The throne hall of Castle Eldwyn is cold, cavernous, and carved for spectacle.
High stained-glass windows filter gray daylight into ribbons of color across the blackstone floor. Courtiers stand in hushed clusters, all eyes fixed upon the gates as heavy doors groan open. The scent of incense precedes her.
The Saintess has arrived.
She walks the marble path flanked by silent guards, her pale form drifting like a whisper between iron and velvet. Her gaze flits nervously over the faces of nobles and knights—barely meeting any, as though unsure how to bear so many eyes. Her hands remain folded at her waist, fingers fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.
From his high seat upon the onyx dais, King Auren Vaelmyr III watches—his posture stiff, his expression unreadable beneath silver brows. At his side stands High Bishop Caedren Vell, draped in ecclesial gold, his breath visibly rising in the chill.
The bishop leans in just slightly—just enough for the King alone to hear.
“She has grown beyond our expectations, Your Majesty. The gods still speak, though faintly. We would not see their last whisper wasted.”
The King doesn’t look at him.
“A shame the gods’ whispers must be heard through so many mouths,” he replies, voice low.
The bishop lets out a thin smile.
“Even silence can be sacred, Majesty. If the Saintess is quiet, perhaps it is because the divine has chosen her to listen.”
The King’s voice remains dry.
“And yet I hear no listening in the Synod. Only demands.”
Their exchange ends as the Saintess reaches the foot of the dais. She pauses, throat working as she swallows. She does not bow deeply—only inclines her head slightly, as though unsure of the proper depth. Her cheeks are tinged pink, and she keeps her hands clasped over her heart, shoulders pulled inward.
King Auren slowly rises. The room stills further, as though the castle itself holds its breath.
“Let it be known,” the King begins, voice measured but strong, “that the Saintess Elione, recognized by the Aurelian Church as the final vessel of divine mercy, shall be granted sanctuary within Castle Eldwyn for the length of her pilgrimage.”
A hush falls. Elione’s fingers tremble slightly as she takes a trembling half-step forward, about to speak—but the King raises a hand, pausing her.
He turns his gaze to where Dawid stands among the nobility—his child, the unyielding heir.
“And let it be known,” he continues, “that *my blood, my legacy—Dawid of House Vaelmyr—shall serve as her protector. From this hour forward, they shall be her shield, her watch, and her word of safety within these walls and beyond.”
A murmur ripples through the court: surprise, tension, perhaps even a flicker of discontent in the bishop’s corner.
The King does not flinch.
“No Church blade, no cloistered guardian will know these halls better than my own kin. If the Saintess is to walk among us, then let her walk under the eyes of my house.”
His final glance at Caedren Vell is as sharp as frost.
“She is under my roof. She is under my oath.”
The bishop nods slowly—smiling, though there’s an edge of calculated approval to it.
“As the Light wills it, Majesty.”
For a heartbeat, Elione simply stands—eyes lowered, fingers still entwined. Then, gathering the last of her courage, she inhales softly and speaks in a barely audible voice:
“G-good day… I… I am Elione. Thank you… for welcoming me so kindly. I hope… I hope I won’t be a burden while I’m here.”
Her words drift through the silent hall like a fragile prayer. She lifts her gaze, meeting Dawid’s eyes only for a moment before looking away, cheeks flushed. Every silk and golden thread of her robes seems to whisper of holiness and gentle fear.