The Priest's Sharp Tongue
The air inside the Grand Cathedral was as heavy and chilly as always. Beams of light filtered through the stained glass, carving faint pillars of dust between the towering columns that held up the vaulted ceiling. The atmosphere was thick with the scent of strong incense, ancient stone, and the mingled body odors of countless worshippers. It was boring. His butt was numb.
Count Valois kept a stony expression fixed forward, swallowing a yawn in his mind. This weekly Sunday morning mass was pure torture for him. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe in God. He simply saw no need to sit on these rigid wooden pews for hours listening to prayers in an ancient imperial tongue he couldn’t even understand. The faces of the other nobles seated around him weren’t much different. Most were pretending to be pious with their eyes closed or idly flipping through their scriptures without purpose.
Today’s mass felt especially long. The choir’s singing finally faded, and the time for the sermon arrived. An elderly white-haired priest ascended the pulpit. His voice was low, yet it carried a resonance that filled the entire cathedral.
Here we go again. Count Valois clicked his tongue inwardly. It was the same old repertoire every time. Greed, lust, sloth, pride… As if any of the nobles gathered here were truly free from those sins.
The old priest’s voice paused for a moment. His gaze naturally, yet with pinpoint accuracy, turned toward one specific spot. It landed on Marquis Rohan, who was making no effort to hide his bored expression. One of the key figures in Anastasia’s faction.
A subtle stir rippled through the cathedral. Marquis Rohan’s face stiffened ever so slightly. The marchioness beside him hid her face behind a fan, trying to look composed, but the hand holding the fan trembled faintly.
This time the priest’s gaze shifted elsewhere. It landed on a young viscount and his wife, well-known for frequenting Anastasia’s salon. The husband had recently caused a scandal with another married noblewoman, and rumors of the wife’s affair with a young knight were rampant. Both of their faces turned deathly pale.
Count Valois had to fight to keep the corners of his mouth from turning up. This priest really picked a fight today. It was entertaining. It felt like watching a well-scripted play. Of course, he wasn’t exactly innocent of the sins being denounced. But unlike Marquis Rohan or that viscount couple, he didn’t indulge quite so openly, so he couldn’t help feeling a strange sense of superiority.
The priest’s voice rose sharply.
This was an open attack on Anastasia’s entire faction. The fact that drugs circulated openly in her salon was a poorly kept secret. Coughs that sounded deliberately forced erupted here and there. The nobles belonging to Anastasia’s faction now openly displayed their displeasure. Some glared at the priest, while others simply turned their heads away.
The priest paid no heed to their reactions and instead looked them straight in the eye.
It was a direct challenge demanding an answer. The inside of the cathedral fell deathly silent, as if cold water had been poured over it. Everyone held their breath, staring at the nobles of Anastasia’s faction. No one dared open their mouths. Contradicting a priest in the middle of mass was unthinkable. They could only bite their lips in humiliated silence.
It’s satisfying, but… I’m starting to get sick of this. Count Valois stifled another yawn. It was cathartic, but he just wanted this tedious mass to end quickly.
After an endlessly long sermon, the mass finally concluded. The nobles rushed out of the cathedral as if they had all agreed on it beforehand. Outside the doors, people gathered in small groups, whispering about what had just happened.
A certain baron chuckled. The viscount beside him chimed in.
They climbed into their carriages, still chuckling. None of them realized the true meaning behind what had happened that day. They simply thought the Anastasia faction was particularly extravagant and immoral, so the Church was making an example of them. Just another amusing Sunday morning where the unlucky ones got publicly shamed.
The capital’s high society had split in two along an invisible line. The traditional noble faction centered around Clement, the Grand Duke, had pulled out the old banner of “the duty of the noble.” Of course, that duty was something most nobles now treated like mere decoration. But now it was different. It had become the perfect justification to attack the “corruption” of Anastasia’s faction and flaunt their own “purity.”
Clement himself did not step forward, but he subtly instructed those in his faction: Avoid associating with the immoral. Those few words carried immense weight. Those who had frequented Anastasia’s salon became pariahs overnight. People who once hunted together now openly avoided them. Long-standing business relationships were severed in a single day. Families that had been discussing marriage suddenly refused meetings with the excuse that their daughter had fallen ill.
The atmosphere at Club Arcadia, the social hub for noblemen, was especially icy. With its heavy leather sofas, cigar smoke, and the aroma of top-shelf whiskey, it had once been a sanctuary where men could strengthen their bonds regardless of faction. Now, even there, Anastasia’s people were like isolated islands.
Marquis Rohan sat in his usual spot, swirling a glass of brandy. Several tables around him were completely empty. The people who would normally have sat nearby exchanging trivial jokes were now keeping their distance, whispering among themselves. He could feel their gazes. Unpleasant stares mixed with contempt, mockery, and a hint of curiosity.
Those little shits. Rohan clicked his tongue inwardly. To be so easily swayed by a few words from some old church fossils. It was utterly pathetic.
Just as he set his glass down, a young noble staggered over to his table. It was Viscount Etienne de Valois. A rising noble who had recently thrown himself enthusiastically into Clement’s faction. Until recently, he had been a pathetic kid drowning his days in alcohol after losing his lover to Marquis Rohan.
Etienne stopped right in front of Rohan, making a show of it. His face was flushed red from drink, but his eyes gleamed with arrogance.
Etienne spoke in a mocking tone. His voice rang out unusually loud even amid the club’s low murmur. All eyes in the room instantly turned toward them.
It was an outright provocation. Instead of answering, Rohan silently lifted his brandy glass and wet his lips. The kid wasn’t even worth responding to. Ignoring him was the best reply.
But Etienne didn’t back down. He slammed his own glass down on the table beside Rohan’s with a loud clack.
Etienne’s voice dripped with open contempt.
The air inside the club froze solid. Short history. Bought a title with money. Those were the harshest insults one could hurl at a newly risen noble.
Etienne continued.
At those words, Rohan finally moved. He rose from his seat slowly—very slowly. The pressure radiating from the mature man in his mid-thirties made the hot-blooded young viscount unconsciously flinch.
Rohan said nothing. He simply reached into his coat, pulled out a white leather glove, and lightly slapped Etienne across the cheek with it. The glove fell to the floor. It was a formal challenge to a duel.
Rohan’s voice was ice-cold.
He continued without even glancing at Etienne.
Despite being denounced as extravagant and immoral, Anastasia’s people never backed down from duels. Across the empire, whenever they were insulted, they always repaid it with sword or pistol. That attitude actually left a deep impression on many nobles. Before long, they began to be seen as people who understood honor—dissolute perhaps, but possessing the courage of warriors from a bygone era.
Even so, favorable views only went that far. Most people still regarded them as reckless fools or nothing more than barbaric ruffians. The fact that they were throwing around duels left and right in the name of honor was clearly a fatal mistake.
Regardless of who won or lost, anyone who shed blood had to disappear from high society and the political stage for a while to recover. Those who died never returned. Each duel carried the risk of removing one capable ally from the board. As this repeated, Anastasia’s faction slowly but surely began to lose its momentum and influence.