“O heavenly guardian, I beseech thee—purify this fabric before me!”
Careful to specify exactly which towels I wanted cleansed, I sent my prayer up into the heavens. Soon enough, it was answered, and a soft glow like moonlight enveloped the mound of cloth before me. The audience erupted into a hushed murmur, the odd comment to the effect of “that isn’t purification magic!” reaching my ear. But I ignored the whispers, focusing solely on the divine intervention at work. As the light receded, it unveiled towels which were not merely spotless but impeccably white and fluffy as well.
Each towel was without a doubt immaculately clean, so I gathered them all and placed them into my basket. Almost immediately, a nun hurried onto the stage with another stack of towels. I gave her a grateful smile as she turned to leave—and promptly cleansed the new pile right away. She had hardly made it back to her spot before she noticed my work, and she rushed back at once with another set of towels.
I would love to avail myself of more towels on my own rather than putting her to such inconvenience, but unfortunately, I’m bound to this spot, I thought wryly. As she dashed away again, I called out, “Thank you!” hoping my sincere appreciation would compensate for the task I imposed upon her. Yet the relentless pace of the competition demanded my focus, and I continued my work, undeterred by my concern for my towel-laden ally or the murmurs of the captivated audience.
As I cleansed one set of towels after another, I glanced at my competitors. Perhaps feeling pressured by me, most had abandoned their cautious approach of one towel at a time and were instead frantically trying to cleanse five or six simultaneously. The effort showed—they were all breathing heavily, big drops of sweat beading off their brows.
Suddenly, I remembered Flora’s presence, and I turned around to check on her. Like the others, she was breathing rapidly, each breath shallower than the last. Her face, already pale at the morning’s start, now appeared ghostly, a clear sign of her exhaustion.
Then, with a suddenness that caught everyone off guard, Flora cast the towel she was working on to the ground and clutched her chest. A cry of pain escaped her lips; her head bowed as if too heavy to hold up.
I found myself transfixed with horrified curiosity: would my ever-scrupulous sister really allow herself to show such weakness before this august assembly?
Just how much pain is Flora experiencing for her to allow herself to falter like that?
Something was clearly very wrong. Mana exhaustion was a real and dangerous phenomenon, and many of the candidates seemed to be displaying its symptoms to varying levels, but Flora’s condition seemed far more severe than anyone else’s. Recalling her appearance this morning and seeing her now, I found myself consumed by worry. Despite myself, despite our history, I couldn’t just watch her suffer and do nothing.
I reached out reflexively towards her. “Flora? Are you—”
Her response was a glare as sharp as shattered glass. Her striking padparadscha sapphire eyes conveyed a clear message: Do not speak to me.
I bit my lip, conceding silently. Fine. Perhaps she found my concern irksome. I was still worried, but I recognized that there was no helping someone who had no desire to be helped. I supposed that she knew herself best. It was her own responsibility to stop herself before she went past her limits. Besides, I had my own battle to focus on—a competition to win.
Returning my attention to my task, I threw myself into cleansing more towels to distract myself from my concerns. Five minutes later came an unexpected announcement: the organizers had run out of towels well before the allotted time.
This mishap, I sheepishly admitted to myself, was likely one that was entirely of my making. I had filled my basket to overflowing almost at once, and I’d since resorted to forming heaps of terry cloth around me instead. The sight was almost comical—three luxuriant, fluffy mounds, piled so high that they now blocked my view of the audience. I... I suppose I just wanted to be considerate and keep the stage tidy for everyone, but it didn’t quite work out the way I thought it would...
The host hastened over to me, his expression a mix of embarrassment and urgency. “Your Highness, I must beg your forgiveness for this most unexpected mishap. It appears we’ve depleted our stock of towels—both our reserves and the additional supply we scrambled to gather in a pinch. Might I suggest you take this moment to rest?” His gaze then swept across the other competitors. “I urge everyone to do the same. Once you’ve finished the towels in front of you, please relax. Again, I sincerely apologize for this oversight,” he repeated, bowing his head. His remorseful gesture was echoed by the attending nuns.
I... I didn’t overdo it, did I? I thought, a cold sweat breaking out across my back. I didn’t mean to embarrass the church...
I allowed my anxieties to consume me for a few more agonizing moments before a chiming of church bells announced that the allotted time was up. “Cease your spellcasting, candidates!” the host announced. His voice squeaked a little too high, betraying his ongoing disbelief about the towel situation.
At his command, all activity on the stage ceased. Some competitors made a show of dropping their towels and stepping back, leaving no question that they had stopped at the very moment the clock had run down. The nuns proceeded onto the stage, each retrieving a basket filled with towels—except for mine, which required two people to carry, as well as someone to gather up the extra piles of towels around me.
“Ladies and gentlemen, distinguished candidates,” the host continued, “we shall now enter a brief interlude to tally up the totals.”
A collective sigh of relief swept through the candidates, our postures relaxing as clergy members handed out refreshments. We all took a moment to unwind and refocus. Twenty minutes later, a remarkably well-built man stepped onto the stage and handed a slip of parchment to the host, his hulking presence effectively dispelling the temporary calm among the candidates.
The host took hold of the results and dismissed the courier. “Ladies and gentlemen, may I have your attention, please? Stand by for the results of the first trial.”
The murmurs in the audience died down, replaced by the rustle of attendees repositioning themselves in their seats. On the stage, we candidates straightened up, our postures reflecting the mounting tension.
Even I, feeling the tense atmosphere, felt a flicker of doubt creep into my thoughts. Objectively, I had worked through the most towels; the piles upon piles in front of me had been proof of that. But had each towel been cleansed thoroughly enough to meet the standards? In my haste, I hadn’t inspected each one. Perhaps I should have done so?
Just as my anxiety began to crest, the host scanned the slip of paper. “The results shall be announced in ascending order, from the candidate with the least points to the one with the most points. Starting in twenty-third place...”
He proceeded down the list, calling out each candidate’s name and the number of towels they had cleansed. With each announcement, waves of reaction rippled through the crowd—some murmurs were approving, others not so much, mirroring the mixed emotions of the candidates onstage.
Then, as the host neared the top five, he paused dramatically. My name had not yet been called, nor had Flora’s. All I could do was hope my luck would last until the very end. I wasn’t just aiming to win; I needed to dominate the competition decisively—not only to get my revenge on Flora but also to showcase the power of my Divinity.