Episode 1
The Chardonnay Convent, a secluded place for nuns withdrawn from the world, was located near the eastern border of the Kingdom of Calia.
Even as the flames of war swept the land, the small convent remained untouched — until the Alevan Empire seized the nearby territories. Then, changes began to creep in.
One such change came when an Alevan knight requested lodging in the middle of the night.
“How fortunate that someone here speaks Imperial. Ha ha ha.”
“Please show me your identification badge.”
Isabel was the only nun who could communicate with the Alevan soldiers.
The knight introduced himself as Martin, explaining that he was on a special mission for the Empire.
After confirming his identity, Isabel guided him to the guest quarters and received a five-pfennig donation — a precious contribution for the convent’s winter survival.
“Then, rest well.”
“Sister, leaving already?”
“…?”
“I have plenty of interesting news to share. Stay a bit longer. It’s cold and lonely out here.”
During her three years as a nun, Isabel had lost interest in worldly gossip — but news about the war might be worth hearing for the convent’s safety.
Still, she wanted nothing more than to end the conversation. Martin’s suggestive gaze made her skin crawl.
Just as she was about to decline, a loud voice interrupted.
“Isabel! Are you in here?”
Sister Helen burst through the door, clutching the shoulder of a young girl. Isabel recognized her immediately.
“She trudged through six hours of snow from Mondigne—”
“My father is dying!!”
The child collapsed as she explained.
Her name was Anna, a girl from the small village of Mondigne who lived alone with her ailing father. When winter came, his condition worsened — coughing blood, unable to eat.
The villagers wanted to summon a priest for the last rites, but the war had left the nearby parishes in chaos. There was no priest to be found.
“Please, Sister. Please come.”
Only a priest could perform the last rites; a nun could do nothing but pray.
Isabel hesitated briefly, then sighed and turned to Martin.
“Sir Martin, I must ask a favor.”
“What is it?”
“Could I borrow your horse? I wish to pray for this girl’s father before he passes — but I’ll need your help to reach him in time.”
Martin smiled, as if he had been waiting for that.
“Then you’ll grant me a favor in return?”
“…All right.”
“Excellent! I’ll take you there myself—Sister?”
Before he could finish, Isabel had already moved.
Outside, she approached Martin’s horse. The animal didn’t resist her. She mounted smoothly — clearly no novice.
“You can ride?”
“Yes.”
“How…?”
“I learned as part of my upbringing.”
Taking her coat and supplies from Helen, Isabel lifted Anna onto the horse in front of her.
“Thank you again for your kindness, Sir Martin. We’ll be on our way.”
Martin could only nod dumbly as she rode off.
A little ways down the road, Anna spoke up, curiosity sparkling in her eyes.
“Sister, is there anything you can’t do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You speak so many languages, make lace and paint beautifully — and now you can ride, too!”
“They’re just small talents.”
“That’s not true! The icon you painted is treasured in our whole village!”
At that, Isabel recalled the name she once bore — de Pienne.
As a noble, she had learned many arts and disciplines — and excelled in all of them. But among those skills, there was only one in which she had shown true genius.
And it was the one she had lost.
“Sister?”
“You must be cold. Lean back against me.”
Pushing away the memories, Isabel urged the horse forward.
What had taken Anna six hours on foot took barely one hour on horseback.
When they reached the small house, Anna leapt off and burst through the door.
“Father!”
“Anna…”
“I brought the sister!”
“A… a nun?”
The man on the bed lifted his head and coughed violently.
“Not a priest? Why…?”
“The parish is in disarray from the war. No priest can come right now.”
“Damn it! I don’t want to go to hell!”
He screamed, coughing blood.
His skin was ashen; his frame, wasted to bone. Isabel knew he was moments from death.
“Anna, your father’s name?”
“Guillaume…”
She approached the dying man, who glared at her with bloodshot eyes.
“Guillaume.”
“I’ve lived a good life! Why me, now, at the end—damn it!”
“Guillaume. Anna can hear you. Speak softly if you have anything left to say. Take my hand.”
All Isabel could do was pray. She wanted his final moments to be free of pain and fear.
But even as he gripped her hand, his voice grew feverish, his words twisted with madness.
“Heh… The eight-fingered nun watches me die. A nun who can’t even pray properly…”
“…”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. You’re sending me to hell. You…”
A man who dies without the last rites is not doomed — but Guillaume had lost his reason, cursing everything around him.
Isabel prayed quietly, hoping those curses would not touch Anna.
All night, prayer and curses filled the small house.
When dawn came, the curses fell silent. Isabel released his hand.
“May you rest in peace.”
She anointed his forehead with oil, covered his face with cloth, and rose slowly.
“Anna.”
“Sniff… yes?”
“Your father has passed. Call the elders for help. And…”
After the funeral, the villagers would move the body to the church, but who would protect the home and property of a child alone?
There was little Isabel could say.
“If you ever need help, come to the convent.”
“Y-yes…”
Watching Anna run off, Isabel mounted the horse again and started back.
Her shoulders drooped with exhaustion.
The dying man’s words echoed in her mind:
“The eight-fingered nun who can’t even pray…”
If I can’t wield a sword or even pray — then what can I do?
Three years ago, at fifteen, Isabel de Pienne had dreamed of becoming a knight.
As the youngest daughter of a baron, her future should have been marriage, study, or the convent. But she had something special — an extraordinary gift.
She handled an épée with more precision than her own fingers. Her swordsmanship was so refined that she could slice the hem of a coat without touching the flesh beneath.
Visiting knights called her blessed by the gods.
But her fate changed the day she confronted a band of rogue knights causing trouble on her family’s land.
“Ugh—”
She had stepped forward to stop them — but they laughed, eager for blood. She had no choice but to draw her sword.
Beating most of them was easy. But against their leader, a man named Robert, she lost — and dropped her blade.
His words and actions that day would haunt her forever.
“This bird’s wings must be clipped.”
He seized her and cut off both her little fingers.
The tragedy shook the entire barony, but Robert — a count’s son — was untouchable. Her family couldn’t afford to press charges.
Even after the wounds healed, Isabel tried to train again. But she could no longer control the blade. It wavered, heavy and clumsy.
The more she realized what she had lost, the deeper her despair grew — until she even tried to end her life.
Her father sent her to the convent to save what was left of her.
When will this pain end?
Three years passed. Isabel prayed daily, her hands trembling over the rosary.
But every night, she dreamed of the moment her fingers were cut. The stumps still throbbed, as if to remind her peace would never come.
“Lord, deliver me from my suffering…”
She murmured the familiar prayer, guiding her horse through the snow.
As she neared the convent, something caught her eye.
“…What is that?”
A line of armed knights stood before the gates.
The black eagle on their banners — the mark of the Alevan Imperial family.
Several knights lowered their spears slightly as she approached, ready to strike if she fled.
Fear tightened in her chest, but her mind grew sharp.
Steady…
Closer now, she could see the scene clearly.
The nuns were huddled outside, trembling. Martin — the knight from last night — was on his knees, bound in chains.
A deserter, then…
Just as she thought that, Martin shouted wildly.
“You! You took my horse! You knew they were coming, didn’t you?! That’s why—why you took it!”
He screamed like a madman until a knight kicked him silent.
In the quiet that followed, a man turned around.
Black hair, dark cloak fluttering in the cold. His presence cut through the snow — sharp, cold, merciless.
His icy blue eyes locked on Isabel, and his voice pressed down like a weight.
“Is it true?”
“…Pardon?”
“The horse you’re riding. Did you borrow it from that man?”
“Yes.”
She explained what had happened. The man listened silently, then gestured faintly.
“Dismount. That horse belongs to the Empire.”
“Understood.”
She obeyed without hesitation.
The man watched her a moment — then turned, drawing his sword.
“I’ll carry out the execution myself.”
“Mercy, please!”
Martin’s desperate pleas were ignored.
The man’s sword flashed once — and Martin’s body crumpled into the snow.
Isabel stood frozen, remembering the name Martin had shouted just before the end.
“Prince Lionel! Please—!”
There was only one Lionel she knew.
Lionel Ortega — the Black Storm of the Alevan Empire.
The second prince. The butcher of the war.
“Come to think of it… I have business here as well.”
He murmured, flicking his bloodstained sword. Red splattered across the white snow like falling petals.
