Chapter 04
About the Former Saint’s Betrothed
The banquet hall buzzed with countless stories.
If you leaned back in a quiet corner, it was easy enough to catch the gist of who the evening’s central figure really was.
No one knew why the Emperor once took a despised barbarian into his arms.
But from that union came an illegitimate child of imperial blood.
The Emperor hid the boy for years, only to reveal him when the northern war broke out, playing a card called Tarahan.
Raised as a lowborn mercenary while concealing the blood of royalty beneath a commoner’s guise, he carried the Emperor’s orders and led the empire to victory in the northern war.
It had been a war everyone believed unwinnable.
The Emperor, using the slim chance of victory as bait, had promised the bastard a ducal title and rule over the North—never expecting him to succeed.
Yet succeed he did.
Why is the empire’s hero involved with me?
While Ninia struggled to understand, the religious council to decide the former Saint’s fate ended without so much as a glance toward her wishes.
She didn’t even think to protest.
Simply keeping her turbulent thoughts in order left her more than occupied.
When the trial ended, what awaited her was neither torture nor execution, but an endless cycle of isolation.
A priest told her to wait until her betrothed arrived.
Betrothed.
Ninia rolled the unfamiliar word on her tongue.
A husband-to-be she had never imagined in her life had, overnight, been dropped at her side.
She sat on the sofa, idly scraping the carpet with the tip of her slippered foot.
This time, her prison was no cold prayer cell but a guest chamber furnished with a bed, a sofa, even a table.
Perhaps because the man promised to her was a celebrated hero, the treatment of the disgraced Saint had changed noticeably.
Still, I’m alone all the same.
Ninia gave a bitter smile.
The attendants and guards remained silent, never speaking to her, though it had become easier to request what she needed.
She reached toward the table.
There lay fine fabric, bright threads, and needles of every kind—nothing like the worn scraps she’d been given in the carriage.
Tarahan. Tarahan…
She thought of the betrothed she had never exchanged a single word with.
Yet calling him a complete stranger felt not quite accurate.
…We’re not entirely unacquainted, after all.
Ninia had seen Tarahan once.
It hadn’t been long enough to count as a meeting, nor enough to truly take him in, but the brief glimpse of the man burned fiercely in her memory.
It was on the northern battlefield.
Despite the chaos of war between nations, Ninia had been able to continue her relief work because faith remained outside all conflicts.
No imperial sword dared target a Saint who protected the helpless.
Soldiers would retreat or pretend not to see when they heard the Saint was tending to a suffering village.
But when news came late or went awry, she inevitably encountered armies.
The first time she saw Tarahan was at a scorched village she’d come to aid.
Her work finished, dusk painted the sky.
“The Saint of the Kaner Church is offering aid. Please withdraw.”
The holy knights demanded that the occupying soldiers pull back.
Ninia was present, and she saw their banner—a golden eagle, emblem of the Piëcen Empire.
At their head stood Tarahan.
The smell of blood…
What reached her first was the overpowering reek of it.
She was no stranger to that scent, yet what clung to him was of another order entirely.
He was drenched in blood from head to toe.
Armored all over but bare-headed, he left her no choice but to see his face—a face like a demon loosed from hell.
His bloodshot eyes looked ready to tear apart everyone there.
Impossible to forget.
The man whose gaze made her shudder to meet was now Duke of Danteor.
Her stitching hand stilled.
Even the memory alone raised goosebumps.
She rubbed the back of her hand and forced the needle to move again, sinking back into thought.
What could possibly lead to a marriage like this?
No matter how she turned it over, there was no connection between her and Tarahan.
He hadn’t even appeared when she was stripped of her title.
Was he some devout follower of Kaner?
She entertained the idea only to shake her head quickly.
If that were so, he would know she was a sinner—and he would shun her, not take her as his wife.
What kind of man is he, truly?
Her first impression was searing, but a single fragment of memory revealed little.
The High Pontiff claimed the match was divinely ordained, yet Ninia felt sure there was more she did not know.
“…Hoo.”
She set down her embroidery.
Sewing aimlessly, she had covered the cloth beside her with a garden of flowers.
What one embroidered depended on the recipient.
For women, blossoms carrying good omens; for men, laurel leaves of victory or symbolic crests.
“…The former Saint’s blessing is the last thing he’d want, isn’t it?”
She picked up a fresh handkerchief.
With her sacred power spent, she could offer no blessing—only decoration.
Even so, she found herself choosing patterns that might suit Tarahan.
Again came long days of waiting for her betrothed.
After the handkerchief was complete, Ninia began speaking more often to the priest who watched over her.
Was it courage from knowing she would not be executed, or a mix of anxiety and anticipation? She wasn’t sure.
Catching the priest as he brought her meal and turned to leave, she asked,
“Has there been any word from the Duke of Danteor?”
“….”
He frowned at being stopped, but Ninia had grown used to their silence and scowls.
If she heard nothing today, she would simply ask again tomorrow.
“I hear the Duke is extremely busy,” he finally said.
Ninia’s blue eyes widened, surprised to receive an answer at all.
Once he’d spoken once, a second time was easier.
Even without her prompting, he muttered, “What grand affairs keep him from even visiting his bride?”
He probably is busy.
Though the priest’s tone dripped with sarcasm, Ninia accepted it easily.
The northern war might be over, but negotiating reparations would take time, and restoring the war-ravaged lands was his responsibility.
It made sense that he was breathlessly occupied.
“Ah, a letter did arrive from the Duke, however.”
Perhaps annoyed by his own words, the priest shifted his sneer toward her.
But his attitude didn’t disturb her; her blue eyes only shone brighter with the news, making him scoff.
“If you’re that thirsty, come yourself. You have legs, don’t you?”
He recited the curt line exactly as written, as if to challenge her to keep smiling.
The temple elders were impatient to be rid of her.
But the one who had agreed to “take the discarded item” remained silent, sending only that single sentence in reply to repeated official inquiries.
“I see.”
Ninia blinked, then nodded as if she understood.
It was hardly the tone of a devoted fiancé, and the priest’s mocking smile deepened.
“Then… might I ask the temple to help me make arrangements?”
“…Pardon?”
“The Duke is busy… and it sounds as though he wants me to come to him.
So wouldn’t it be better for the one with nothing to do to go to her betrothed instead?”
The priest looked at her as if she’d lost her mind.
Ninia knew the letter was no polite invitation.
But the long imprisonment was becoming unbearable.
A soft bed and endless embroidery couldn’t change that.
If someone can take me out of here, I want to hurry toward them.
Her confinement hadn’t begun when she renounced her title.
From birth she had belonged to the temple, a possession called “Saint.”
Now, stripped of the name, she was truly alone.
If he changed his mind, she would be the only one left in jeopardy.
So she needed to move, to find a way to reach her betrothed herself.
“Please send a formal request to the temple elders for permission,” she said.
The priest doubted her sanity, but her eyes were clearer than ever.
“…Understood,” he answered at last, after a long pause.
