The Celestian system of Sainthood had just been abolished. I sat alone in my room, my head cradled in my hands, consumed by a single stomach-churning possibility:
Has Carolina’s Divinity come to light?
I shook my head fiercely, my silver-blonde locks swaying with the movement. “As Archbishop Mills fell, the Faith Council of Saints rose,” I muttered to myself. “And in the position of the Malcosian representative? Carolina. At the very least, the empire must know of her power. No matter how I look at it, the Faith Council must have been established for her benefit.”
A frustrated groan escaped my lips. Despite my best efforts to rationalize this turn of events, to concoct some other justification for these circumstances, I found myself inexorably drawn to the same inescapable conclusion. No one had confirmed my suspicions outright, but all the evidence pointed in one direction.
Foremost among these clues was my father’s reaction! When he’d heard the news of Carolina becoming the empire’s candidate, he hadn’t so much as flinched. In fact, he’d nodded approvingly, as if he’d known this would be the outcome all along. He knew just as well as I did that Carolina was nonmagical, didn’t he? So why hadn’t he even paused to express surprise at the news? There was only one possibility.
Because he knows about her power.
“So he knows, does he?” I whispered under my breath. Speaking the words aloud left me with a surprising sense of acceptance, one which tugged bitterly at my heart. My nails dug into my palms, my teeth ground against each other. He knows. How long has he known? But no, that wasn’t what was important, nor was it relevant to know who it had been who had told him. What mattered was that he now knew that the source of my power had been Carolina all along. All this time, I’d paraded myself about as if I were some unassailable paragon, when in truth, it had been my sister all along. The fact that I’d been ignorant of this knowledge until recently was no excuse. This truth was my greatest embarrassment!
My father would never look at me again in the same way; he’d scathingly scold me for my foolishness—and that was the best-case scenario. Currently, only he and perhaps the people around him knew of my shameful secret, but if that truth were to spread? If the nobility and the rest of the world were to know? I’d be made a laughingstock, the greatest jest they’d ever seen! The image I’d cultivated for decades would crumble in an instant.
Images of people pointing at me, laughing behind my back, flooded my mind’s eye, and I could feel my soul crumbling under the sheer weight of the vision. The shame would be unbearable. I squeezed my eyes shut.
It was an unattainable dream to think that I’d be able to keep the truth concealed forever; that thin hope would shatter the moment that Carolina ascended to Sainthood. Sooner or later, the world would realize the truth of her powers, and in doing so, understand that the cause of all of Celestia’s crises was her absence and not my own ill health. If only she could fail the Saintly Trials somehow...but how could she, blessed as she was with the power to move nations?
Another frustrated grunt escaped me. “What do I do, what do I do?!” My face contorted into a grimace as the previously unassailable parapet of the reputation I had so carefully built began to collapse beneath my feet; the feeling was an assault to my senses.
A knock on the door interrupted my dark despair.
Oh, for— Who is it? This is hardly the time!
“Flora, are you in there? It’s your father. We need to talk.”
Father? His voice jolted me back to reality. Why was he here? What did he need to discuss? I took a deep breath to steady myself, willing my anxious eyes to stop darting around. Plastering on my usual smile, I sat up straight. “Yes, come in,” I called out.
“Excuse me.” The door clicked open, and my father stepped inside. His silver-white ponytail swayed as he entered, faint dark circles shadowing his eyes. He shut the door behind him, and the click of his boots seemed to echo as he moved to sit on a nearby sofa.
Rising briskly, I approached the tea cart. “One moment, I’ll brew us some—”
“That won’t be necessary,” he interrupted. “I have to return to the castle within the hour.”
I paused, then slowly resumed my seat, maintaining my impeccable posture.
“In the interest of time, I’ll be brief. Flora, we would like you to represent Celestia at the Faith Council’s trials.”
A confused whimper escaped me, my eyes widening in shock. I stared into my father’s emerald eyes, searching for any hint of madness. Me, represent Celestia? The notion seemed absurd, almost cruel given my current state. Could he truly be unaware of what he was asking?
Unless he actually knows nothing of Carolina’s power?
No, no, that couldn’t be. His calm acceptance of Carolina’s candidacy was undeniable proof that he’d recognized her power and its role as the true source of Celestia’s prosperity.
Then what? Was this some fatherly jest I couldn’t understand? One glance at his solemn expression dispelled any such notion. No, he was deadly serious.
If he was resolute, then there had to be a reason. My mind raced, sifting through possibilities, analyzing the situation from every conceivable angle. I discarded theory after theory until only one remained.
Does Father know about Carolina’s ability to repel mana-beasts and to ensure the fecundity of crops, but not her power to amplify magic?
It was a frail thread to hang on to, but it was the only one that might allow me to make sense of his request for me to step forward as Celestia’s representative, despite being aware of Carolina’s formidable capabilities. Reflecting further, I realized that I hadn’t demonstrated my own magic publicly since Carolina’s departure. And that the official statement issued by the church regarding my trials had indicated I’d failed by a narrow margin.
I see. So the perception of my powers hasn’t yet waned in the public eye.
While I might have unearthed a plausible explanation, it ushered in a far more daunting dilemma: should I accept this candidacy? Logically, I ought to decline; the reasons to do so were numerous and compelling. Yet if I refused and another took my place, what troubling rumors might circulate about the reasons for my withdrawal?
But those considerations paled in comparison to the deeper truth: I had been chosen by Celestia itself. My father hadn’t explicitly stated it, but the nomination carried the weight of a royal edict, a manifestation of the kingdom’s will. Declining wouldn’t be an option without a full, transparent explanation. And that explanation—the explanation that my power had been borrowed Divinity all along—would be tantamount to a confession of my utter dependence on my sister. And that was a revelation I could never willingly make.
In that case, the decision had been made for me from the outset.
“Of course, Father. I gladly accept,” I declared, my voice resolute.
With my affirmation, I felt myself cross an invisible threshold between pride and recklessness, claiming the Celestian candidacy as my own. My pride was now to chart an irreversible course. No longer could I afford the luxury of regret over not having crushed my ego and confessed the diminution of my power; my focus must shift entirely to what lay ahead.