Chapter 11
The Forsaken
Ninia finally understood why people despised her.
She had realized it late, but if she hadn’t stepped into the corridor that day, she might never have known. In a way, it was a small mercy.
She stood for a long time at the corner of the hall before slowly turning back.
She couldn’t remember how—or with what mind—she kept walking and walking. Her slow steps gradually quickened.
I never wanted to end up like this, never.
She had already once let go of her attachment to life.
Believing her own life to be an offering, she had been able to step willingly onto the altar.
Her life should have ended there.
She had never wished for people to condemn her for wearing an ostentatious, dazzling shell while knowing there was nothing inside.
Her brisk walk became almost a run.
Though she could see the path ahead, it felt as dark as if she were blind.
At last she collided with someone as if she were sightless.
“…Ah.”
Despite running, it was Ninia who stumbled backward.
The icy floor jolted her senses awake.
Blinking slowly, she looked up.
The man she had bumped into was Sebrus, the steward of Renthus Castle.
“Your Highness,” he said, looking down at her. “What are you doing here?”
Sebrus had once served another noble household, but during the war he was abandoned.
Tarahan had brought him here and appointed him steward of the castle.
Sebrus and his former master both harbored deep resentment toward the gods, and no one working here lacked some debt to Tarahan’s grace.
His watchful gaze pierced Ninia.
It was as though he suspected her of being a spy.
She stood on her own and answered quietly.
“…Nothing. I’m going back to my room.”
“You’ve come quite far. It will be hard to return alone. Allow me to escort you.”
His words were polite, but he was clearly worried she might wander elsewhere—and warning her not to roam freely.
Guided by the steward, Ninia returned to her chamber.
In the meantime, the room had grown as cold as the hallway.
She endured the chill of the dark room.
Later, Rosa brought her supper and lit charcoal, but a room that had once gone cold took a long time to warm.
That night Ninia fell asleep as if unconscious—and dreamed another nightmare.
If the first nightmare had been the day she was offered as a sacrifice,
this time she was branded a northern witch and burned at the stake.
Maidservants threw stones at her,
men piled straw high around her feet,
and soon the fire caught.
Flames blazed like a northern bonfire, devouring her whole.
The nightmare repeated, and she awoke from the same dream once more, curling against a sudden chill.
Am I cold… or hot?
How useless was she, to not even know.
Wiping the clammy sweat from her brow, she thought hazily.
Her vision blurred.
When she tried to rise, her body tilted toward the floor.
This time, even the icy ground failed to wake her.
Her sight dimmed to black.
Thick curtains, layered carpets, and warming pans packed with glowing coals filled the room with heat.
Yet the woman on the bed trembled as if frozen solid.
“Again.”
The physician Crove clicked his tongue as he examined the former Saint.
Though she shivered like someone chilled, her body burned with fever.
“She won’t last many more years,” he muttered.
The fever was not immediately fatal, but the way it hovered between low and high, over and over, would eventually wear her down.
Northern winters were brutal even for those born here; for an outsider, they were merciless.
First, I need to bring the fever down.
If she died now, it would cause him trouble.
Crove tilted a potion into Ninia’s mouth.
The bitter green liquid made her beautiful face wince faintly before relaxing again.
He clicked his tongue once more as he studied her pale features.
“Why did she come to the North at all?”
Anything involving the gods filled Crove with cold fury.
He could never understand why people believed only the divine could heal a body.
The temple claimed that the flesh was the goddess’s gift and only her touch could mend it.
Gods, what a lie. Do they know how much wealth the temple hoards while preaching nonsense?
The temple controlled not only treatment for commoners and nobles but even the emperor’s physicians.
Every medicine or healing herb required the temple’s blessing, even supplies meant for the army.
The fortune they amassed rivaled that of the emperor himself.
Crove had practiced medicine among the poor with others like him, until he was eventually hunted down.
He fled north hoping to seek asylum, only for war to break out.
Captured by Gilprus soldiers and treated like a slave, he was finally rescued by Tarahan’s army.
Fortunately the brown-skinned warlord did not worship the gods, and Crove had found his first true place in the open as a doctor.
“What was the temple thinking, sending this woman here?”
Crove set down the bowl of powdered medicine with an irritable clatter.
The duke needed a figurehead, yes, but why had the temple given up the Saint herself?
“They must have decided she’s no longer useful.”
Like many, Crove had heard the legends of the Saint.
The temple’s image soared thanks to her.
They had even paraded her through high society.
But to strip her of the title and cast her into the north—there could be only one reason: she was no longer of use.
It’s infuriating, he thought.
He despised the temple—and this woman who once glorified it was part of that image.
Yet Ninia never refused his treatment or called him a devil.
He’d heard she even took her prescribed medicine faithfully.
If she truly believed in the goddess, she would have recoiled from his potions and injections as if they were filth dredged from hell.
But she didn’t, and the man known for his sharp tongue found his heart softening despite himself.
“Huh?”
While mixing medicine and glancing at her in irritation, Crove noticed Ninia’s eyelids flutter.
Had he imagined it?
He narrowed his eyes just as her lashes lifted.
Her eyes were as blue and clear as a winter lake.
They were so bright and transparent that even Crove, who did not believe in souls, thought he glimpsed a radiant spirit within.
Slowly she blinked and looked at him.
“…I know why you dislike me.”
Then, watching his startled face for a quiet moment, she closed her eyes again.
Soon only the sound of her gentle breathing filled the room.
Crove stared at the sleeping woman for a long while, dumbfounded.
When he checked her temperature, it had dropped a little.
Her brief words hadn’t been reproachful.
If anything, they sounded like a resigned apology.
At least, that was how Crove heard them.
For several days, Ninia drifted in and out of consciousness.
The fever would seem to ease only to flare again, draining her strength.
The northern cold was punishing enough, but perhaps her sickness was also a scar left from being offered as a sacrifice.
It was three days before she could stay awake for more than a few hours.
The next day—
Crove came to examine her again.
She was still asleep, but at least the fever wasn’t high.
He nodded at the thermometer just as the door burst open with a heavy thud, no knock at all.
“Saints—my heart!”
Crove leapt up from his chair, ready to curse whoever barged in.
But when he saw the intruder, his words died.
The man’s very presence swept away irritation.
“Is she dying?”
The lord of the castle, back unexpectedly, leaned against the doorframe, glancing from Crove to Ninia.
“No, not at all,” Crove answered instantly, dry-throated.
He was about to explain her symptoms in detail when—
“Good enough.”
Tarahan turned and left without another word.
Crove was too stunned even to stop him.
“What kind of man is that…?”
He muttered in disbelief, then, just in case, peered out into the hall and was relieved to find no one else there.
“….”
Ninia had opened her eyes at some point, silently watching his every move.
She closed them again, as if nothing had happened.
