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Chapter 32
Grace’s carriage had long since vanished from sight, yet Leandros remained where he stood, watching the empty road.
There were so many things he had wanted to say to her.
“From the very beginning, was your goal the Cardinal’s seat and not the Saint’s mantle?”
“Then why didn’t you confide in me sooner?”
“Was your volunteer work in the slums merely a means to crush the loan sharks?”
“Did you already know their leader was Cardinal Zenom?”
“Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you ask me for help? Why…?”
The words had burned in his throat, begging to be spoken, yet he had swallowed them back. Because he already knew the answer.
“It must be because she doesn’t trust me.”
If someone were to ask him, “Do you trust Grace?” he could answer yes without hesitation.
But if the question were reversed… he could not so easily affirm that she trusted him.
Unlike Grace, who carried knowledge of the future, he had almost no information. Not only was he ignorant of what lay ahead, he had no power, no influence, nothing strong enough to stand by her side as a true shield.
That was why she had told him nothing.
Even if he had intervened, he would not have been able to solve anything.
Indeed, this incident proved it.
Had she confided in him, he would have immediately reported upward, awaiting the Pope’s instructions. He would have remained defensive and reactive, clinging to the proof of his faith, while Grace forged ahead decisively on her own.
She had told him that they could remain together only because he had upheld his faith. But faith alone was not enough to protect her.
Leandros’s creed was simple, absolute:
To become the perfect Holy Knight, a servant of God.
No one revered the Divine more deeply than he did. No one followed more devoutly.
That vow had been born in childhood, when he was trapped in the mines, starving, suffocating, and crying out in desperation.
“Lord, forgive me for resenting You for taking my mother. Please, let us escape this place alive.”
“It’s all right if I die—just save Grace.”
“Let me protect her. If You grant me this, I will believe in You and follow You all my life.”
“I will be Your faithful servant. Please… don’t let Grace die.”
He remembered Grace as a child, pale and trembling, her once-bright smile dimmed by terror. She had thrown herself in harm’s way to protect him, too young to value her own life. He had watched her faint, her small hand slipping lifelessly from his grasp.
“Please, let her live…”
His tears had fallen onto her face, but she had not stirred.
Just as despair swallowed him whole, a shout had rung out above them:
“There are survivors here!”
That was the moment his prayer was answered.
That was the day faith first lodged itself in his heart.
From then on, he had vowed to believe, to follow, unconditionally. To live as God’s loyal servant until death.
But the Church had always looked upon him with suspicion.
“Sir Leandros, you are of Imperial blood. You even hold the right to succession.”
“The Temple fears your path. We cannot banish the thought that you might one day use Imperial power to undermine us.”
“Prove to us, then, that your loyalty is not to the throne but to God. Show us the evidence of your faith. This trial is God’s test for you.”
So he had endured.
He had borne insult and humiliation, survived scorn and exclusion, because he could endure it.
But if Grace, because of him, were made to suffer the same…
His hands clenched into fists before he realized it.
“I need power. Power to protect her.”
Grace had swallowed poison for his sake. She had thrown her body into the path of an Apostle’s attack for him. She gave everything she had to protect him—yet he remained unchanged. Wasn’t that pathetic?
After all, it was Grace who had been the reason he prayed, the reason he had taken up his creed in the first place.
This was no betrayal of God, nor of faith.
It was only the sharpening of his resolve.
“Are you all right, Sir?”
The voice drew him back. He turned to find Mila standing at his side, eyes full of concern.
“I called to you several times, but you didn’t answer. What could you be thinking so deeply about?”
“An old memory,” he said softly.
“Ah. I was thinking too,” Mila sighed, “about what I must do from now on. But when I looked at you, your face seemed so troubled I couldn’t help but call out.”
“Do you already have a plan?”
“I’ve been named the sole candidate for Saint. That means, sooner or later, I’ll be confirmed. So I should begin acting like one.”
“Acting like a Saint… what sort of actions?”
At his question, a smile tugged at her lips.
“To spread God’s love far and wide, of course. And also…”
“And also?”
“To lend what little aid I can to Lady Grace.”
Her cheeks reddened as the words tumbled out.
“Do you even know her goal?” Leandros asked.
“Not really. But I don’t think it’s a wicked one.”
“And how can you be so sure?”
“Hm… call it a gut feeling?” She laughed nervously. “Someone who values efficiency that much wouldn’t waste such devotion on something evil.”
The way she said it, as though she knew Grace well, made Leandros pause.
“Were you close to her… before returning?”
“I wanted to be,” Mila admitted, eyes soft with grief. “I couldn’t back then. But maybe this time… we can. After all, we share the same fate—we both came back.”
Her words struck him like a blade. If Mila truly held memories of both past and future, then perhaps she could indeed aid Grace.
And the tightness in his chest suddenly made sense.
“Jealousy.”
Yes—that was it.
But it only hardened his determination: he would become the one Grace could rely on above all others.
“So, let’s do our best together!” Mila said brightly, pumping a fist.
Feeling a pang of guilt for harboring envy toward her, Leandros echoed her gesture faintly. “Yes. Let’s.”
And thus, the noisy day at the Temple came to a close.
Grace’s new office was elegant, almost ostentatious: white walls traced with silver designs, fine oak furniture, and wide windows that flooded the space with light. What had once felt strange was now her daily sphere of work.
And yet—once again—she had an unwelcome visitor.
“So it’s true, then? From the start, you weren’t aiming for the Saint’s mantle, but the Cardinal’s seat?”
Grace set down the tea she had brewed, a blend she had often enjoyed at the ducal estate. The girl across from her inhaled deeply, grinning.
“And it wasn’t only for your sake—you wanted to make me Saint, didn’t you?”
So arrogant. As if the world revolved around her.
“You’re planning to root yourself firmly in the Temple, destroy that cursed relic once and for all, aren’t you? You don’t have to say it—I already know.”
So presumptuous.
Grace’s inner voice dripped with disdain.
“Can this girl really be called Saint?”
Mila, oblivious, giggled and reached for another pastry.
“Do you realize how many days in a row you’ve come here?”
“Ever since you were officially seated as Cardinal, and this office was given to you. So… two weeks? Wow, time flies!”
“Do you think I asked because I truly wanted to know?”
Her words wiped the smile from Mila’s face.
“I just thought you might be lonely,” the girl muttered, lips jutting out.
“Lonely? Why would I be?”
“Because even though you earned the position, the other Cardinals ostracize you. You don’t have any close clerics either. So I thought you might feel isolated.”
She pouted harder, as though wounded by Grace’s indifference.
“And besides,” Mila added softly, “without Sir Leandros here… you must feel emptier still.”
Grace froze.
“What sort of mission could keep him away this long, without a single message? Do you know, Lady Grace?”
Grace answered with nothing but a weary sigh.
Her sigh said everything.
“…You don’t know,” Mila murmured, voice heavy with pity.
