Chapter 17
The Weight of Suspicion
‘If that painting were truly genuine, the High Priest would have coveted it.’
The moment the painting was revealed, Ninia noticed the curiosity fade from Altahaf’s eyes. At the time, she hadn’t thought much of it. Only after retracing her memories dozens—hundreds—of times did the oddities begin to stand out.
The most decisive clue was that the Temple showed no reaction even when the Empress came to own the piece.
Ninia had always been the Temple’s beautiful chess piece. If the Temple had truly desired the late master’s final work, they would surely have sent her to the empire’s most exalted lady.
“…You should watch your words. Where is the proof that the painting I presented is a forgery?”
“Then you’re saying, Count, that the Temple’s own collection is counterfeit?”
At Ninia’s remark, the count’s face twisted. Having styled himself as a lamb in the goddess’s arms, he could never afford to make the Temple his enemy. Out of respect for the Empress’s support alone, he ought to hold his tongue.
He had accepted Ninia’s letter believing she still held the standing to speak for the Temple.
“What nonsense…! If that were true, the Temple would have revealed the authentic piece long ago! Such absurdity!”
His breathing turned harsh. Her accusation had struck home, and in turn he began to doubt her.
“There’s no reason for that. Why would the Temple unveil a masterpiece of the century merely to placate one count?”
Her quiet question left him speechless.
“If a treasure exists nowhere else, it lies in the Temple. If it is not even there, it is truly lost.”
So went the old proverb.
The Temple gathered art solely for the goddess. The rarest pieces were never shown outside. If a final work of Lemang truly existed in their vaults, it would be treated no differently.
The Temple always waited for the most fitting moment. A forgery circulating in the world was no reason to move.
“…Then where is your proof that the painting I gifted is a fake?”
After a pause, the count let out a sly, challenging laugh. He believed he possessed solid evidence that would brand her words as lies.
“Lemang’s brushwork, his pigments no one has ever replicated—even the appraisers declared the piece I presented to be genuine.”
His smile deepened. Ninia knew she had no hard evidence. Without material proof, her claim was little more than obstinacy. But she held something stronger: overwhelming suspicion and the hidden truth of the past.
“In that era there was one other painter who used Lemang’s exact style and pigments.”
The count’s breathing stopped. Through his eyes Ninia saw that she had pierced his fatal weakness.
“What, are you saying there were two Lemangs?”
He was still swelling like a beast refusing to die—but it was the thrash of a doomed animal.
“Yes. There was. His fraternal twin sister.”
At her words, the serpent’s jaws shut. Ninia watched his expression crumble.
The art history taught to royalty and nobility differed from that preserved in the Temple.
Theirs was a history molded for their own convenience.
The Temple’s history was raw. It kept only the truth, releasing copies or discards to the outside world.
The Temple might use art as a tool of power, but the originals were guarded through generations. Trained directly by High Priest Altahaf—a mad devotee of art—Ninia carried that truest knowledge.
“Lemang’s twin, Yerharf, inherited the same gift, but as a woman she was forbidden the painter’s path.”
The Temple’s art archives recorded every detail: Lemang’s birth and death, his family—everything.
There were only two reasons Altahaf had shown no interest in the count’s painting: either it was a fake, or the true masterpiece was already secured in the Temple.
Ninia’s suspicion leaned toward the former. She knew the Temple’s complete list of Lemang’s works.
But three appraisers confirmed it. The style and pigments match. Then…
The painter was someone else.
In that era, only one person shared Lemang’s style—his twin sister Yerharf.
The painting the count possessed was her work.
A truth known to only a few back then continued to cast its shadow generations later.
Ninia drove the final nail.
“If Her Majesty the Empress were to learn of this, it would be… troublesome, wouldn’t it?”
The Empress was a woman of formidable pride. The wrath of the empire’s most exalted lady was not something one could escape.
Despair flickered in the count’s eyes. He sprang up, seized Ninia’s hand, and pleaded.
“Are you saying the Temple knew and stayed silent? No—this must never reach her ears…!”
If the Empress learned the truth and confronted him, the Temple would side with her without a moment’s hesitation.
Ninia said nothing as he clutched at her. Anxiety gave way to a fragile hope in his eyes. After all, she too was of the goddess, as was the count. But the condition that came from her lips was beyond anything he imagined.
“Immediately transfer the deed of that land to Grand Duke Tarahan Danteor and withdraw every soldier stationed there.”
Her words curved like a graceful line, yet cut like a blade.
Blue eyes gleamed, deep as an unfathomable sea.
A woman noble beneath the goddess.
Born with the destiny to bloom as the god’s own flower, her innate dignity would never dissolve, no matter how far a fallen lily sank.
The count was struck speechless. At last he understood why Ninia had come.
“You… insane…”
His face twisted in fury. Blind with rage, he gripped her hand as though to crush it.
“Give my property to that barbarian? Are you out of your mind?!”
“If you refuse, my letter will reach the Empress—and if not, the Grand Duke’s sword will deal with you.”
Ninia did not so much as frown. Her calm voice carried only truth.
The brutal pressure of his hand slackened.
Ha. Ha-ha-ha. Short, hollow laughs spilled out, and his eyes glistened like blood.
“Grand Duke. Grand Duke. That accursed savage.”
Count Troid’s fury bordered on humiliation. That filthy barbarian who had seized the north now dared covet the possessions of the noble. And yet the so-called lily of the goddess sided with that dark-skinned man. Only rising malice remained to him.
“Saint… no, Lady Bi. Do you even know whose clothes you’re wearing? They once belonged to a young concubine of mine. You’re draped in garments a back-alley whore cast off. Did your lofty duke neglect to mention that?”
His jeering words poured out unchecked.
Ninia absorbed each one.
Though startled and secretly shaken by the revelation, she betrayed nothing.
The count clawed at her dignity, desperate to draw blood.
“To be the wife of a savage, worse than a baseborn wench. Were I you, I’d have taken my own life before ever reaching the north. At least then you would have died a saint.”
Death. Now he spoke of her death—self-inflicted.
Ninia slowly blinked, silent for a long moment, then rose with poise.
“Perhaps this, too, is the goddess’s will. You called yourself a lamb of the goddess, my lord. I trust you will act without shame.”
“Forsaken harlot! The barbarian will discard you as well! You filthy—!”
Her voice never wavered.
As he raged on, Ninia turned her back and left the parlor.
Boom—the door shut.
Her noble, disciplined steps quickened slightly.
Like falling snowflakes, her soundless footsteps left no trace on the warm corridor.
Ninia climbed into the waiting carriage.
The door closed—and she collapsed onto the floor of the carriage the instant it latched.
