The Princess Cannot Wash Her Hands

The door to the Arten envoy's sealing chamber clicked shut. As the heavy lock engaged from within, the ambient noise of the corridor vanished. ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Outside, servants would be bustling, guards would be rotating shifts, and the candles in the envoy's quarters would be extinguished one by one. But inside this room, only three remained: Elisia Arten, her reporting officer, and the liaison priest from the Seraphion Order.

On the table lay a reply, stamped with the black seal of the Vergrad royal family. Elisia read it again.

It was polite. The sentence was short. Yet, that brief statement seemed to press down on every candle flame in the room, forcing them to flicker low. The reporting officer swallowed hard.

“Your Highness.”

Elisia raised a hand, and the officer fell silent. She pressed her fingertip against the final sentence of the reply. Internal rebel factions of Vergrad. Belion Vergrad. The Eastern Military Command. And... guarantee that there has been no contact.

Elisia let out a low laugh. It was a soundless, mirthless thing.

“I offered to be a mediator,” she said. “And they have demanded proof.”

The officer asked cautiously, “As a witness?”

Elisia looked up. “No.”

A single candle flame popped sharply. “As a suspect.”

The officer’s fingertips stiffened. The Seraphion liaison priest finally spoke. “Your Highness, that is an excessive interpretation. The Seraphion Order has never had contact with any rebel faction—”

“No one has said yet that the Order had contact,” Elisia interrupted. The priest’s lips snapped shut. “The Demon King is merely asking.”

She folded the reply. “And a good question always drives the person who must answer it into a corner.”

Lucion had changed. That fact was no longer a mere impression; it was proven in writing. The Lucion of the past would never have written a reply like this. He would have burned private letters and responded to official diplomatic documents with empty platitudes. But he hadn't just replied; he had demanded an investigation. He hadn't accepted the window of mediation Elisia had offered, nor had he smashed it. Instead, he had set a blade beneath the sill.

Show me your hands if you wish to enter. Prove first that they are clean.

‘You weren’t this kind of person,’ the words rose to her throat. Elisia swallowed them. Those words held no power now. Or perhaps, they never had. The Lucion she remembered was merely the Lucion she had wanted to remember.

“Seal the communication records,” Elisia commanded.

The officer looked up. “Your Highness?”

“All unofficial communication records between the envoy’s office and the Eastern Military Command. The last month’s worth. No, the last two months.”

“Sealing them will only invite suspicion.”

“Leaving them open will reveal even more.”

The officer froze, pen in hand. The priest’s finger pressed against a bead of his rosary. Click. It was a small sound, but Elisia heard it clearly.

“Do not worry,” she said, looking at the priest. “I haven't spoken anyone’s name yet.”

“The Order is not bound by the diplomatic documents of the Kingdom of Arten,” the priest said coldly. “The Order moves according to the will of God. To place the Order’s name alongside the records of the Kingdom’s envoy is—”

“The Demon King has already bound us together,” Elisia cut him off. The priest paused. Elisia held up the reply. “Do you see? The Kingdom of Arten and the Seraphion Order are contained within the same sentence.”

She placed the paper back on the table. “Even if we claim otherwise, the listener will now think of us as one.”

He was truly clever. Disgustingly so. Lucion had refused the request for mediation without ever saying the word ‘refuse.’ Instead, he had asked a question. A question is thinner than a spear, which is exactly why it slips through the gaps in one’s armor.

“Your Highness,” the officer said in a low voice. “Was there truly contact?”

The question fell to the floor of the sealing chamber. The priest glared at the officer. “How rude.”

“I must ask,” the officer said, head bowed. “Vergrad has demanded a guarantee. To provide a guarantee, one must first know the facts.”

The priest gripped his rosary tightly. Click. This time, the sound was louder.

Elisia did not answer. Instead, she opened a small box on the table. Inside were communication slips tied with red string. Official communications of the Arten Kingdom. Unofficial contact networks. Notes without markings that had passed through the Order’s priesthood. Elisia pushed one with her fingertip. The envelope was empty; the contents had long since vanished. But at the edge of the envelope, a faint, black ash remained. Traces of burning.

The officer’s face turned pale. The priest said nothing. That silence was the loudest thing in the room.

“The word ‘contact’ is convenient,” Elisia said. “Meeting in person is contact, delivering a message through an intermediary priest is contact, and picking up information someone else leaked is also contact.”

She closed the empty envelope. “In diplomacy, one learns how to write that their hands were never dirty long before one learns how to wash them.”

“Your Highness,” the officer’s voice dropped. “Then we cannot provide the guarantee.”

“We must.”

“It would be a false guarantee.”

“Most diplomatic documents are just beautifully dried lies,” Elisia said coldly. “The problem is that this particular lie is far too quick to dissolve in the face of the Demon King’s question.”

She looked at the reply again. Lucion was asking: Are your hands clean?

Elisia looked down at her own hands. They were white. Not a single drop of blood stained them. A princess’s hands were always maintained that way. She held teacups, signed documents, shook hands, and wore gloves. She did not hold a sword. That was why she could say they were not dirty.

But just because her name did not appear on ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the report of the Noxvine Defense War did not mean she had been outside of that war. She had heard Lucion’s words. She had heard his loneliness. She had heard the cracks in the royal palace. The human world called those cracks ‘intelligence.’ The Order called it ‘divine guidance.’

What would Lucion call it? Betrayal. Perhaps a shorter word than that. Abandonment.

“Your Highness,” the priest said cautiously. “How shall you report this to the Order’s headquarters?”

Elisia looked at him. “Me?”

“The Demon King’s reply came to Arten, but it mentioned the Order as well. It must be conveyed to the Saintess.”

Ariane Seraphel. At the mention of that name, Elisia’s fingertips froze on the reply. The Saintess. The woman who had prayed for Lucion. Elisia laughed, a very short sound. It was less of a laugh and more of a breath.

“Convey it.”

The priest bowed. “Shall I send the full text?”

“No.” Elisia copied the final sentence of the reply. [Guarantee that the Kingdom of Arten and the Seraphion Order have had no contact with the internal rebel factions of Vergrad.]

She folded only that sentence. “This sentence alone will suffice.”

The priest took the paper. His fingers moved just a fraction slower, as if the paper were heavy. “The Saintess will be displeased.”

“I hope she has the right to be.”

The priest tried to retort, but seeing the black seal on the reply, he swallowed his words. Elisia turned her gaze away.

“Seal the communication records. Officially, they are for preservation. Unofficially, for review. Categorize the records passing through the Order separately.”

The officer bowed. “As you command.”

“And report this to the home country.” Elisia picked up her pen. This time, she did not hesitate. “Lucion Vergrad did not refuse the mediation.”

The officer wrote it down.

“He merely demanded to know if the mediator’s hands were clean first.”

The pen stopped. Elisia added the final sentence.

“Therefore, Arten is no longer a mediator, but a party that must now provide an explanation.”

The moment she wrote those words, the candles in the sealing chamber flickered once. There was no wind. Yet, they swayed. Elisia did not look at the candles. There was no need. Everyone in ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the room felt the same thing. Lucion’s reply had already arrived, yet strangely, it felt as if it were still on its way. The sentence written on the paper was slowly spreading—through the cracks in the door, into the envoy’s communication room, and into the Order’s chapel.

The temporary chapel of the Seraphion Order had many candles. So many that the shadows were, if anything, deeper. Ariane Seraphel was kneeling before the altar. The hem of her white vestments spread across the floor. In her hands was a rosary. Her fingers moved with practiced familiarity. The first bead. The second bead. The third bead.

The prayer was supposed to come out like breath. It was a sequence of words she had memorized since childhood. Whether she was anxious, standing before wounded soldiers on the battlefield, or in the envoy’s office of the royal palace, she had never lost these words.

“Lord,” Ariane said softly. “Grant peace to those who have lost their way.”

The rosary bead clicked over. “Grant silence to those who are filled with rage.”

Her fingers stopped. Silence. The word lingered in her mouth. Footsteps approached from outside the door. The liaison priest stopped before the chapel.

“Saintess.”

Ariane did not lift her head. “Speak.”

The priest held out a folded piece of paper. “This is a portion of the reply from Vergrad. The Princess asked that it be conveyed to you.”

Ariane took the paper. Even before she unfolded it, her fingertips turned cold. She read the sentence slowly.

A single rosary bead slipped from her hand. It hit the floor. Roll, roll. The small sound echoed through the chapel. The priest hurriedly moved to bow, but Ariane raised a hand.

“Leave it.”

The priest stopped. Ariane stared down at the paper. The Demon King. Lucion Vergrad. His name was not written in the sentence. Yet, it felt as though the entire sentence were densely packed with his name. Long ago, she had said to him, “I will pray for you. So please, do nothing.”

Back then, she had truly believed it was salvation. She had thought he would get hurt if he moved. She had thought he would be used if he stepped forward. She had thought that if he remained silent, he would at least not die. But now, those words had returned with a different meaning.

Do not move. Do not become a variable. So that we may remember you as a good person. Stay quietly in your place.

Ariane tried to read the prayer again. “Lord.” Her lips parted. But the next words would not come. The priest waited. Candle wax dripped down, falling onto ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the white candle like clear tears. Ariane tightened her grip on the rosary. She remembered the prayer. She knew the words. But that day, the Saintess could not finish the prayer.

It was not because she had forgotten the name for whom she was praying. It was because, for the first time, she could not be certain whose salvation she had been praying for.