Chapter 32: The Saint’s Sorrow

Mitchel’s hair was still damp, as if he had only just finished his dawn prayers. As he entered, Claire, who had been about to leave, let go of my hand and stood up, offering a light, respectful bow to the High Priest.

Mitchel took the seat Claire had vacated, which likely still held the Knight’s lingering warmth. Propped up against a mountain of plush pillows, I simply rolled my eyes to track Mitchel’s movements. He didn’t fully focus on me until he heard the door click shut behind Claire.

“Did you sleep well, Ian?”

“Yes. By the way, Mitchel… Claire told me you’re staying at the palace because of me. I was so out of it that I don’t think I thanked you properly. I’m sorry.”

“There is nothing for you to be sorry for, Ian.”

Mitchel never lost his smile. Usually, High Priests showed signs of exhaustion due to their grueling schedules, but Mitchel always seemed brimming with vitality. Perhaps it was his overwhelming divine power. Even within the Empire, he was famous for having attained such pure, potent divinity at a remarkably young age.

The morning sun highlighted the coarse texture of his priest’s robes. His hair had already dried, regaining its soft, fluffy volume. The pale platinum strands and his cream-colored vestments reflected the sunlight, casting a faint, ethereal glow. He looked truly holy.

“Have you eaten?”

I shook my head at his question. Dawn prayers were at 7:00 AM, and while I usually woke around then, there was still some time before the 9:00 AM breakfast.

“If you don’t mind, you can have breakfast here, Mitchel. Would you like to join me?”

Two is better than one—in any situation. Solitude was comfortable, but it was often just another word for lonely. I tentatively offered the invitation.

“Of course. I timed my arrival specifically for that.”

Like a faithful servant of the Goddess, Mitchel made the sign of the cross and offered a prayer when the breakfast was brought in. I joined in somewhat awkwardly. Outside of the Temple, I had never really prayed before a meal, let alone with such a devout posture. Usually, a quick sign of the cross before an important task was the extent of my piety. Come to think of it, I was always abruptly calling out to or searching for the Goddess; the only time I’d met her with formal etiquette was the day I was selected as the Hero.

After the prayer, Mitchel stood up to assist me. He helped me sit up from the pillows where I’d been buried and even placed a spoon in my hand.

“Eat up.”

“Yes, thank you for the meal.”

I dipped my spoon into the soup and stirred. Small florets of broccoli bobbed within the creamy, frothy liquid before sinking again. When I chased a piece of broccoli with my spoon, a bit of carrot tagged along. I put it in my mouth and chewed thoroughly. It was a habit from my impoverished years, eating coarse food; if I didn’t chew properly, I’d suffer through constant indigestion.

I was a slow eater and usually felt self-conscious about it—especially on the battlefield, where I often had to stand up mid-meal—but since returning to the palace, everyone seemed to be accommodating my “illness.” Whether it was because they were considerate or because the small group settings allowed them to match my pace, I was finding a small, quiet happiness in not having to rush.

After a few sips of soup, I turned my attention to a dish of finely minced beef simmered until tender. I didn’t know the name, but it appeared often and wasn’t heavily seasoned, so I usually finished the whole plate. It was so well-prepared it practically melted in my mouth, but I still chewed every bite carefully.

I tended to focus entirely on the food while eating, so I was startled when Mitchel spoke. I tried to hide it, but I nearly dropped my spoon.

“By the way, Ian.”

“—Yes?”

The conversation started so suddenly that I had to swallow quickly before responding, making my reply a bit delayed.

“Your complexion looks better than last time.”

I stared at Mitchel, dumbfounded. Is he crazy? The scriptures clearly state that a faithful servant of the Goddess must not tell lies, yet Mitchel smiled at me without batting an eye. Just yesterday, he had turned the palace upside down questioning if something was wrong with my heart—sending Felix and Zeimer into visibly murderous moods—and now he was sitting here with a radiant smile, telling me I looked better.

“Uh… yes… I think it’s because I’ve been resting well…?”

Despite my hesitant answer, Mitchel smiled happily. I gave up on trying to understand him, set down my spoon, and picked up a fork. As I was chewing on a slice of tender potato, Mitchel dropped another absurd comment.

“The Goddess will surely watch over you, Ian.”

“…?”

“Do not worry.”

This time, I set down all my utensils and gave Mitchel a look of utter disbelief. Watch over me? If anything, the Goddess was likely plotting how to “cook” me next, weaving some new dark scheme.

Given what happened yesterday, she had clearly come to check on the progress of the task she’d mentioned at the Temple—to see when she should make me move. Ah, so in a way, she was watching over me. It just meant the exact opposite of the positive “watching over” Mitchel had in mind.

My appetite vanished, and I ended my meal there. Everything as the Goddess wills. Do not cross the Dragon’s mood. These two phrases had long been established as common proverbs throughout the Empire. And they were literal. Everything would happen according to her will, and crossing the Dragon meant being erased from existence.

The Goddess wanted something from me, and according to Felix and Zeimer, the Dragon was calling me. I had no choice. I wasn’t an independent agent in this world; I was just a manufactured spare part.

After the meal, Mitchel opened the scripture he had brought and began to read. In place of my canceled lessons, I read some copied pages of a history book I had requested. The content was a bit difficult, but listening to the recordings Zeimer had made on the mana stones while following the text with my eyes made it manageable.

In the midst of this peace, a sudden cough erupted from my throat. To be precise, I had tried to swallow a surge of blood and ended up choking on it. I quickly tossed the papers I was holding toward the foot of the bed. They fluttered and scattered onto the floor.

Mitchel, seemingly flustered by the suddenness, scrambled to help. A cloth was always kept on the nightstand for this very reason. Ignoring Mitchel’s frantic movements, I grabbed the cloth myself to catch the blooming blood. Mitchel’s hand overlapped mine over my mouth, while his other hand began rubbing my back.

Realizing that panic was useless in these moments, Mitchel calmed down and pulled his chair closer, continuing to stroke my back. What was the problem today? The frequency of these episodes had seemed to be decreasing, but seeing blood twice between last night and this morning left me in a foul mood.

As the bleeding slowed, I pulled the damp cloth away from my mouth and spat out the rest. Thick, dark red blood was clumped together with saliva. I stared blankly at the stained fabric for a moment until Mitchel’s worried voice, asking if I was okay, snapped me back to reality.

“Cough, yes… I’m fine.”

Mitchel, who had grabbed a warm wet towel from an attendant, carefully wiped my face and my blood-soaked hands. His touch was as meticulous as Zeimer’s. I let my strength sap away and leaned back. It was exhausting.

Everything was just so exhausting.

Sudden weakness washed over my entire body, leaving me without even the strength to turn my head. Mitchel, who had been carefully cleaning along my jawline with a worried gaze, finally set the towel down.

“Ian, I think it would be best if you lay down completely.”

I surrendered to his touch as he supported me firmly, removed the propped-up pillows, and laid me flat. It was easiest not to think. The moment I started thinking about this “illness” of mine, I felt incredibly embarrassed. As I lay there dazed, my vision blurred, and I knit my brows.

When my focus returned, I locked eyes with Mitchel. His brow was furrowed too. No, don’t lose your smile! I liked the Mitchel who lived happily as a servant of the Goddess. The expression on his face without that gentle smile was unsettling. Hoping to bring it back, I reached up and rubbed the space between his brows with my thumb.

“Smile.”

“…Ian.”

“Smiling suits you, Mitchel.”

The war is over and a happy world has arrived, so why can’t you smile? I looked at him with a bit of pity. Because I was cupping his face and pressing my thumb against his brow, I could feel his eyelashes trembling. Don’t look like you’re about to cry because of me.

Mitchel used both hands to take my wrist and hand, pulling them down slightly. This left my palm cupping his cheek. He leaned into it, gently rubbing his face against my palm. Unlike my cold hand, his cheek was filled with a warm, living heat.

Hoping to encourage him to smile, I forced my own lips into an awkward upward curve. At that, Mitchel’s expression crumbled even further into a look of sorrow.

I couldn’t understand it. Swallowing my mounting frustration, I just stared up at his face.

Seriously, why…?