At the highest point of the royal capital stood the pristine, white-walled palace. In one of its rooms was a man with wavy blond hair and a face as expressionless as a mask.
“Prince Figaro,” said a servant, kneeling before the man and presenting him a sheet of paper. “Another prisoner has been sent down the well.”
Those who defied the regime were dropped down the well as punishment. What this meant was, essentially, banishment from the royal capital via teleportation to the undead-infested mine located in the southern edge of the kingdom, far underground. None had ever returned from there, and those who knew of it feared it deeply.
Figaro lightly skimmed over the document. “A poor elven woman?”
The accusation against her had come from House Baycladd.
“And the allegations were made by the head of the seven great noble houses? What did she do?”
“She appears to have attempted to assassinate the third son of House Baycladd,” the servant explained. “Elves may seem docile, but they’re a very untrustworthy race.”
“Very well. Handle it as you see fit.”
“Yes, Your Highness.”
The servant stepped back, and Figaro moved to the window. Since those dropped down the well were all antiestablishment figures with the potential to incite rebellion, reports on such prisoners were submitted to the royal family. But honestly, the prince couldn’t care less; as long as his sister, the Saintess Artemisia, was in his hands, the prosperity of the royal family was secure.
He stared blankly out the window at the towering Saintess’s Spire.
Every saintess throughout history had spent her life in that place, receiving prophetic warnings and offering prayers for the kingdom’s prosperity. Such had been mandated by divine revelation, as received by Herzeth’s first king in the Sacred Garden. Ever since his wife had been recognized as the first saintess, the kingdom had repelled all invaders and flourished—thanks, the royal family believed, to the saintess’s blessings.
Were those same blessings ever to be granted to individuals rather than the nation, they could produce miraculous healing effects. No scholar had ever been able to replicate the saintesses’ mysterious powers, which had only elevated their divinity further.
“Know your place and your role,” Figaro said flatly while gazing up at the spire.
Bathed in the dull glow of the sunlight, the tower looked like a massive tombstone.