SAV 01

Chapter 01

The Chardonnay Convent, home to nuns who had withdrawn from the world, was once located near the eastern border of the Kingdom of Kalia.

Even the flames of war had passed it by, leaving the small convent untouched—until the Empire of Aleban seized the surrounding lands.

One of the first signs of that change came one midnight, when an imperial knight arrived at the convent’s gate, asking for lodging.

“I’m glad there’s a sister here who can speak Imperial. Hahaha.”
“Please show me your identification, sir.”

Isabel was the only nun who could communicate with the Aleban soldiers.

The knight introduced himself as Martin, claiming he was traveling on a special mission for the Empire.

After confirming his identity, Isabel guided him to the guest quarters reserved for travelers and accepted a donation of five pfennigs—an important sum for the convent’s winter expenses.

“Then please rest well.”
“Sister, are you leaving already?”
“…?”
“I know many interesting things—news, you could say. Wouldn’t you like to talk for a while? It’s cold and lonely tonight.”

Though Isabel had lost interest in worldly gossip after three years as a nun, she knew that information about the war could be useful for the convent’s safety.

Yet the way Martin’s eyes glimmered made her wish to end the conversation immediately.

Just as she was about to politely refuse—

“Isabel! Are you in here?”

Sister Helen burst through the door of the guesthouse, calling loudly.

When Isabel turned, she saw Helen holding a young girl by the shoulder—a familiar face.

“This child walked six hours through the snow from Mondigne…”
“My father’s dying!!”

The girl collapsed forward and began to explain.

Her name was Anna, a girl who lived alone with her father in the small village of Mondigne.

Her father had always been frail, and with winter’s arrival, he had stopped eating properly and began coughing up blood.

As his condition worsened, the villagers suggested calling for a priest to administer last rites, but with the chaos of war, the local parish had been left without one.

“Please, Sister, come with me. Please!”

Only priests could perform the final sacrament; all a nun could do was pray.

After a moment’s hesitation, Isabel sighed and turned toward Martin.

“Sir Martin, may I ask a favor?”
“What is it?”
“May I borrow your horse? This girl’s father is dying, and I must reach him in time to pray.”

Martin smiled as though he had been waiting for that request.

“Then you’ll owe me a favor in return, won’t you?”
“…All right.”
“Good! Let’s go, I’ll escort—wait, Sister?”

Before he could finish, Isabel was already moving.

She went to the stable, approached Martin’s horse, and the animal obeyed her without protest.

To Martin’s astonishment, she mounted gracefully in one motion.

“You know how to ride?”
“Yes.”
“How…?”
“I learned as part of my education when I was young.”

With a short reply, Isabel accepted the cloak and supplies Helen handed her, then lifted Anna onto the saddle in front.

“Sir Martin, thank you for your generosity. I shall return soon.”

Martin could only nod dumbly as Isabel rode off into the night.

Once they had left the convent behind, Anna finally spoke, unable to hold her curiosity.

“Sister, is there anything you can’t do?”
“What do you mean?”
“You speak so many languages… you make lace, paint icons—and now you can ride a horse too!”
“…Those are nothing but little skills.”
“That’s not true! The icon you painted is treasured by our whole village!”

At that, Isabel thought of a name she had long tried to forget—de Fienne.

As a noblewoman, she had learned many arts and studies, excelling in all. Most of what Anna mentioned were accomplishments from that past life.

But there had been one true talent that set her apart—one gift she had lost forever.

“Sister?”
“…It’s cold. Lean back a little, child.”

Pushing away the memories, Isabel spurred the horse forward.

The six-hour walk from Mondigne became barely an hour on horseback.

When they reached the small house, Anna rushed inside.

“Father!”
“Anna…”
“I brought the Sister!”
“What? Cough A nun?”

The man lying in bed lifted his head weakly, only to double over with violent coughing.

His skin was ashen, his frame nothing but bone. Isabel could see that death was near.

“Anna, your father’s name?”
“Guillaume…”

Isabel approached the dying man, who glared at her with fevered eyes.

“Guillaume.”
“I’ve lived a good life! Why now, at the end—damn it all!”
“Guillaume. Your daughter can hear you. If you have something to say, speak softly. I’ll come closer. Hold my hand.”

All Isabel could do was pray. She wished that this poor man’s final moments would not be filled with pain and loneliness.

But when Guillaume took her hand, his voice grew even darker.

“Heh… The eight-fingered nun watches my death… A nun who can’t even pray properly…”
“…”
“I’ve done nothing wrong… You’re the one sending me to hell… You!”

A man did not go to hell merely for missing last rites, but the dying rarely listened to reason. Guillaume’s mind was already far gone.

Hoping his curse would not touch Anna, Isabel whispered her prayers.

Through the long night, curses and prayers mingled until at last, only silence remained.

“May peace and rest be upon you.”

She anointed his forehead with holy oil, covered him with a cloth, and stood.

“Anna.”
“Hic… yes…”
“Your father has passed. Go find the villagers who were close to him, and ask for help. And…”

She paused. Isabel knew the girl would struggle to keep her home and belongings.

“If you ever need help, come to the convent.”
“O-okay…”

Watching Anna leave to seek the villagers, Isabel mounted her horse again and turned back toward the convent.

Her shoulders sagged with exhaustion.

Even half-asleep, she could still hear the dying man’s words echoing in her mind:

“A nun who can’t even pray properly… the eight-fingered nun…”

The phrase pierced her heart.

If I can no longer wield a sword nor pray with faith… what is left for me?

Three years ago, at fifteen, Isabel de Fienne had dreamed of becoming a knight.

For a nobleman’s youngest daughter, that was almost unthinkable—marriage, university, or the convent were the only paths allowed.

But Isabel had been different.

She had wielded the épée with such precision that she could cut only the edge of an opponent’s sleeve without drawing blood.

Knights who visited the Fienne estate had praised her as if blessed by the gods themselves.

Until the day a group of rogue knights caused trouble in her family’s lands—and she faced them.

“Ugh…”

She had tried to mediate, but when the men turned violent, she was forced to draw her sword.

Knocking down the first few was easy. But their leader, a wandering knight named Robert, overwhelmed her.

When her sword fell, Robert uttered words that still haunted her:

“A bird like you… needs its wings clipped.”

He seized her hands and cut off both of her little fingers.

It was a horrific act. Yet, because one of his men had also been injured and Robert was from a powerful count’s family, the Fienne household couldn’t pursue justice.

Isabel tried to train again despite the mutilation, but she could never regain her old skill.

Even the lightest cuts made her blade tremble. Her speed, her precision—gone.

Despair consumed her, until she tried to take her own life.

Her father sent her to the convent to save her soul.

When will this pain end…?

Three years had passed. The other nuns’ kindness had helped her recover her health, but not her peace.

Each night she dreamt of losing her fingers again. The missing places throbbed as if still alive.

“Lord, deliver me from this torment…”

Murmuring her habitual prayer, Isabel guided her horse onward.

When she neared the convent, she stopped.

“…What’s that?”

Armed soldiers stood before the gate.

A banner bearing a black eagle—the emblem of the Aleban royal house.

Seeing Isabel approach, a few soldiers subtly lowered their spears—ready to strike if she turned to flee.

She kept her pace steady.

Slowly…

As she drew nearer, the situation became clear.

The nuns were gathered outside, trembling in fear.

And Martin, the knight from last night, was kneeling on the ground, bound in chains.

So he was a deserter.

As she thought that, Martin began screaming wildly.

“You! You took my horse! You knew they’d come, didn’t you?! That’s why—why you did it!!”

Before he could continue, a soldier kicked him hard, and silence returned.

Then one man turned around.

Black hair and cloak rippled in the icy wind—his cold presence as stark as his pale surroundings.

Eyes the color of frozen steel fixed on Isabel, and a voice sharp as a blade cut the air.

“Is it true?”
“…Pardon?”
“The horse you’re riding—did you borrow it from that man?”
“Yes.”

Isabel briefly explained what had happened. The man listened quietly, then gestured with one hand.

“Dismount. That horse belongs to the Empire.”
“Understood.”

She obeyed at once.

The man watched her for a moment longer, then turned and drew his sword.

“I will carry out the sentence myself.”
“Please, mercy!”

Martin cried desperately, but the man did not stop.

The doomed knight screamed one last time:

“Prince Lionel! Please!!”

A flash of steel—and the cry was cut short. Martin’s body collapsed into the snow.

Watching in shock, Isabel recalled what he had said.

There was only one Prince Lionel she knew of:

Lionel Ortega, the Second Prince of the Aleban Empire.

The Black Storm, the genius of war.

“Now then…”

The prince murmured, flicking the blood from his blade.

“I believe I also have business… with this convent.”

As his sword sliced through the cold air, red drops scattered across the white snow.