Chapter 14
The Reply
Ninia returned to her quarters under the guidance of Sebrus, who had been waiting outside.
All the way down the corridor his eyes held a hint of suspicion, but Ninia had no time to worry about such glances.
Only when she stepped inside her room did the weight of that watchful gaze finally fade.
Yet she couldn’t sit—neither on the chair nor the bed. She wandered the room, restless.
…I said I would, but…
She stared down at her worn leather shoes.
All she actually saw was the cold floor and brown leather, yet the image of Tarahan lingered before her eyes.
Even when spattered with blood, those vivid red eyes had locked her in place.
But the look he gave her was indifferent, sometimes edged with contempt.
His dark skin—so unlike that of the Empire—and the ruggedly honed body made him the very picture of a perfect outsider.
She couldn’t forget how he had crossed the table toward her.
That massive, muscular frame moved with the languid grace of a great beast,
and his fierce face carried a raw nobility.
When Tarahan looked down at her, she’d felt swallowed by his shadow, unable to move—
as though she were his prey.
Only after he withdrew had she released the breath she’d been holding.
I’ll do it.
She had nodded, then fled his domain.
But her own quarters were his as well.
Here in the boundless northern wilderness, soon nothing would remain that was not his.
The thought stole her breath.
“…How could I possibly…?”
As reality settled in, the phantom of Tarahan in her mind flickered and thinned.
The northern nobles still refused to recognize Tarahan as their lord,
refusing to pay him rightful tribute.
At the heart of the unrest stood Count Ervan Troid.
Backed by the Empress, he was a difficult foe.
Ninia did not fully understand why Tarahan wanted her to meet the Count,
yet part of her sensed his reasoning.
He must know it’s nearly impossible.
What could she, a nobody, do with the very man Tarahan was testing?
Bringing land under his control was out of the question—
it would be a victory simply not to be mocked and thrown out.
But it was too late to undo her promise.
If she now went back to Tarahan to say she couldn’t do it, he wouldn’t care.
Perhaps that would be safer: she could remain a quiet fixture in her room,
an object occupying space.
Yet she could not face him again.
His eyes had never held expectation,
and even that thin attention would not last.
To Tarahan, her worth was precisely that small.
Even the pen in his hand was far more useful than she was—
a truth she knew well.
That was why she could not let go.
…Is it strange that I see even this as a chance?
It had been a ridiculous proposal from the start,
but it still felt better than having nothing at all.
At least to her.
Otherwise, the Ninia reflected in his dull eyes would fade without form—
perhaps forever.
If you fail to prove your value, you are worthless.
The moment your use ends, you are less than an insect crushed underfoot.
You’d be better off dead.
High Priest Altahaf had repeated those words countless times whenever he looked at Ninia.
She had bowed her head in silence to his teachings,
taught that the words of God would guide a saint.
Death is not to be feared.
What you should truly fear is losing the worth of your existence.
So, Ninia, show your true value.
The endless repetitions had shaped her as a saint
who offered mercy and dwelt in the goddess’s embrace.
But what of now?
How should a being live who possesses neither true life nor death?
Her body felt insubstantial,
like a ghost that could exist only through the scorn of others.
She imagined herself a phantom drifting unseen through the winter castle.
Northern days were short.
Night soon folded in around her, but even in darkness
she did not go to Tarahan to beg him to rescind the plan.
“…I must prove it.”
Late that night, her blue eyes shone cold beneath heavy lids.
By the flicker of a wavering candle,
Ninia began to write a letter—
a message to Count Ervan Troid.
She passed the next day as usual in her room.
Her maid’s manner was unchanged,
and the view outside remained blanketed in white snow.
Everything was the same—until that afternoon
when Sebrus knocked on her door.
“Your outing has been approved.
You should prepare to depart in two days.”
The butler’s words startled Rosa,
who was carrying a basket of charcoal.
She gave him a puzzled look, but he only sighed
and waited for Ninia’s answer.
“Understood. Do we have anything suitable for going out?”
“I’ll bring something,” he replied, his tone grudging though obedient.
After a pause, Ninia spoke, and Sebrus answered despite his displeasure.
At his order Rosa left and soon returned
with a box of clothing.
Inside were thick dresses and winter cloaks.
Some looked a bit worn,
but most were serviceable.
“These will do,” Ninia said.
Rosa found it odd that Ninia nodded at the dust-covered garments,
but she kept the thought to herself.
In any case, the preparations had Tarahan’s approval.
All was by their master’s will,
and with that idea Rosa could accept it.
She followed Sebrus out with the clothes for washing.
Ninia remained alone.
Clothing was all she needed;
he would arrange the rest.
For a duchess’s first outing, the preparations were sparse,
but she felt no need to request more.
If I’m allowed out, the Count must have replied.
It had been two weeks since she’d sent her letter to Troid.
She had written that, as the former saint,
she wished to bless the Count—the first northerner
to enter the goddess’s fold.
Everyone knew that the Empress was a follower of Kaner’s faith,
and that the Count himself had sought baptism
to present himself as a lamb obedient to the goddess.
…Thank goodness.
The silence had been eating at her.
Tarahan had told her only to meet the Count,
offering no further help.
She had written the letter on her own.
Whatever his reply,
the permission to go out meant a meeting was possible.
It must have been difficult for him to refuse.
Whatever the truth of the war’s end,
to the people Ninia was the merciful saint
who had halted the northern bloodshed.
Since the Count had pledged himself to the goddess,
he would surely wish to appear
as part of the temple’s spectacle.
If their destination was indeed his estate,
her guess was half correct.
She let out a small sigh.
She was glad the plan had not collapsed before even starting,
but she still lacked complete certainty.
Her mind returned to the past she’d pondered
ever since her talk with Tarahan.
She remembered when Count Troid
presented a painting to the Empress.
Five years ago, at a grand imperial ball
celebrating the Empress’s birthday,
all central nobles were in attendance.
Among the extravagantly dressed guests,
a humble northerner could not go unnoticed.
“A northerner? One from the land even the goddess forsook?”
“The Empress will be furious.”
The nobles disparaged the Count
without even bothering to hide behind their fans.
Ninia, there as part of the temple’s delegation,
watched him closely.
The Empress first looked displeased when she saw him,
but soon turned her eyes away,
and the nobles simply cast him sidelong glances.
Count Troid remained quietly at the center of the hall.
Just as everyone began to forget him,
an incident erupted during the presentation of gifts.
“Your Majesty, I wish to offer you a small token of my devotion.”
Gasps, soft but sharp, spread through the hall.
The Empress’s elegant expression tightened in a faint frown,
but the Count was unfazed.
At his signal, servants appeared
bearing a long rectangular object,
wrapped in cloth—likely a framed painting.
The nobles watched with eager malice,
expecting the Empress’s wrath.
But when the servants pulled away the covering,
the hall fell silent.
It was as if the gates of heaven had opened.
Before them was a lost masterpiece
by the renowned painter Lemang Difron.
His final work, The Garden of Heaven,
had been painted for his wife,
crippled and unable to leave her home.
On its vast canvas bloomed
a vision of paradise so sublime
that no one who looked upon it could turn away.
“A fake! He dares bring a forgery to Her Majesty!”
One noble, breaking the spell, pointed at the Count.
Others quickly joined the accusation.
Only the Empress remained calm,
summoning an appraiser from the imperial staff.
After the banquet, even the chief curator
of the Imperial Museum examined it.
“On my honor, I declare it genuine.”
All four experts confirmed the same.
The nobles were left speechless.
Ninia, who had returned to the temple
to lead prayers with High Priest Altahaf,
heard the story in full.
The lost work of a master who had defined an era
was priceless beyond measure.
The Empress was delighted and lent the Count her support.
Count Troid thus became
the only northerner backed by the central court.
Northern nobles swarmed to him like bees to honey,
forming a faction that endures to this day—
the faction that now rejects the new Grand Duke.
Tarahan had gained the noble pretext of Ninia,
and the Emperor reluctantly granted him
the northern dukedom.
Given such circumstances, the Empress could not act openly.
She would not risk conflict with the temple,
yet she subtly encouraged the Count
and his allies to oppose Tarahan.
The Empress despised Tarahan—
a man of barbarian blood treated as royalty
and named Grand Duke of the North.
She quietly abetted the Count’s defiance.
The North remained a foreign world.
Though Tarahan held the title,
he had no true allies,
and the bright south was full of beasts
ready to tear him down.
Ninia gazed out the window.
The world, blanketed in snow,
lay pure and white—
as though to hide every last stain.
