Bound by the Collar
To safely seat her son on the throne, Imperial Consort Cleo had joined hands with various factions in the shadows.
During the previous Offering Festival, she had acted on a request from one of those factions, splashing a peculiar blood they had provided onto the Holy Relic. To the rest of the world, she had made the rather stubborn excuse that there was no need to keep spilling imperial blood forever and claimed it was merely the blood of a beast. In truth, not a soul knew what kind of beast that blood had actually come from.
Whether by luck or sheer misfortune, the ritual itself was carried out to completion, but a string of sinister occurrences had plagued the land ever since.
The South was renowned throughout the Empire as a land of great abundance. Because the Northern Temple stood close to the Castrein Duchy, making it difficult to exert much influence there, the Imperial Consort had poured extraordinary effort into embedding her power within the Southern Temple instead. When she dispatched Prince Brian in person, she had loaded him down with so many crates of rare treasures that even Cronen, a man accustomed to the finest luxuries, had gasped in admiration.
It was for that very reason that Cronen had turned a blind eye to such a perilous stunt. Even so, the unseasonable natural disasters and ruined harvests that followed had stirred up truly foul rumors. People whispered in dark corners, murmuring that an arrogant prince—not even the Emperor, but a mere prince—had dared to tamper with an ancient ritual tradition and invited a curse upon them all, and that the temple had stood idly by. Shameless and silver-tongued as he was, having held onto his post without a scratch for all these years, Cronen could not help but feel anxious. His own standing was on the line, and he had no intention of forfeiting his position as Chief Priest of the Southern Temple.
To be ordered to stir up yet another scheme amidst all this was the last thing Cronen wanted.
“Tsk. No matter how noble Her Highness the Imperial Consort may be, the temple answers to God alone. Ugly rumors are already swirling about the last Offering Festival, and you expect me to tarnish the temple’s name with my own two hands once again?”
“Are you suggesting you will defy Her Highness’s direct command? Have you forgotten just how much grace she has bestowed upon this temple—!”
“Aiya, tsk…”
Cronen clicked his tongue. Sneering at Gregory’s flushed agitation, he turned his head away and drew in a long, deep breath of the smoke drifting from the incense burner.
Unlike Marjid, Cronen never draped himself in garments that looked modest on the surface while secretly costing a fortune. The South was a city of riches, teeming with merchants who traded in rare treasures day in and day out. In a place like this, parading around in fine clothes while loudly preaching a life of purity would only invite ridicule. Of course, putting on a show of righteous modesty while pocketing bribes under the table was an entirely different matter. There was a vast difference between pulling the wool over people's eyes and not bothering to hide it at all.
Why bother flaunting one’s wealth before the eyes of others?
In that sense, Cronen’s true indulgence was incense. His greatest pleasure was to shut himself inside an airtight room and burn rare scents that cost ten times their weight in gold for a single handful. No matter how much he indulged in the quiet of his private chamber, a brief airing of the room left not a single trace behind.
That was his lifelong motto: always leave an easy escape route, no matter what scheme was underway.
With that thought in mind, Cronen narrowed his eyes, assessing the man before him.
“Can we not simply humiliate that little girl without dragging the temple’s name through the mud? You knights… perhaps it is in your nature, but you lack any sense of flexibility.”
Gregory’s eyes went wide at the priest’s words.
“What… what are you implying?”
“Where do you think we are? This is Artula. The city is crawling with wealthy nobles, merchants, beggars… and cutthroats.”
Realizing the implication, Gregory’s face drained of color, and he shrieked, “A-Are you out of your mind?! I am the head of her imperial escort! If something happens to her, the blame will fall squarely on m-my head—!”
“And did Her Highness tell me to take the fall instead? What good is all the gold in the world if I am stripped of my robes and thrown from this seat?”
Gregory glared daggers at Cronen.
All of this was the ripple effect of the fallout between High Priest Marjid and Imperial Consort Cleo after the recent incident at the Imperial Palace. Cronen belonged to the Noble Faction, naturally aligning himself with High Priest Marjid, the towering figurehead of the faction within the temple. For years, Cronen had lined Marjid’s pockets with secret funds, begging for his backing and protection.
It might have been different last year, when their alliance was at its peak and Prince Brian himself had come south. But now that the relationship had soured, why should he take such an immense risk? It made no sense at all. Gregory’s expression darkened as he pressed on.
“…Her Highness promised that if you see this through, she will move mountains to see you elevated to the rank of High Priest in Marjid’s place.”
“Tsk! Nonsense.” Cronen scoffed aloud.
That Marjid and the Imperial Consort had both suffered a humiliating defeat together. Hearing that alone was enough to suggest that this youngest princess—the one who had suddenly allied with the Castrein family and begun running wild—was quite the monstrous girl.
“Besides, unlike last year, she has Lisianthus, the second son of Castrein, personally guarding her. Last year, he picked fights with her at every turn, but didn't you yourself tell me that this time, he watches over her like a hawk?”
“……”
Gregory grimaced.
“You expect me to pull off a deed you have no idea how to accomplish yourself? I am no fool.”
“I had hoped not to bring this up.”
“What?”
“Her Highness instructed me that if you failed to know your place, I should remind you of it.”
“What sudden insolence is th—!”
“She is well aware of the mistress and child you keep hidden away in the capital.”
“…!”
Cronen’s face froze solid.
Those who gave their lives to God were strictly forbidden from marrying. Of course, returning to secular life was a different matter entirely; many former priests had realized the cloth was not their calling and stepped down, and it was not unheard of for a man with children to sever ties with his family to enter the priesthood. But Cronen had never harbored the slightest intention of abandoning his holy robes.
Behind closed doors, high-ranking clergymen occasionally kept mistresses. But fathering a child was an absolute taboo. A secret lover could be denied, but a child was a tangible truth. Unless the child was eliminated, a priest would be forced to cast off his vestments without recourse.
Yet Cronen could not bring himself to get rid of his own flesh and blood. Instead, he had nurtured a grand, sprawling ambition: to climb the ladder of power, succeed Marjid as High Priest, and eventually become the Pope. When that day came, he would bring his child into the clergy, pave an easy path of promotion for him, and pass down his seat of ultimate authority.
He had been born into a humble, low-ranking noble family. The life he lived now offered power, honor, and wealth far beyond anything his birthright could have ever provided. He knew better than anyone that the child was his fatal weakness. He had kept it an absolute secret even from Marjid, and it had been years since he had last seen their faces. So how… how could she possibly know?
“Fool! Did you honestly think Her Highness would entrust an affair as momentous as the Offering Festival to you without securing leverage for the future?”
The Imperial Consort was cunning. There were times she was forced to bend to those above her, but she knew precisely how to handle men like Cronen. She understood the workings of his mind inside and out, for those who clawed desperately toward higher stations in life always shared the very same desires and calculations.
Gregory drove the final nail into the panicked priest.
“Heed my words! Her Highness is thoroughly enraged. If using the Offering Festival as bait is too difficult, then use another method! Do whatever it takes to ruin that princess!”
“…Very well,” Cronen spat through gritted teeth.
His eyes turned thick and murky, like a beast that had spent its entire life tightening the noose around others, only to look down and realize an iron collar had been clamped around its own throat.
“Didn’t you promise you would never make me do anything dangerous?”
Barbara stared at me with the miserable expression of a child being forced to swallow bitter medicine. It was an understandable reaction. Barbara was a seasoned veteran maid despite her youth; had she not accompanied me, the Empress would likely have insisted on assigning another high-ranking lady-in-waiting to my side.
It made sense. Imperial decorum dictated that royalty never so much as accepted a letter with their own hands in public, so I needed a capable maid who could step in and act on my behalf whenever my judgment faltered or trouble arose. Still, since this trip would not require mingling with high-ranking nobles, and burdening a young princess with an older, rigid lady-in-waiting would only complicate things, the Empress had settled for sending Barbara.
Yet here I was, telling her that I was slipping away to a distant location and leaving her behind, so her horrified gaze was entirely justified. But still…
Debbie had been sent by the Castrein Duchy, and strictly speaking, her role was to handle clandestine tasks rather than ordinary maid duties. On top of that, taking Barbara along to where I was headed would be far too dangerous.
For all those complicated reasons, Barbara was currently standing in as my double. Fiddling with the wig resting on her head, I flashed her a bright, deliberate smile.