An Unholy Blaze
“Fire!”
When the shout echoed down the stone corridor, Cronen assumed his ears were playing tricks on him. Even if they weren't, he was certain it could not be anything serious. At most, an acolyte in the kitchen had spilled an ember, panicked at a puff of smoke, and blown the whole matter out of proportion.
The Southern Region was prosperous and blessed with fair weather. Prolonged droughts were unheard of here, which meant forest fires were practically nonexistent. Moreover, the temple was built of solid stone, not timber. In all the decades since its foundation, it had never suffered so much as a scorch mark.
He had heard rumors of a commotion at the Imperial Palace not long ago, where the Rose Palace had nearly burned to the ground. But wasn't that merely the handiwork of that hot-tempered Lisianthus having a row with the Imperial Princess? Even now, Lisianthus was supposed to be far away, led astray by the subordinate Cronen had bribed. And even if Cronen's men moved against the Princess according to his subtle wishes, they would never resort to a method so crude and riddled with holes.
Bang, bang! Someone hammered against Cronen's door. Without bothering to hide his irritation, Cronen yanked it open.
“What is the meaning of this? I explicitly ordered not to be disturbed!”
The priest standing on the threshold was red-faced and gasping for breath, looking as though he had sprinted for his life. “H-Huff, pant… Chief Priest Cronen, you must evacuate! The fire—the fire is…!”
“What in heaven's name are you babbling about? Evacuate? How bad could a little fire possibly be?”
“While everyone was gathered for prayers… a blaze broke out near the chamber housing the Holy Relic…!”
“Who would even set foot in that area for a fire to start?! We are on the eve of the Offering Festival, so it isn’t as if priests are the only ones roaming the halls. How could no one notice until it spread this far? And to say a sacred house of God is burning—preposterous!”
Cronen blurted out protests in sheer denial of reality, but clarity struck him a heartbeat later. The heat and smoke creeping down the hall were alarming. From somewhere deeper in the temple, frantic screams and wails echoed through the corridors.
“O Lord, have You forsaken us?!”
“With the Offering Festival so close at hand…!”
“Water! Fetch water!”
“Call for help!”
“C-Chief Priest Cronen, where are you?!”
“E-Everyone, tend to your duties!” Cronen yelled back down the hall. “I… I shall assess the situation!”
“Priest Cronen?!”
Tossing out a hasty excuse to silence the calls, Cronen slammed the heavy oak door shut.
His heart hammered against his ribs as he scrambled across the room, frantically gathering his most dangerous valuables. The ledgers detailing decades of embezzled funds, records of under-the-table dealings with Empress Cleo, proof of his clandestine cooperation with High Priest Marjid… Every shred of evidence he had kept as insurance to protect his own skin had to be secured.
Because he had never imagined a disaster like this, his hands shook violently.
Cronen’s private quarters were strictly off-limits to outsiders. Even temple personnel rarely dared approach; Cronen had gone so far as to clean the room himself rather than allow prying eyes inside. A few acolytes had once been expelled merely for loitering in the adjacent hallway, teaching everyone else to keep their distance. Now, the thought of carrying these damning secrets out in broad daylight made his vision swim.
Damn it all! If I’d known this would happen, I would have burned or hidden them sooner! Shoving papers, ledgers, and secret correspondence indiscriminately into a sturdy wooden crate, Cronen hauled it into his arms and kicked the door open, panting under the weight.
Under ordinary circumstances, he would have smoothed his vestments, composed his face, and found an excuse to protect his dignified reputation. But in the grip of panic, all decorum evaporated. Staggering under a chest nearly the size of a child, he stepped out into the corridor. Thick, acrid smoke stung his eyes and throat, and his head spun dizzily.
“Chief Priest Cronen! Where are you?!”
Incompetent fools! He had explicitly told them to handle their duties. At a time like this, they should have resolved the matter themselves. Why were they bleating his name every two seconds?
It was only natural to seek out the temple's supreme authority during a crisis, but Cronen lacked the presence of mind to grasp that simple truth. While he held dominion over most of the Southern Temple, Silencio, the second-ranked priest, harbored ruthless ambitions. If a fellow priest saw the contents of this chest, Silencio would catch wind of it, unearth the truth, and use it as leverage to oust him. Dealings with the Empress? Silencio would eagerly jump at the chance to take over those connections! All the bridges Cronen had painstakingly built with High Priest Marjid would collapse into ash!
Even the acolytes were mostly scions sent by noble families with their own political agendas rather than pure devotion. Desperately scanning the smoky corridor, Cronen’s eyes locked onto a small, trembling figure at the far end.
The boy’s clothes were conspicuously shabby—a threadbare, frayed shirt and trousers riddled with holes that even the lowliest temple novice wouldn't touch. Shivering in terror, the lad clung to a small handcart as if it were a lifeline. The cart was piled high with specially crafted candles used only during the Offering Festival.
Candles? The ceremonial candles should have arrived already… Wait!
A chime of realization rang in Cronen’s frantic mind.
Candles of this caliber were true luxury goods. Meticulously shaped from pure beeswax and carved with elaborate reliefs, their prices reached heights only high nobility could afford. Although the advent of magic crystals had made candles obsolete for everyday lighting, the Offering Festival was an ancient rite, and tradition demanded that holy flames illuminate the proceedings.
Cronen possessed an expensive penchant for fine fragrances, so whenever he placed the temple's official order for ceremonial candles, he always slipped in a personal order for luxury scented ones. He did it every year, but he suddenly recalled placing a separate order with a new specialty boutique that infused their wax with rare, exotic perfumes. To an untrained eye, the candles looked identical to the ritual ones, and because Cronen managed the deliveries personally, no one in the temple ever caught on. Best of all, since Cronen had selected the shop himself, none of the other priests would recognize the delivery boy.
Making up his mind in a split second, Cronen raised his voice. “You there! Boy!”
“Y-Yes? Uh… m-my lord?”
A country bumpkin who doesn't even know enough to address me as 'Priest.'
Outside laborers who frequented the temple made sure to address everyone in vestments as "Priest," knowing that petty clergymen would take offense and scold them for using secular titles. The fact that this boy called him "my lord" proved he was a clueless outsider.
A wave of relief washed over Cronen.
“Take this chest back to your workshop for now. Keep it safe, and bring it back only when I send for you.”
“Wh-What? S-Sir?”
“You entered through the back gate, did you not? The temple is on fire, and we are in no position to receive your delivery. Go back. I shall contact you later.” Cronen reached into his robes, pulled out a heavy gold coin, and shoved it into the boy's palm. The youth shuddered at the sight of the shimmering gold, his eyes widening to the size of saucers.
“Mark my words well! Under no circumstances are you to hand this over to anyone else. It contains sacred ceremonial candles of the highest importance. Guard it with your life. If anything happens to it, ruin will fall upon both you and your master's shop!”
“Y-Yes! Yes, of course, my lord! At once!” The boy bowed repeatedly, trembling as he tucked the gold coin into his shirt. Without wasting a second, he loaded the heavy wooden chest onto the cart and hurried away down the rear service corridor.
Watching the cart vanish around the corner, Cronen breathed a sigh of immense relief. Puffing out his chest, he called out in a booming, authoritative voice.
“What is all this commotion?! I am here!”
“Oh, Chief Priest Cronen! You must come quickly!”
“Priest Cronen! Her Imperial Highness is…!”
This was the temple, not some battlefield. Even if a few people suffered injuries, it was nothing that could not be handled. As for the fire reaching the room of the Holy Relic, it was a sacred artifact of the gods—a minor flame could hardly scratch it. With the dangerous evidence safely evacuated, Cronen felt a lightness in his step. He strode confidently toward the front courtyard where the priests and temple attendants were gathered.
The moment he stepped into the courtyard, however, he was greeted by a spectacle so utterly unhinged that his mind went completely blank.
“Waaaah!Sob, sob! I should just die! Just let me die!”
“You must not, Your Highness!”
“Please, compose yourself!”
“This is not Your Highness's fault!”
The Imperial Princess was rolling around in the dirt, wailing at the top of her lungs.
Her imperial retinue and several maids were desperately clinging to her flailing limbs. Even the notoriously foul-tempered second son of House Castreine, Lisianthus, was visibly flustered, hovering over her in frantic distress as he tried to coax her to her feet.
What… what on earth is happening?
Cronen froze in his tracks, staring in disbelief. Before he could make sense of the madness, Silencio rushed over, his usual smug composure replaced by sheer panic. He leaned in close and whispered urgently in Cronen’s ear.
“The fire spread far worse than we anticipated. The guards are bringing it under control, but the main storehouse, the primary ritual preparation chamber, and the auxiliary chambers have all been reduced to cinders. And worse still…”
Cronen’s complexion turned stark white. Silencio glanced nervously at Cronen’s face before whispering the rest.
“…That sword. The peerless holy blade rumored to have saved the Imperial Palace from the demonic assault. Her Highness… she says…”
Right at that moment, the Princess slammed both palms against the stone pavers, her mournful weeping rising to an ear-splitting crescendo.
Cronen rubbed his eyes, questioning his own sanity.
Was this a nightmare? Where was the quiet, haughty Princess who had kept her mouth shut like a well-behaved doll? Seeing her endure their lukewarm hospitality without a single complaint, Cronen had smugly assumed she knew her place and lacked the spine to protest.
“Aigoooo!Aigoooo-oo! To think I was almost burned to a crisp while soaking in the bath! Where in the world does such a tragedy happen?! Stealing my sacred sword while I was washing! Aigoo! In a holy temple, of all places! How could this happen to me?!”
“…She claims it was stolen,” Silencio finished in a tiny, strangled whisper.
Cronen was so thoroughly dumbfounded that the breath caught in his throat, and a sharp, throbbing stiffness shot straight up the back of his neck.