A Restless Saintess and a Mysterious Summons

Gwynevere returned to her room after visiting Ellenore.

She found a spot to sit, but soon rose again, pacing back and forth on the worn wooden floor before settling down in another place. This cycle repeated endlessly. She was restless. Gwynevere’s agitation was instinctual; she felt she shouldn’t be wasting time here.

Command had been temporarily handed over to other Templar Knights, who were still outside searching for the Pope’s whereabouts. Yet, she found herself alone in her small room in the Kohl Town church, doing nothing.

However, Edith was presiding over the evening’s cremation ceremony, and as her sister, Gwynevere couldn’t abandon her. Perhaps this could be described as a specific emotion: impatience.

****

With Pope Bertram missing and Commander Arvis yet to return, the entire Knight Order was in disarray. These southerners, accustomed to warm, humid climates, were gradually losing patience and confidence in the bitter cold winds of the Northmarch.

A pessimistic sentiment began to spread among the knights: the expedition was doomed to fail, the fall of Rocan was inevitable, and they should abandon this harsh, desolate land.

This was no longer a situation Gwynevere could handle alone. She knew her own capabilities were insufficient; she simply couldn’t rally their scattered morale.

Should she ask Edith for help? Gwynevere was reluctant to expose her innocent and kind sister to too much of the world’s darker side. Moreover, Edith was already overwhelmed with her own duties, and adding more pressure was not what a good sister should do.

Yet, perhaps Edith truly was up to the task. She could quickly build rapport with anyone and might very well be able to re-galvanize the army with her personal charm.

Ellenore Perkin, recently, was a prime example. Gwynevere had heard of the “Emerald” of the St. Mary’s Religious Territory. She always felt that Ellenore’s personality was quite similar to her own: reserved and disinclined to interact with others. Her initial encounter with Ellenore in Oliver Village had indeed confirmed the rumors, leaving an impression of unapproachable aloofness.

But Edith had warmly welcomed Ellenore, and their relationship seemed to be growing steadily, recently reaching a point where they were almost inseparable.

In fact, rather than seeking help from Edith, Gwynevere was more inclined to ask Ellenore for advice. She always felt that someone of a Grand Chantress’s status might be adept at handling such situations.

The problem was, how should she broach the subject? Edith was her sister, but Ellenore was entirely an outsider. Gwynevere worried that a sudden inquiry might seem abrupt and impolite.

It seemed she would still have to rely on Edith. Gwynevere realized she truly couldn’t escape her dependence on her godfather and sister; Edith’s assessment of her was entirely accurate. Gwynevere shook her head, emptying her mind of its jumbled thoughts.

She opened the linen-wrapped package on her desk. Inside lay a shard of deep crimson Bloodcrystal.

The shard’s facets were as sharp as blades, as if violently chipped from a larger, more complete Bloodcrystal creation. Gwynevere had never before seen Bloodcrystal of such purity; the diffused essence was so concentrated it was almost visible, a distinct reddish mist swirling around the fragment.

Gwynevere had returned to the ruins once more, yet still found nothing… or rather, not entirely nothing. At least this shard was a new discovery. The Pope had entered the ruins, then a strange magic erupted from within, and after that, the Pope vanished.

She remained convinced that the clue lay inside the ruins. Although she couldn’t glean much useful information from this shard for now, Gwynevere had brought it back. The appearance of such an out-of-place Bloodcrystal fragment in ruins filled with deep blue Sea Crystals was inherently suspicious.

To trace the Pope’s whereabouts, Gwynevere would now cling to every possibility and hope. Just as the Saintess silently vowed this in her heart, the surface of the shard suddenly burst forth with dazzling purplish-red starlight. Before Gwynevere could even raise a hand to shield her eyes, she was enveloped by the brilliant glow.

****

The blinding light that filled Verilia’s vision flashed and then rapidly receded. When she came to her senses, she found herself in a monochromatic white space, with mist swirling around, obscuring the view further away.

She had lost her physical body, replaced instead by an illusory dark-red nebula, much like a mysterious celestial body occasionally glimpsed in a clear night sky. Beside her stood another dark-red nebula, its vague outline suggesting it too was a young woman. The other party seemed just as bewildered and confused as she was.

But soon, both began to notice, beyond the white, watery mist directly ahead, a floating cluster of purplish-red stars, distinctly different from themselves. Brilliant starlight bloomed and flickered within it, dazzling and captivating.

Gwynevere regained her composure more quickly than Verilia. She first confirmed that her ability to vocalize still existed, then began to formulate her words in her mind.

‘Being forcibly drawn into this space, whether by thought or soul, is likely related to mind magic or some system of faith. The being behind the mist clearly holds a higher status than myself and the person beside me.’

Gwynevere decided to probe first. “Is this your doing, esteemed one?”

“Noble lady—” Verilia, hearing Gwynevere speak, also reacted. Based on the vague outline, she barely discerned that it also seemed to be a woman, so she said respectfully, “For what purpose have you brought us here?”

Both sets of gazes converged, and now the pressure was on Daphne. In Daphne’s eyes, the outlines of these two were perfectly clear.

She instantly recognized the two nebulae in the white mist: one was Her Highness Gwynevere, the Saintess who had just entered the room next door to rest, and the other was Verilia, the eldest daughter of the Ael Territory, whom her clone had been cultivating as a governess.

Now, with Bertram’s body imprisoned in the Deathmist Iron Coffin, all her clones had vanished into thin air. From Verilia’s perspective, this meant her governess, Aisara, had inexplicably disappeared four days ago.

‘Why is this Soul-Mirror only bringing in people I know?’

‘What now?’