Meanwhile, Saintess Artemisia was in her spire, located at the eastern end of the royal palace.
“Lady Artemisia, you mustn’t eat like that. It’s uncouth,” a maid said with a troubled expression.
“It’s fine,” Artemisia replied, crunching on an apple she held in her right hand. “It tastes better with the skin on.”
“Oh, good heavens...”
“Really, it’s all right. I can cook too. I’ll make something for you and the others sometime.”
“The saintess doesn’t need to trouble herself with such things.”
“I-I see.” Artemisia lowered her head for a moment, then raised it again. “I’m sorry for causing trouble. I won’t run away anymore, so don’t worry.”
“It truly was a great deal of trouble. His Highness was beside himself as well.”
“Indeed? Well, then, I’ll be heading to the altar now.”
“We shall accompany you, my lady.”
Surrounded by maids, Artemisia made her way to her place of prayer, feeling like a prisoner being escorted. Upon stepping into the altar room and closing the door, she finally had peace and quiet again.
Pressing her back against the heavy, cold door, Artemisia heaved a deep sigh.
Upon her return to the spire, her older brother, the prince, had stopped by for a visit. With his usual unreadable expression, showing no concern or anger, he’d said one thing: “Do your duty as the saintess.”
“I will,” she’d replied.
Saintesses had existed since the founding of the kingdom and were said to possess the power of divine blessing, as well as the ability to sense future events. They’d contributed extensively to the kingdom through those skills. The kingdom had conducted countless studies in an attempt to reproduce the saintesses’ blessings, which could heal wounds instantly, but in the end, no one but the saintesses themselves had ever been able to wield that power. As a byproduct of these attempts, however, Herzeth’s research into healing magic had made great strides, resulting in many talented healers.
Each time a saintess passed, her power would be inherited by a girl born into the royal family. That girl would then spend her life in the spire, praying three times a day—morning, noon, and evening—for the kingdom’s prosperity.
“This truly is a prison...”
Artemisia slowly walked further into the altar room. Visible through a large window at the back was a shrine atop a hill—the Sacred Garden, which was said to be where the nation’s very first ruler had received divine revelation. One of her duties as saintess was to offer prayers toward the Sacred Garden and bestow divine protection upon the entire kingdom.
“What of the ominous star?” she recalled her brother asking.
“Still there,” she’d replied. “Growing larger each day.”
Artemisia lifted her gaze and swallowed. The ominous star hanging in the night sky, heralding most severe rot, was slowly swelling as though oozing with blood. Informing the royal family of such foreseen calamities was another of her duties.
The unprecedented scale of this particular prophecy seemed to have put the entire nation on edge.
“Carry on with your prayers,” her brother had commanded. “Report any unusual signs you sense.”
“Yes, brother.”
So she had told the second prince, but in truth, there was something else she hadn’t informed him of.
“I don’t have much time left...” she murmured, placing her palm on the thick glass window and closing her eyes.
Artemisia had been feeling an increasingly intense sense of impending death, growing in tandem with the ominous star—but she had stayed quiet about this.
Perhaps she didn’t want to add to the already tense atmosphere caused by the prophecy. Perhaps she was angry that, in the end, what people valued was the saintess, not who she was herself. Or perhaps it was a sense of resignation at the knowledge that, when she died, her power would simply be passed on to the next saintess. When it came down to it, even she wasn’t sure why she’d kept silent.
The only person she’d spoken to about this, though she’d later dismissed it as a jest, had been the shadow healer in the slums. But he couldn’t do anything to help her—so why had she felt the urge to tell him?
From the tower, the slums where he lived couldn’t be seen. That entire area was treated as though it didn’t exist, even though she knew full well of the vibrant people living and breathing there.
Artemisia turned toward the wall, as though looking through it, and murmured, “I wonder how Zenos is doing...”
✦ ✦ ✦
At the same time Artemisia tried to glimpse a corner of the slums, two powerful presences stood opposite each other, crackling with energy that seemed to shake the air itself.
“That’s my hypothesis,” the Conductor concluded after having explained the circumstances behind the return of the fell dragon king, Galhamut. “Kindly pass it on to Zenos.”
“Good grief,” Carmilla muttered, rising slightly into the air from the shock. “So the bedtime stories held truth after all.”
“Indeed. Galhamut is likely deeply tied to the very foundation of this country.”
“The saintess’s strange power... I see. ’Tis all connected,” she said with a nod.
The Conductor raised a hand casually. “Well, I’ve said what I came here to say. Time’s ticking. Give my regards to Zenos.”
“Wait! Mephileto!” Carmilla called out as the Conductor turned to leave. “What could possibly drive a demon like you to offer counsel about a crisis in the human realm?”
“Ah, Galhamut was quite the headache back in the day. I’d much prefer never to see him again. And...I would like to observe humans a bit longer. It would be very inconvenient if they all got wiped out.”
“Oh? A curious motive, that. Assuming you speak true, of course.”
The Conductor chuckled. “You wound me. I consider myself perfectly honest.”
With those words, the robed figure vanished, leaving Carmilla staring quietly at the now-empty alleyway.
The wraith lifted her gaze to the darkened heavens. “I never meant to interfere with the affairs of the living...”
As an undead, she was meant to drift eternally through the darkness—that had been her self-inflicted burden. The ruined city had finally offered her a peaceful refuge. Until, that is, an outrageous shadow healer had barged into her dwelling and changed everything. Her beloved stillness had been shattered by endless visitors and incidents, and her peaceful days had turned incredibly eventful.
But at some point, she’d begun to grow excited about the human drama revolving around Zenos and the insane situations he constantly found himself in. She’d found herself looking forward to the start of each day, to spending the mornings with everyone, to the rising sun she’d once despised.
“The Lich Queen has changed, and ’tis your doing entirely,” she muttered, looking back at the clinic.
The shadow healer who had been at the heart of that place was now imprisoned somewhere deep underground. Though he seemed like the kind of man who could handle any crisis on his own, now there wouldn’t be enough time. Lily had collapsed from the stress, and soon enough, the demi-humans would take up arms and clash with the crown. Much blood would be spilled. And if Galhamut indeed revived and regained his former power, why, none of that would even matter. The capital wouldn’t stand a chance.
With a sigh, Carmilla looked up at the night sky and murmured, “’Tis the second time now someone has changed me so wholly, Zenos. You had best do something about this.”