By the time the tea party was drawing toward its end, the atmosphere had mellowed considerably.
What had begun as a whirlwind of introductions and eager greetings had softened into clusters of quiet conversation. Guests now lingered at their tables, enjoying the last of the pastries and tea.
As planned, Bertia and I joined the empress dowager and the queen for the closing round of tea. Prince Izlarich and Miss June, whose participation I had arranged beforehand through Zeno, were already seated with them. The attendants had handled everything perfectly without the slightest confusion or delay.
The empress dowager’s eyes softened as she looked over the four of them: her son, her grandson, and their respective partners.
“My, my. To think that little Aleis would grow up to take such a lovely bride,” she said, her tone full of nostalgic warmth. “And Izlarich, too. Already engaged to such a charming young lady. It seems our family’s future is secure.”
Her expression was pure, unguarded happiness, the contentment of a matriarch surrounded by the fruits of her family’s peace.
The queen smiled as well.
“Indeed,” she said. “When Prince Aleis, who had always seemed reluctant to settle down, suddenly announced his engagement and immediately began preparing for the wedding, I was quite surprised. But now, seeing how well they suit each other, I can’t help but feel it was fate.”
Perhaps it was the presence of Izlarich and his fiancée that lent such tranquility to her mood. A mother seeing her son not only engaged but happy would soothe even the deepest of maternal anxieties.
Then, with a chuckle that carried the faintest edge, the empress dowager added, “Izlarich is already engaged to a fine young lady. Now the only one left is Ramtak.”
The queen sighed quietly, as though she’d been expecting the comment.
“Truly, that boy is a handful. He has plenty of friends, yet when it comes to a fiancée, he refuses to decide.”
Her exasperation earned a knowing smile from the empress dowager. Despite the gentle jab, there was no malice in her tone, only the easy teasing shared between two women who’d long since accepted each other’s temperaments.
“That child still believes that one day, a perfect woman will appear, someone just like the legendary Saintess,” the queen murmured.
The empress dowager gave a soft snort. “Hah! That boy? I doubt it. Besides, perfect women don’t exist, no more than perfect men do.”
Her shoulders lifted slightly in a slight, wry shrug, and the queen actually nodded, lips twitching as though suppressing a laugh.
Their banter was light and affectionate, but for me, as a man, sitting nearby with my cup of tea, it was an oddly uncomfortable topic.
It seemed I wasn’t the only one feeling awkward. When I glanced toward Crown Prince Aleis, he caught my eye and offered a faint, knowing smile.
Then Bertia, who had been listening to the exchange with rapt attention, suddenly leaned forward. Her eyes shone like a child hearing a bedtime story.
“Um, Your Majesty the Empress Dowager, Your Majesty the Queen, may I ask, who exactly was this legendary Saintess you mentioned?”
At once, the mood shifted slightly. Across the table, the Seahealby nobles and Princess Lysonna all looked perfectly unbothered as they should be, having grown up hearing this tale. Even I, curious about the overlap between Bertia’s “previous life” and the history of this world, had already researched it thoroughly.
In other words, the only person at the table who didn’t know the story was Bertia herself.
Fortunately, far from appearing irritated at her question, both the empress dowager and the queen seemed rather pleased to have someone genuinely interested. The older woman chuckled softly and began the tale.
“It’s quite a common sort of legend, really,” she said. “You’ve seen the Seahealby flag, haven’t you? The one with the two-headed serpent?”
“Of course,” Bertia replied eagerly. “That serpent is the guardian deity of Seahealby, isn’t it?”
“Indeed. The Serpent God is a most revered being, protector of our people, yet also fearsome.”
“Fearsome?”
Bertia tilted her head, clearly puzzled. The notion of a protective god also being terrifying didn’t quite compute for her.
To her, gods were gentle and benevolent. But then, she hadn’t grown up hearing the old stories where divinity and wrath so often walked hand in hand.
“Yes,” said the queen softly, picking up where her mother-in-law left off. “In fact, the legend of the Serpent God begins with divine wrath.”
The tale began, just as the empress dowager had promised.
The first king of Seahealby had once been a mighty pirate who ruled the sea through fear and strength. His fleet was vast, his reputation unmatched, but his domain was drenched in blood. Battles raged daily, the waters blackened by death and hatred. The sea, once clear and alive, grew heavy with that stench.
The Serpent God, guardian of those waters, grew enraged.
Unable to bear the filth that defiled its home, the god called forth a storm. Not the kind of storm that lasted a mere day or two, but one that howled endlessly, swallowing ships, starving the shores, and tearing apart the lives of all who depended on the sea.
When hunger and despair finally consumed them, it was the pirate king’s daughter who stepped forward. Gentle, kind, and strong-hearted, she was beloved by all. She offered herself as a living sacrifice to calm the god’s wrath.
The king, tormented by guilt, could not bring himself to accept it. But before he could stop her, the girl slipped away in secret, setting out alone into the storm.
By the time her father and her betrothed realized what she had done, she was already adrift on the raging sea, her small boat tossed like a leaf in the waves. The king froze in horror. Her fiancé, unable to watch her die, dove into the sea and swam toward her, fighting against the god’s fury with nothing but his will.
In the heart of that storm, the girl prayed, alone in her fragile little boat, her voice trembling as she begged the Serpent God for forgiveness.
Her fiancé fought the waves to reach her, heedless of his own life. The first king shouted himself hoarse from the shore, crying to the heavens for mercy, begging the god to take him instead.
Perhaps their desperation reached it.
Just as the young man managed to grasp the edge of her boat, the winds stilled. The thunder faded. From the depths of the sea rose the colossal form of a two-headed serpent, the Serpent God itself.
The god looked upon them: the king’s genuine remorse, the daughter’s selfless heart, and the man’s unwavering love. And so, its fury subsided.
Yet, as both a test and a covenant, the god demanded an offering of pure maiden’s blood. The girl accepted. The serpent bit her finger gently, drawing but a drop, and drank it with satisfaction.
In return, the Serpent God bestowed its blessings.
To the pirate king, it granted divine protection, so the seas under his rule would never again turn to chaos.
To the fiancé, the strength to guard the woman he loved.
Finally, to the girl herself, a bond: the promise that, should her blood be offered again in times of need, the god would lend its power to defend the seas.
That was how the serpent, once wrathful, became the guardian deity of Seahealby, worshiped by the very descendants of the man it once sought to destroy.
The empress dowager’s voice softened.
“Since then,” she said, “whenever our land faced great peril, a pure maiden known as the Saintess would appear. By offering prayer and a few drops of blood to the Serpent God, she would call forth calm seas and protect this kingdom.”
When she finished, the queen smiled.
“A lovely story, isn’t it?” she said to Bertia.
It was lovely—at least on the surface. But the more I thought about it, the more inconsistencies stood out.
For one, the first king had angered the Serpent God by staining the sea with blood, yet the god had demanded blood in return.
Perhaps the tale had been reshaped over the generations, polished until its rough edges became romantic legend rather than grim truth. Still, surrounded as I was by Seahealby nobles, I had no intention of voicing such musings aloud.
The empress dowager turned her attention to Bertia.
“Did our country’s tale please you, Princess Bertia?”
The queen chuckled softly. “Most of our old stories are rather violent,” she admitted. “After all, our first king was a pirate. But this one is comparatively romantic, wouldn’t you say?”
The empress dowager and the queen both smiled. Serene and dignified, their expressions carried that quiet pride only those born of a founding lineage could have.
Bertia smiled back, her voice bright but a little too quick.
“Ah, yes! It’s such a beautiful tale! A story of pure love. Yes, pure love! It’s like something right out of a novel!”
Her tone was enthusiastic, but her expression stiffened almost immediately. And then she started glancing subtly but repeatedly toward June.
Ah, so she’s remembered something.
That tiny spark in her eyes, that searching look, was the same as when she recognized something from her previous life. And given the timing, I could take a good guess at what triggered it. The keywords practically screamed it: Saintess, or perhaps Serpent God.
Neither boded well.
Here we go again, I thought with a sigh. I couldn’t let it show.
The otome game scenario from before had already proven how dangerous her recollections could be. Roles like Maiden of Destiny or Saintess, things fixed by destiny, were particularly troublesome.
It wasn’t the concept itself that worried me. It was the way Bertia reacted to it.
She’d grown since then. She no longer believed that fate had to follow a script. But somewhere deep down, she still feared that the world might suddenly tilt back toward the story she remembered. That no matter how far she strayed, the plot would drag her back.
I couldn’t exactly blame her. In this world, “impossible coincidences” had a habit of turning out to be something more.