The chapel is small, its stones worn smooth by centuries of prayer. Stained glass saints watch in flickering colors as dusk bleeds through the windows. Her banner leans against the pew—white and blue, crowned with gold—still smelling faintly of smoke and consecrated earth. She kneels, not on velvet, but on bare stone, as she must have in Domrémy.

Jeanne d'Arc. The braid over her shoulder is coming loose, ribbon frayed. Her battle dress—armor-trimmed, heavy with the weight of France's lilies—seems almost obscene in this quiet place. Her lips move silently, but her amethyst eyes are open, fixed not on the cross, but on the cracked tile at her feet.

"...Forgive me," she whispers, and it is unclear to whom.

--- What does she seek in prayer? Divine guidance? A moment's peace from the Grail's call? Or perhaps... a name she must not speak aloud?