The Proxy War
Everyone possessed a quiet intuition that the moment the reigning Pope breathed his last and the time came to choose a successor, a war in all but name would erupt across the holy realm. The unfolding incident within the imperial palace was a stark illustration of that brewing tempest.
The Castrein Duchy had summoned High Priest Ilian under the auspices of treating the princess. In sharp response, Imperial Consort Cleo had enlisted High Priest Marjid—both to expose the sinister curse that Ilian had supposedly failed to notice or remedy, and to awaken Princess Titania herself through his divine intervention.
The temple claims to harbor no lust for secular power? What a laugh. It was nothing short of a proxy war waged between Ilian’s faction and Marjid’s followers. Consort Cleo sneered in quiet contempt for the fools who still revered the priesthood. Just then, the doors swung open.
“High Priest Marjid has arrived.”
“Ah, Your Highness! My, you seem to grow younger and more radiant with every passing day!”
“Goodness, Your Eminence, you always steal the very words right out of my mouth.”
Consort Cleo flashed a coquettish, practiced smile. Though a high priest sworn to renounce worldly passions and maintain a pristine mind and body, Marjid drank in her charms with unvarnished satisfaction.
At a glance, Marjid appeared to be nothing more than a plump, affable middle-aged cleric from the countryside. His stout physique was draped in voluminous vestments, completely devoid of ostentatious jewelry, and his face wore a warm, harmless smile that naturally put onlookers at ease.
Yet that seemingly plain robe was spun from an extraordinarily rare and precious textile—the kind a master weaver could scarcely produce after an entire year of painstaking labor. Tucked beneath the outer lining of his belt, which mimicked coarse linen, precious gemstones were meticulously woven with threads of genuine gold and silver to trace the sacred emblems of the divine. Though he bore the unassuming appearance of a humble parish priest, the sheer worth of the finery draped over his frame rivaled the cost of Cleo’s most opulent gown.
“You have heard the details of the task, I trust? Can I count on your success?”
“Has there ever been a single instance where I failed to deliver for Your Highness?”
“Never, of course,” she purred with a soft chuckle. “Handle this cleanly, and your reward will be lavish indeed.”
“Your Highness has never failed to recognize true worth.”
Exchanging pleasantries and easy laughter, the pair set out toward the Lilac Palace. Accompanied by a gaunt, visibly terrified witness—the maid who had bolted from the Rose Palace screaming in hysterics the previous day—they carried the fabricated ‘evidence’ of the curse manufactured by Cleo’s own hands.
Marjid was an exceptionally accommodating collaborator. He grasped every subtle nuance of the situation without needing it spelled out, fully prepared to pander to the imperial consort’s every whim. In other words, he was entirely willing to spin whatever lies served his interests. What compromise wouldn't a man make for the sake of future glory? If this maneuver succeeded in placing the future Emperor firmly in his debt, who knew? The papal seat itself might very well fall into his grasp.
Lost in pleasant reveries of that golden future, Marjid paced forward unhurriedly. He gave no thought to what fate might befall the young princess once he declared her cursed, nor did he spare a drop of pity for the countless servants whose lives would be forfeit in the purge. In his eyes, great causes demanded sacrifice as a matter of course.
Should the princess feign unconsciousness in her bed and refuse to wake even after he poured his holy power over her, he already possessed a solution: he would pierce her with a holy dagger under the pretext of scouring the curse from her flesh. If he plunged a consecrated blade into her and declared that her screams of agony merely proved how deeply the dark magic had rooted itself, who would dare question a high priest? Merely forcing a shriek of torment from her lips would be enough to claim he had successfully awakened her.
A cruel thrill ran through him at the thought of hearing that girl—famed for her insolent haughtiness, yet undeniably exquisite in beauty—weep and scream in helplessness. Even if she possessed exalted imperial blood, no one could defy a high priest in the middle of a holy exorcism. That absolute immunity was deeply exhilarating.
Judging by the blackened, cursed artifact Cleo had so conveniently produced, it seemed likely that the consort had formed secret ties with heretics—those wielding illicit dark arts forbidden by the temple. Even so, Marjid intended to turn a blind eye. The temple always benefited from holding a few royal scandals in reserve. Besides, such methods were remarkably effective for eliminating rivals. It would serve him well to discreetly secure that supplier for himself in due time.
“Surprisingly, no one stands in our path,” Marjid remarked, glancing around the approach to the Lilac Palace. “I half expected to find soldiers deployed to bar our way.”
Consort Cleo let out a scoffing chuckle. “Things have already escalated to this point. What could they possibly achieve by blocking us? It would be an exercise in futility.”
“A fair point, Your Highness.”
“Had anyone dared stand against what His Imperial Majesty personally sanctioned, I would have used it as an excuse to drag them away immediately. How disappointing.”
“We could have charged them with abetting heresy, no less.”
The pair exchanged conspiratorial grins, their malice aligning in perfect harmony. In front of the Lilac Palace’s grand entryway stood a solitary figure. Countess Constance, chief lady-in-waiting to the Empress, offered a measured bow. Cleo’s lips curled into a victorious smile.
“Constance, it has been some time. Tell me, is Her Majesty keeping well?”
“Her Majesty remains in good health, thanks to the gracious concern of the Imperial Consort.”
“My, what remarkable composure. To think she remains so untroubled even after discovering that the young princess—who ought to have basked in the Empress's glorious care within these very halls—has been suffering under a foul curse all this time. As a mother of her own child, I anticipated her heart would be aching with profound grief.”
“Please, step inside.”
Finding Constance’s unflinching neutrality dull, Cleo sneered faintly before gesturing toward High Priest Marjid to proceed. The preliminary investigation had already concluded, stamped with the Emperor's personal authorization. Though it had been a brazen, slapdash affair resolved in under two days, not a soul possessed the leverage to file a formal protest.
I wonder what pathetic state that little wench will be in when she greets me? Cleo wondered eagerly.
During that state dinner, Titania had put on a shameless display of theatrical tears to coax whatever she desired out of the Emperor. Though Cleo had not laid eyes on her face-to-face since that humiliation, the memory still rankled.
The Empress had always lacked cunning; unless a matter threatened catastrophic damage, her preferred recourse was quiet endurance. Forcing the palace maids to hold vigils through a high priest did not resemble her usual restraint at all. Perhaps it was a miscalculation on the Empress’s part—or perhaps that impudent little girl had pulled the strings from behind the curtain. Did she truly believe having the Castrein Duchy at her back gave her free rein to act so brazenly?
Either way, leaning on the Empress as her patron was a pitiful blunder. Once this affair concluded cleanly, Cleo intended to demand the Empress’s immediate confinement. She would claim that a matriarch incapable of nursing a single princess and blind to the festering curse beneath her own roof had forfeited all right to her station.
Admittedly, the strange blade found within the Rose Palace had genuinely caught Cleo off guard. To think the weapon she had procured as a gift possessed such bizarre properties was entirely unexpected. Even so, since she had never handed it to Raymon herself, Titania would shoulder the blame regardless of what transpired. Everyone knew the impoverished princess had no means of securing a storied, legendary sword on her own. Cleo congratulated herself on not giving the weapon to Brian as she had initially intended; had such chaos erupted in her son's hands, the fallout would have given her a monstrous headache.
Still, Cleo found it puzzling that Titania had failed to present the sword to the young Duke of Castrein by now. A lavish gift would have served as the perfect pretext to summon her betrothed, so why hesitate? Ultimately, Cleo cared little for the underlying reasons. So long as the artifact provided her with a convenient weapon to brandish against her enemies, that was all that mattered. Even if the blade suddenly became docile, Marjid could spin the narrative once he finished ‘purifying’ Titania. Whether an artifact was heralded as a holy relic or reviled as a cursed demonic blade was entirely a matter of mortal definition—and Cleo intended to twist the facts to serve her ambitions alone.
Despite the Empress’s prior efforts to seal off all access to the Lilac Palace, they met no resistance as they crossed into the inner corridors. Cleo strode ahead in high spirits, flanked by three Royal Guards she had requisitioned from the Emperor’s personal retinue. Anyone foolish enough to mount a defense would be crushed on the spot.
“This is the bedchamber where Princess Titania is currently resting,” Countess Constance announced in a flat, dry tone as they reached a set of closed double doors.
Suddenly, a prickle of unease ran down Cleo’s spine. Why is the Empress’s residence so unnervingly quiet?
It was downright unnatural for the Empress not to show herself by now. Even Prince Adrian had made no move to rescue his mother from this glaring predicament. In any case, without stepping inside to view the princess directly, Marjid could hardly declare her afflicted and claim credit for the cure. Cleo had expected the Empress to hoard the girl out of sight, or perhaps scramble to present a miraculously awakened Titania before the consort could cross the threshold.
Had the girl appeared and insisted she harbored no curse while refusing to meet Marjid, Cleo planned to use the maids' testimony to brand her behavior suspicious, alleging that Titania’s mind had fractured under dark influences. Cursed or maddened, the fact would remain that Cleo had ‘rescued’ the future daughter-in-law of Duke Castrein. The wedding would proceed, and the Emperor would conveniently overlook the details. Either way, the Empress was destined for disgrace. Cleo had braced herself for a desperate, frantic struggle—yet there was only silence.
Before the closed doors, Cleo instinctively hesitated. At that exact moment, a panicked voice shattered the quiet.
“Y-Your Highness!”
One of Cleo’s closest personal maids came sprinting down the hall, wheezing violently as she ran. Cleo’s brow knit into a sharp scowl.
“Imperial Consort! Please, wait! A disaster has occurred!”
“How dare you create such an unsightly racket at a pivotal moment like this? What could possibly take precedence over this matter?!”
Irritation flared hot in Cleo’s chest. Yet the maid, drenched in sweat and trembling from head to foot, ignored the reprimand and screamed out the truth.
“P-Prince Brian—a demonic beast appeared without warning and chased him down! His Highness has fallen into the underground beneath the Maze Garden!”
“Wh—wh-what did you just say?!”
The blood drained from Cleo’s face as her world violently overturned in sheer, unadulterated terror.