Chapter 82: Crimson Reckoning

The heels of boots tipped with metal clicked sharply against the gray-white stone floor, echoing clearly.

On either side of the deep corridor, branched candelabras stood in orderly rows, their leaping flames tugged and flickering by the cold draft seeping from the depths of the passage.

“I say, you’re in for it now—the Duke will definitely have words for you in a moment—”

“Those words were clearly the ones you taught me.”

“What, just because I say something, you have to repeat it verbatim? Then what’s that thing on your neck actually for?”

“. . . I just happened to doze off for a bit.”

“Come on, the words came out of your mouth, and you shot the arrow with your own hand—even I was startled at the time. Now you want to wash your hands of it? That guy . . . what was his name again, Arendel, right? You just didn’t like the look of him, that’s all. I was merely going with the flow . . .”

“Oh!”

In just a dozen or so steps, the corridor had reached its end.

Kritiya lifted her eyes and saw, through the doorway to the main chamber, that silhouette in the dim yellow candlelight.

She suddenly extended her index finger and placed it to her lips, the gesture like issuing some command—the voice that had been chattering endlessly in her ear, laced with a touch of sharpness, cut off in an instant, as if seized by an invisible hand and silenced at its source.

“Tch! This girl.”

All I could do about Kritiya’s unilateral severing of our connection was offer a helpless silence.

After all, even I couldn’t say exactly when she had gained command of this ability—

It was no longer that vague emotional sensing, nor the makeshift expedient of passing notes.

Now, I could clearly feel a stable mental pathway connecting us, sufficient for intricate exchanges of thought.

Yet the permission to open and close this channel lay entirely in Kritiya’s hands.

I vaguely sensed the origin of this pathway: that day, the remnant consciousness of the Saintess, attached to the holy relic, had briefly descended upon this body.

With her pure and potent will, she had forcibly carved out this conduit linking two consciousnesses.

Even after her power waned and her awareness dissipated, the channel she had forged with sacred force lingered, like an imprint left by a miracle.

As long as one knew how to wield the portion of the Saintess’s power she had left behind, it could be controlled freely.

It was only a year ago that I had wrenched myself free from a long and profound slumber, regaining consciousness once more.

Or, as Kritiya put it, I had been “sealed” by the Saintess—but truthfully, I retained no impression at all of this so-called seal, as if it had been nothing more than a grand dream.

One moment, my memory halted at that instant; the next, when I came to, Kritiya’s body had blossomed into that of a striking young woman.

Thinking on it that way, perhaps the previous Saintess was . . . unexpectedly gentle?

After all, it had been such a serene, unconscious repose . . . time slipping away in painless darkness.

I mused on this inwardly.

Kritiya had never explained to me the reason for my awakening.

I couldn’t tell if it was her deliberate choice or some unavoidable circumstance.

She kept silent on the matter, and I wisely chose not to press.

“What happened at the spring hunt was highly undignified.”

Arendel had already shed his military attire, donning instead a deep-striped waistcoat robe overlaid with a finely crafted leather vest.

His hands crossed, he sat upon the somewhat worn long bench in the family chapel.

This private chapel was modest in scale, mainly for commemorating and venerating the family’s departed ancestors; its decor was simple and restrained, the murals and holy icons bearing the muted sheen of aged patina.

The air carried a faint scent of wax oil.

Kritiya halted her steps, standing behind the Duke’s silhouette.

The family chapel was small, with no windows around, requiring constant lamplight for illumination—a stark contrast to the grand cathedrals that favored natural light to evoke a sense of the divine.

The relief carvings on the side walls did not depict tales from church mythology; instead, one could see long-eared elves, stout dwarves, horned demons—and most numerous of all, humans—encircling a massive white wolf, their forms flickering in and out of visibility in the candlelight.

Kritiya withdrew her gaze from surveying left and right, noting the absence of any third person; she blinked her eyes lightly, saying nothing, merely awaiting the Duke’s further judgment.

The Duke draped one arm over the back of the bench and half-turned.

The wavering candlelight cast deep and shallow shadows across his weathered, furrowed face, making his deep green eyes seem all the more inscrutable.

“Arendel is the Earl of Ley Bay’s most prized nephew. You made a fool of him in front of everyone.”

Kritiya paused for a beat, her voice steady in response.

“Your two brothers were outmatched in skill, yet you hardly seem the type to step in on their behalf out of spite.”

The Duke’s tone betrayed no anger or pleasure.

“I had thought, Father, that you were not one to fuss over such superficial courtesies.”

Kritiya’s phrasing was beyond reproach, yet her inflection carried a subtle, elusive detachment.

“Whether I mind or not depends on your future conduct.”

The Duke pondered for a moment before speaking slowly, his gaze like a torch, scrutinizing the girl before him.

“Oh.”

Kritiya responded with indifferent nonchalance.

The Duke’s brow furrowed almost imperceptibly; his knuckles rose to tap lightly at his temple, betraying a hint of weariness.

“His rudeness came first, that’s beyond dispute. But laying hands on someone with blade and arrow changes the nature of the matter.”

Kritiya gazed into her father’s deep green eyes, her lips slowly curving—then suddenly arching upward into a faint crescent:

“Forgive my boldness, Father—but I suspect that if I had truly entertained such shallow flattery in that moment, it would have given you far greater headache?”

“After all, in your designs—my value in this world is hardly meant for marriage to some northern lord, or to Ley Bay, bound for life to some inconsequential local noble, is it?”

The Duke’s throat bobbed.

He closed his eyes, as if sinking into brief contemplation; moments later, he opened them again, calm restored to their depths:

“Correct. But that, too, depends on your conduct. I use such incidents precisely to gauge your judgment—every action of yours falls under my scrutiny.”

Kritiya regarded her father, her lips parting slightly as if a question hovered on the tip of her tongue—only for her to swallow it back.

Silence stretched between them.

At length, she nodded ever so faintly:

“I understand.”

“Then, if you have no further instructions, I shall take my leave.”

The Duke gave a slight wave of his hand in assent.

Kritiya curtsied gracefully and turned to depart.

But just as she reached the threshold, the Duke’s voice rang out once more, laced with an indescribably odd tone:

“Speaking of which . . . it’s only now that I notice—when did you start favoring such vivid red in your attire?”

Kritiya’s step faltered; she glanced down at her ensemble—a tailored red leather coat hugging her form, paired with black riding breeches, the snow-white embroidered shirt beneath featuring an intricate lace collar.

“It was simply this outfit that caught my eye today, Father.”

She did not turn back, her voice calm and even.

The Duke fell silent for a moment, then waved his hand firmly at last:

“Very well, go on.”

***

Holy light—I beheld the holy light once more, and for the first time, I felt the sensation of this power coursing through my hands.

Kritiya, clad in a black gauze nightgown, knelt in her chamber, palms pressed together around a silver locket pendant; pure white radiance spilled from between her fingers.

I held my breath, watching intently—through the locket’s delicate filigree, a small segment of crystalline phalange was visible, emanating a soft glow from within outward.

With the rise and fall of Kritiya’s chest in respiration, the light seemed to take on a life of its own, pulsing and waning in tandem.

“This . . . is the power the Saintess left for you?”

No matter how many times I witnessed it, the sight struck me as profoundly wondrous, I thought; the warm glow then dimmed and withdrew, vanishing entirely into the locket.

Kritiya stared at the silver box now quiescent in her palm, silent for a beat before hanging it back around her neck; the cool metal touched her skin, eliciting the barest shiver.

I probed carefully at the nuances of this power: within Kritiya’s mind lingered some imprint left by the Saintess, allowing her to channel the remnant force from the holy relic—perhaps it was through this very ability that she had freed me from my seal.

I could sense the gentleness of that light—perhaps the power yet retained the prior Saintess’s own serene joy, infecting those near it and bringing us peace.

But—I hesitated for a long while, yet could not help but ask:

“How much of the Saintess’s power remains? It will run out eventually, won’t it?”