❝
ELSEWHERE, there was silence within the Deloney estate during the time of this narrative. Music was not played. The sound of footsteps was absent. Even the light filtering through the tall stained-glass windows seemed dimmer, as if in mourning.
Cordelia Deloney moved almost slowly through the corridor, the whispery sound of her pale gown brushing against the polished floor. If one looked at her face, so commonly composed and cold as marble, now appeared different—crumpled with concern, taut with unexpressed grief. Charlotte had disappeared three months ago. No matter how much the servants had tried to console her, how Marcus had tried to explain that whatever happened, he would look for her, deep in her soul she felt that something was wrong.
She stood in front of her daughter's room.
The door creaked very softly as she opened it. The smell of lavender and rose still lay faintly in the air, preserved over the years in the stillness. The bed stood untouched, with the sheets pulled neatly over the mattress. The curtains hung halfway with the morning light brushing gentle shadows over the room.
Cordelia stepped into the room.
It was quiet. Silence seemed to have captured breath since the lady's absence. The stillness of the room felt like a pending death-a death of someone who, after all, carelessly walked away.
She sat down on the bedside. The fingers of her hands found their way into her lap and in a moment, came to life, smoothing almost mechanically as her eyes looked slowly around.
Everything remained exactly in place.
The dressing table, the little delicate perfume bottles. The tiny silver jewelry boxes Charlotte paid little attention to. The partially open music box; unplayed and unheard since her disappearance. And the brush.
Cordelia walked toward the table. The mirror showed her reflection—calm, yes, but drained. The sharpness was there in her eyes, but the warmth had long vanished. She reached out for the brush. Light, familiar. She turned it in her hand with a sigh.
And then; she closed her eyes.
Fingers clutched harder at the brush. For a fraction of a moment, she saw Charlotte standing there before her. Kneeling and laughing, smiling, while Cordelia wet her hair before brushing long, deliberate strokes over it. Silky black, just like hers once was. Almost too much to bear.
From the hallway, approaching Lady Eleanor's footsteps broke the silence. She came to a halt at the door, surprised to see Cordelia inside. Seeing the woman's reflection in the mirror and the sorrow-packed features, Eleanor chose not to interrupt. She nodded lightly and walked away.
Cordelia's eyes opened inside.
She looked down at the brush.
And froze.
Trapped within the bristles was a single strand of black hair.
She gasped.
In an instant, she stormed out of the room, heels clicking sharply against the floor, determined and brisk as she made her way down the corridor. The grief in her eyes was now replaced by something else—grit.
Marcus was in his drawing room when Cordelia arrived. The glow of the roaring fire flickered warmly across high walls and stirred shadows that danced lazily against the counters of parchment and beneath the scratch of his pen. He was bent over his table, a chaos of neat ledgers, an avalanche of answer-me correspondence junking his attention. The familiar smell of ink and old paper, melding in the air with a drift of woodsmoke, made so much sense—Marcus working away at his desk while all the while Cordelia was the one to set the rhythm awry. He looked at once when she stepped into the room, narrowing his eyes slightly at the sight of her flushed cheeks and draw in her shoulders.
"Cordelia?" he said, the calm in his voice betraying just the slightest hint of worry. "What is it?"
Without losing a breath, Cordelia strode deeper into the room. Her hands clasped purposefully, betraying a slight tremor. "I need you to come with me," she said, her voice low but firm. "We must go to the Temple of the Divine Lords."
Marcus blinked, eyebrows pulling together in mild confusion. "The temple? Why—?"
She cut him off before he could finish: "To see His Holiness, Supreme Pontiff Weiss Heinrey Knox."
Marcus shifted back in his chair, confusion now in full bloom. "Cordelia, what could he possibly—"
"I think he can find Charlotte," she said now with more firmness, her eyes locking to him.
The mention of their daughter made him hold. His mouth opened, but no words came at first. Slowly, the frown began to carve deeper into the features. "Track her?" he asked cautiously now. "With what?"
Cordelia did not answer at once. Instead, she reached into the folds of her skirt and drew something from between her palms. Out she held her hand, steady now, and on that fair skin of her fingers, Charlotte's brush was lying. There sparkling amongst the bristles was a single dark strand of hair, caught by destiny or memory.
"She took her first sacral oath, didn't she?" Cordelia said softly, almost a whisper reverent and desperate all at once. "When she was a child... the temple marked her presence with that blessing there as with all children by noble lineage. If the Divine Temple does, as they say, contain the essence of the recorded soul of everyone touched by the gods, with this..." She paused to tighten her grip on the brush, "His Holiness can find her," she knew.
Marcus gazed at the strand as though it were a relic from a long-buried shrine. The crackle of fire exploded behind him, flinging embers upward, but neither had moved. The room held its breath along with them. At that point, the strand of hair might well have turned into a lifeline between the divine, to hope, to a daughter who might as well be light-years away. Marcus wouldn't utter another word—he would keep on staring, the silence around them speaking louder than words.
And maybe, though deep down into the underbelly of their childish hearts, they knew it carried more than just a splinter of reference of Charlotte.
The hair might very well have the key to finding her.
Marcus listened to Cordelia's words with thoughtful silence while letting his gaze remain entrapped on the strand of hair that Cordelia held in such delicate hope. Her words struck a chord in him-a quiet chord of guilt and helplessness he had been carrying every day since the disappearance of Charlotte. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh and brushed a hand over his brow as he turned back toward the desk. "You have a point," he murmured, although weariness tinged his voice. "It might take us to her. You may go, then. I'll have Eleanor prepare the carriage for you."
"You're not coming?" Cordelia asked, stunned. He shook his head slowly. "I wish to... But I can't, not now, not just yet. I'm still waiting for news from Duke Albrecht; he is also searching separately for Charlotte." His fingers idled along a sealed envelope resting near the edge of his desk. "He also sent a letter, which I meant to show you sooner." Cordelia blinked, surprised.
Marcus placed the envelope in her hands. Cordelia took it immediately, her fingers quick and precise as she broke the seal and unfolded the parchment. Her eyes moved quickly over the neat, deliberate script. Her face remained unreadable at first, but when she looked up at him again, there was a faint hardness in her gaze. "He proposed a marriage," she said flatly. "To Carmelia."
The duke believed it would strengthen the ties between their houses as he is offering his grandson, Duke Albrecht himself, as a suitor. Cordelia's eyes narrowed slightly. "Does Carmelia know?"
"No," he admitted, "not yet. I thought it best that you were the one to speak with her–when she's free from her studies. You know how... delicate these matters are. I don't think she'd want to hear this from me, especially not after everything that's happened lately." He glanced down at his hands, then back at his wife. "Besides, it's a conversation best had between women."
Cordelia exhaled slowly and nodded haggardly into accepting it. "Very well, my dear," she said softly. "I shall do what I must." There was worry in her gaze, softening it even as she went on, "But I must say, Carmelia has been pushing herself lately.
Now busy with history lessons, embroidery, and harp practice, I'm afraid that if she has to agree to this engagement, the bridal classes will only put more weight on her shoulders." Marcus stood then, rounding his desk with quiet steps. He placed a gentle hand on her shoulder and then drew her into a warm, reassuring embrace.
"She'll be alright," he whispered before kissing her tenderly on the forehead. "She's strong, graceful, and proud. Just like you, my dear. She carries herself like a noble already. The only thing left now... is her blessing. And I believe in time, that too will come."
Cordelia closed her eyes for a moment against the comfort of his words, drawing strength from the quiet conviction in his voice. When he drew away, he looked at her with genuine affection. "I will prepare the carriage for you myself," he added gently.
Just as they were about to step out of the drawing room, they found themselves face-to-face with their only son. Callistopher was striding down the corridor, his steps graceful, calculated. He stopped upon seeing them and offered a respectful nod. "Mother. Father," he greeted smoothly. "Baron Nevrusse is in the guest room. He's waiting for you, Father—something about the lingering barbarians near the western village of Lyoris."
Marcus sighed under his breath. "I'll attend to him in a little while. I have to see your mother's carriage first." Callistopher's gaze shifted to his mother, then back to his father. "Where is Mother going?" "To the Temple of the Divine Lords," Marcus answered. There was a pause before Callistopher turned back toward his father and, all too sweetly concealing the bitter edge of his words, somehow managed to sweeten Callistopher's pouting lips. "May I go with her?"
Marcus raised a brow at the request. "Are you certain? I thought you had matters to attend to yourself." Callistopher remained unperturbed with the smile ever calm. "They can wait. This seems far more important. I can reschedule." Marcus studied him for a brief moment, then gave a quiet nod. "Very well, then. Go and prepare the carriage. Your mother will need company." "As you wish," Callistopher replied, turning gracefully on his heel and heading off to carry out the task, leaving Marcus and Cordelia alone once more in the hall.
Cordelia watched her son go, disappearing around the corner. Her lips pressed into a thin line, uncertain whether to be grateful or wary.
At the time the carriage was finally brought around, the household was beginning to stir in the late morning. The coachman opened the door with a bow, and she stepped first with an expression that could be termed distant yet composed. Callistopher came in right behind, walking with an elegant precision, a smile curling on his lips as though he savored something no one knew how to taste.
On the steps of the estate stood Marcus, his hand raised in farewell. He watched the carriage rolling away with its wheels crunching on the gravel road, carrying his wife and son toward the Temple of the Divine Lords. He remained statue-like long after they had left.
Upstairs by the tall arching windows of the second floor, Carmelia was standing quietly, with a book pressed against her chest. Her brows crinkled slightly while she curiously looked down at the vehicle that had just left, her mind already busy with questions. "Where are they going?" she whispered, her voice almost drowned in the silence of the room. She continued gazing until the carriage disappeared from view.
Inside, the carriage sat still with a somewhat silent, still charged atmosphere. The velvet-lined walls muffled most of the noises drifting in from the open cracks of the quarter-glass windows. Cordelia kept her hands neatly folded over her lap while casting a glance at her son seated opposite her. Callistopher was smiling gently, perfectly poised, with his eyes closed, as though he delighted in a moment of that rare serenity.
But Cordelia could just detect the minuscule curl of his lips. That caress did not feel quite right. It was too perfect, too practiced. She cocked her head, regarding him with guarded curiosity.
"You appear unusually happy today," she stated softly.
Callistopher opened his eyes slowly. The smile, still there but now carrying a different aura. "Is it really so strange that I should feel good about spending time with my mother?" Pretty nice on the external—almost venomous underneath. A sarcasm that would have slipped most people's minds, if not Cordelia's.
Before she could respond, his expression clouded. Light vanished from his face within a flicker, as if another mask had been yanked aside. He no longer looked frivolous; his smile faded, replaced by one that was very sharp and calculating, as if it were splitting the atmosphere between them.
"Good," he said with restrained intensity, "maybe this time was best after all. I have some things I need to discuss with you—regarding Charlotte."
Cordelia stiffened a little.
Callistopher leaned forward, elbows on his knees and hands intertwined. "Why are you and Father so keen on marrying her to Sigmone?" Control laced his voice and underlay the tension. "You and I both know that Carmelia has always been willing to take that position. She is graceful, obedient, smart—and she knows duty."
Cordelia held her silence and stared at him.
"Except," he continued, voice lowered, "that you went with Charlotte. A girl who never wanted to have anything to do with this world in the first place. And now that's not enough for you, you take Carmelia and marry her off to Sigmone. My childhood friend. A man she hardly knows."
He crossed his arms over his chest. "And we both know Sigmone has always preferred Charlotte. They knew each other. They cared for each other. You're forcing something that isn't meant to be."
Again, Cordelia did not interrupt him. Her silence was not a sign of dismissal; it was contemplation.
Finally, finally she said, reason steady but voice soft. "What your father and I are doing is for the good of the nation."
Callistopher muttered disdainfully under his breath but stayed his voice. "That's nonsense," he said flatly. "So, you speak for the nation to justify everything. But of all the women—why Charlotte? Why her?"
Cordelia took a long breath before answering. "Because she is special."
Callistopher raised an eyebrow, dubious.
"She is not like the others," Cordelia continued with growing weight. "Do you remember when she took her first sacred oath at the Temple of the Divine Lords? The Supreme Pontiff—Weiss Heinrey Knox himself—looked upon her and saw something in her future. Not just a divine gift, but a destiny. A salvation."
Callistopher stared at her.
"She was chosen," Cordelia reiterated, "a child blessed beyond what we understand. The Pontiff believes—knows—that if Charlotte marries the Crown Prince, she will prevent the war between Normaine and Albiana. Without her, that peace is doomed. And what, then, shall become of us? Of our family? Of our people?"
But Callistopher only shook his head, his jaw tightening. "You speak about prophecies and blessings as if they are indisputable realities. But I don't believe in that kind of blind faith. Never have."
Cordelia gazed calmly at him. "I'm not asking you to believe me, Callistopher."
He turned his gaze elsewhere, his arms remaining tightly folded.
"I just want to keep you safe," she said, her voice low, "You, your sisters...and everything we have built."
They gave each other a long, sorrowful stare while the carriage moved on through the mounting tension. Outside, little spires of the temple were beginning to look high above in the distance, standing old and proud.
At last, the carriage came to a soft, willing stop right in front of the grand gates of the Temple of the Divine Lords. Between them, a monument unlike any other stood: an ethereal marvel carved out of pale marble and gold-gilded stone, and towering pillars stood like eternal sentinels crowned by intricate carvings of divine beasts and sacred symbols. Between them, statues of long-forgotten saints and goddesses stood poised in graceful reverence, their features serene and gazes cast toward heaven. A central fountain gleamed in the midday sun, waters dancing about the statue of a goddess with outstretched arms—her face carved in such delicate precision that she seemed almost alive.
The very air seemed hushed, as if even the wind would not dare whisper too loudly here. Faint incense hung, myrrh and flowers from the blossoming lilies of the temple gardens lining the path.
Human-like spirits moved gracefully along the stone walkways clad upon flowing white robes down to the earth, filling the entire body except the face. Passed silently through movement, very slow and reverent, personified murmurs.
As for the coachman, he stepped down, went to the door, and there was Cordelia emerging, regal though placated by reverence. Following her was Callistopher, eyes drinking in the place's heavenly beauty, so untouched by the troubles of the world outside that it felt as though time had stopped within the sacred walls.
A Chaplain of the Gate came toward them from the steps of the temple. His robes were of cream and ivory colors, and his expression was composed while his eyes sparkled bright with discipline and quiet wisdom.
"What brings you to the Temple of the Divine Lords?" he asked, with a slight inclination of the head.
Cordelia answered in no less graceful words. "We wish to ask an audience with His Holiness Weiss Heinrey Knox. It is... of importance."
After a lingering look from the Chaplain, he nodded respectfully. "The Supreme Pontiff has currently been engaged in a great matter of importance. If you could follow me, I will take you to a room where you may wait."
They thanked him and followed him into the marble corridor of the temple.
Their footsteps echoed softly under the high vaulted ceilings as they moved down that hallway. With murals along with tall stained-glass windows that depicted the Divine Lords in all His radiant glory—gods and goddesses cloaked in stars, wielding celestial blades, or cradling the world in their palms. Jewel bright colors danced across the stone floor as light filtered through colored panes.
The gardens bordered by that interior courtyard were planted with silverleaf trees, moonrises, and blue lilies as though having divinity in them to bloom; even the birds overhead flying among the open-air corridors looked gentler here—as if tamed by the holy atmosphere.
As they passed one of the inner cloisters, the Chaplain spoke. "His Holiness is currently preoccupied with a former priest, sent from the Kingdom of Ivalor to repent of his sins."
"Who was this priest?" Callistopher asked, curious, as he slightly turned toward the Chaplain.
"His name was Caelther," the Chaplain replied. "He was among those in Ivalor interpreted as a sinner. But here, he was kind and had wonderful wisdom. He studied, taught, and served until the day he left. The Kingdom eventually welcomed him back, not as a penitent–but as a scholar."
Thoughtful expression settled over Callistopher's countenance. "So even sinners may find redemption."
The Chaplain only gave a small smile.
Soon, they came upon a doorway towering above the head in rich intricate carvings. The Chaplain opened it up and showed them in. "Please wait here. I shall inform the Cardinal about your arrival."
Cordelia bowed her head. "Thank you."
This left the room for silent, inward, and then downward descent into the great hall. Cordelia and Callistopher then sat there, surrounded with silent opulence–velvet drapes and soft-glowing oil lamps-and bookcases full of scriptures and old tomes.
Meanwhile, deep within the magic and mystery enclosed in the state of the temple, the loud, heavy gilded door of the study creaked open. A Cardinal entered, bowing with practiced reverence.
"Your Holiness," he said, "You have visitors–Countess Cordelia and Lord Callistopher Deloney."
At a large desk carved of whitewood and inlaid with silver, a man looked up from his parchment. He was still, graceful in the way a statue might be–but when he moved, there was a quiet power to him, like water flowing beneath ice.
His name was Weiss Heinrey Knox, Supreme Pontiff of the Divine Lords.
Trailing heaps of sunny spun sunlight, his long, white-blonde hair rolled down to his shoulders. Those eyes-one a clear, sacred gold, the other a silver blue gazed at the Cardinal with tranquil patience. Quill now set aside, hands had folded upon the parchment.
"I will be there shortly," he said, his voice gentle and sacred, the kind that lingers in the air like prayer.
The Cardinal bowed again and went out, leaving the grand chamber, for the time being, in stillness once again.
Weiss sat in almost silence, with the candlelight dancing across the divine markings faintly wrought into his desk. Slowly, he stood.
"I was told by the divine lords above that a visitor would come … but never did I foresee that it would be her."