Golden Chains Prologue: Arina Saint's Tears

Arina Saint didn't know exactly when she had lost her tears. But there was a moment when she clearly realized it. It was the day the Holy Emperor summoned her.

The scent of incense seeping from the high ceiling, the rituals embroidered with golden thread, the kindly curved lips that seemed so gentle. The voice pretending to be benevolent, and the overwhelming height of the throne that crushed any thought of resistance. Everything was too perfect, suffocating her instead.

"Arina Saint. You must become engaged to the empire's crown prince."

He had called her after so long, only to bring up a political marriage. The Holy Emperor's face said it was unavoidable for the Holy Kingdom's sake. He even added careful words, as if he were sharing the burden rather than imposing it. That tenderness was utterly repulsive.

To demand yet another sacrifice from someone who had already devoted her life to the gods—her most private heart, her purest first love. It was blasphemy she couldn't voice to anyone, but in that moment, Arina thought it clearly: Holy Emperor, you are truly cruel.

"......Understood."

But in the end, Arina Saint quietly bowed her head. A saintess had to be everyone's hope. She couldn't waver easily or weep from injustice. At some point, she had learned to neatly fold away her emotions before ever showing them.

So perhaps that was why. Even when the day came that she couldn't shed a single tear before her own misfortune, Arina didn't feel particularly sad. As if she had always been that way.

The secret engagement proceeded quietly but surely. On the empire's suggestion, she enrolled in the Imperial Academy, and Arina Saint made a choice unlike herself.

There was the excuse of needing elective credits for Basic Art Creation. But a saintess had no reason to choose such a class. The Art Department was the most neglected corner of the academy. The building was dilapidated, the lessons dull, and choosing it alone raised doubts about one's taste and dignity. Loving art and stepping into the Art Department were entirely different things. For the Holy Kingdom's face, it was a choice she absolutely shouldn't make.

'......But.'

Arina quietly lowered her lashes. She wanted to escape her attendants' surveillance, even briefly. Even if the empire and Holy Kingdom joined hands, they weren't fully aligned. While staying in the empire as the saintess, every path she took was shadowed by watchful eyes. Walking, stopping, even catching her breath felt monitored.

So this time, just once. Even if only for a moment. She wanted to...... rebel a little.

"......"

The moment that word surfaced, Arina hurriedly shook her head. Rebellion. It sounded lewd somewhere, laced with forbidden allure.

It felt like she was consciously evoking that obscene doujinshi title, blatantly modeled after her! Her cheeks faintly flushed.

'N-no, that's absolutely not what I ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠meant......'

No. This wasn't rebellion. There were plenty of reasons to take Basic Art Creation.

First, the professor was highly reputed in literary circles. Second, he was an author Arina had quietly admired for years. She'd even dreamed of becoming his student. Though she'd never truly believed it possible.

So this wasn't rebellion. It was simply a desire to learn. From someone she respected, just a little more. And there was a perfect excuse. Rumors said the demon king's third son was in the Art Department. She could tell the church it was for surveillance.

Yes. This isn't rebellion. It's just wanting to learn something new.

Reassuring herself like that over and over, Arina headed to the Art Department annex.

The Art Department building was in the academy's most remote spot. One glance at the exterior explained why students whispered that even associating with it tarnished one's reputation. The walls were weathered with age, the window frames creaked from years of neglect, and a chill lingered at the corridor ends where wind seeped in.

Yet Arina liked that annex. The air mixed old wood and dry paper scents. Far from glamorous, but strangely quiet. This stillness, half a step removed from the world, was a rare respite for her, always at the center of gazes.

Seated, she cautiously scanned her surroundings. Then.

'......Huh?'

The classroom entrance grew rowdy. Seniors blocked the door.

"Hey, newbie."

"This is the Art Department. Not a place to wander into on a whim."

"Create a novel. Say your first sentence."

Laughter rippled lowly through the room.

'Ah, hazing.'

The typical academy hazing the priests had mentioned. They troubled every newcomer the same way; freshmen bowed awkwardly or retreated without entering. Watching, Arina wondered.

'Why didn't they do it to me?'

Then she realized. Because she was the saintess. Known and untouchable. They never bared teeth at the strong. Only raised voices to the weak.

Arina swallowed slowly. She hated that human nature. Pressing others just for entering first, drunk on fleeting superiority. The world called it survival of the fittest, but to her, it was far from strength. Cowardice, not boldness; baseness, not dignity.

And wasn't she cowardly too, just watching?

Then.

— As a saintess.

A familiar voice burrowed in again. Timid as a saintess. Fearing people as a saintess. Maybe even hating humans themselves as a saintess. That self-loathing gripped her ankle.

"Aren't you thinking? Be a little quieter, please."

A calm voice sliced the air. A man with demon blood stepped in first. Black hair. Pale face. Eyes heavy with fatigue, like chronic sleep deprivation. He should have seemed pitiful. Yet Arina's gaze stuck inexplicably. Was it the neatly worn uniform sans ornaments? Or that brazen nonchalance? She couldn't tell.

Whispers rose.

Ian Ashy. Just murmuring the name sharpened his lines oddly. Seemingly without possessions, yet like he belonged center stage.

One senior sneered.

"What, scared?"

"No."

"Then say it. First sentence."

Ian Ashy paused thoughtfully, then opened casually.

"Your mom's dead."

Pfft.

Did I hear right? Arina instinctively covered her mouth. She'd almost laughed. So vulgar, so direct—it made her doubt her ears. More bewildering than offensive. No, she should be bewildered, but laughter surged first. Especially since they'd provoked him.

Yet justifying such a retort? No.

The air froze.

"......This fucker?"

The demon king's third son's face flushed crimson. After tormenting newbies all day, this was satisfying.

Serves you right. She barely quelled her rising smirk. Laughing at misfortune is wrong. Control your face. Like a saintess.

Swallowing laughter, Ian added calmly.

"Oh, my bad."

Right. Must be a mistake. As a noble, he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠wouldn't—

"Your mother has passed away."

"......Guhk."

This time it was dangerous. Arina ducked her head. Laughter nearly escaped. A disaster for a saintess stifling laughs at seniors' plight in the annex corner.

Still! Polished phrasing doesn't make the meaning polite!

Someone point it out!

Instead.

"This fucker!!"

The entrance erupted. The demon king's son lunged as if to grab his collar; frantic interventions followed. But Ian neither flinched nor retreated. He breathed, paused a beat, and spoke as if planted there for that line.

"Your mother passed away. One year ago or two, I don't remember."

"......Huh?"

Change comes abruptly sometimes.

The worn floor and faded desks felt like stage props. The defiant, rude-mouthed man suddenly stood at the podium like a one-act play's lead. Blurry sunlight through broken windows seemed spotlit for him.

Arina straightened unconsciously. She wasn't alone drawn by his voice. The earlier giggles vanished like lies.

Like relaying another's tale, his tone was indifferently calm. Yet it gripped hearts strangely. A voice suiting the story perfectly. The worn warmth for wounds long scarred, faded even of pain. Not pouring emotion, but the trace left by one who passed through it. She understood, her emotions worn thin too.

“......Ah.”

Arina swallowed unwittingly. Tears threatened.

Calm. Thus crueler. Never raising his voice, each sentence pierced tender spots effortlessly. No grand gestures—just gaze, breath, subtle hand flicks built the scene.

Arina thought: More immersive than any story she'd read.

Then, a strange sensation. The story's grieving friend felt like her. Choosing faces for ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠crowds. Suppressing emotions to not break. Pretending not hurt, not lonely. It pierced her heart dead-on.

“—Sniff.”

The sound leaked. Arina didn't realize it was hers—too immersed.

Ian Ashy's story continued.

He chuckled briefly. Not bright—like fingering ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠an old scar. Thus kinder, more poignant.

The room was deathly silent. Even the demon king's son wiped eyes, mouth shut.

But Arina barely saw. Her gaze lingered too long, too naturally on Ian Ashy. Knowing she should look away, yet couldn't.

Tears kept falling. Forgetting to express emotions. That line hurt impossibly.

So perhaps why her tears, once started, wouldn't stop easily.

“......Hic.”

Again, she didn't notice her sound. Everyone looked the same.

Ian's eyelids lowered slowly, rose. His gaze faced front first time. Arina's heart dropped. Not looking at her. Yet felt placed in the story, caught by gentle eyes just standing.

What would I say? Thanks? No—

Because the girl must have thought herself worthless. Valueless to anyone.

How answer such sorry? Ian spoke. Low, soft.

Short silence. Deep quiet; no one breathed easily.

Then the line fell.

Oddly honest. Thus deeper. No grand vows of love or eternity. Just 'liked you'—simple, yet soaked in passed seasons, held feelings, old kindness.

Ian smiled faintly, uttered the last.

The story ended. Yet podium, blackboard, desks didn't return to reality. All in place, but his soliloquy lingered like faint echo.

Students who'd mocked the newbie held breath like audience awaiting curtain's full fall.

And then, Arina realized belatedly.

'......Huh?'

Transparent tears tracing her cheek clearly. What she'd thought lost remained deep inside? Or.

His voice reached too easily.

Arina stared blankly at Ian on the podium. Moments ago just suspicious, brazen newbie—now vividly sharp. Pale face, fatigued eyes, that brief smirk at the end.

And she vaguely knew she'd never forget his name.

Ian Ashy. It would linger in her heart strangely long.