HUI 10

Truth and Lies

Beyond the window, a heavy blizzard raged. Since arriving in the North, Ninia had watched winter reach its brutal peak. She stepped back from the window, shivering from the cold.

She had finally drawn the thick curtains for insulation, yet the chill still seeped in. For someone born and raised in the Empire’s mild central lands, the dark northern winter was almost unbearable. Even after staying inside, layering several garments, and feeding the warming brazier with charcoal all day, the room never seemed truly warm.

‘…Outside it’s nothing but snow.’

Thinking of the snowy landscape oddly brought Tarahan to mind. Late at night, without a sound, he had once entered her room, spoken only a single frigid sentence, and disappeared again.

The next morning Ninia asked the maid who brought her meal if the Grand Duke was in the castle. The maid, with a sour expression, replied that His Grace was away.

‘He went out in this weather?’

Even from the window the storm was blinding; outside must be impossible to face. Yet she soon stopped worrying.

Her husband was the man who had overturned a war everyone believed already lost and crowned himself in victory. To him, such weather was nothing.

‘Is it because of the blood of a minority tribe?’

Tarahan’s red eyes and warm brown skin were unlike anything seen among the pale citizens of the Piechen Empire. He had clearly inherited these traits from his mother’s people, whom others dismissed as “barbarians.”

These so-called barbarian tribes had lived on the continent since ancient times, carrying unique bloodlines and abilities, guarding their own traditions in closed communities.

Tarahan’s lineage was of the Rta, a people known for their crimson eyes and dark skin. They possessed strength enough to fight several knights bare-handed and placed the highest honor on protecting the wise women of their clans.

But red eyes and brown skin marked them as devils among the pale faithful. Under the teachings of the goddess Kaner, the Rta were eventually hunted to near extinction.

Even now, executions of minority tribes continued. Perhaps, Ninia thought, that was why Tarahan seemed to dislike her.

“…My usefulness.”

The words Tarahan once spoke—“Neither a saint nor of any use”—echoed in her mind. He hadn’t needed to say it; she already knew.

In this castle she was useless. Even a lowly maid had her duties, while Ninia only curled up against the cold, with no responsibilities at all.

‘When he came to me, should I have done something?’

For a moment the word temptation flickered through her thoughts. She had never learned such things, and merely entertaining them felt sinful.

But even if she could turn back time, she would have done nothing. Her wooden, frozen body would only have earned his quiet mockery.

‘He’ll never need me.’

He had left without touching her. Perhaps he had come only out of curiosity. He must have decided she was not a woman worth holding. Surely he would never come again.

“The North is so cold.”

Living alone, she spoke aloud more and more. Pulling her heavy shawl tighter, she noticed the source of the chill: the brazier’s charcoal had burned out. She started to add more, then hesitated.

‘No charcoal.’

The pile that should have been beside the brazier was gone, likely used up in the worsening cold.

‘What should I do?’

There was no bell cord to summon a servant—something she’d only discovered days after arriving. It meant this was not the Grand Duchess’s chamber at all. She was long past anger or self-pity, but now she faced a problem.

‘I need to ask for more…’

The maid visited only three times a day for cleaning and meals. It would be half a day before anyone returned, far too long to endure without heat.

‘Maybe I can step out for a moment.’

The marriage contract restricted her movements, but within the castle most areas were accessible if she wished.

Still, she had stayed shut inside because of people’s eyes.

She wasn’t afraid of them. Yet every glance was a reminder of how unnecessary she was here—an intruder among the useful.

She didn’t want to be the obstacle in others’ work.

‘I can’t stay here.’

The room cooled rapidly as the fire died. Soon her breath would be visible in the air. She stood.

The cold-soaked door creaked open. Wind moaned through the corridor like the cry of a ghost. Yet compared to the hallway, even her unheated room had been warm. She had to find someone. Her feet touched the icy floor.

‘They’ve been making repairs.’

The windows that had once let in drafts, the cracked walls—now all were patched and covered, draped with insulation so people could pass through.

The harsh northern winter was called the punishment of the gods. Abandoned by the goddess, the northerners did not simply wait for mercy. They fought to claim a life within the cruel season.

Before long, she heard voices around a corner. Relief came first, followed by nervousness at approaching a group already deep in conversation.

It felt no different from when she, as a prisoner, had once begged the priests for needle and thread. But before she could speak, she heard a word from their mouths: saint.

“So, how is that woman who was supposed to be a saint?”

The stable hand Hatom spoke first. Three maids all frowned at once.

“She stays locked in her room and never comes out. Well, better that way.”

“Still, it’s galling.”

Rosa, the maid assigned to Ninia’s room, spoke with annoyance. Her fellow maid Viole countered, while the youngest, Emily, nodded vigorously and clenched her fists.

“Exactly! Because of that woman, our master’s honor…!”

“Emily, watch your tongue. Someone might hear.”

Scolded by Hatom, Emily pouted. But when the senior maids didn’t stop her, she went on complaining.

“Tch, as if anyone here likes her. Our master’s honor is the North’s honor—and she’s ruined it, that so-called saint.”

“How old are you to cry so easily?” Viole teased when Emily’s eyes grew red. Yet her arm around the girl’s shoulders was gentle.

“We all know you’re not wrong. Hush now.”

Rosa joined in, patting Emily’s back. Emily sniffled, then spoke again, eyes burning with resentment.

“It was our master who led the war to victory, and we who survived that slaughter. Why is she the one praised?”

Their words fell into heavy silence, cold as the winter air.

It had been a brutal war. The northern nobles had fled south, leaving villagers helpless in the chaos.

Invaders burned villages, slaughtered unarmed residents. Parents died before their children’s eyes; black-handed soldiers reached for young women—until he appeared.

Tarahan. Our savior.

To the abandoned, Tarahan was a brown-skinned god. He gathered scattered villagers and defended them from the enemy. He shared food so none went hungry or sick—a life better than before the war, when the local lords had exploited them.

The North had long suffered from predatory lending; few were free of debt. Even before the war, many froze to death for lack of firewood, and no one offered help.

So when war came, they fought beside him. Women tended the wounded, men labored without complaint. They endured, and their god led them to victory.

“We only wanted our master to shine. We still do,” Emily said with conviction. The others agreed silently.

But after victory came neither honor nor peace.

The nobles who had fled returned as if nothing had happened and plundered the lands. They claimed the victory was due to their offerings to the goddess and burned alive those who had supported Tarahan.

“Did not the gracious goddess send her saint to save you?” they said.

A saint—how absurd.

Most northerners had never even seen a priest, let alone a saint. Yet credit for the victory went first to the goddess, next to an unknown saint, and last to the nobles who had paid tithes.

Those who had risked their lives were left only with the insult of being called filthy half-breeds. The people Tarahan had protected were beaten daily as godless heretics.

Anger and injustice boiled. What was this god? What was a saint?

And in the end, the “saint” was proclaimed the heroine who saved the North. The story said she sacrificed all her holy power to end the war and mercifully reached out to the faithless Tarahan.

Everyone accepted this fabricated tale as truth. Only those who had truly lived the war knew otherwise.

“How shameless of her. She shouldn’t have come from the capital,” someone muttered.

“She probably came to claim the North’s prosperity as her own doing,” Rosa replied.

They exchanged a few more bitter remarks about Ninia, then dispersed to their duties.

Ninia remained alone in the gusty corridor.

“…So that’s how it is.”

Even after they left, she stood there for a long time. She no longer felt the cold. Inside, she felt hollow—an empty shell prettily wrapped and used.

No one cared what became of discarded trash.

“I should have died then.”

Ninia whispered the words again.