Chapter 82: The Saintess and the Biscuits

Twilight Calendar, Year 1192, the Month of Winter’s Veil.

In the northern borderlands of Tania, it was still the season of swirling snow, but the fires of war had already ignited upon this white-shrouded land.

The Islanders had struck with astonishing speed, seizing the outposts and territories along the Ice Sea’s coast. The frontlines advanced relentlessly, and the unprepared Tanian people suffered unprecedented losses and sacrifices.

Reports of demons on the battlefield were sent in haste to Tania’s capital, Viransell, by carrier pigeons and swift riders. Priests, knights, adventurers, and local militia—summoned by their lords—joined the army. The Tanians, who had been ready to usher in the New Year, now found themselves plunged into war with the Islanders.

Yet the Tanians were defeated time and again on the battlefield. The Islanders’ war galleys and the demons who commanded the power of flame swept all before them, tilting the balance of battle into a one-sided slaughter. It was a New Year shrouded in smoke and blood. Even the Castle of the Purple Thorn, under the rule of Viscount Colton Quentin, was tainted by the aura of war. Beneath the dreary sky, everyone pulled their collars tight and hurried their steps.

Shops were shuttered, the only ones on patrol the viscount’s armored guards, who carried writs signed by the viscount himself as they went from door to door.

Able-bodied men were forcibly conscripted as militia. On the fortress’s black walls, armored soldiers stared straight ahead, ever vigilant.

The gates leading from the border to the Castle of the Purple Thorn were sealed tight. This city, once a bustling hub on the banks of the Bragg River—a nexus of roads and canal port—had fallen into lifeless silence.

Yet on the final day of Winter’s Veil, Viscount Quentin, now forty-seven, donned his most formal attire. Of moderate height, his waist had thickened with age, but his shoulders and bearing remained upright as a pine, betraying the spirit of an old warrior.

The years had etched faint lines into his sharply chiseled face; gray streaked his temples and neatly trimmed beard, lending him a dignified air. His iron-gray eyes were as cold and distant as a winter lake.

He had once been a knight, and in his youth had fought on many fronts, campaigning against Viking marauders. The North was Tania’s most turbulent region, plagued by small wars and the comings and goings of both Vikings and fugitives from distant lands.

The border of a nation is ever unsettled, and to hold one’s ground here, one must know how to fight and how to train men for war.

This was a man whose every gesture bore the calm assurance of long-held power; on his finger, a gold ring set with a dark red gem caught the light, a silent reminder of ancient bloodlines.

But today, he did not send his children to greet their guests in his stead. Instead, he personally stood by the city gate, gazing into the distant sky.

He was to receive a guest of exalted rank, for whom he had waited the entire morning. And at last, beneath the somber heavens, he saw them: the flying griffins.

They were the most formidable order of the Twilight Church—the Whitewing Knights.

Each Whitewing Knight was at least of silver rank, and they followed the teachings of the god, devoting body and soul. Their order never numbered more than two hundred, yet when they appeared on the battlefield, they were the banner of victory.

The noble knights astride griffins had come to the Castle of the Purple Thorn, drawn by the scent of demons.

Even Viscount Quentin—a viscount with real authority on the frontier—was but a minor figure before the representatives of the Whitewing Knights.

It seemed there were ten Whitewing Knights visiting today. The viscount looked up as the massive beasts, their wings beating, landed beside the gate.

These fierce creatures, whose talons could carry wild bulls aloft, lowered their heads meekly and crouched to let their riders dismount.

Nine knights in mithril armor stood together, forming a circle around one person.

She was the only one clad in a robe of pale moonlight.

Her long, flaxen hair was tied behind her. She wore a delicate crown of silver wire woven into a circle of thorns, a red string bracelet with tiny bells on her left hand, and in her right, a staff of pure silver.

Her features were unadorned, her countenance gentle and youthful—a mere girl, it seemed—yet she radiated an inexplicable warmth.

Most remarkable were her eyes—pure, as though silver sand was hidden within, starlight glimmering in their depths.

Those eyes marked her as the one who bore the name “Selephia.”

The sixteenth Holy Maiden.

Viscount Quentin had not expected that even this most exalted of figures would come to the Castle of the Purple Thorn.

Three years ago, he and the king together had attended the ceremony in Viransell Tower, where the Holy Maiden was invested.

That girl—who looked for all the world like a peasant, barefoot as she climbed the thousand steps of white jade—had passed the ordeal with calm grace, reaching the summit that neither the Pope nor the commander of the Whitewing Knights could attain, and there she claimed the staff and sacred crown, inheriting a position vacant for eighty-nine years.

The viscount hastily paid his respects, bowing low, bending one knee as if before the king himself, offering the highest formality.

“Colton Quentin welcomes Her Highness Selephia and the esteemed Whitewing Knights.”

“Forgive our intrusion, Viscount Quentin,” the Holy Maiden replied with a nod.

Were she to remove her crown, set aside the staff, and conceal her starlit eyes, she would look just like a neighbor’s daughter in the bloom of youth. No one seeing her on the street would guess her true identity.

She seemed so unremarkable, and yet, seated atop a griffin in the biting wind, not a strand of her hair nor a fold of her gown was ever out of place.

The viscount knew—she had transcended the mortal realm, reached a state unattainable by ordinary folk.

Every Holy Maiden possessed a legendary, sacred power—saintly strength before which even the notorious demon archdukes dared not act rashly.

Yet the title of Holy Maiden was often vacant; sometimes centuries passed without a successor. This maiden herself had only become known to the world two years before her investiture.

Before that, no one knew she existed, nor anything of her past. She seemed to have appeared from nowhere, and in just two years, achieved great deeds, purged many evils, and in the Twilight Year 1189, once more the name “Selephia” was borne by another.

“Pray, Viscount, tell me of the situation in the North,” the Holy Maiden said softly.

“Please, Your Highness, let us discuss it in the castle,” the viscount replied.

She nodded, and under the protection of the Whitewing Knights, entered the Castle of the Purple Thorn.

But just then, a messenger arrived in haste before the viscount.

“Your Highness, permit me to excuse myself for a moment—perhaps it is news from the front,” Quentin said.

The Holy Maiden nodded and stood aside.

“What is it, so urgent?” the viscount demanded, frowning. Could the Islanders already be at the castle’s gates?

“My lord!” the messenger reported, “Over a hundred Tanians have arrived at the gate. They say they are refugees from north of Alvador!”

“Alvador?” the viscount was stunned.

That place had fallen to the Islanders at least fifteen days ago. As far as he knew, the lands north of Alvador had been occupied since the beginning of Winter’s Veil.

For a month, no one had escaped from there. How could these people have gotten through the Islanders’ lines?

“Are they a cavalry troop? Mercenaries or adventurers?” the viscount pressed, his brow furrowing.

“They seem... just ordinary villagers, my lord. There are elderly, women, and even infants in swaddling among them,” the messenger replied.

“How can that be?” the viscount exclaimed, astonished.

He suspected a ruse by the enemy. How could villagers with the old, the weak, and the young cross enemy lines in such a bitter season?

Even the wildest storyteller would not invent something so implausible.

“Until I give the order, do NOT open the gate!” the viscount commanded. “Let them wait outside—verify their identities and reasons for coming, and be thorough!”

At that moment, the Holy Maiden suddenly spoke.

“Viscount Quentin,” she said, “I shall go with you to the gate. Please open it and let these people in.”

“If any evil is hidden among them, the Whitewing Knights and I will see it destroyed.”

The viscount hesitated, then replied, “If that is Your Highness’s wish, so be it.”

If there was trouble even the Holy Maiden could not resolve, then the Castle of the Purple Thorn was lost regardless.

The company made their way to the gate, which was raised to admit over a hundred windblown, bedraggled Tanians.

At their head were a dwarf and a one-eyed man bearing spear and sword.

The Holy Maiden approached them and reached out, gently touching the forehead of a coughing infant. At once, the child quieted, its cheeks turning rosy.

“Let them in, Viscount Quentin,” the Holy Maiden said. “They are no agents of evil.”

With her assurance, the viscount nodded and allowed the refugees to enter. The gate closed behind them.

The viscount glanced at the Holy Maiden’s face and saw her staring absently at something.

Following her gaze, he saw a biscuit—a spiral-shaped cookie—in the hand of a youth, who took a bite and suddenly began to weep.

The viscount thought it odd. Even in Alvador, it was now difficult to find such cookies. How had these refugees come by them?

Could these villagers make pastries and cakes like the bakers of the Castle of the Purple Thorn?

There was certainly something unusual about all this.