Ice-Heart and Buried Memories

Gwynevere found a linen travel pack that no one was paying any mind to. She brushed away the dust, then adjusted her cloak and the hem of her long skirt before sitting down with ladylike grace.

In a way, the pack beneath her was much like her current situation—utterly ignored.

The Saintess had just thought to offer her help clearing snow or moving supplies when the paladins immediately escorted her away from the scene.

“Your Excellency, the Saintess, how could you possibly do such menial labor? Please find a quiet, clean place to rest,” they insisted, oblivious to the fact that she simply wanted to move around and warm her body.

Nearly two hours had passed since His Holiness the Pope entered the ruins, and the simple camp outside was almost complete.

The paladins’ squires and guards skillfully moved crates delivered by the logistics team. The snow on the forest path had been mostly cleared, and linen tents were pitched and secured in rows on either side.

A few of the quicker squads were already setting up pots and starting fires. The faint aroma of meat broth drifted through the air, only to be swiftly scattered by the cold wind blowing from the other side of the gorge.

Gwynevere couldn’t help but shiver. She looked down and saw her slender legs, sheathed in white silk stockings beneath her cloak, trembling slightly. Even her white-gold stiletto heels, sunk into the shallow snow, were pressing irregular marks into the ground.

She straightened her posture, forcing her legs to still.

She glanced around cautiously, breathing a sigh of relief only after confirming that no one had witnessed her momentary lapse of composure.

Her stoicism in front of Bertram had all been an act.

In truth, she was terribly afraid of the cold.

The Saintess’s robes, an elegant weave of white silk and gold embroidery, were of a soft, smooth fabric befitting her station. Yet, for some unfathomable, cruel reason, the design featured a slit that ran all the way up her left thigh. A slightly wider stride was enough to reveal the curve of her hip.

It was said that this robe was a sacred relic from the Holy See of Saint-Marie, protected and blessed by Vatitaya herself. Every Saintess was to inherit and wear it.

Even so, in the nearly thousand-year history of the Church of the Scorching Sun, there had only been three Saintesses.

Vatitaya, the Goddess of the Radiant Sun, never bestowed her blessings upon men. She granted her greatest power only to chosen maidens. The Saintess of the Church of the Scorching Sun was, in essence, Vatitaya’s Divine Chosen.

This was precisely why female believers held such a high status within the faith. The Emperor had even carved out a religious territory within the empire exclusively for female adherents and clergy. Even the Pope was restricted to specific areas during his visits.

The previous Saintess had passed away four centuries ago. Gwynevere’s appearance had galvanized the entire Church, especially the Holy See of Saint-Marie.

To don these sacred robes was to accept a return to tradition, to answer the prayers of the goddess’s faithful.

But Gwynevere wasn’t particularly devout. Though Vatitaya had chosen her, her heart remained largely unmoved.

She still remembered that night twelve years ago. The clouds and sky were burned a brilliant crimson by fire. Every building, tall and small, was ablaze. The acrid stench of smoke and seared flesh filled the air as monsters with fangs and claws, cloaked in human skin, dragged the helpless and innocent villagers to the center of the square.

They claimed to have come for Vatitaya’s Divine Chosen. If she were handed over, they proclaimed, the rest would be spared.

The radiant star that had turned the night sky to day had fallen upon this very village. Nearly everyone nearby knew that after four hundred years, the goddess’s gaze had once again descended upon the world. But it was not the empire’s envoys or the Church’s holy guard who arrived first.

The first to arrive was a horde of vile blood-eaters, and they had cast off their disguises.

Gwynevere was only five years old then. She didn’t understand what a Divine Chosen was, or what the Blood-kin were. She only felt, with a child’s instinct, that she, the recipient of a gift from the heavens, ought to step forward and bear the burden for everyone. These creatures had come for her.

But her parents held her back tightly, and the villagers remained silent, forming a human wall in front of the young Gwynevere.

Necks were bitten, blood was drained, and bodies were left as withered husks. Amidst shrieks and wails, people were roasted alive into charred remains.

One by one, the grotesque monsters tortured and killed the villagers. Familiar faces vanished, one after another, becoming lifeless corpses, their features twisted in agony at the moment of death.

The monsters’ faces were alight with cruel smiles as they inflicted their torment. It was as if a long-suppressed urge had finally been unleashed, their eyes filled with madness and glee.

She remembered those faces.

She remembered how Mr. Angus from next door had carved her a small wooden lamb. She remembered how Betty, the older girl from across the way, would often braid her long, platinum-blonde hair into beautiful fishtail plaits.

Now they were all dead. Dead in the most wretched way, tortured beyond recognition.

It was all because of her. Because she had reached out and caught the star that fell from the sky, as bright as the sun itself.

The wall of people protecting her dwindled, until at last her parents were dragged by their hair to the bonfire. Only then did Gwynevere snap out of the nightmare.

She stepped forward, telling the monsters to stop hurting the villagers, to stop hurting her parents. But the monsters only laughed with greater abandon. They had never intended to spare anyone.

And so, the young Gwynevere knelt on the ground, slick with blood and ash, and watched. She watched as her parents, in the depths of agony and despair, had their necks torn open. She watched as their blood was drained, as their skin lost its moisture and turned sallow and shriveled. She watched until the very eyes that had been fixed upon her withered away.

‘Vatitaya,’ she had prayed, ‘if you are truly the omnipotent goddess of the sun’s crown, why did you cast down your disastrous star only to vanish?’

‘Vatitaya, if you are truly the punishing sun, the symbol of absolute justice, why did you turn a blind eye to the torment of your faithful followers?’

Just before the claws of the disguised Blood-kin reached for her, Gwynevere prayed for the first time to the goddess who had blessed her.

A brilliant radiance descended once more from the sky, as if in answer to her prayer.

A figure emerged from a light as dazzling as the sun itself, a long staff in hand. His white and gold-trimmed bishop’s robes billowed in the surging waves of heat. In that scorching brilliance, the vile blood-eaters were instantly reduced to ash.

That was her first meeting with the man who was now His Holiness the Pope. At the time, Bertram was still the Archbishop of the Salentz Holy See, yet to enter the election for the next papacy.

Gwynevere never wore the robes out of pious faith. She fulfilled her duties as Saintess only to meet the expectations of His Holiness.

‘Though, he clearly favors Edith more. After all, she has such a beautiful smile.’

Gwynevere pulled her thoughts back from her memories. She looked up at the snow-capped peak that pierced the clouds. The edges of the white clouds were tinged with a faint gray-black, heralding the approach of another blizzard.

Edith was the Pope’s adopted daughter. Unlike Gwynevere, they were true family.

Gwynevere had tried to smile, too, but it always looked stiff and unnatural.

After that night, she had lost the capacity for joy or sorrow. She no longer laughed, no longer cried. She presented the same face to the world, earning her the title of the “Ice-Heart Saintess.”

So, she held no particular jealousy or resentment toward her favored younger sister. She simply lacked such feelings.

It was worth noting, however, that Edith seemed to possess the rare talent of seeing through the disguises of the Blood-kin. If Edith had been there that night, perhaps the disaster could have been averted. She had no idea how the Pope had managed to discover such a talent in the slums.

Out of boredom, Gwynevere took the necklace Bertram had given her from a pocket in her cloak. She held the long silver chain, allowing the deep, sea-blue gem to dangle and swing gently from side to side.

The gemstone pulsed with a faint, mystical glow. Curled within its depths, an elemental fairy of fluorescent blue slumbered.

Its craftsmanship was incredible, its magical properties unbelievable. In an age where the Wind of Blood Crystals was thin, it was nothing short of a miracle. And yet, Bertram had casually handed this legendary amulet—an artifact that could probably buy half the Leighton territory—to her.

‘This counts as a form of affection, doesn’t it?’ Gwynevere wondered idly.

Suddenly, a flock of white birds shrieked and burst from the forest into the sky, their wingbeats frantic and clumsy, as if fleeing from something.

A strange feeling washed over her. The Saintess stood up, alert.

“Is something wrong, Your Excellency?” A passing paladin noticed her slightly solemn expression and knelt before her, eager to be of service. “Is there anything I can do to assist you?”

There was a sound, she thought. Some kind of noise.

But before Gwynevere could raise a hand to signal for silence, a powerful, invisible shockwave erupted from the ruins’ gate.

The paladin kneeling before her collapsed instantly, his silver armor clattering loudly as he hit the ground.

He was not the only one.

The invisible wave swept rapidly through the temporary camp. Everyone fell as if their consciousness had been snuffed out in an instant, leaving only Gwynevere standing starkly in their midst.

A cracking sound.

The gem on the necklace in her hand had lost its dreamlike, deep blue luster. Fissures spread slowly across its smooth surface, and the elemental fairy within withered, its light extinguished.

Gwynevere stared down in silence for a long moment, then slowly lifted her head to gaze at the deep, dark entrance of the ruins.