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Chapter 6
Alevan Empire, Otkirchen Castle.
For several days, Isabelle’s mornings had been spent in the audience chamber, conversing with Lionel.
The so-called “sermons” didn’t carry much meaning. Isabelle deliberately brought up a wide range of topics — history, aesthetics, even war — trying to find which ones piqued Lionel’s interest.
Of course, most of Isabelle’s knowledge came from what she had studied as a cultured lady or from personal curiosity, so she wasn’t deeply informed. Still, Lionel wasn’t the type to nitpick.
However, whenever their talks inevitably circled back to theology, Lionel would unleash his sharp, mocking remarks.
“Of course, I believe in God. There are people who call me a heretic now and then — but the Lord always punishes them. Through my hands, no less.”
Even though she thought she was getting used to it, Isabelle still found herself speechless whenever he spoke with that kind of scorn.
The more she talked to him, the more she felt herself wavering. So she gritted her teeth and tried to behave more like a proper nun.
Even though her surroundings had changed, her demeanor always remained upright. Lionel, for his part, didn’t despise that about her.
They never gave up their morning meetings, and the strange equilibrium between them continued.
That balance lasted until a little over a week later.
“His Highness departed on a campaign yesterday.”
“Ah…”
The empire was at war, and as a prince and commander, Lionel was not a man of leisure.
Suddenly given some freedom, Isabelle found she had nothing she particularly wanted to do. She stayed still, meditating and devoting herself to prayer.
Julia, her attendant, couldn’t help admiring her, praising her as a truly devout nun — but those words only weighed on Isabelle. Even in her meditations, Lionel’s image kept invading her thoughts.
He’s noble, but burdened with such torment…
It was not a thought befitting a nun.
Isabelle spent her days forcing herself to cast out such thoughts and correct her heart.
Then, on the evening of the tenth day, Julia came running in haste.
“Sister? Are you awake?”
“…What is it?”
“His Highness has returned. As soon as he arrived, he asked for you. He wishes to speak, if you are able.”
“I’ll go.”
Isabelle answered at once. After all, as the prince’s appointed preacher, living off his provisions, she felt she ought to be of some use.
Julia led her to Lionel’s office. Isabelle followed nervously; she had only ever seen him in the audience chamber before.
When she entered, Lionel had just removed his robe and turned toward her. There was a faint smell of blood clinging to him.
“Your Highness. You’ve returned safely.”
“How odd — you worrying about me.”
His tone was laced with sarcasm, and Isabelle answered a little reproachfully.
“As your preacher, isn’t it natural for me to worry about you?”
“Really? I thought you might be worrying about something else.”
“What do you mean?”
“Aren’t you curious where I’ve been?”
A chill ran through Isabelle’s veins.
Lionel sat down and spoke calmly.
“Don’t worry. I didn’t go to Kalia. It was a domestic affair.”
“…But I smell blood.”
“You have quite the keen nose. Don’t mind it. I didn’t kill that many.”
At times like this, Isabelle never knew how to act as a nun. Almost unconsciously, she clasped her hands and murmured a prayer.
Lionel tilted his head, watching her, then said:
“Speaking of prayer — I heard recently that the 5th Cavalry of Kalia suffered great losses and had to be reorganized.”
“…I see.”
Not understanding why he was telling her this, Isabelle simply replied. Lionel continued, unconcerned.
“Apparently, the newly appointed commander of that cavalry has been accused of something, and an inquiry was held. The story caught my attention.”
His eyes, which had been staring into empty space, turned to her.
“According to the accusation, years ago, that knight committed an insane act — cutting off both pinky fingers of a certain noble lady.”
“…”
“And what’s more, there are strange rumors about that lady. They say she’s a prodigy — so skilled in swordsmanship that even knights couldn’t best her.”
The memory stabbed Isabelle like a blade. She clutched her chest, gasping, unable to breathe in again.
Lionel didn’t look away from her trembling figure as he said:
“A genius like that, brought to ruin — what a tragedy.”
For the first time, tears welled in Isabelle’s eyes.
Lionel had already guessed there was a story behind her hands. He had prodded her about it before, but this time felt like outright torture.
All Isabelle could do was cry and groan in pain.
With that cruel precision, Lionel bound her soul in agony, then rose from his chair and said:
“If God sees everything, I wonder why He stays silent. If I were God…”
He slowly approached her. Isabelle gazed up at him blankly.
And with the authority of an unchallengeable deity, he declared:
“I would have taken your revenge.”
Meeting his piercing gaze, Isabelle felt her mind go blank — her thoughts, pain, and anger all swept away by him.
“Isabelle. If you desire blood revenge, I will carry it out for you.”
“Revenge…”
“Let me be your god.”
It was a blasphemy of the highest order, yet Isabelle couldn’t even think to rebuke him. She barely managed to stop herself from nodding.
Until now, she had lived by accepting her fate, enduring pain and grief. Maybe it would be easier if she just surrendered — if she worshiped the man before her as a god on earth.
Just as she was about to lose all will to resist, Lionel, the hunter on the verge of capturing his prey, spoke with quiet certainty.
“Besides, I can’t forgive the man who broke my bird’s wings first.”
“Stop it! Just stop it!!”
Isabelle snapped. Her head jerked up as she screamed.
The knight who had said he’d clip her feathers — cutting off her fingers — and the prince who wanted to cage her broken wings — they were both insane.
Flames of hatred flared in her once-empty eyes. She felt no fear, no dread about what might follow. Her mind was filled with one violent, blinding urge — to kill him.
“I’m not a bird! I’m not!!”
“Then what are you?”
“A nun of the Church of Mines—!”
“And you call that your true self? Something forced on you after your fingers were cut off?”
“That’s…”
Unable to refute him, Isabelle’s shoulders slumped. It was like cold water dousing the fire — leaving behind only smoke and ash.
“…Then what am I, really?”
“Who knows. Funny enough, I’m not so different.”
A flicker of self-mockery passed over Lionel’s face — a prince locked in a struggle for the throne.
Isabelle didn’t catch it. She was too lost, turning his question over and over in her mind.
Then Lionel suddenly unfastened the sword at his waist and extended the scabbard toward her — the hilt jutting out so she could easily grasp it.
“Draw it.”
“…Your Highness?”
“If you’re not a bird, prove it. Draw.”
He was openly provoking her now.
Normally, Isabelle would never have touched it. But she was too shaken, too broken.
She reached out with her right hand — the one with only four fingers — and wrapped it around the hilt. Slowly, she drew the blade.
Lionel watched her in silence. Isabelle, clutching the sword, asked faintly:
“What now? Should I take my own life?”
“I already know you don’t fear death. What would be the point of that?”
“Then what…?”
“Do what you fear most.”
Three years ago, Isabelle had feared nothing when she held a sword. But now, just standing with one made her tremble.
To face the remnants of her ruined talent — it was unbearable.
Tears filled her eyes as she looked up at Lionel, but his gaze remained cool, unaffected by pity.
Shaking, unable even to throw the weapon aside, Isabelle staggered toward a chair nearby.
The backrest was made of fairly thin wood — once, she could have split it cleanly with a single stroke.
But now, it looked impossibly solid.
“Ah…”
Even as she approached, muscle memory measured the distance, calculating the most perfect trajectory.
But the sensation in her hand was terribly unstable.
No…
Losing her pinky hadn’t hindered her daily life too badly, but when she held a sword, it was different — a suffocating helplessness dragged her down like a swamp.
Memories of her failed rehabilitation three years ago surged up — those hellish days of nothing but despair.
Determined that this would be her last attempt, Isabelle clenched her teeth.
“Hh—”
Even in the brief instant she lifted the blade, she could feel it — the imbalance.
Without the pinky finger to support the weight at the end of the blade, her ring finger tried to compensate, but it wasn’t enough.
Fighting the urge to close her eyes, Isabelle swung.
Her body moved perfectly in accordance with her will — shoulder, arm, wrist — executing a textbook moulinet to generate speed. Normally, the pinky would pull the hilt at the end of the motion, adding the final surge of power and precision.
But that last leverage point was missing. The blade veered clumsily and struck the chair’s backrest.
Thud—
The result she had dreaded became reality.
Isabelle laughed through her tears.
“Heh… hehehe…”
Once again, she understood — there were no miracles for her.
She released the sword.
