A Stray Mouse in the Greenhouse
In truth, Lilium possessed an appearance that could easily be mistaken for an angel’s: luscious hair black as an obsidian rose, and vivid green eyes that shone with a radiance entirely different from Titania’s.
Where Titania was a dazzling, brilliant beauty reminiscent of the late Imperial Consort Elaine, who had been celebrated as the empire’s greatest jewel, Lilium was a breath of wild nature, evoking a thicket of wildflowers blooming in the heart of a secluded forest. Hers was the sort of visage that disarmed anyone at first glance, melting away caution before they even knew it had gone.
She wore a well-tailored cloth dress of the sort favored by wealthy commoners. Cut loose and designed with utter simplicity, the garment looked sturdy enough to handle garden dirt without a second thought. Without a single gem to adorn her, she might have passed for a pampered merchant’s daughter. Yet one look at her immaculate, unblemished skin and lustrous hair was enough for anyone with eyes to recognize that she was of noble blood.
Lilium dusted off the hem of her skirt and straightened her back. Primrose dragged over a wooden chair and set it down beside the man she had hauled in. Taking her seat with an innocent grace, Lilium murmured shyly, "Oh my, thank you, Prim."
"You are, welcome."
"Now then... shall we take a look at the present Prim brought me?"
Though the wretch huddled on the floor presented a sight foul enough to turn the stomach of any sheltered noble lady, Lilium’s delicate features did not show so much as a ripple of disgust.
"Mmph! Mmph! Mmmph!"
"Shall we take off the gag first? We do need to hear his answers, after all."
Lilium nodded, reaching down to untie the cloth. The moment it came free, the man sucked in a ragged gasp of air and spat out venomous words.
"W-Who... who do you think you are?! How dare you! To me! Do you have any idea who I am?! I am—!"
"I know who you are, but it seems you don't know who I am."
Thwack!
The instant Lilium’s gentle murmur ceased, Primrose drove her fist straight into the man's Adam’s apple. Lilium watched him writhe on the ground, gagging and clawing at his throat, her sweet smile never wavering.
"Are you ready to listen properly now? Yes, I know all about you. You're that chief priest of the Southern Temple, aren't you?"
"Cough, hack! G-Guh..."
"And I know that when the temple caught fire and ruined your Holy Relic... you scurried off to the black market to buy a rather fascinating replacement."
Only then did Cronen’s mind snap back into sharp focus.
He had heard whispers that the Imperial Princess’s Holy Sword would be put up for sale, and with half-belief and half-doubt, he had slipped into the black market—more precisely, into the secret auction taking place in its deepest underbelly. There, he had miraculously stumbled upon a precious treasure that could serve as a substitute for the destroyed Holy Relic, and he remembered pouring every last coin of his fortune into winning the bid. It had not been an easy decision.
Since the blaze had already swept through the temple, he had briefly toyed with the idea of using the disaster as an excuse to declare the upcoming Offering Festival cursed and scrap it entirely. He had also contemplated setting up a plausible-looking fake. But the rumors had already begun to swirl among the populace.
"Why would a Holy Relic that had been fine all this time suddenly...?"
"Was it weak to fire?"
"That makes no sense at all. Can you really call something a Holy Relic if ordinary flames can burn it? Doesn't divine power heal burn scars in an instant? Yet the relic itself burned?"
To make matters worse, Sir Gregory—who had vanished during the most crucial moment—had cornered Cronen and openly threatened him.
"We're in the same boat now. Now that things have gone this disastrously wrong, do you honestly think Her Majesty the Empress will let either of us live if we don't see this through?"
Gregory had been right, of course, and Cronen had shared the same dread. The temple fire and the theft of the Imperial Princess’s sword had drawn far too much unwanted attention. On top of that, Raymon Castrein was watching his every move with hawk-like vigilance.
No matter how many years Cronen had entrenched himself in the Southern Temple, expanding his influence until he ruled it like a petty king, he was not so reckless as to fake the sacred Offering Festival under the watchful, golden gaze of the young Duke of Castrein. He was not that brave. If he was to dispose of Titania, it was far safer to hire blades and strike once she left the sanctuary. Until then, keeping up appearances and carrying out every duty without a flaw was the only path to survival.
And so, swallowing his bitter tears, he had emptied his secret vaults to purchase the relic. Even for a man of his standing, gathering that immense hoard had taken considerable time. His head had spun with endless worries: What if someone recognized him? What if bandits ambushed him on his way back and stole the treasure? When he had discovered that the Imperial Princess’s lost sword was indeed up for auction, he had even scoffed. To think she had thrown such a tearful, frantic tantrum, only for the legendary blade to turn up so brazenly in a place like that!
If the sword were truly as miraculous as the rumors claimed—slaying demonic beasts with casual ease—wasn't its effortless theft utterly absurd to begin with? How could a grand weapon capable of channeling divine power at the cost of its master’s vitality fail to defend itself against the petty hands of a common thief? Cronen’s skepticism was entirely accurate, though he would never live to learn the truth.
Having emptied his entire fortune for the relic, the sword had been nothing more than an unobtainable pie in the sky. He had watched the spectacle unfold with cold detachment—and then, without warning, the demonic beasts had struck.
Cronen had fled in utter terror.
The thought of retrieving the precious relic he had bankrupted himself to buy had completely evaporated from his panicked mind. Swept along by the stampeding crowd, teetering on the verge of being trampled to death, he had fought his way through the throngs. The thought of revealing himself as a high priest to heal or protect the people never once crossed his mind. He was, after all, one of the foremost Noble Faction priests aligned with High Priest Marjid. Unlike the idealistic rabble of the Commoner Faction, he had never stood on a blood-soaked battlefield swarming with demonic beasts, nor had he ever intended to.
This land was supposed to be peaceful! Demonic beasts had never raided these parts! This was the safe, golden South!
Apart from the moment Raymon Castrein had radiated pure, suffocating bloodlust at him, this was the first time in Cronen's entire life that he had faced real, visceral mortal danger. It was only natural that his wits had abandoned him.
He had shoved people aside, tossing innocent bystanders directly into the path of demonic beasts to buy himself seconds to flee, and then...
Wait.
Yes.
He remembered seeing someone. More precisely, a man swinging a blade with frenzied precision, barking orders in a furious roar. There was no way Cronen could mistake him—that was the very man who had once warned him that incompetent officers die early on the battlefield. Just as Cronen had paused, wondering in shock whether that insolent Castrein scion was truly fighting in the midst of this pandemonium, everything had gone pitch black.
A cold dread seized Cronen's heart. The two girls smiling serenely down at him suddenly seemed more terrifying than any demon.
Judging by how his body felt, he couldn't have been unconscious for long. Yet the strange, unearthly sunlight filtering through the greenhouse made it impossible to measure the passage of time.
More than that, he had never seen this place before.
Throughout the southern provinces, he had been invited to countless grand ducal estates and opulent summer villas. Yet he had never set foot in—nor even heard of—a sanctuary that gave off such a bizarre, unnatural aura. If an estate possessed such an extraordinary greenhouse, rumors of it would have spread across high society the moment a single guest was welcomed inside.
Which meant...
"Still, aren't you glad he has a bit of sense, Prim?"
"If he lacked, even that... should I kill him, where he sits?"
"Oh no, we can't do that. He's the stray mouse sent on an errand by our finest customer. If we let the cat out on our own whim, they'll be furious with us for ruining the delivery."
Cronen could not even muster the courage to protest being compared to a vermin. The maid with the lifeless amethyst eyes and the gentle lady she served were clearly capable of snuffing out his life in an instant if they so chose. And perhaps... they were monstrous figures who had quietly woven their influence across the southern lands without him ever suspecting a thing.
Chuckling softly as if she had just told a harmless little joke, Lilium rose and lifted the woven lid of a straw basket. She reached in, humming lightly as she sifted through its contents, before withdrawing a single object.
It was a fruit shaped like an apple, but its skin was glossy and pitch-black. Lilium tapped the dark rind with a delicate finger. With a crisp crack, the shell shattered as easily as the peel of a hard-boiled egg. Beneath it lay flesh of the deepest crimson—translucent and shimmering like jewels woven from pomegranate seeds.
"From what I can tell, the 'merchandise' you bought at the auction will be safely delivered to your doorstep. But it would be such a pity if our little errand mouse went completely broke paying for it and had nothing left to fund his journey, wouldn't it?"
Lilium whispered in a tone as sweet as spun sugar.
"W-What... what do you want from me?" Cronen choked out, his survival instincts screaming in his ear.