That evening, in a detached wing of the royal palace—the heart of the kingdom’s political power—the seven great nobles of the realm assembled.
“What?! This is a grave matter! Unacceptable, Lady Minerva!” shouted a man with a face resembling that of a cunning bird.
The salt-and-pepper-haired gentleman seated beside him tried to intervene. “Lord Giesz, we should remain calm and hear the details first.”
“How can you stay calm at a time like this, Lord Fennel?!” Lord Giesz demanded. “It is House Minerva’s sworn duty to see to the safety of the spire and the saintess!”
“You’re right, but we cannot take action without fully understanding what is happening.”
Lord Giesz snorted wordlessly in frustration.
In front of the two, Lady Minerva bit her red lower lip and explained the situation: After her usual cleansing in preparation for prayer, Saintess Artemisia had come up with an excuse to force her attending maid into the bath. Then it was likely she’d stolen and put on the maid’s clothes, tied up her hair, pulled the maid’s cap low over her face, and left the spire in disguise.
“We found this under her pillow,” Lady Minerva said weakly as she unfolded a small piece of paper.
Written on it, in rounded cursive, was the following:
Do not look for me. I did this of my own accord, and neither my maids nor House Minerva bear any responsibility for my disappearance. I beg of you, do not punish them.
Silently, the seven great nobles exchanged glances.
The spire was surrounded by a powerful barrier, painstakingly crafted over several years by the kingdom’s foremost mages. It could only be bypassed through the use of a protective charm that the saintess’s attendants wore.
“We must admit we’ve all been negligent,” said the handsome Albert Baycladd, heir to the leading house among the seven greats. He sighed and crossed his long legs.
The barrier had been designed to keep enemies out, not trap people in. The possibility of the saintess herself escaping through it had never been considered. Moreover, the barrier’s existence had led to external security around the tower being quite lax. And since very few people even knew what the saintess looked like, now that she’d made her way out, the odds of her being recognized were slim to none.
It was the first time in history that a saintess had shirked her duties and run away.
Lord Giesz opened his mouth to say something, thought better of it, then cleared his throat sharply and glared at the veiled noblewoman instead. “Either way, Lady Minerva, you bear most of the responsibility for this matter.”
“I do, yes,” Lady Minerva admitted.
“And we remain unsure of what the ‘most severe rot’ mentioned in the saintess’s prophecy refers to,” Lord Giesz continued, raising his voice. “Now, how will you answer for this?!”
Another voice—flat, mechanical, and devoid of warmth—cut through the room.
“The saintess’s disappearance is the most severe rot. Our kingdom’s protection and prosperity hinges on her very existence.”
The nobles all turned toward the chamber’s door, where a man with skin white as the finest porcelain stood. His appearance was so flawless that he could’ve been mistaken for a sculpture—not only were his features handsome, but they had an ethereal quality, lacking any trace of living warmth. His hair fell over his left eye in golden waves, and his exposed right eye appeared unfocused. One couldn’t tell whether he was looking just ahead or far into the distance.
“Prince Figaro!”
All seven of the great nobles—each of whom held enough power to rule different aspects of the nation—dropped to one knee immediately at the sight of the kingdom’s second prince.
The man, Figaro, walked into the room with unhurried steps. “So Artemisia has vanished from the spire.”
Lady Minerva, her head bowed deeply, responded, “Yes, Your Highness. My deepest apologies. During her cleansing bath before her daily prayer, she—”
“Silence,” the prince cut in.
“I beg your pardon?” the noblewoman said, instinctively lifting her head.
“House Minerva is hereby stripped of its noble status,” Figaro said in a dull monotone. “The head of the family shall be sent down the well. Now, it would be presumptuous for one who no longer bears any noble status to speak to me. I will hear the details from the six great nobles.”
Still on her knees, Lady Minerva bit her now-pale lips hard and trembled. “Your Highness, please, I beg you! Anything but the well—”
“Take her,” Figaro commanded, snapping his fingers without so much as a glance at her.
Immediately, sturdy guards came into the room to lead away the woman who mere moments ago had been one of the seven great nobles.
The punishment might’ve seemed inexplicably abrupt, and perhaps even unjust. But when the one doling it out stood at the pinnacle of the hierarchy, there was little anyone could do. Such was the way of the Kingdom of Herzeth—a nation built from its inception upon a strictly enforced class system.
“Please wait a moment, Prince Figaro,” the young Albert Baycladd said brazenly.
The prince’s left eye narrowed slightly. “Albert. Are you dissatisfied with my decision?”
“Of course not, Your Highness,” Albert replied. “But I am thinking of Lady Artemisia’s feelings.”
“What does Artemisia have to do with this?”
“Lady Minerva, please show His Highness the letter.”
All eyes turned to the veiled Lady Minerva, who had been about to be dragged out of the room. Figaro gave a small nod, and the guards released her.
Lady Minerva coughed a few times, then took a slip of paper from her bag and gave it to a guard, who then dropped to one knee and handed it to the prince.
“So Artemisia says neither the maids nor House Minerva bear any responsibility for her disappearance, and begs for them to be spared. I see.” Figaro put the saintess’s note into his pocket and dismissed the guards with a light wave of his hand. “Very well. Minerva, as a favor to my beloved sister, your punishment is hereby put on hold. Once we have safely retrieved Artemisia, I’ll reconsider.”
“Th-Thank you for your mercy, Your Highness!” Lady Minerva stammered, dropping to her hands and knees and bowing her head to the floor.
It hadn’t been brotherly love for his little sister that had made Figaro reverse his decision, but the understanding that the saintess herself had cautioned against mercilessness. After all, it was the saintess’s sworn duty to serve the nation’s best interests until her dying breath.
Figaro’s emotionless gaze slowly swept over the seven great nobles.
“The saintess’s disappearance is now classified as a state secret. You are to search every last corner of the land for Artemisia. Should you fail to secure her...”
He paused briefly before continuing.
“None of you will have the chance to regret it.”