Not the kind that came from hard labor, at least. If she hadn’t seen the results of him tending the garden with her own eyes, she’d never have believed he’d ever done an honest day’s work.

Emberlyth tightened her grip further, and his breaths hitched slightly, a sound halfway between indignation and discomfort.

“I don’t think you understand your situation here,” she said, leaning closer as if proximity would force seriousness into his smile. She nearly lifted him off the ground entirely, stopping only when he gave a pained gasp—his trapped leg bending at an angle that looked anything but natural.

“Even if I were to set you free,” she continued, her voice colder, “there’s nowhere for you to run. Not until you’ve told me what I want to know.”

He glanced up at her, smile creeping back onto his face with infuriating ease.

“If you’re so confident in keeping me here,” he said, “why not help a fellow out and release my leg? This is an incredibly uncomfortable position, and—”

“Give me your name,” Emberlyth growled, cutting him off, the heat rising in her voice as her patience frayed. She wasn’t used to this kind of insolence—at least, not from anyone outside her family. “And tell me what the hell that is.”

She jabbed a finger toward the fifth shelf, still half-ajar, its dark gap promising secrets far older than both of them combined.

His gaze followed her gesture, the corners of his mouth twitching into something that wasn’t quite a smile but wasn’t quite neutral either.

“Shouldn’t you know?” he asked lightly. “I mean, this is your house, isn’t it? If anyone should—”

“Don’t,” she snapped, and his voice trailed off beneath the weight of her glare.

“Seeing is believing?” he offered weakly, gesturing with a slight tilt of his head toward the shelf. “You could always just go check it out for yourself. But first, my leg, if you wouldn’t—”

“Your damned name then,” Ember spat, her voice sharp enough to make him wince. “Now.”

She would check out whatever lay behind the shelf—eventually. The call of adventure tugged at her like an insistent wind, and every nerve in her body was alive with curiosity. But she wasn’t about to leave this pale, cheeky liar unchecked. Besides, she wanted something better to call him than ghastly gardener. Having met him now, not a single part of the nickname fit. Except, perhaps, ghastly. How could a gardener—someone who worked beneath the open sky—seem as though he hadn’t felt the sun’s touch in years?

“Let me assure you, there’s nothing damned about my name, sweet lady,” the man replied. He punctuated it with a wink, pulling her strings just for the fun of it. “And isn’t it common courtesy to offer your own name first before demanding someone else’s? I mean, I already know who you are, but—”

“Emberlyth Draekart,” she interrupted, her voice flat and even. She refused to let him see any of the heat rising to her cheeks or the sharp annoyance prickling beneath her skin. She would stay calm. Cool. Collected.

She would try.

“Go. On.”

For a heartbeat, his mouth formed a perfect little o, as if he hadn’t expected her to comply so easily. He recovered quickly, snapping his jaw shut with an audible click before murmuring under his breath, “Damn. Why does everyone around here have such cool names?”

His gaze darted across the room, catching briefly on a scattering of papers at their feet. Ember hadn’t even noticed them before. They must have fallen from his grasp when her trap snagged him. Her attention flicked briefly to the topmost sheet—a crisp, clean design dominated by a five-pointed star—before he cleared his throat dramatically, like an actor about to take center stage.

“My name,” he said, drawing himself up as much as his position allowed, “is Penta…Grammus. Penta Grammus Maximus, yes! A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Emberlyth Draekart.”

He gave a ridiculous little flourish, tipping his head in what could have been a bow—if not for the fact that his back leg was still hoisted midair. He looked like a dancer frozen mid spin, just with none of the flexibility that went with such things.

The inevitable happened. He lost his balance, tumbling to the ground in a flailing heap.

Ember didn’t bother catching him. She didn’t even flinch as he hit the floor with a startled yelp and a thud that echoed in the quiet room.

Foreign curses spilled from his lips, half-formed and muttered, but Ember paid them little attention. Something else had caught her eye—something that had fallen from his pocket in the tumble.

She crouched and picked it up.

It was a card. Some kind of identification, she guessed, as her eyes skimmed over a small but carefully painted portrait of a young boy. Beneath it, lines of text in a script she didn’t recognize sprawled across the surface.

The material was the first thing that struck her. At a glance, it seemed like simple paper, yet something encased it—a transparent shell like glass, though it was neither cool nor brittle. It felt strange in her hands, smooth and warm, as if the material held its own faint hum of life. Some sort of magical resin, perhaps? Hardened to protect the contents within?

But that wasn’t the strangest part. The text printed on the card was unmistakably foreign, the letters winding and looping in unfamiliar shapes that shouldn’t have made any sense to her. Yet the longer Ember stared, as if the words were rearranging themselves in her mind.

“Carl Andersen,” she murmured, reading aloud without realizing it. “Age 10, Class 5A, Student at—”

“Hey! Don’t read that!”

The indignant cry snapped her out of her trance. Ember glanced down to see Penta sprawled on the floor, having rolled onto his hands and knees in a desperate attempt to look up at her. His position was almost comical, his left foot arched behind his back like a useless scorpion’s tail.

“That’s mine!” he continued, his voice pitched somewhere between panic and indignation. “And for the love of all that’s good, don’t look at the picture! I swear the photographer was drunk, high, or cursed—or possibly all three—when it was my turn in the booth!”

“Fo-to-gra-fer,” Emberlyth repeated, carefully sounding out the alien word. Her eyes flicked back to the card, then to Penta, who was practically vibrating with a mixture of nerves and mortification. “The boy in this painting is you? But it must be from over…”

“Ten years ago, yes,” he huffed, avoiding her gaze. His voice turned clipped, impatient. “Now, would you mind handing that back? It’s...precious. Sentimental value, you know?”

She hesitated for a moment longer, but finally held it out. “Sure,” she said, her tone slow and thoughtful as the wheels in her mind began to spin. He snatched the card back and stuffed it into his pocket with far more care than his hurried movements suggested.

“You’re from another world,” she whispered, the realization slipping out unbidden. Her mind was already leaping from one conclusion to the next, connecting dots with dizzying speed. “You’re…a transmigrator.”

He froze at that, his hand lingering over his pocket, his face a curious blend of guilt and defiance. For a moment, the room was silent but for the sound of their breathing. Then his lips quirked into a thin, bitter smile.

“I’m Penta,” he said at last, meeting her gaze with stubborn determination. As if that name he’d just settled on meant more to him than whatever past lay behind him. “Penta Grammus Maximus, mastermind supreme. Nothing more, nothing less.”

His voice was firm, but there was an edge to it—an insistence that rang hollow. Whatever he’d called himself in that other life, it wasn’t a name he intended to carry now.

“Now,” he added, gesturing toward his precariously bent leg. “Would you mind getting my God-damned foot loose? Besides being utterly humiliating, it’s starting to go worryingly numb. I’m rather fond of it being exactly where it is, and would rather not see it amputated over some petty grievance. So... pretty please, with sugar on top?”