Fates oddity volume 2, p.1
Fate's oddity volume 2, page 1
Fate's Oddity
Volume 2
by Evan Solis
Fate's Oddity
© Evan Solis
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the author.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Fate’s Oddity — The Story So Far
Princess Celestia Isabella von Levisdia thought her story would end in blood. Tormented by visions of endless deaths, she hired the assassin known only as Bloodtrail to kill her. Instead, the man behind the name — Krimson — refused her contract. In his presence, her visions fell silent for the first time in her life, replaced by one fragile possibility: hope.
Krimson brought her to his hidden farm in Gaia, where she met his mother Kris, once a princess of Nox and now the retired former Bloodtrail, and his sisters Kukuri and Kalis, both as mischievous as they were deadly. Against all expectation, Celestia found herself welcomed into their strange household. What began as an escape slowly became a bond — nights on the porch, training in the fields, and moments where assassin and princess saw in each other more than just survival. They fell for each other.
But the world would not let them hide. With tensions between Gaia and Levisdia tightening, the family left the farm for Silvanus, Gaia’s bustling capital, and the pair stepped into the life of adventurers. Their names grew with every mission, and soon even whispers in the guild spoke of Bloodtrail. When Murasaki Usagami, a warrior from Bestia and Celestia’s childhood friend, tracked them down, she challenged Krimson in open combat. Defeated, she chose not to leave but to stand with him instead. Both she and Celestia quietly agreed: they would share him, and together carve out a future beyond prophecy or duty.
The family’s fame only grew. Kalis, the youngest sister, began drawing crowds with her performances and ambitions, placing all of them in the public eye. Their rising recognition made them famous among the people — and dangerous pawns in the eyes of the prince.
Everything changed with the dungeon crisis. Deep within, the corrupted phoenix Suzaku raged, a sacred beast torn between death and rebirth. In the battle’s turning point, Krimson offered his blood not as a weapon but as healing. The phoenix’s flames fused with him, birthing the Phoenix Crown — a halo of living fire that marked him not only as a savior, but as something more.
As soldiers knelt, Prince Albrecht saw what the crown revealed: Krimson’s white hair, his silver eye, and the truth no one had dared name. The world’s most feared assassin wasn't some nobody after all. He was royal blood — his older brother.
Prologue: A Knife Behind the Smile
When the kingdom of Nox fell, it burned without a scream.
I remember that. Not the heat, not the fire, but the silence of loss. It was the kind that comes after every throat has either been silenced or had given up. The kind that leaves your heartbeat sounding like thunder in your ears. The Gaian soldiers stepped over bodies like they were nothing. They were trained for that.
And now—I was dressed like them.
Well, not like their soldiers, to be precise I was dressed as one of their maids. Plain gray with stiff linen. It itches. I don’t complain about it though, because It hides what I need it to hide: My scars, my trained body, the bearing of my lineage. All the things that are straight giveaways for my identity. But it can’t hide my face. Or rather, my missing eye. I let my hair fall over the patch on my left side. Always. Even the other servants don’t comment on it anymore. It’s just how I am. Just Kira, the quiet maid. The one who doesn’t talk unless spoken to.
They asked my name when I arrived. The name I gave them was "Kira" close enough to be recognizable but different enough to distinguish.
No one questioned it.
They assigned me to laundry. Good. Safe. Unseen. That was the plan. Stay invisible, map their routines, learn their secrets. Bide my time.
But plans rarely survive first contact with the enemy—or in my case, with royalty.
***
I’d never intended to meet the prince.
Our first encounter was as ordinary as it was accidental. I was carrying an armful of freshly laundered sheets, the pile stacked high enough that I could barely see past them. Maybe if I’d been more careful, more attentive, I would have noticed the subtle shift in footsteps approaching from the opposite corridor. Instead, I rounded the corner blindly and crashed directly into a figure moving just as carelessly.
Sheets flew from my hands, scattering across the marble floor in a disheveled white tide. My heart lurched in panic, and I dropped instantly, kneeling to gather them up, eyes fixed firmly downward. "Forgive me," I murmured, voice carefully low.
A hand, pale and slender yet surprisingly strong, reached down to grasp one of the fallen linens. I froze, eyes tracking upward slowly, reluctantly. It was the prince himself—Prince Alaric. His expression wasn’t annoyed or dismissive, just curious. Intensely curious. It unsettled me.
"No harm done," he said mildly, handing back the sheet. His gaze lingered on my face for just a heartbeat too long, noticing the way my hair concealed half my features. "You’re new here, aren’t you?"
"Yes," I said softly, still avoiding his eyes. I didn’t want him to be staring at me like that, it just pissed me off, but even more so I didn't want him to see the missing eye beneath my patch, I didn't want the pity of that man's son. "Just assigned."
He tilted his head slightly, intrigued rather than deterred by my reticence. "And your name?"
"Kira," I repeated softly, hoping to slip back into anonymity quickly. But he held my gaze, as if searching for something more behind the simple answer.
"Kira," he echoed thoughtfully. "I’ll remember that."
I lowered my eyes again, heartbeat quickening uncomfortably. "Thank you, Your Highness."
He hesitated briefly, then stepped past me. "Careful with those sheets."
"Of course," I murmured, grateful when his footsteps finally faded.
I told myself it meant nothing. Just an idle curiosity from a bored prince. But something had sparked that day. A spark that slowly grew as he found reasons—innocuous, or casual—to cross my path again.
***
The problem with getting too good at pretending was that sometimes, you forgot you were pretending at all.
I told myself I was still waiting. Waiting for a moment. A slip-up. A clear line between what I needed and what I wanted to do. But days bled into weeks. Months. The palace changed with the seasons, but I didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.
The prince kept assigning me more tasks. More private duties. More time where it was just the two of us. I knew the pattern. Intimacy. Familiarity. Weakness. It was the same tactic I’d been trained to exploit.
Only… he didn’t use it that way.
One night he asked me to read to him while he rested. His voice was hoarse from some speech or another. He lay on his side, hair a mess, hand curled near his chest like a child. I sat by his window seat with the book open but couldn’t focus. The words ran together.
“I can’t picture you as a soldier,” he murmured out of nowhere.
“Good,” I said flatly. “I’m not one.”
He gave a tired smile. “No. You’re something else.”
I pretended not to feel the flutter that followed. “You should sleep.”
He didn’t. Neither did I that night.
***
I started writing more to Giuseppe then. Letters I never sent. Half-truths and detached observations. Nothing emotional. Nothing dangerous.
"He asks questions he shouldn't. He notices things most men wouldn't."
"He laughs at his own jokes, which is irritating."
"He's kind. It's almost worse than cruelty. It’s disarming."
Sometimes I’d write the same line five times just to get it out of my head.
He knows too much.
He sees too much.
He’s getting too close.
And worst of all, I kept letting him.
***
One evening, he brought me tea. Said I looked tired.
Tired? I’d slit a man’s throat two hours earlier and hidden the body so well the dogs wouldn’t sniff it out for a week. I wasn’t tired—I was unraveling.
“Drink,” he insisted, pushing the cup into my hands.
“Is this an order, your highness?” I asked dryly.
He tilted his head. “No. Just concern.”
I stared at the cup. Steam curled around my fingers. I should’ve dropped it. Should’ve thrown it back in his face and reminded him of the gap between us.
Instead, I drank it.
“I could kill you, you know,” I said softly, almost testing.
He only smiled. “But you won’t.”
My fingers trembled on the porcelain.
He was right.
***
The next day, he left a note in my cleaning supplies. Not romantic. Not playful.
Just four words.
"I trust you, Kira."
It broke something in me.
***
Some trust is a gift.
Some trust is a weapon.
And for Kris, it was both.
&nb sp; But like most blades, she only realized which it had been once it was already buried deep—too deep to pull out without bleeding.
***
They didn’t speak of it again.
The prince gave her space.
No inquiries. No assignments. No summons.
Just absence.
Calculated, quiet absence.
And somehow, that was worse.
She told herself it didn’t matter. That the man she’d silenced had seen too much. That if the prince had guessed what happened, he was smart enough not to say so. That if she was going to be a weapon, she had to be sharp—regardless of whose blood was on the edge.
But the silence still scraped at her.
She hadn’t been ordered to kill. Not this time.
She’d chosen.
And choices… had consequences.
Still, her hands never shook when she poured tea. Her voice never faltered when she gave reports. Her presence, like always, remained crisp, controlled, invisible.
Until he came back.
Not with anger. Not with accusation.
Just that maddening calm, that frustrating patience that made her want to scream.
And she said nothing. Because what could she say?
Why didn’t you ask me? Why didn’t you stop me? Why are you still looking at me like I’m worth saving?
She didn’t ask.
Because deep down… she already knew.
He hadn’t distanced himself for fear. Or for politics. Or even punishment.
He’d done it for her.
For the woman who’d never learned to grieve properly. Who buried her guilt in duty. Who used silence as armor and scorn as a shield.
Because he loved her.
And Kris…
Kris had never learned how to be loved.
***
It wasn’t supposed to happen.
She kept track of every cycle. Measured every risk like a tactician. Let nothing touch her unless she could use it.
But when the sickness didn’t pass, and her strength wavered during training, she knew.
She was pregnant.
She didn’t cry. Not at first.
She just stared at the little vial of diluted blood she used for testing. Watched it swirl in a basin of salted silver.
Positive.
Confirmed. Undeniable.
She thought about herbs. About back-alley alchemists. About stairs she could fall down.
But she didn’t.
She couldn’t say why.
Not then.
Not even now.
Maybe it was because her hand instinctively settled over her stomach. Or because she imagined a child with white hair and her scowl. Or maybe—just maybe—because vengeance alone had never been enough to keep her warm at night.
So she stayed.
Not for love.
She didn’t believe in love.
Not for the prince.
She still couldn’t say his name without biting her tongue.
She stayed because this child would be hers. Hers to raise. Hers to protect. Hers to mold into something stronger than the shattered thing she’d become.
But the king—he was still alive.
And every breath he took was another stain on her memory.
***
She waited until the palace was quiet. Midnight oil burned low, and the guards near his quarters grew careless.
She dressed in black, tied her hair back. Slipped the blade beneath her robes.
Her belly had only just begun to swell.
Barely noticeable. Easily dismissed.
But she felt it all the same. A pull. A weight.
One last vow.
Not to the spirits. Not to the child in her belly.
To herself.
Tonight, it ends.
***
She walked the palace halls like a shadow. Not sneaking—no, there was no need for that anymore. The king was old, arrogant, and blind.
Tonight, he would die.
Her blade rested warm beneath her robes. Her child—barely noticeable beneath the layers—moved not at all. Still too small. Still unformed.
But already hers.
She opened the door to his chambers without knocking. Let it creak. Let it groan. Let him hear.
He looked up, startled. “Who—?”
“Don’t speak,” she said, stepping into the room. Her voice was calm. Clear. “You won’t need long.”
He blinked at her. “You’re one of the servants. What are you doing here?”
She smiled.
The kind of smile that cuts.
“I came to give you a gift, Your Majesty. Information. The kind you’ve slaughtered nations for.”
The king straightened. His hand twitched toward the cord to summon guards.
She tilted her head. “Try it, and I’ll make sure you live long enough to watch me bleed your men dry.”
He froze.
Good.
“You’ve spent decades trying to understand Nox,” she continued. “To replicate our secrets. To create magicite without ever grasping the price.”
She stepped closer. Watched his confusion turn to wary curiosity.
“Well, congratulations,” she said softly. “You did it.”
He blinked.
“You got what you wanted. The bloodline of Nox.”
Her hand rested on her belly.
His eyes followed. Confusion crept into his face.
“My son…?” he asked, almost breathless.
She leaned in, lips near his ear.
“He’s going to be a father. You never knew he was smitten with a lowly maid, you were so self-indulgent. Well, not until now. You were all fooled by a one-eyed maid.”
She pulled back.
“I am Kris of Nox. Royal daughter. Assassin. Ghost of a country you burned.”
His face drained of color.
And Kris—Kris smiled again.
“This child will be stronger than both of us,” she said. “Because it will be born of vengeance and survival. And you? You’ll be nothing but a memory. A failed tyrant who mistook luck for genius.”
She drew the blade.
“You will not get your heir. You will not get your legacy. And you will never touch what belongs to me.”
She raised her hand to strike.
And then—
The blade flew from her fingers, knocked aside by a blur of movement and a loud sound. A second bang erupted, and a bullet pierced the king’s throat.
Kris staggered back.
The king gasped, choking on blood, and slumped.
Behind him, the prince stepped forward. Silent. Eyes cast downward. Hands steady despite what they had just done.
“You weren’t supposed to see this,” he said.
“You—” Her throat closed around the words. “You knew?”
“I guessed,” he replied. “Long ago.”
“Why stop me?”
“Because if you’d killed him,” the prince said, “you wouldn’t have stayed. You wouldn’t have let yourself live.”
Kris’s heart pounded in her ears. He was right.
He stepped closer, slowly, like she was something fragile.
And maybe she was.
She pressed a hand to her belly. The child didn’t stir.
But her tears did.
“I hate you,” she said, voice cracking.
“I know.”
“I’ll never forgive you for taking this from me.”
“I know.”
They stood in silence. Just long enough for grief to settle beside the blood.
Then Kris whispered, “What now?”
The prince looked at her with something between sorrow and hope.
“Now you live. For you. For them. For what comes next.”
Some stories begin with fire.
But Kris’s?
It began with ashes.
And from those ashes… she built a blade no one could break.
Not even herself.
Codex Entry #41: The Twin Marks of Crowned Blood
Among all crowned houses, birth writes its claim in color and light.
Each royal line carries a “sign”—hair and eyes bound to ancestry so deeply that courtiers once called them the spirits’ signatures. In one realm, a dynasty may wear silver hair and onyx eyes; in another, ember hair and sapphire irises; in a third, black hair like void and eyes like molten copper. The pairings are absolute within a line, unbroken for generations.
When two such houses mingle, the child rarely escapes the rules. Most heirs display one parent’s hair with the other’s eyes—a neat, visible treaty between two thrones. These “two-sign heirs” are celebrated or feared depending on which court whispers first.
