The guest room beside the orphanage was quiet, its tall windows opening toward the gardens where children's laughter faintly echoed. Sunlight spilled across polished floors and a fine table that separated the two men seated opposite each other.
Archbishop Michael sat with his usual grace, hands folded loosely on his lap. Across from him, Marquess Roland Lievan Castell leaned back slightly on the couch, the poise of nobility never leaving him.
Standing just behind the Archbishop was Erika, trying her best to appear calm.
From the outside, she looked perfectly composed — her expression soft, polite. But inside, her mind was a storm.
Why am I here?
Her palms were cold, her heartbeat loud against her ribs. A faint sheen of sweat gathered at her temple, and she forced another small smile to hide the tension clawing inside her.
It started so suddenly.
Earlier, Archbishop Michael had insisted — with his usual warmth and unshakable enthusiasm — that she join him for this meeting.
"It's been too long, Erika," he'd said. "You should stay a while. And perhaps accompany me for this meeting with the Marquess," he smiled.
Now, standing here, she silently regretted agreeing. Every moment in the room felt like holding her breath under water.
The men's conversation blurred into a hum until Michael's gentle voice cut through her anxious thoughts.
"Erika," he said kindly, turning to her. "Would you mind preparing some tea for us?"
Relief flooded her chest — a reason to leave. "Of course, Your Grace," she said quickly, bowing her head.
Her thoughts tumbled as she moved for the door.
Once I serve the tea, I'm out.
She stepped out, grateful for the brief escape, the echo of her boots fading down the hall.
Inside the room, Roland's gaze followed her as the door closed. His tone was casual when he spoke again, but there was curiosity beneath it.
"She works here?"
Michael looked toward the door where Erika had exited, a faint smile on his lips.
"Not exactly. She's a volunteer — visits from time to time to help with the children."
He let out a small, nervous chuckle. "Though it would be impossible for her to serve here formally."
Roland tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing with quiet understanding.
"Because she's a Northerner?"
Michael hesitated, then smiled with faint unease.
"Yes. Even if she's recognized now as a citizen of the South, the Church would never allow it."
Roland's fingers tapped lightly against the armrest. His next words were calm, but sharp.
"Because it would be considered heresy, then? From what I've learned, the people of the North never followed any god. They lived without faith, independent — and the world called them barbarians for it."
He looked at Michael as he spoke, his gaze steady — almost testing, as if the statement carried a hidden weight.
Michael met his eyes, the light from the window catching faintly on the silver in his hair. For a long moment, silence lingered.
Then, with a quiet exhale, the Archbishop smiled — a weary, almost haunted curve of the lips.
"Perhaps… and maybe that's why the North fell. A people with no god to believe in often perish by their own hands."
His tone was gentle, but something in his eyes said otherwise — an eerie flicker of memory and guilt that neither man cared to name.
After some time, Erika returned, balancing a silver tray as she entered the room. She placed the cups before the two men with practiced care and stepped back politely.
Roland lifted his cup first, taking a small sip. The moment the taste hit his tongue, his brows lifted in surprise.
"This is… remarkably refined," he said, glancing at Erika. "You prepared this yourself?"
"Yes, my lord," Erika replied softly.
Roland studied her for a moment, his expression thoughtful.
"You have steady hands," he noted. "And the way you speak—your posture, even your manners—they're unusually polished for someone your age."
Erika smiled faintly, nervous but composed. "I… taught myself, my lord."
Roland leaned back, sipping again. A hint of amusement flickered in his tone.
"Then you're a better teacher than most nobles I've met."
Erika blinked, unsure if it was a compliment or mockery. She gave a small bow, intending to excuse herself.
But before she could, Roland's voice stopped her.
"Before you leave," he said, his tone light but pointed, "you seemed rather curious earlier… when you were standing behind the Archbishop. You were looking at my papers, weren't you?"
Erika froze. Slowly, she turned back toward him.
Roland tilted his head slightly. "You know what they mean?"
The question hung in the air like a quiet challenge. Among commoners, literacy—especially the ability to read complex texts—was rare. For someone like Erika, it could invite suspicion more than praise.
Erika gathered her courage. "Archbishop Michael taught me," she said at last. "When I was young. He wanted me to learn."
Michael chuckled gently, eager to dissolve the tension. "Ah yes, that was quite the task," he said warmly. "But she took to the words in time. Now she reads more than I do."
Roland's lips curved into a faint smile. A quiet laugh escaped him, almost inaudible. "Impressive," he murmured, waving his hand dismissively.
"You may go."
Erika bowed once more, suppressing her relief as she finally stepped out of the room. Her heartbeat echoed in her ears until the door shut behind her.
Inside, the two men continued their talk.
"I must say," Michael began, "it brings me joy to hear that you wish for the orphanage children to take part in the Eternal Flame Festival, my lord."
Roland smiled faintly, his gaze distant. "It would be lovely, wouldn't it? My wife has a soft spot for children. She'd be delighted to see them join the celebration."
Michael's expression shifted, caught off guard. "The Lady… will be attending?"
Roland glanced at him, the corner of his mouth lifting.
It's been years—since the festival's founding, in fact—that Catalina Duavan had never once joined the empire's public celebrations. Her presence alone would stir the entire capital.
Michael clasped his hands together, visibly pleased. "Then this year's festival will truly be blessed. It will be an honor to see the Lady again, after so long."
Roland's smile deepened, polite and unreadable.
"Of course. As her husband, I'll be by her side when the time comes. I'm sure the Emperor will be… delighted by the surprise, don't you think, Archbishop Michael?"
As Michael raised his cup with a cheerful smile, savoring the tea Erika had prepared, Roland followed suit—though his attention drifted elsewhere.
His gaze fell to the stack of papers spread neatly across the table. A soft chuckle escaped him.
Those weren't words. They were numbers—columns of complex equations, calculations of Church funds, and resource ledgers tied to the city's military accounts.
He had noticed it the moment she glanced at them. The way her eyes moved—not with idle curiosity, but with understanding. Recognition.
She hadn't been admiring the handwriting; she had been reading the figures. Solving them, even.
You could teach yourself letters, perhaps—but not the logic behind numbers this intricate.
Roland leaned back in his seat, setting his cup down with a quiet clink. His expression was calm, almost pleasant, but the faint curl of his lips betrayed his thoughts.
That kind of awareness couldn't come from someone who was taught how to 'read.'
"Self-taught, hmm?" Roland murmured softly, half to himself, as he took another sip. "How interesting."
Michael glanced up at him, puzzled, but Roland only smiled wider, hiding the spark of intrigue in his eyes.
He let the matter rest—for now. But a quiet thought lingered in the back of his mind. Who exactly was that woman trying so hard to pretend she wasn't?
The firelight shimmered faintly in Roland's eyes as he set his cup down, the echo of his smirk lingering.
Away from the quiet church halls and into the gleaming corridors of the imperial palace. The sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the grand marble halls of the imperial palace. The rhythm was sharp, urgent—each step striking against the floor like a drumbeat of alarm.
The palace servants turned as a man swept past them in a rush. His coat flared behind him, his breath quick and uneven. It was Robin, the Emperor's most trusted advisor.
Inside the Emperor's office, Emperor Ivan stood near the tall windows, a rare smile softening on his face. He was feeding seeds to his beloved golden pheasant, the bird chirping cheerfully within its gilded cage. For once, the mighty Emperor looked at peace—completely absorbed in the simple joy of watching his pet eat.
That peace, however, didn't last long.
The double doors slammed open, that echoed through the chamber. The startled pheasant fluttered wildly, feathers scattering as it flapped its wings.
Robin stumbled in, chest rising and falling from the sprint. He paused to fix his clothes, fumbling to button his coat properly before adjusting his glasses in a desperate attempt to look presentable.
Before he could utter a word, Emperor Ivan spoke.
"I rarely get a moment of peace, Robin. This interruption of yours better come with a good excuse."
The Emperor's expression carried a smile—but the kind that promised trouble if the answer wasn't good enough.
Robin gulped softly, then hurried to close the door behind him. He stepped closer and leaned in, whispering under his breath.
"Your Majesty… I bring news."
Ivan tilted his head, clearly unimpressed.
"It better be good news. And why the whispering?"
Without replying, Robin reached into his coat and produced a sealed letter. His hands trembled slightly as he offered it to the Emperor.
Ivan accepted it, his sharp gaze immediately catching the sigil pressed in crimson wax—a radiant sun crossed by a sword.
For a heartbeat, the Emperor's face went blank. Then his eyes widened, the composure of a ruler slipping for the briefest moment.
"This seal…" he muttered, almost in disbelief. "It's hers."
He turned the letter in his hand, the mark unmistakable. It bore the emblem of Catalina Duavan.
"...After all this time," he whispered.
The golden pheasant chirped again, tilting its head curiously at its master's silence. For the first time in years, Emperor Ivan looked truly surprised.