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Chapter 39
“Right this way, please.”
The attendant guiding her politely extended his arm to indicate the direction.
Riante gave a silent nod and followed behind him. As she stepped through the doors, a hall of purplish marble and a soaring ceiling greeted her.
The hem of her floor-length robes brushed against the marble floor, the sound echoing faintly through the high ceiling.
Riante traced the palace murals lining the walls of the lobby with a detached gaze, all the while recalling past memories.
It had already been nearly a week since the Church had mobilized all its resources to locate the sculptor.
Yet they had not even found a trace of him, let alone his face.
Whether he had disappeared after learning that the temple was searching for him, or whether he truly was simply an erratic man as the gallery owner had claimed, remained unknown.
When she first heard the circumstances, she had assumed the most likely lead was the gallery owner who had brought the statue to auction.
But according to the priest dispatched to investigate, no divine power had been detected from that man whatsoever.
Riante still could not forget the shock she had felt when she first saw the statue at the auction house. Even now, recalling it made the tips of her fingers and toes tingle.
To be honest, until just before going to the auction house, she had only thought of it as an annoying rumor that required her personal attention.
But the moment she saw the statue, those thoughts vanished without a trace—like cigarette smoke dispersing into the air.
It felt as though a massive stone had struck her head.
She even slapped her own cheek, wondering if she were dreaming, but the statue—overflowing with divine power like an endless spring—remained unchanged.
To feel such overwhelming divine energy, to the point it could be described as spilling over, was something she had never experienced in her life as the Pope.
Riante was pulled from her thoughts by the attendant’s respectful voice.
“We have arrived.”
As he said, the massive doors to the audience chamber stood before her.
Knights standing on both sides of the chamber recognized Pope Riante and saluted her.
It had been years since she last stood before this door.
Back then, she never imagined she would return here for something like this…
The attendant opened the door and pushed it wide.
“Her Holiness the Pope has arrived.”
Without hesitation, Riante stepped inside.
Waiting for her there was the Emperor of the Empire—Terban de Ekar.
The Emperor, who had risen to greet the Pope with proper etiquette, dismissed those around him. What was to be discussed was not something meant for many ears.
In the end, only one servant, two imperial knights, and two holy knights remained in the room.
When a pale, straight hand set down the teacup it had been holding, a soft clink echoed.
A servant standing slightly behind the sofa immediately refilled the empty cup. Reddish tea slowly rose within it.
Riante lifted her gaze toward the man seated before her.
The Emperor looked far from pleased by her visit, his furrowed brows showing no intention of relaxing.
It was Riante who broke the heavy silence that had stretched like an eternity.
“You haven’t changed at all, Your Majesty.”
“And neither have you, Your Holiness.”
Formal words were exchanged, yet neither of them looked away. Their gazes were so sharp it seemed either would seize any opening.
“So, the reason I have come so suddenly to the palace today is…”
“…?”
When Riante trailed off, the Emperor raised a brow ever so slightly.
It was such a subtle reaction, but Riante did not miss it.
“I assume you already have an idea.”
Given the Empire’s intelligence network, it was nearly impossible that he had not heard the rumors about the sculptor.
Yet at her words, the Emperor erased his expression entirely and tilted his head.
“I’m afraid I have no idea what Your Holiness is referring to.”
His feigned ignorance made Riante nearly scoff, but she barely restrained herself. This was not her domain—it was the Imperial Palace.
No matter how eccentric and impulsive she was known to be, she had no intention of acting so freely here.
“You haven’t heard the rumors about the sculptor, El?”
“…I have heard something. But isn’t that merely a rumor?”
How slippery.
The Emperor’s continued pretense irritated her, but she showed no sign of it. Instead, she smiled faintly.
“That’s what I thought at first as well.”
The Emperor, who had been about to sip his tea, paused.
“Allow me to be direct, Your Majesty.”
“Please do.”
“I would like to request the Empire’s full support in identifying the sculptor El.”
“Support… you say?”
The Emperor’s tone rose slightly at the end.
The relationship between the Empire and the Church had never been perfect. Still, both sides needed each other.
The divide between them had begun to deepen after Riante became Pope.
Unlike her predecessor, she had taken a far more extreme path.
Though he pretended ignorance, the Emperor himself had been paying close attention to the matter of the sculptor.
And the fact that the Pope—who rarely ever left the Holy City—had personally come to request full support made her intentions unmistakably clear.
The rumors about sculptor El were real.
And the careful wording—“support” rather than “cooperation”—carried her true intent.
She did not intend for El to fall into the Empire’s hands.
That cunning woman.
“I understand your concerns, Your Holiness.”
“Do you now?”
“Of course. The Empire will provide full support to the Church. However, if we do find him…”
Riante’s expression darkened slightly.
The Emperor straightened his posture and continued.
“The sculptor El will be under our protection.”
“Hah!”
Riante finally let out a laugh she could not hold back. The people in the room stiffened instantly.
Still laughing lightly, she addressed him with amusement in her tone.
“That’s quite a ridiculous statement, Your Majesty.”
A cold smile formed on Pope Riante’s face.
“To be blessed by the divine means to be chosen by the gods. That means he cannot be handed over to the Empire.”
“What…?”
The Emperor frowned deeply at her.
But Riante’s gaze did not waver in the slightest.
“That sculptor… belongs to me.”
A chill scent drifted through the wind, marking a clear autumn day.
Isel sat on the second-floor terrace, a violet shawl draped over her indoor clothes as she stared outside.
The weather was clear and the air pleasant, yet she could only sigh repeatedly instead of smiling.
Her mind was full of worries about what lay ahead, and she could not even focus on her sculpting knife.
Today was the day of the duel between Cesar Lesian and Duke Kanos.
News of Cesar Lesian’s challenge had spread across the capital in less than two days.
Some believed it was not merely about marriage, but a power struggle between the House of Lesian and the House of Duke Kanos.
Rumor even had it that people were placing bets on the outcome.
Cesar Lesian had little talent in swordsmanship, so it was obvious he would send a proxy instead.
Most believed that no matter who the proxy was, Duke Kanos would win—but Isel could not stop worrying.
The Duke had even agreed to Lesian’s conditions for time and place, and the duel would take place at the Lesian estate’s training grounds.
A large crowd was expected.
Yet Isel herself was not allowed to attend—at Lahan’s request.
He had gently taken her hands and asked her not to go.
Seeing his expression had made it impossible for her to insist.
But now, sitting here, she regretted not being more stubborn. Waiting helplessly for the outcome was far more painful than she had imagined.
“…Sigh.”
Isel let out yet another sigh.
From the doorway, Harris—who had been watching her—called out.
“Miss.”
“Hmm?”
“Are you very worried?”
Isel blinked and slowly nodded.
Harris hesitated before speaking again.
“You don’t need to worry so much about the outcome of the duel.”
Isel blinked.
She wasn’t worried that Duke Kanos would lose.
Even if Cesar Lesian won, it wouldn’t necessarily force her into marriage.
What she was truly worried about was…
She looked down at her hands.
The warmth she had once held so carefully, as if it were something precious, resurfaced in her memory. Her cheeks flushed instantly.
She clutched her dress tightly, but her racing heart would not calm down.
The soft eyes, the gentle curve of his lips—they kept swirling in her mind.
“Miss? Are you alright? Is it still your cold—”
Before clueless Alec could finish, Isel shook her head firmly.
“I’m not sick.”
“Eh?”
Ignoring Alec’s confusion, she lowered her gaze again.
She knew it clearly now.
This wasn’t a cold.
It was something she had never felt before in her life.
This tight, aching feeling in her chest… this tingling in her fingertips and nose—she didn’t understand it at all.
Alec, suddenly remembering something, spoke again.
“By the way, I heard the Lesian heir is sending Count Richett as his proxy. Did you hear that, Harris?”
Harris nodded.
Count Richett was Cesar Lesian’s uncle and one of the finest swordsmen in the Empire.
But Isel had never heard the name before, so she asked.
“Count Richett?”
“Oh, of course you wouldn’t know, Miss. In his youth, he was said to have fought dozens of soldiers at once. He also wields the family heirloom holy sword ‘Cercia.’”
Alec, clearly excited, continued enthusiastically.
“I once spoke to someone who crossed blades with him. They said his strength was monstrous, but what was truly terrifying was how precisely he exploited his opponent’s weaknesses.”
As Alec continued, Isel’s face gradually turned pale.
Harris tried to stop him, but Alec kept going.
“I heard the scar he left is still on his back—an enormous gash from shoulder to ribs.”
A duel opponent like that…?
Isel couldn’t even blink.
Her anxiety, once faintly simmering, quickly swelled and overwhelmed her.
Just as Harris was about to shut Alec’s mouth, Alec added casually,
“Well, of course, even Count Richett wouldn’t be a match for that demon—no, I mean Duke Kanos.”
But Isel didn’t hear the rest.
All she could imagine was a massive, brutal man swinging his sword at Lahan.
No!
She shot up from her chair, startling everyone. Her shawl fell to the floor, but she didn’t even notice.
“A-Agatha?”
“Miss, what’s wrong?”
“I have to go.”
“Huh? Where? The bathroom—?”
Isel shouted in panic at Alec.
“To the Duke!!”
