HUI 15

Outing

The next morning, the snow that had been falling lightly ever since she received permission to go out had stopped completely. Judging from the packed drifts, the carriage wouldn’t have trouble on the road.

Watching the pale light outside, Ninia felt an odd certainty—as if even the weather had moved according to Tarahan’s prediction. She forced herself to look away from the window and turned toward the mirror to tidy her appearance.

She wore a navy-blue dress meant for outings. It was the smallest of the fur-lined gowns she had, yet it was still a little too big. That was to be expected for something not tailored, but her own slight build made the looseness more obvious.

People in the north are all a bit bigger, she thought.
Everyone born and raised here—her maid Rosa, the servants of the castle—seemed just a little larger than those from the central provinces.

The thick fabric made the dress heavy, and the looseness made her feel as though she were sinking into it.

Sebrus’s watchful presence remained constant. The butler came to escort her to the carriage waiting beyond the main doors.

A crest…
On the carriage door, pulled by six horses, a black lion was emblazoned: the new ducal emblem bestowed by the Emperor.

It was the first time Ninia had seen the family crest. When she had arrived at the castle and signed the marriage papers, no such emblem existed. It must have been created while she was confined to her room.

She studied the roaring black lion with a complicated feeling. Nobles rarely used black in their heraldry; within the Empire the color symbolized misfortune and corruption.

The Emperor had dallied before passing the commission to the heralds, who had then consulted the Empress rather than Tarahan about what design to make. The result carried a meaning that was anything but subtle.

I shouldn’t be thinking this…
Yet the fierce black beast suited Tarahan perfectly.

“Please step in,” Sebrus urged when she lingered. With one last glance at the emblem, Ninia climbed aboard.

Their destination was the village of Sesan. The stronghold Tarahan used—Rentus Castle—had once belonged to Count Troid.
He owned several other estates, but most had burned in the war or fallen into Tarahan’s hands. For now he lived in the Sesan lord’s manor.

When Ninia drew back the curtain, the landscape rushed by. The Empire called the entire north Danteor, and the grand domain where Rentus Castle stood was named Favrod.

So different from when I first arrived.
She leaned close enough for her nose to touch the cold glass. Though the carriage moved quickly, she could tell the territory had changed.

Buildings once ruined now stood straight; roads that had been little more than rubble were repaired. Beyond the roads, workers were busy rebuilding walls and roofs.

The province was being restored with surprising speed. After a war between empires, she had never seen civilian lands recover so quickly.

When the carriage left the domain and entered forested paths, no more villages or people appeared. Only then did she sit back.

War takes much from everyone, but for those who have nothing to begin with it steals more than life itself. Even after peace, beggars usually crowded the streets—yet none had been in sight a moment ago.

Only someone like Tarahan, the duke who ruled Favrod, could make such a thing happen. His fierce, accusatory face flickered in her mind like a mirage.

He killed without hesitation, yet he was not a man of pure cruelty. Still, toward Ninia he could be cold and merciless.

She placed a hand over her chest; a strange unease churned inside. She tried to steady herself, folding her hands in prayer as she often did, but her thoughts scattered. Even when she clasped her fists on her knees, the unrest remained.

Outside, the snow-covered forest stretched in endless white, but the colors of the rebuilt province lingered like afterimages.

At last the carriage stopped. A knight helped her down. Before the garden gate, Count Troid and Lord Sesan awaited her.

“Saint, you must have had a hard journey,” Count Troid said, his smile as bright as sunlight.

Ninia, following his blessing, traced the sign of the cross almost automatically.
“May the Goddess’s blessing be with you,” she replied.
“And with you, Count.”

The formal greeting felt strange after so long, but stranger still was what the count wore.

The Temple’s robe…
The white robe, embroidered with the Goddess’s sigil in gleaming gold thread, was an offering granted only to devout believers who had given significant donations to the Temple. The fabric was too thin for the north, almost ostentatious.

It was the first trace of the Goddess Ninia had seen since coming north. What once had been so natural now felt foreign and awkward.

Suppressing the discomfort that rose within her, she curved her lips into a gentle, saintly smile.

From childhood she had been taught, like other noble children, how to school her expression. Whenever she appeared in public, she always wore that calm, gracious smile—bright but not dazzling, warm like soft music. Many ladies and young noblewomen had called her doll-like for this very reason.

It was the same mask she had expected never to wear again, but her lips shaped it smoothly from long habit. Even the High Priest had never found fault with this part of her.

The dust-like sparkle of her smile caught the count’s eyes. With serene composure she spoke.
“Thank you for the welcome, but I am no longer a saint.”

The count blinked, startled, then broke into an easy laugh.
“Not a saint? You are still as much a saint as ever.”

He slid over her words as a snake slips over a wall.

Most people believed whatever served their own advantage. The count was no different. To him, Ninia remained a holy woman and a pillar of temple power.

He’s just like the rest.
A bitter taste filled her mouth. No matter how she denied it, her opinion meant nothing to such men. She hid the bitterness behind a faint smile and let him call her what he pleased.

“It’s cold outside. Let us go in,” he said.

His gaze lingered on her dress with a subtle curve of his lips before he feigned ignorance and led her in. Ninia noticed the glance but could not guess his thoughts.

As the count guided her into the manor, Lord Sesan trailed behind like a servant while Troid criticized him about the house—too cold, too dusty, and so on.

“How else would you ever see the saint in person? Thank me for arranging it,” the count teased.
“Indeed. May the Goddess take me to her bosom soon. With your help, it won’t be long—after all, the saint herself is here,” Lord Sesan replied.

Their exchange revealed a hierarchy of convenience. To them, Ninia was a precious instrument for climbing higher. She kept her pleasant smile, lowered her eyes, and offered no response.

The manor’s corridors were warm, burning ample firewood and charcoal. She was shown to a reception room with a great hearth. Sparks leapt from the blazing logs; in a land where embers were worth money, such fire was luxury.

“You may leave us,” Count Troid ordered.
Lord Sesan rose reluctantly, his gaze clinging to Ninia. The look was familiar. She kept her eyes on the steaming teacup until he left.

Soon only she and Count Troid remained in the cozy room. Without a pause of silence, the count leaned across the table and reached a hand toward her.