Episode 6
The Empire of Alleban — Otkirchen Castle.
For the past few days, Isabel’s mornings had followed a fixed routine: speaking with Prince Lionel in the audience chamber.
There wasn’t much meaning left in the word sermon. Isabel brought topics ranging from history and aesthetics to warfare, trying to draw out what piqued Lionel’s interest.
Of course, most of her knowledge came from a noblewoman’s education and her own hobbies—nothing deeply scholarly—but Lionel wasn’t the type to nitpick.
Still, whenever their conversations circled back to theology, he would sneer with biting sarcasm.
“Of course I believe in God.
There are fools who call me a heretic,
but the Lord always punishes them —
through my hands.”
Even though Isabel thought she was growing used to his blasphemous tone, she always found herself speechless when he said things like that.
The more they talked, the more she felt herself waver. Isabel gritted her teeth and forced herself to act more like a nun.
Even when her quarters changed, her composure never faltered — and Lionel didn’t mock that steadfastness.
So the two continued their morning meetings, maintaining a strange and delicate balance.
A little over a week passed.
“His Highness departed for the front yesterday,”
said Julia, the handmaiden.
“Ah.”
The empire was at war, and Lionel — a prince and commander — was far from idle.
Although Isabel suddenly found herself with free time, she had no desire to do anything. She remained still, either meditating or praying.
Julia praised her for being a devout and faithful nun, but Isabel found that praise heavy — because even in meditation, she couldn’t stop thinking about Lionel.
“He’s noble… but burdened with sorrow.”
Not a thought befitting a nun.
She spent her days struggling to cast away such thoughts and discipline herself.
Ten days later, near evening, Julia came rushing in.
“Sister Isabel? Are you awake?”
“…What is it?”
“His Highness has returned. He asked for you immediately — he wishes to speak, if you’re able.”
“I’ll go.”
She didn’t hesitate. As long as she was his appointed “preacher,” she couldn’t justify idling away while eating his food.
Julia led her to the prince’s office. Isabel, having only ever seen Lionel in the audience chamber, felt tense as she followed.
When she entered, Lionel was just taking off his robe. The faint scent of blood clung to him.
“Your Highness. I’m relieved you’ve returned safely.”
“You worry about me? That’s new.”
His crooked tone prompted Isabel to reply defensively:
“As Your Highness’s preacher, isn’t a little concern expected?”
“Is it? I thought you’d worry about something else.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you curious where I’ve been?”
A chill crept through Isabel’s veins.
Lionel sat down and spoke.
“Don’t worry. I wasn’t in Kallia — it was an internal matter.”
“…Yet, I smell blood.”
“Sharp nose. Don’t mind it. I didn’t kill that many.”
Each time he spoke like that, Isabel lost her footing. Instinctively, she clasped her hands and began to pray.
Lionel tilted his head, watching her quietly.
“Speaking of prayers — I heard something interesting. The 5th Cavalry of Kallia suffered heavy losses and was recently reorganized.”
“…I see.”
She didn’t understand why he brought it up, but he continued.
“The new captain of that unit is under investigation. Apparently, years ago, he cut off both pinky fingers of a noblewoman.”
Isabel froze.
“And rumor has it,” Lionel went on, his gaze fixed on her,
“that the noblewoman he maimed was a genius swordswoman — one who could best knights even with a training blade.”
The memories stabbed through her chest. She clutched her heart, gasping for breath.
Lionel didn’t look away.
“A pity,” he said. “A genius brought so low.”
Tears welled in Isabel’s eyes for the first time.
He had always sensed her pain — seen the story in her hands — and prodded at it before. But this time, it felt like torture.
“If your God sees all,” Lionel murmured, rising from his chair,
“why does He do nothing?
If I were God…”
He stopped before her. His presence was suffocating.
“I’d grant you vengeance.”
His words hit like thunder. Isabel’s mind went white.
“Isabel. If you want blood for blood, I’ll carry it out for you.”
“Re…venge…?”
“I’ll be your God.”
It was the vilest blasphemy — and yet Isabel couldn’t even rebuke him. She almost nodded before catching herself.
Maybe it would be easier… to stop thinking, to surrender, to worship the man before her as a god.
Just as she was about to fall to her knees, the hunter spoke again — sure of his capture.
“I never liked the bastard who clipped my bird’s wings first.”
“Enough! Stop it!!”
Isabel screamed, jerking her head up.
The knight who’d cut off her finger, the prince who’d caged her — they were all mad.
Her empty eyes flared with hatred. She didn’t fear punishment anymore. Rage consumed her — the desire to stab him through.
“I’m not a bird! I’m not!!”
“Then what are you?”
“A nun of the Church of Mines—!”
“A faith you clung to only after being mutilated and sent away. Is that truly who you are?”
“That’s…”
Her voice broke. The fire in her died, leaving only ash.
“…Then what am I?”
“Funny,” Lionel said with a bitter smirk. “I’m asking myself the same thing.”
As he spoke, he reached for his sword. He drew the scabbard forward, the hilt tilted toward her hand.
“Draw it.”
“…Your Highness?”
“If you’re not a bird, then prove it. Draw.”
He was tempting her outright now.
Normally she would’ve refused — but she was already broken.
With her right hand — missing its pinky — Isabel gripped the hilt and slowly drew the blade.
Lionel watched her silently.
“What now?” she asked, her voice trembling. “Should I kill myself?”
“You’ve already proven you don’t fear death. What value would that have?”
“Then what—”
“Do what you fear most.”
Three years ago, there was nothing she feared with a sword in hand. Now, merely holding it filled her with terror.
To face the remnants of her lost talent was torture.
She looked up at Lionel, crying. He remained unmoved, his gaze cold and unwavering.
Trembling, Isabel turned toward a nearby chair. Its back was thin wood — something she could’ve split in one strike, once upon a time.
Now it looked solid as iron.
“Ah…”
Her instincts still measured the distance, tracing the perfect arc of a strike — but the grip in her hand felt wrong, unsteady.
No…
Missing a pinky hadn’t ruined her daily life, but holding a sword was agony.
She remembered those wretched months of failed rehabilitation.
This would be her last attempt. She gritted her teeth.
“Hh—!”
As she raised the sword, she felt it — the imbalance. The missing pinky meant the fourth finger had to bear the strain, and it trembled.
Still, Isabel refused to close her eyes. She swung.
Her body moved as if by instinct — shoulders, arms, and wrist in harmony, building speed through a moulinet. The pinky should’ve pulled the hilt to complete the motion, channeling power perfectly.
But she lacked that final lever.
The sword crashed awkwardly into the chair’s back.
Thud.
Exactly as she feared.
Isabel laughed through her tears.
“Heh… hehe…”
There were no miracles. She let the sword fall from her hand.
