The Saintess's Sentiment

The Elder Council chamber was a white room. It was so blindingly white that it actually made the faces of those within it stand out more clearly. Their wrinkles. Their gazes. Their hidden displeasure. The political machinery concealed behind holy prayers.

Ariane Seraphel stood in the center of the room. It was the Saintess's designated place. At the same time, it was the seat of the accused.

Beyond the circular table sat the elders. Archbishop Raoden Berks. Political Elder Orbanen Kalt. And at the far end sat the oldest of them all, the nearly motionless Abbess Marcilla Noen. Marcilla's eyes were closed. She appeared to be asleep. But Ariane knew better. The old woman was not asleep. Those who remained silent the longest were always the ones who listened most closely.

"Saintess," Raoden spoke first. "Convening the Elder Council in response to an inquiry from the Demon Realm is, in itself, a highly dangerous precedent."

Ariane did not reply. In her hands, she held the public inquiry. A black seal. A white room. The two colors seemed to claw at each other.

Orbanen spoke in a low voice. "However, copies have already spread. To the Elder Council, the kingdom's diplomatic channels, and even to the Saintess herself." He tapped his finger against the table. "We can no longer pretend this never happened."

"I am not suggesting we pretend it never happened. I believe you need to rephrase your words," Raoden said coldly. "What I mean is that we must avoid any situation where the Saintess directly responds to the questions posed by the Demon King."

Only then did Ariane raise her head. "And if I do not respond?"

"Silence is sometimes the most sacred answer of all." Raoden did not hesitate for a second. It was the tone of a man who had been taught to speak that way his entire life. It was also a phrase Ariane had heard for far too long.

Orbanen intervened cautiously. "But if we are not careful, it could lead to misunderstandings."

Raoden countered immediately. "Even so, the Saintess must not respond directly." He continued, "If necessary, the Holy Order can issue a reply. Unofficially, and without the Saintess's name attached."

Silence fell over the room. Raoden looked straight at Ariane. "If you remain silent, the Demon Realm will claim we have acquiesced. It will be unpleasant, certainly. But we can always issue a clarification later. The people are always on our side." His eyes narrowed. "Therefore, it is best for the Saintess to simply maintain her position."

The sound of swallowing echoed softly in the quiet room. "Under no circumstances must the Saintess of Serapion respond to the Demon King's inquiry. It must remain strictly forbidden."

Ariane gripped the document a little tighter. Raoden did not miss that subtle movement. "Lest this spark an even greater conflagration," he said.

If the Saintess recognized the Demon Realm as a political negotiating partner, the very myth the Holy Order had built over centuries might crack.

Someone took a sharp, quiet breath. If rumors spread that the Saintess prioritized the suffering of demons over the defense of humanity... Another elder's face hardened. And what if word got out that the Saintess had publicly condemned the guardian of the northern front?

Raoden masked his expression behind the heavy, dull wrinkles of his face. Perhaps because of that, his presence felt oppressive. "If we entangle ourselves in this," he slowly delivered his final sentence, "it ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠will ultimately lead to the conclusion that the Saintess has taken the side of the demons. Is that what you want?"

The silence in the room grew even heavier. Taking the side of the demons. Ariane felt those words land upon her veil. Like a stain.

"In the northern monasteries, there are still children who lost their families to the demons," Raoden said. "Over the past ten years, the kingdom's funeral bells have tolled most frequently in the north." He looked down at the inquiry on the table. "Even in front of those children, would you still open your mouth to mourn the deaths of demons, Saintess?"

At those words, several elders bowed their heads. It was not because they trusted Raoden, but because they feared the question too much to offer a rebuttal. The war between the human world and the Demon Realm had dragged on for far too long—long enough to blunt any sense of moral nuance.

A prolonged war simplified guilt. It was far too late to correct misunderstandings. Humans were the victims; demons were the perpetrators. The moment that framework shattered, too many graves would be forced open once more.

It was not that Ariane was ignorant of this reality. She had visited the northern monasteries before. She had seen children who had forgotten their parents' names reciting holy prayers.

She had seen a child who bit their fingernails to the bone whenever the word "demon" was uttered, and an old man who had been unable to hear the sanctuary bells ever since the day his son died.

Human suffering was real. And that was precisely what made this so difficult and tragic. For real suffering allied itself all too easily with false mercy.

Ariane spoke slowly. "I am not trying to deny human suffering." Raoden's eyes flickered. Unexpectedly, for the first time in a very long while, the Saintess was strongly asserting her own opinion. "Nor am I trying to erase the sins of the demons." She looked down at the inquiry. Ragmunt. The protection zone. The Saintess's Principle of Mercy.

"I only wished to ask," Ariane said, "if classifying people under the guise of mercy is truly the doctrine of Serapion." No one answered immediately. "Is excluding a mother who hid medicine from protection truly our wartime code of mercy?" Orbanen's eyelids trembled.

Ariane continued, "Reclassifying fever reducers as military contraband, and turning a child's mother into a subject awaiting execution..." For the first time, she looked Raoden dead in the eye. "Is this the human order that I am expected to protect with my silence?"

"You are letting your emotions get the better of you," Raoden said quietly. "The Northern Border Army has long applied the Holy Order's wartime code of mercy." He delivered these words as if he had been waiting for this exact moment. "Refugee relief, prisoner verification, the segregation of non-combatants—all of these have been carried out under the name of Serapion. A battlefield requires judgment, and those judgments must be made on the ground."

Ariane listened in silence. "If Archduke Leonhart interpreted those codes on the field, we cannot simply brand it as theft." There it was. Ariane felt her fingertips turn cold. It wasn't a reckless abuse of her name. It was highly sophisticated, grounded in history.

A gray area that had been permitted for ages. Customs born of good intentions. Rules created to save the wounded. Those beautiful sentences drafted to distinguish refugees... After rolling around the battlefield for so long, they had somehow transformed into a righteous justification for slaughter.

Orbanen quietly summarized the situation, as if trying to prevent any further discord. "If we call it theft, we deny the entire history of customs observed by the Northern Border Army and the Holy Order's Northern Relief Inspectorate." He took a breath. "But if we say we authorized it, the Holy Order must shoulder the burden of the executions at Ragmunt."

Silence descended upon the room once more. Everyone understood now. The Demon Realm's inquiry was no mere letter of protest. It was a door. A door that would leave blood on their hands no matter which way they opened it.

Raoden spoke. "Therefore, it is all the more reason for the Saintess to compose her mind and body, and quietly shine her light." Ariane looked at him. Raoden was absolutely certain of himself.

And the worst part was, his words weren't entirely wrong. A person who was completely wrong was easy to refute. But a person who was half-right forced you to halt and agonize over your choices.

"I know that justification has been used on the battlefield for a long time," Ariane said. Every eye in the room turned to her. "It was meant to save the wounded." She chose her words with deliberate care. "To separate refugees, to verify prisoners, and to ensure those who did not have to die were spared. But... but..." Such irreverent phrasing. The closed eyelids of Marcilla Noen twitched ever so slightly.

"Just how long... how long must we tolerate the distortion and abuse of our principles?" For the Holy Order to abandon its morality for political expediency was utterly laughable. Ariane's words quickened. "Even when that justification is being actively abused in Ragmunt! Why on earth are rules established hundreds of years ago still holding sway today? The Northern Archduke is currently—!" The inquiry trembled slightly in her hand.

This time, she did not hide her agitation. "He is dividing the civilian demons of the occupied territories into those who should be saved..." Those who should be saved. "...and those who are permitted to be killed."

Those who are permitted to be killed. Even if there were countless reasons to hate them, and no matter how much demons had become objects of revulsion... at that moment, Ariane suddenly felt a profound weariness toward the half of her life she had spent designated as the Saintess. Perhaps it was because of a certain damnably handsome man.

Raoden crossed his arms, silently daring her to continue. "If that is the custom of the Holy Order," Ariane exhaled sharply, "then I must examine that custom." She kept her eyes locked on Raoden. "And if that is the Archduke's interpretation..." Her voice was still quiet. But no one in the room could mistake it for a prayer anymore. "...then I must reject that interpretation."

Raoden opened his mouth. "Saintess, you are currently playing right into the hands of the Demon King, whose sole intention is to weaken humanity's war effort—"

"No, I am not," Ariane interrupted him for the first time.

The room froze. The Saintess had cut off the Archbishop. That single act shifted the entire atmosphere of the council chamber. Ariane knew exactly what she had done. Yet, she did not stop.

"I am not defending the Demon Realm," she declared, swearing an oath on the spot. "Nor am I praising the Demon King." Raoden glared at her in silence. Ariane met his gaze.

She knew exactly what lay behind those eyes. Suspicion. Surveillance. Isolation. Even discussions of restricting the Saintess's public statements if necessary. All of it was closing in on her once again.

She was afraid. How could she not be? But Lucion's words still hung heavy in her throat, sharp and stinging. Would she choose silence yet again? Ariane quietly suppressed the tremor in her throat.

"I have no intention of letting my name cover up a massacre any longer," she said. "People will say I have sided with the Demon King, and rumors that the Saintess has betrayed the kingdom will circulate for a time." Several of the elders raised their heads. "But either way, no one else is safe. No one other than me." Those words were a confession.

The Saintess was casting off the guilt she had harbored for so long. Neither prayers, nor silence, nor her veil could offer her any comfort. "Therefore, rather than the welfare of the kingdom or the peace of the world..." Ariane folded the inquiry. "...I will choose the path I can live with."

Ariane. And the Saintess. For a brief moment, her face was that of a simple girl. At that instant, Marcilla Noen, who had remained silent for so long, opened her eyes. The pupils beneath her white eyebrows were aged, but not cloudy. "Even in a holy war, there are lines that must not be crossed," she spoke in a low voice.

Yet, everyone in the room heard her. Raoden turned his head. "Abbess." Marcilla did not look at him. She looked only at Ariane. "If you erect an execution ground in the name of mercy," she said slowly, "then that name is no longer mercy."

With those words, the balance in the room shifted ever so slightly. Just a fraction. But it was enough. Orbanen closed his eyes and opened them again. Raoden remained silent, though his expression was far from agreeable. It was a silence born of the realization that he could no longer corner the Saintess on his own.

Ariane set down the paper in her hand. "Record this," she said. The scribe picked up his pen with trembling hands. Ariane turned to face the Elder Council.

The pen scratched against the paper. Scratch. Scratch.

Raoden closed his eyes. Orbanen and Marcilla averted their gazes. Ariane delivered her final sentence. "Therefore, if anyone is killed in my name in Ragmunt..." Her voice trembled ever so slightly. But it did not break. "...it will not be the result of my silence, but the sin of the one who stole my name."

At last, the scribe's pen came to a halt. A different kind ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of silence settled over the Elder Council. It was neither a silence of prayer nor of concealment, but of something entirely unknown. A stillness that heralded the beginning of something new. Within that stillness, Ariane knew. There was no turning back now.

Perhaps starting tomorrow, rumors would run rampant ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠across the human world. The Saintess took the side of the demons. The Saintess answered the Demon King's inquiry. The Saintess insulted the Northern Archduke. The Saintess is wavering.

All of those accusations would come. Even so, Ariane did not bow her head. For the first time, the title of Saintess felt heavy upon her shoulders. Not as a burden forced upon her by someone else, but as a name she had chosen to carry herself.

"Send it," Ariane said. "Before the day is out." She looked down at the inquiry stamped with the black seal. Lucion. Once, I told you to do nothing. But this time... Ariane spoke to him in the quietest depths of her heart. ...I can no longer do nothing.

"Hoho," Marcilla chuckled softly. Indeed. "We have spent far too much time calculating." But perhaps... perhaps ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠it was not too late after all.