The Saintess Could Not Reach Out

Seraphina el Rosen stood frozen, her hand outstretched. The hem of her white holy robes swayed faintly in the night breeze. Her pale pink hair, cascading down to her waist, looked strangely soft even in the middle of the muddy vineyard reeking of smoke and earth. A color like freshly bloomed petals. A shade like dawn light settling on someone's wound.

But beneath her long, lowered lashes, her amethyst eyes held no peace. Those eyes stared at the spot where a man had been just moments ago. A man who, even as he was dragged through the mud, had begged her for help in a broken voice. Leon Hart.

The moment that name surfaced, Seraphina's fingertips trembled.

"Help me."

That voice still lingered in her ears.

"Please."

That plea too. It wasn't a lie. As the saintess, she could tell. She knew the tricks people used to deceive others, the desires hidden in prayers, whether the suffering truly yearned for salvation. He had been genuinely terrified. He had truly tried to flee. He had truly reached out to her.

Yet Seraphina hadn't grasped that hand. Imperial knights' swords had blocked her path. Arielra von Esterria, holding Leon in her arms, had spoken in a cold, flawless voice.

"One more step, and we'll consider it an attempt to kidnap an imperial protectee."

Before those words, Seraphina had halted. The name of saintess could save people. But she had no right to forcibly seize what the empire's princess had declared an "imperial protectee." One more step would turn salvation into conflict. Between palace and temple. Crown and faith. The spark that could tear the empire's heart in two.

"Saintess."

The high priest beside her spoke lowly. Seraphina slowly lowered her hand. Her fingertips were cold. Before her lay mud. Traces where Leon had clawed with his nails to resist. Footprints from his desperate struggles not to be dragged away. Remnants of a smoke bomb. A single broken crossbow bolt. And a faint lingering echo of black curse residue.

Seraphina knelt. Mud stained the hem of her white robes. The surrounding temple officials gasped in surprise, but she ignored them. She placed her hand on the mud. It was cold. Yet beneath it, a faint burning pain flickered.

The Black Stigmata. A curse of the temple. The mark of corruption that should have been etched into her. It was somewhere on Leon's body.

"Why..."

Seraphina's voice trembled faintly. She remembered Leon. The man who had most cruelly mocked her when she was called saintess.

"They say you receive God's love, but you can't even endure a single curse."

That day, Leon had said it with cold eyes.

"Your prayers are too late, Saintess. As always."

He had laughed. Those words had pierced the deepest part of her heart. She had hated Leon. Or so she believed. She believed he had mocked her, insulted the temple, trampled the name of saintess.

But moments ago, he had reached out to her from the mud. Begged for help. There was no lie in that voice.

"Saintess."

The high priest called again.

"You must return. Creating friction with the palace now is dangerous."

"He..."

Seraphina bit her lip.

"Asked for help."

The high priest couldn't respond. He had heard it too. Leon's voice. But instead, he said something else.

"Her Highness the Princess's explanation wasn't entirely false."

Seraphina's eyes wavered. The high priest spoke cautiously.

"The maids' testimonies show no traces of falsehood. That Leon Hart called the princess by name, that he said he'd obey her orders, that he accepted meals... they're probably all true."

"But he was fleeing."

"That's true as well."

True. Two truths tore at each other. Leon had accepted the princess's protection. Leon had fled from the princess. Leon had used an item of oblivion, blurring his memories. Leon had begged the saintess for help. Leon appeared to have suffered severe mental shock. Leon was truly terrified.

All of it was true at once. So Seraphina couldn't judge anything. The saintess who discerned truth was immobilized by truth itself.

The Sanctuary of Light was silent. But this silence differed from before. In the air of the sanctuary, always sacred and warm, a single black fissure now lingered.

The Black Record Slate. Floating in the center of the Sanctuary of Light, beneath the statue of the god—a pitch-black stone slab. Temple officials couldn't approach it. Even high priests couldn't decipher it. But as Seraphina drew near, the Black Record Slate glowed as if waiting.

Seraphina stopped breathing. She read it with her eyes but couldn't comprehend. No. She didn't want to.

"Substitute... curse bearer."

Her hand rose to her chest. Nothing was there. The Black Stigmata that ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠should have been was gone.

That day, when the seed of corruption awakened in the underground sealing chamber of the Sanctuary of Light. The curse the saintess should have received. The Black Stigmata made to corrupt the vessel of God. It should have marked her.

But it hadn't. Now she knew why. Leon had taken it.

A scene floated over the Black Record Slate. Underground Sanctuary of Light. Shattered sealing stone. Black mist. Seraphina on her knees. And Leon Hart standing before her.

Leon then had a cold face. She remembered it vividly.

Seraphina remembered the moment she heard those words. That day, she hated Leon. Because he had so cruelly exposed her trembling before the fear of death.

But the Record Slate skipped to the next line.

Seraphina's lips parted. The scene continued. Leon thrust his hand into the black mist. The Black Stigmata etched onto the back of his hand. Skin burned away. Black curse spread along his veins. Leon's fingertips trembled in the projection. But he smiled.

Those words. When she heard them, Seraphina had crumbled. She thought the name saintess was mocked. That God had abandoned her.

But below, another line appeared.

Seraphina's legs gave way. The high priest hurried to support her, but she raised a hand to stop him.

"I'm fine."

A lie. The Black Record Slate didn't stop.

Seraphina closed her eyes. But the Record Slate's words didn't vanish even then.

He had been terrified. Didn't want to die. Yet he took the curse. And left her only insults. So she could hate him. So she wouldn't feel guilt.

"Why..."

Seraphina's voice broke.

"Why did you do that?"

The Record Slate gave no answer. Instead, the next line appeared.

Failed to detect. Seraphina stared at that line for a long time. She was the saintess. One who discerned wounds. Purified curses. Heard the prayers of the suffering. Yet she hadn't recognized the one suffering closest, for her sake. Because he made her hate him. No. Because he lied too perfectly.

Seraphina slowly clasped her hands. A prayer posture. But no prayer came. Instead, Leon's voice echoed.

"Help me."

"Please."

Seraphina's fingertips trembled. That too wasn't a lie. But now she knew something else. Leon Hart hid his true feelings. He lied to save others. Lied to push them away. Lied to conceal his fear.

He knew what words would move people. He called the princess by name. Begged the saintess for help.

It didn't mean it was all lies. But she couldn't believe it all either.

That fact embedded itself quietly in her heart. Painfully. Deeply.

A heavy silence settled in the temple's conference room. Three high priests. The Saintess Knight Captain. The temple judge. And Saintess Seraphina. An emergency meeting after confirming part of the Black Record Slate.

The judge spoke first.

"The palace has already declared Leon Hart an imperial protectee."

"I know."

Seraphina said.

"Defying Her Highness the Princess's orders head-on would make the temple guilty of forcibly abducting an imperial protectee."

"He asked for help."

The Saintess Knight Captain said lowly. Anger laced his voice.

"I heard it too. He clearly requested salvation. If you command it, Saintess, the holy knights will—"

"No."

Seraphina said. The knight captain stopped.

"Drawing swords means war."

"But Saintess."

"Lord Leon is already too injured."

Seraphina's voice was quiet.

"If the temple clashes with the palace to 'save' him, he'll be at the center again."

Again. The room fell silent at that word. Seraphina looked down at her hands. The vineyard mud was washed away, yet the sensation lingered at her fingertips.

"He hid that he was suffering."

Seraphina said.

"He hid that he was afraid."

The Record Slate's line surfaced.

[Recurring thought: I don't want to die.]

Recalling it choked her.

"And just now, he fled and hurt himself more."

The knight captain bit his lip.

"So you're saying we acknowledge the princess's protection?"

Seraphina didn't answer immediately. Acknowledge. The word was too heavy. The princess claimed to protect Leon. But what Seraphina saw wasn't protection. A man dragged through mud. Wrists bound in restraints. A trembling voice begging for help.

Yet if left alone, he'd flee again. Fleeing would injure him more. Injury would worsen the stigmata. And he'd hide that pain too.

Seraphina spoke slowly.

"I don't acknowledge Her Highness's methods."

The room's occupants looked at her.

"But... immediately moving Lord Leon is also dangerous."

As she said it, Seraphina felt something inside her twist quietly. The desire to save him. Yet that desire allied with restricting his freedom.

"He needs treatment."

Seraphina said.

"Purification too. The Black Stigmata isn't a curse the palace barriers can handle."

The judge nodded.

"Then the temple can demand treatment rights."

"Interview rights too."

A high priest said.

"The princess may not allow it."

Seraphina recalled the Black Record Slate. The scene of Leon taking her curse. His mental state recorded as "don't want to die." The hand reaching for her in the vineyard.

"We must make her allow it."

Her voice was soft. But a new firmness lay within.

"Without fighting the palace."

Seraphina lowered her eyes.

There were two letters. The first was the temple's official correspondence to the palace. Its content was courteous.

The second was the palace's reply. Sealed in Arielra von Esterria's name. In the sanctuary, Seraphina opened it.

The moment she read the final line, Seraphina's hand stopped.

If the subject expresses refusal. Mental confusion state. Does not halt treatment.

Even if Leon said no, treatment could continue. His will could be ignored.

Seraphina couldn't fold the letter. She stared at that line for a long while.

"Saintess."

The high priest asked.

"Will you refuse?"

Refuse. Then what? The temple couldn't approach Leon. The princess would hide him completely. The stigmata would worsen. Leon would suffer alone again, hiding it.

That couldn't happen. Seraphina slowly closed her eyes. The princess's conditions were cruel. But refusing meant no path to Leon at all.

So she had to enter. Into the birdcage.

"We accept."

The conference room hushed. The high priest said lowly.

"You mean accepting all of Her Highness's conditions?"

"For treatment."

It was true. Yet even to her own ears, it sounded like the princess's words. For protection. For treatment. For salvation. Names differed, but all placed before Leon's will.

Seraphina felt it.

"I must save him."

She said.

That night, Seraphina stood alone before the Black Record Slate. The sanctuary was empty. Beneath the statue of light, only the black slab floated silently.

Seraphina reached out. The moment her fingertips touched the slab, a cold sensation crept up her skin.

The princess's private annex. Leon was there. Imprisoned again. How terrified he must be, Seraphina couldn't know. But one ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠thing she knew. He hurt. He hid it. He fled. And he would lie even to those trying to save him.

Then. She couldn't take his words at face value.

Seraphina clasped her hands. Began to pray.

"God."

Her low voice echoed in the sanctuary.

"Grant me the power to wash away his pain."

Her prayer was clear. But deep within, a tiny shadow mingled.

"Even if he refuses."

Seraphina paused. Should she say this? A saintess. One who spoke of salvation.

But her lips moved.

"Even if he pretends not to know his own pain."

The Black Record Slate glowed faintly.

Seraphina didn't see the line. The Record Slate continued glowing quietly.

The sanctuary's light flickered. Seraphina finished her prayer. And opened her eyes.

Her amethyst eyes still held mercy. But no longer hesitated.

The princess protected Leon. The saintess would treat Leon. And both were drawing toward the same conclusion.

Leon Hart could not be left alone.

The next morning, Saintess Seraphina el Rosen headed to the princess's private annex. Into the princess's birdcage. To walk in of her own will.

Arielra had seen her own death. Poison burning down her throat, heart freezing, the chandelier before her twisting black. It wasn't an illusion. The slab didn't show records—it made her experience failed worlds.

After her death, the empire crumbled. Heirs tore at each other's throats, capital walls burned. Nobles raised rebel banners, commoners fell in the streets not knowing whose name they died under.

And at the start of every collapse, the same line floated.

[Arielra von Esterria Death]

Leon Hart had erased that line. With his blood. His pain. His lies.

Arielra slowly turned her head. Leon slept. Exhausted face. Pale lips. Right hand in restraints. Shoulder bandage not fully settled.

Without that man, she would have died. If she died, the empire died too.

Yet he hid it all, choosing the path of her hatred.

Arielra reached out, gently stroking Leon's hair.

"You're a truly bad person."

Her voice was wet.

"Doing all this... and asking me to let you go."

Then, a cautious knock from beyond the door.

"Your Highness."

Arielra's hand paused.

"What is it?"

"An official envoy from the temple has arrived. Saintess Seraphina el Rosen requests a direct meeting."

Arielra's eyes chilled. The saintess. Owner of the second Record Slate. The woman Leon had reached for.

Arielra looked down at sleeping Leon.

"Just a moment."

She whispered.

"Really, just a moment."

She rose. And told the maids.

"Until I return, even if Leon wakes, tell him nothing. Don't open the door."

"Yes, Your Highness."

"Even if he cries, begs—don't open the door."

The maids paled. Arielra looked at Leon one last time.