Chapter 02
Pending Judgment
Ninia had been confined in the prayer tower for one month and ten extra days. Since ancient times, the tower had also served to imprison noble offenders. Beneath the single door that led to the corridor, a smaller hatch allowed food and water to be passed in twice a day.
She guessed the passage of time by the tally marks she scratched into the wall.
One more day passed like this—until the door of her prayer cell finally opened. Two priests entered, covered her eyes with a leather hood, and led her away.
Guided by the priests, Ninia descended the stairs. She stumbled several times, but wedged between the strong men, she never fell. Soon, through the pungent smell of the leather, she caught a faint whiff of the outdoors. A door must have opened.
Outside…
With her sight blocked, her other senses sharpened. She could hear birds chirping, leaves brushing together in the wind, and the sudden scurrying of small animals. They placed her into a carriage that had been prepared in advance.
A sharp whinny split the air.
The carriage lurched forward with the sound of hooves. Only then was the leather hood removed. Two priests sat beside and across from her. Because the window was covered with red cloth, she still couldn’t see outside.
It was her first time leaving the tower in over a month. Yet what Ninia regretted most was not the sentence awaiting her, but simply that she could not see the world.
Silence weighed on the carriage. The priests’ blank faces gave her a chill.
The place where Ninia was to be “offered” would be crowded with priests as well. Her instinctive aversion to them felt like something innate. Knowing this, she hugged her own shoulders, trying to steady the quiet fear seeping in.
…The shoulder cloth. I left it behind.
Rubbing her shoulders, she suddenly remembered. Perhaps the chill she felt came from its absence. During her service as a saint, that shawl had always draped her shoulders. Now its absence left her oddly bereft.
It wasn’t the noble symbolism she missed. Her thoughts turned elsewhere.
The embroidery… I’d made it so beautifully.
All the shoulder cloths of the Kaner faith had been embroidered by Ninia herself. From childhood she had been taught the art of embroidery, learning under the sting of rapped knuckles until her needlework was worthy of being called art.
Her stitches were said to carry the Saint’s blessing. And indeed, they were believed to bring protection and peace.
Pieces she embroidered were auctioned at grand charity events for high prices or gifted to noble followers of the Kaner faith.
“Um…”
The carriage had been traveling for a while when Ninia carefully spoke up. One priest’s brow creased, his expression otherwise unchanged. She faltered, but the words were already out.
“If the journey is long… might I have something to embroider?”
The priest gave her an incredulous look. Ninia felt awkward but feigned composure.
A Saint was called the Goddess’s lily. As the Goddess’s flower, Ninia ranked above all under the High Priest. Ordinarily, these ordinary priests wouldn’t even dare meet her eyes.
But now, stripped of that status and branded a criminal, she understood her place. Staying silent would be wiser, yet she needed something—anything—to hold her focus.
Solitary confinement drives a person mad…
She had spent over a month locked in the prayer chamber atop the spire. Not even a small bird ventured that high. It was perfect isolation, a punishment simply for surviving.
As a saint, her days had been so full she barely slept. Pilgrimages across nations, endless ceremonies and banquets—she had never been alone like this.
“Would that be difficult?” she asked one last time.
The priests gave no answer. Her small fists clenched tighter on her knees.
Even that is forbidden…
Again she acknowledged her situation. The carriage rolled on for a long while, then stopped. One priest stepped out and returned after some time, handing Ninia a bundle.
“…What is this?”
She opened it carefully. Inside were scraps of cloth, spools of thread, and a needle.
There must have been a village nearby.
The cloth was clearly castoff material, yet Ninia was overjoyed.
“Thank you,” she said, hugging the bundle to her chest. Watching the priests’ faces, she finally threaded the needle. They didn’t stop her; a slender woman with a single needle was hardly a threat.
Relieved, Ninia began to stitch. Just the act of doing something sent a shiver of strange pleasure through her.
Though only a month had passed, the sensation of the needle piercing cloth felt almost foreign. But her body remembered what her mind did not. Through the act of embroidery, she felt alive.
“Ninia, your judgment will be decided soon,” one priest said as she finished embroidering a leaf no bigger than a pinky nail. His sudden words broke the long silence. Ninia blinked, her needle still poised.
To anyone unaware of who she was, she might have seemed a noblewoman simply enjoying her craft. Watching her, the priest asked:
“Why didn’t you die?”
It was a question of pure curiosity, neither threat nor reproach. Yet it pierced Ninia’s heart like a blade. She was speechless. He spoke as though she herself could choose life or death.
She answered only with silence, stitching faster and tighter.
How grateful she was to have something in her hands. Biting the inside of her cheek, she held back the words that threatened to escape.
I wonder that myself…
She could not answer, but his question was her own. Why was she still alive? Wouldn’t it have been easier to die back then?
O Goddess…
Ninia sought the Goddess in her heart. It was, of course, improper prayer. Formal prayer required temple offerings and precise rites; only such prayer was said to honor the divine. Ninia had nodded respectfully when taught this, but she always carried a different thought inside.
A relentless war…
During her service as Saint, the Empire suffered endless unrest and countless wars between nations. The northern war was nearing its end, but villages razed by armies could not recover.
Ninia and other priests had personally visited several of the worst-stricken villages. The stench of ashes and blood stung her nose. The cries of children who had lost their parents echoed through the ruined streets like a sorrowful chorus.
Strange comfort…
Yet those cries reassured her. More dreadful than a child’s sob was a silence like death. In villages where all had perished, not even the wind could be heard.
She comforted a weeping child and stayed until the malnourished little body regained strength. In that time a holy knight tracked down the child’s father, who had been taken as a slave, and at last the child rose from the sickbed.
“The Goddess lives in our hearts. So just close your eyes and pray like this!”
The child had said it while nestled in her arms. Ninia thought then that this small child surpassed her.
Let me fulfill my purpose…
She continued her quiet prayer as she sewed. The Saint’s worth was thought to end with being sacrificed. Ninia had failed to complete the task the Goddess desired.
But she was human. Though she should have gladly laid down her life for the greater good, a double-edged feeling settled in her heart.
Perhaps…
She placed her hand over her pounding heart. What remained in the unopened box of her life? Was it death, belated but certain?
Or perhaps… perhaps it was a fragile hope for a life that had not yet been stolen.
