CHAPTER 137: CONFRONTING AMY

The sun had begun to set, casting long shadows across the palace gardens. The tea cups were empty, and the tension from Daniel’s intrusion had finally dissipated into the cooling evening air.

Oliver stood up, brushing a non-existent speck of dust from his coat. "Well, Your Highness, it’s getting late. We should head back. My companions—Ariana and Seraphine—are probably waiting at the Silver Quill by now, wondering if I’ve been thrown in a dungeon."

Elisha set her cup down, a thoughtful expression crossing her face. "Actually, Oliver... I have a better idea."

She gestured toward the sprawling white-stone villa visible just beyond the hedge maze.

"Why don’t you stay here? In the Royal Guest Palace."

Oliver blinked. "Here? In the palace grounds?"

"It makes sense, doesn’t it?" Elisha smiled, her eyes bright. "You’re joining the expedition as my personal entourage. We’ll need to coordinate strategies daily. If you stay in the city, I’ll have to send messengers back and forth constantly. It’s inefficient."

She leaned forward slightly. "Besides, the Hero’s party—including Lady Amy and the others—are staying in the East Wing. This villa is the West Wing. You’ll have privacy, luxury, and... better security than any inn."

Isolde, who had been swirling the last dregs of her wine, looked up with interest. "Royal guest quarters? High thread-count sheets? Private baths?"

"The best in the capital," Elisha confirmed.

Isolde looked at Oliver, a smirk tugging at her lips. "Well, Master? The lady makes a compelling argument. I, for one, am tired of inn mattresses that feel like sacks of potatoes."

Oliver hesitated, scratching his cheek. "It is tempting... but my stuff is at the inn. And I can’t just leave Ariana and Seraphine waiting."

"Don’t worry about that," Elisha said, waving a hand dismissively. "I’ll send a carriage and my personal maids to collect them and your belongings immediately. They’ll be brought here before you even finish your tour of the rooms."

Oliver looked at Elisha, then at Isolde, who was practically already moving in mentally.

"Fine," he sighed, defeating creeping into his voice. "We’ll stay."

Elisha clapped her hands together, beaming. "Wonderful! I’ll have the staff prepare the master suite for you."

***

The Guest Palace was, predictably, ridiculous.

The rooms were larger than the entire ground floor of the Silver Quill. The floors were polished marble, the curtains were velvet, and the bed in the master suite was big enough to sleep five people comfortably—though Isolde had immediately claimed the center of it.

By nightfall, the others had arrived and settled in.

Inside the master suite, the atmosphere was thick with a lazy, sensual comfort.

Isolde lay sprawled across the massive four-poster bed, her figure draped in a silk nightgown so sheer it was more of a suggestion than clothing. The fabric clung to her curves, sliding off one shoulder to reveal her pale, smooth skin. She hummed softly, running her hand over the velvet duvet.

"Now this," she purred, stretching her legs out, "is what I deserve."

In the corner of the room, Seraphine stood directly under the crystal chandelier, staring up at it with unblinking intensity.

"Structure analysis: Crystal composition holds mana capacity of 400 units. Fragility: High. Aesthetics: Pleasing."

"Don’t break it, Sera," Oliver called out as he walked toward the balcony doors.

"Negative. I am merely admiring the light refraction."

Oliver stepped out onto the balcony.

The night air was crisp, carrying the scent of night-blooming jasmine from the garden below. He loosened the collar of his shirt, letting the cool breeze wash over his skin, trying to cool the lingering heat of his anger from the afternoon.

I shouldn’t have provoked Daniel, he thought, gripping the railing. It felt good... damn good... but it was sloppy.

He had let his mask slip. Not the physical one, but the emotional one. He had spoken with the voice of the boy who used to hate Daniel back on Earth, not the detached adventurer he was supposed to be.

"You’re brooding again," Isolde’s voice drifted from the bed, lazy and teasing.

"I’m thinking," Oliver corrected without turning.

"Same thing."

He chuckled dryly. He was about to turn back inside when a sound caught his ear.

Rustle.

A soft sound came from the garden below—too deliberate to be the wind.

Oliver didn’t turn. His hand didn’t move to his weapon, but his muscles tightened.

"Who’s there?"

A figure stepped out from the shadows of a trellis vine.

It was Amy.

She wasn’t wearing her usual pristine Saintess robes. She was dressed in a simple, thin nightgown that hung loosely over her frame, the pale fabric catching the moonlight. It was modest, yet the way the wind pressed it against her body left little to the imagination—outlining the soft curve of her hips and the swell of her breasts.

She looked small. Vulnerable.

Determined.

"I knew I’d find you here," she said softly.

Oliver didn’t look down. He kept his gaze on the city skyline, adjusting the collar of his coat to ensure his neck was covered.

"You shouldn’t be wandering around in your nightwear, Lady Amy," he said, his voice modulated to a deeper, rougher pitch. "People might talk."

"Let them talk," she whispered.

She climbed the small stone staircase that connected the garden to the lower balcony, stepping up until she was standing just a few feet away from him.

Oliver finally turned.

Up close, she looked even more fragile. Her red hair was loose, cascading over her shoulders in messy waves. Her eyes were red-rimmed, as if she hadn’t slept in days. But her gaze was locked on him with a terrifying intensity.

"You felt familiar," she said, her voice trembling slightly. "The moment I saw you at the banquet. Even with the mask. Even with the different voice."

Oliver leaned back against the railing, crossing his arms. "I have a common face. I’ve told you that."

"No," Amy stepped closer. Her scent—soap and something sweet, like vanilla—drifted toward him. "You can change your face with magic. You can change your voice. But you can’t change who you are."

She reached out, her hand hovering near his arm but not touching.

"I’ve been watching you," she breathed. "At the banquet. In the dungeon. Even today in the garden."

Oliver smirked beneath his disguise. "Stalker behavior, Saintess?"

She didn’t flinch at the jab. "Your actions. Your way of speaking when you’re angry. The gestures you make when you’re thinking."

She took another step. She was close now—close enough that he could see the pulse fluttering in her neck.

"You tap your finger when you’re annoyed. You tilt your head to the left when you’re assessing a threat. And today..."

Her voice dropped to a whisper, thick with emotion.

"Today, you confronted Daniel. You called him a bully. You didn’t call him a tyrant, or a bad leader. You called him a bully

."

She looked up into his eyes, searching for a crack in the armor.

"You let your inner emotions out. You sounded exactly like you did back then... when you used to mutter about him in the classroom. When you hated how he treated people."

Oliver felt a cold chill slide down his spine.

She noticed that?

"You slipped, Oliver," she whispered. "It’s no point hiding anymore. I know you are Oliver Shaw. Because I have observed you for so long. I know you better than you know yourself."

Oliver stared at her.

The moonlight illuminated her face—the desperation, the hope, the guilt. She wasn’t looking at a stranger. She was looking at a ghost she wanted to be real.

He felt the walls closing in.

"Lady Amy," he said, his voice cold and hard. "I have already told you. The only thing similar between me and the hero who died is our names."

"Liar," she breathed.

"I am not that Oliver."

He pushed off the railing, trying to step past her, to retreat into the room where Isolde and Seraphine were.

But Amy moved to block him. She didn’t touch him, but she stood firmly in his path, her chest heaving, her thin gown rustling.

"Then look me in the eye," she challenged, her voice cracking. "Look me in the eye and tell me you don’t know me."

Oliver stopped.

He looked down at her. He saw the tears welling in her eyes.

He scoffed, a harsh, dismissive sound.

"Fine. I don’t know you."

He leaned in, his face inches from hers, his voice dropping to a cruel whisper.

"And honestly? Even if I were him... why are you so obsessed?"

Amy flinched.

"From what I heard from the others during the expedition," Oliver continued, his words sharp as daggers, "that guy was just a nobody. A trash F-class with a useless skill. He was a drag. Everyone scorned him. Everyone laughed at him."

He tilted his head, his eyes cold and mocking.

"So tell me, Saintess... why are you so clung to a dead piece of trash?"

***

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