Chapter 1:
The Lily of the Valley of Saint-Bertal
There once lived a perfumer who created a fragrance unlike any other in the world.
At the forefront of the inquisitors who had pursued her stood a man before the last temple of Varin, god of crossroads and stars. He shouted, “Sinner Prim! Open the door!”
Though fierce cries echoed from outside, the woman walked toward the altar inside the temple as if she heard nothing.
Behind her, a trail of bloodstained footprints dotted the floor.
At last, she reached the altar.
A faceless statue of an angel, split in two, lay in ruins upon it.
She collapsed to her knees before it, slumping as though falling.
In a hoarse, locked voice, she spoke.
“…Lord Varin.”
The god whom no one had called upon for so long, forgotten by all, offered no answer now.
“Was it because I took the wrong path? Is that why I am being punished?”
Her cheeks grew endlessly wet.
“Then… then why not me, but Rozien…!”
She raised the perfume bottle clutched in her hand. Her trembling made the pale, luminous liquid inside quiver.
In its rippling surface, Prim saw the vision of a young man with red hair. She saw him collapse, scattering blood as red as his locks.
At the same moment, the growing voices outside finally shattered the temple doors.
Boom!
With the clanking of armor, the inquisitors stormed in and shouted, “Sinner Prim! Do not move!”
Prim recognized the face of the man leading them.
Sevardo Rickhardt, servant of Yulberon, god of justice and pride.
He was the one who had often urged Rozien at her side to become a knight, repeatedly praising Rozien’s exceptional talent.
Yet now, the face that looked upon her was stained with bitter resentment.
“By the command of Yulberon, god of justice and pride, and by the arrangement of His Holiness the High Priest, the sinner Prim shall be taken into custody!”
Sevardo drew his sword. It bore the fragrance of divine blessing, proof that he had come this far by the will of his god.
“For the crimes of monopolizing fragrances and persecuting secular perfumers, thereby obstructing the subjugation of demonic beasts; for inciting Rozien Ardor to commit countless crimes; for ultimately driving Rozien Ardor to his death; and finally, for creating a fragrance that kills people—thus forfeiting all qualification as a perfumer! We, the inquisitors, shall seize the offending perfume and escort the sinner Prim to Luminoxia Aila!”
The tip of the sword he thrust forward trembled. The aged man’s face seemed almost to plead.
Prim quietly considered the charges they recited.
They were right.
Rather than rising into the light herself, Rozien had fallen into the underground to reign as lord of the dark caverns—all for the things she had desired, though she had never demanded them.
And in the end, Rozien’s journey to obtain the fragrance she sought had left not even a body behind.
All that returned to her was the coveted ingredient and a single lock of red hair.
With that sacrifice, the perfume now in her hand had been completed—a fragrant deadly poison, its toxic components left unrefined.
Prim thought: There is no longer any reason to go on.
At last, the sunset faded completely, and the surroundings fell into dead silence.
“Sinner Prim…!”
Before their impatient words could finish, Prim twisted open the bottle and flung the lid away.
The exquisite cap, crafted by the empire’s finest glassmaker, struck the floor and shattered into pieces, emitting one final faint gleam before sinking into darkness.
“You’d do well not to come any closer.”
Prim raised the bottle as she spoke.
From it spread the very “fragrance that kills.”
At first, it was an overwhelming scent of white flowers, thick and nauseating.
The intense fragrance of white flowers blooming to greet the night—crushed and rotting.
Then came a clear, green note like spring water, purifying the intensity around it, awakening the mind—a bright, clean scent with a light fishy freshness that washed everything away.
The moment the earthy smell rose, as if one had fallen in a garden heavy with morning dew, a warm woody fragrance enveloped it all. It carried the acidity and sweetness of fruit and chocolate mashed in an old wooden bowl.
Even the inquisitors unconsciously softened their expressions at the scent.
“It’s exactly like standing in the middle of a garden where every kind of flower blooms and wilts at once…”
Someone murmured in a daze before hurriedly covering mouth and nose with their sleeve.
Only Sevardo kept his sword steady and shouted, “Prim! Stop this!”
But Prim poured the perfume directly over her own head.
Everyone watched the scene in stunned incomprehension. Sevardo suddenly cried out as if slapped.
“No! No, Prim!”
It sounded less like anger toward a sinner and more like profound despair.
The transparent green liquid flowed over Prim’s closed eyes like tears, drenching her. The once-pleasant fragrance now felt unbearably intense.
As the scent filled the ruined temple, Prim distinguished one by one the ingredients she had blended—her lifelong craft.
Jasmine, blackcurrant buds, a touch of lily, the lily of the valley of Saint-Bertal, and the resin of an ancient agarwood tree wounded by a demonic beast…
Soon after, Prim vomited blood and collapsed. A piercing pain, like needles swimming through her veins, consumed her body. The knights could not bring themselves to approach.
Dying within her own fragrance, Prim dimly recalled her childhood—days spent carried on Rozien’s back through the forest, gathering flowers.
Nothing matters anymore… if he does not return…
In that instant, light slowly budded from the spilled perfume on the altar, then burst into beams that filled the ruined temple.
Darkness lifted in a flash; dawn arrived. From somewhere came a fluttering sound—like an enormous flower bud finally bursting into bloom, or a vast cloak billowing, or the beating of angelic wings.
A radiant chord rang out, and a voice resounded in her heart, or perhaps from beyond.
A divine voice, soft yet vibrating from her ears to her lungs.
— O my little lily of the valley! Great power dwells in great fragrance, and thus I have descended!
The voice was marvelous—like plucked strings or countless tiny bells ringing together.
Prim’s fallen body slowly rose. As if the god were gently washing a lamb, the blood soaking her was cleansed away, and she opened her eyes.
Even as death claimed her, Prim beheld the god.
In a time that was neither day nor night, behind the god stretched dozens of crossroads, each glowing in vivid colors and lush with flowers and trees.
Only the god’s face remained veiled, unrecognizable.
Varin spoke magnanimously, as if claiming the frozen inquisitors as his own angels.
— Little lily of the valley, behold me. Your fragrance has called me so powerfully; I shall bless it and grant whatever you desire.
The air trembled softly. Within the deadly yet beautiful fragrance, only the god lived vividly.
“…Then please bring him back to life.”
Though she had never dreamed of meeting a god, the words flowed as if they had been waiting.
The divine voice answered.
— I can revive him, of course. But little lily of the valley, is that truly your wish?
Before Prim appeared two diverging paths.
— I can restore him in this very moment, or I can return to him all that he has lost.
On one path, vibrant red roses swayed gently in the breeze.
On the other, those roses shrank, grew young again; their extended stems retracted until they became tiny red sprouts—as if time itself were rewinding.
— Now, my lily of the valley. Which path will you take?
