The Hound and the Flag
Orbanen Kalt, who had been the last to arrive, was the first to leave the council chamber.
The longer they sat, the more Serapion would find itself circling back to those words.
Whether they denied them, deferred them, or disputed them, it ultimately came down to the same question.
Could they send the Saintess?
Could they accept the suspected royal blood of the Demon Realm?
In the name of peace, could they place their most dangerous assets into each other's hands?
The carriage wheels rolled over the black gravel road.
Black King Castle receded into the distance.
Yet Orbanen did not feel as though he had truly escaped the castle.
It was a strange place. The council chamber felt deeper than the castle walls themselves.
The Demon King had not demanded the Saintess.
The carriage headed south.
As the black rocky terrain of the Demon Realm gave way, the color of the earth shifted.
Frozen soil. Low-lying snow. Withered tree trunks.
And in the distance, the checkpoint flag of the Northern Archduchy came into view.
A snow-covered tower. Two crossed swords. A silver ribbon tied between the blades. The crest of Brankenheim.
Orbanen closed and opened his eyes.
A carriage stood there. It was black, heavy, and low-slung. Its tracks remained in the snow, uncleared.
It was the Archduke's carriage.
It could not be a coincidence. Old men did not believe in coincidences.
The carriage came to a halt.
An attending priest stepped forward to open the door, but Orbanen stopped him with a wave of his hand.
A voice reached him first.
"Did he demand the Saintess?"
It was the voice of the Northern Archduke, Leonhardt Brankenheim.
The voice drifting through the falling snow was low. It was neither cold nor warm. Orbanen did not care for such voices.
"Hardly a demand," Orbanen said.
"Rather, he asked what we consider the Saintess to be."
Leonhardt let out a soft chuckle. "Is there a difference?"
"The young do not think so."
Orbanen sighed inside the carriage. "But the Demon King might use that very distinction to set the nations ablaze. Should we not draw a line where none existed and remain on guard?"
The door to the Archduke's carriage opened.
"Let us walk a bit."
Leonhardt Brankenheim stepped down slowly.
Even in the swirling snow, his attire remained immaculate. He stood waiting at the threshold of his own domain.
A father who had sent his daughters to Black King Castle. The ruler of the North. And a politician seeking to be the first to read the face of the returning church elder.
Orbanen also stepped down slowly from his carriage.
The two walked together for a moment, their retinues following at a distance.
"You must not send the Saintess," Leonhardt said.
"Is that what you think?"
"I meant that is the stance the Church must publicly take."
Orbanen looked at him. "Do you think otherwise, Archduke?"
Leonhardt did not answer immediately.
He looked toward Black King Castle. The low northern sky was heavy with snow clouds clinging to the dark mountain range.
"A man who has sent his daughters knows," he said. "To say you cannot send her only means you have not yet found the justification to do so."
Orbanen's eyes narrowed slightly. "Do you not love your daughters?"
"Of course I do."
The reply came too quickly. So quickly it sounded like a lie.
"Sending what you do not love is a mere transaction," Leonhardt continued. "Only by sending what you love can you offer a true guarantee."
Snow settled on his shoulders. Orbanen did not reply for a long time.
Had it been Raoden Berks, he would have shouted about faith. Leonhardt spoke differently, yet strangely, their fingers pointed to the same place.
An altar. Or the Demon Realm.
Only when you offer up what you cherish most do people bow their heads.
"Do you wish for your daughters to die?" Orbanen asked.
Leonhardt's eyes shifted slowly. "That is an insolent question."
"I am aware."
"But I will answer," Leonhardt said, his gaze drifting over the snow as if lecturing a child. "I wish for my daughters to live."
"Is that so?"
"Only by staying alive can they be of use for the longest time."
Only then did Orbanen raise his head slightly. There was no guilt on Leonhardt's face.
In fact, it was a face that had already factored guilt into its calculations.
"If my daughters live, the Demon King must protect them. Thus, I wish for them to live a long time," Leonhardt said. "If they are harmed, the responsibility falls on the Demon King. If they weep, it makes the Demon King look cruel. If he treats them kindly, it might seem as though the North has submitted. Either way, it is a gain."
"That wretched Demon King." He paused for a moment.
"And if they die?" Orbanen asked.
Leonhardt did not hesitate. "It would fall short of the expected return, so it would be a long-term loss. However, if we leverage their deaths correctly, there is no reason we cannot turn it into a grand victory."
The snow fell heavier. Orbanen slowly curled his fingers against the cold.
The Archduke was trying to convince him. Convince him that the Saintess was no different.
If Ariane Serafel lived, the Church would use her face. If she wavered in the Demon Realm, they could condemn her. If she was martyred, she would become the ultimate justification.
Even if she survived, she would serve her purpose in the oracle. Raoden was surely looking down that very path.
"The Saintess is a face the Church borrowed from God," Orbanen said.
Leonhardt looked at him. "Not a tool?"
"If she were a tool, it would be simple," Orbanen's voice was dry. "If it breaks, you make a new one. If you lose it, you replace it. But a face is different."
"A face can be painted anew as well."
"If it were a portrait, changing it would be easy." Orbanen looked back with lingering regret. "But the believers will remember the face that came before."
Leonhardt did not answer. Orbanen understood the silence.
The people of the North would remember too. Lena and Lene. The two daughters of Brankenheim.
They would remember what faces they wore as they survived in Black King Castle. Or what faces they wore in death.
The North would remember all of it. And Leonhardt did not fear that memory. He was a man who knew how to weaponize memory.
"Do you oppose the Demon King's proposal, Archduke?" Orbanen asked.
Leonhardt slowly turned his gaze. "Officially."
"Officially?"
"I will advise caution."
"And unofficially?"
Leonhardt remained silent for a moment amidst the falling snow. Then he spoke. "It is not a bad thing for the Saintess to move."
Orbanen looked at him. "And for the suspected royal blood to move as well?"
"That is not bad either."
"Then do you agree to it?"
"No," Leonhardt denied immediately. "I have no intention of letting things move according to the Demon King's desires."
It was complicated. Orbanen watched him in silence. Leonhardt's voice was as white as the falling snow.
"If the suspected royal blood is placed under joint custody, the Demon King will not be able to hide the child."
"That would be advantageous for you, Archduke."
"Indeed," Leonhardt did not deny it. "But if we follow the path the Demon King laid out, both the Saintess and the suspected royal blood might end up moving solely within his grasp."
He looked down at the snow-covered road. "Depending on who paved the road, the direction the blood flows when someone falls will change."
Orbanen chewed on those words for a long time. Leonhardt did not care for the Saintess. He seemed to detest everything Lucion proposed.
He agreed to the Saintess moving. Yet he opposed her movement being bound by the Demon King's conditions. He loathed the idea of the Demon King taking the initiative.
Leonhardt did not want that. If blood were to flow, the North had to be the first to read its direction. Or perhaps, he believed the North had to be the one to dictate it.
"The Demon King must have anticipated this," Leonhardt said.
"The proposal to send the Saintess?"
"No." Leonhardt shook his head slowly. "He wanted to see who would take the bait."
Orbanen's fingertips stilled.
"Raoden Berks," Leonhardt said, "will likely denounce the proposal as blasphemous."
"Most likely."
"And he will be the first to calculate what can be gained by sending her."
Orbanen closed his eyes. It was true. Raoden hated the Saintess. More precisely, he hated a Saintess he could not control.
The fact that Ariane had responded to the Demon King's crest was a perfect excuse. Her refusal to acknowledge the mercy of Ragmund was another. The fact that she had spoken of choosing a Hero was an even better one.
She had already become a dangerous figure within the Church.
Sending such a Saintess to Black King Castle. For the sake of world peace. To ascertain the Demon Realm's intentions. To coordinate the preliminary procedures for the Holy Sword's oracle.
"Is the Demon King afraid, by any chance?" Leonhardt asked.
Orbanen slowly opened his eyes. "No."
"Then?"
"He was calculating our fear."
Leonhardt's eyes flickered slightly.
Orbanen spoke. "Raoden views the Saintess as a hound."
The snow drifted low.
"And you, Archduke, view your daughters as flags. I wonder if this is merely a coincidence."
Leonhardt's expression did not stiffen. One of the northern soldiers moved his hand toward the hilt of his sword. Leonhardt stopped him with a single glance.
"Continue."
"The Demon King saw both."
"The hound and the flag?"
Orbanen looked back toward Black King Castle. "And the hands hiding behind them."
Leonhardt did not speak for a long time. His silence was not born of displeasure. It was closer to acknowledgment. A reluctant, silent admission that the words were true.
"If the Hero moves, it will not just be the kingdoms that stir," Leonhardt said.
Orbanen gave a slight nod. "The Holy Sword is a sacred relic of the Church."
"No, it is more than that. The mere rumor of the Holy Sword's movement is enough to sweep across the continent."
Orbanen did not deny it. Once word spread that the Holy Sword was in motion, the nobles of the kingdoms would stir.
The knights of the North would march, and the priests of Serapion would act. The noble houses of the Demon Realm would either hide their forces or draw them out.
And if even those who had long remained silent began to listen...
Leonhardt looked toward the distant ridge where the southwestern forest stretched. "It would reach even the forest court."
Orbanen's eyes narrowed slightly. Elves. The long-lived ones. Those who spoke slowly, forgave even more slowly, and pretended to enter the war last, only to remain the longest.
"The elves remain silent for a long time," Orbanen said.
Leonhardt finished the thought. "And the longer the silence, the tighter the bowstring is drawn." There was the chill of the North in his voice.
Orbanen turned his thoughts southward. The ports and merchant guilds. The temple taxes. The transport routes for holy oil.
"The Southern Sea City Coalition will not sit idly by either," he said. "If the Hero is chosen in the North, the trade routes will be disrupted."
The Holy Sword had not yet been drawn. There was no Hero yet.
And yet, the paths were already shifting. The path of the North. The path of the Church. The path of the kingdoms. The path of the Demon Realm. The path of the forest. Even the path of the Southern Sea.
The future would be decided by the destination of the Holy Sword. That single direction would shake the very foundations of the continent.
Orbanen suddenly recalled the face of Lucion Vergrad. The young Demon King. The man who said war was a nuisance. A dangerous man precisely because he understood how tedious war could be.
"Have you made your decision then, Elder?" Leonhardt asked. "Regarding sending the Saintess."
Orbanen did not answer. He could not. He did not have the authority to send the Saintess. Nor did he have enough power to stop it.
"Do you wish to have your daughters returned, Archduke?" Orbanen asked instead, testing him.
Leonhardt did not answer immediately either. Snow settled on his head. "I do," he said. "But the manner of their return is also important, is it not? Therefore, I will help you."
Orbanen chuckled softly. It was the laugh of an old man, devoid of joy.
"We are holding onto similar things." Orbanen looked down at his hands. "I, too, do not wish to abandon the Saintess. Yet I cannot place her above the Church."
The snow fell between them. Only then did their common ground reveal itself.
One had sent his daughters. The other stood before the path where the Saintess might be sent.
Both knew names they loved or cherished. And neither could place those names before the greater entity they served.
The family. The Church. The North. Serapion.
Names believed to outlive mere humans. For the sake of those names, people were placed upon the path. As guarantors, as envoys, as the Saintess.
And finally, as daughters.
Leonhardt broke the silence first. "Elder."
"Speak."
"If the Saintess truly goes to the Demon Realm," his voice was low, "the Hero will no longer be the sword of the Church."
Orbanen looked at him. "Then what will he be?"
Leonhardt looked north through the snow. Black King Castle was no longer visible. "He will be a sword that the entire continent points at one another."
Orbanen did not reply. He moved to close the carriage door once more, then paused. "Archduke."
Leonhardt looked at him. "You said you love your daughters."
"I did."
"Then pray."
Leonhardt's gaze shifted slightly.
Orbanen spoke calmly. "Because if the Saintess goes to Black King Castle, your daughters will no longer be the best topic of conversation."
The snow drifted between them. "Won't the Saintess make for a much better story?"
Leonhardt remained silent for a long time. Leaving only that silence behind, Orbanen stepped back into his carriage.
The door closed.
The wheels began to move once more.
Southward. Toward Serapion.