Evelia Crozier

If someone visited the hometown listed in her records and asked the locals, they’d surely describe Evelia as sensible, ambitious, virtuous, and kind-hearted.

But in truth, Evelia Crozier didn’t exist.

She wasn’t impersonating anyone—just a persona conjured from nothing.

Locals would say she was gentle, that her parents’ gravestone sat beneath a tree on the neighboring hill. She wove flower crowns for children and often sat alone on the doorstep watching the sunset.

None of it was real. Just a crafted persona—a story, like those in novels.

Such tales were easy to spin: sketch the most ordinary, wholesome girl imaginable.

After picking a town, they’d approach gossip-loving women and ask:

“I’m looking for someone. Remember a pink-haired girl who lived here? Evelia Crozier.”

“Hmm? Was there such a girl?”

Naturally, confusion followed—no such girl existed.

“Wait… maybe? I recall a little pink-haired girl. You even complimented her hair once.”

The Second Prince’s informants were everywhere. A street vendor might be his agent. All it took was a familiar face stepping in to confirm “Evelia’s” existence—and the story began.

“Oh? Well… I do like pink…”

As the woman hesitated, another gently guided:

“Of course! She was pretty. One summer, she helped the old man at the street corner air out his quilts.”

“Hmm? Ah—now that you mention it… What was her name again?”

“Evelia. Evelia Crozier.”

“Right! Evelia. Lovely name, lovely girl.”

“Haven’t seen her in ages. Moved away?”

“Probably. Young folks chase city dreams. Only us old-timers stay.”

“Not *that* old!”

Through chatter and planted nudges, the nonexistent girl became a kind, beautiful local legend. In that moment, “Evelia Crozier” was born.

Forged documents backed the tale. Even beneath an unremarkable tree on the hill, a gravestone for her “parents” stood. A passerby would glance and murmur, “Oh! Evelia’s parents’ grave… So she really lived here.”

All fake. Her past, face, name—even her life. Just ink in the Second Prince’s story. One stroke crossing out her name, and her tale ended.

“Thank you for the sweets, Miss Evelia.”

The young knight smiled, plucking a chocolate-chip pastry and taking a big bite.

“You’re welcome. These are new recipes. With a new master, we’re testing his tastes—care to help us taste-test?”

“Sweets, huh?” Another knight mused, holding a strawberry tart. “I rarely see the captain eat sweets.”

“Doesn’t he like them?”

Evelia held the tray, pondering Arman’s preferences. Given his lively nature, she assumed he’d enjoy these little treats.

“More like he dislikes *everything*,” someone chimed in.

“Yeah. At banquets or victory feasts, he barely touches food—just drinks that watered-down beer he buys. Though… he *does* love that stuff.”

“Honestly? It’s not bad. Perfect when you need to drink a lot.”

They chatted while munching, murmuring about their captain’s quirks.

“I think he avoids heavy meals due to a stomach condition,” the tart-holder said, wiping his mouth. “He skips banquet food but loves fried snacks and cold appetizers. Sometimes brings his own to parties.”

“Wouldn’t that worsen it? I’ve seen him pop stomach pills like peanuts—toss one in his mouth anytime.”

He mimicked Arman: flicking a chocolate chip casually into his mouth.

“Pfft. Every soldier’s got ailments. Ate tree bark when supplies ran out—*that* messes you up. Rheumatism, arthritis… none escape it. Laryngitis? My voice’s still shot from training recruits. Sounds minor, but *ouch*.”

“If your throat’s sore, hand over that tart—Hey! You scarfed it!”

Despite the complaint, the knight stuffed the rest into his mouth, chewing noisily—as if he’d predicted his comrade’s move.

“So what *should* we prepare for dinner? First time hosting for Master. We don’t want him displeased.”

*He’s pickier than I thought*, Evelia mused inwardly. She’d assumed Arman was easygoing.

“He won’t be. Sincere effort pleases him. Off-duty, I’ve rarely seen the captain angry. He’s genuinely easygoing.”

“I *never* want to squad with him on the battlefield again… Ugh… strawberries look like… popping eyeballs…”

At “battlefield,” the knight paled, hand flying to his mouth, brows twitching as if haunted.

“Hah… Don’t say that. Miss Evelia’s here. What’ll she think of the captain…”

The other knight grimaced at the smeared jam on his friend’s lips, biting back further words for the young lady’s sake.

“Does Master often lose his temper in battle?” Evelia raised an eyebrow, sensing something unusual about Arman.

“Not exactly… You’ve seen his smile? That carefree one?”

“Mm. I have.”

She often found that sunny grin almost blinding.

“Put it this way: he *always* smiles. Fine normally… but can you picture it—amid corpses, an enemy’s head impaled on his sword—and he’s *still* smiling?”

…

Evelia froze. A vague chill slithered down her spine.

“It’s not *that* scary, Miss Evelia!” the knight elbowed his friend. “Don’t paint it vividly! Look what you said—you’ll frighten her!”

“Sigh… Captain’s too unpredictable. Hard to read. But he’s good. Treat him like any master—he’s never picky… Ugh. Don’t wanna recall that again…”

He gave earnest advice while muttering, then turned to leave. The other knight, wearing a “same here” look, thanked Evelia for the sweets and followed to clear his head.

…

Evelia watched them fade. Her face stayed neutral at first, but questions swirled. Arman wasn’t the simple soul rumors claimed. Yet he never seemed guarded around her—or anyone.

That carefree air felt bone-deep. Could his thick-skinned nature really keep him smiling *even on the battlefield*?

Silent, she gazed toward the distant courtyard, tray in hand, walking toward the next cluster of knights.

…What a strange man…