That winter, the City of Glory and its surrounding regions welcomed the New Year festivities.

Here, the celebration fell in early spring, when the chill began to retreat.

Located on the southern coast, the City of Glory never saw the thick, earth-swallowing snows of the Great Darksend Region. Even in the coldest years in history, only a few snowflakes ever drifted down—tiny flakes that melted into droplets before they could land, warmed by the city’s breath.

Wrap yourself in extra furs and woolens, light a fire in the hearth, sip hot tea, and the winter here became quite pleasant.

Though recently, the Holy See’s new bans on imported pelts from nations like Bartzten had disrupted trade routes and driven away merchants—a real nuisance.

On the eve of the New Year, the plains outside the city remained damp and biting.

Yet devout pilgrims had already gathered on the open grounds beyond the City of Glory’s walls.

Guided by Holy Knights, they pitched tents in designated zones, accepted alms of food and clean water, used latrines at assigned spots, and cheered or wept before preaching clergymen.

Every dawn and dusk, they bowed and prayed toward the lifelike saintly reliefs adorning the Holy City’s gates.

From above, the patchwork of tents resembled a winter-blooming sea of flowers, the pilgrims like bees drifting among them.

The savings they’d worked so hard to gather would drain away on this pilgrimage—just as bees’ honey is harvested by the keeper.

Only a few thousand of the hundred thousand souls camped outside would be granted entry to the Radiant Cathedral’s preaching square on New Year’s Day to witness Pope Saint An IV’s sermon and hear the bells toll from the spire.

The rest could only kowtow toward the Holy City’s glow from afar.

Many would never see this great city in their lifetimes.

And on that New Year’s Day, Hilna would stand before thousands of faithful as the Divine Academy’s representative.

Amid the ethereal hymns of hundreds of children, she—robed in monastic garb—would present a hand-copied, beautifully bound scripture to Pope Saint An IV. She’d receive the Pontiff’s blessing and gratitude before the roaring crowd.

Truly an honor to cherish.

Of course, once Hilna completed the offering, she’d retreat to a lounge inside the cathedral for tea and rest on plush couches.

Shel, however, still had duties.

As Aether Monroe’s appointed attendant—a role idle most days but demanding full ceremonial armor during grand festivals—he’d stand guard from dawn till dusk throughout the New Year’s rites.

The armor was purely ornamental: intricate reliefs covered its surface, dazzling patterns swirled across its plates, gilded and silvered ornaments glittered, and a heavy crimson cloak draped his shoulders. Donning it was a chore; wearing it was a burden.

Hilna thought he looked magnificent in it. She’d circled him excitedly after he was armored, memorizing every detail.

Shel had stood on the Radiant Cathedral’s grand plaza since dawn, listening to pilgrims chant blessings toward him.

The tedious, endless Mass nearly drove him mad.

Only when dusk fell, after the Pontiff appeared before the faithful amid thunderous cheers, did the New Year’s sermon finally end.

His legs numb from standing, Shel hurried to the Holy Knights’ duty room to shed the armor and head home.

But as he slipped his hand into his pocket while leaving the cathedral, his fingers brushed a note from Monroe: *"Usual place. Trouble."*

He sighed and turned toward the residential district opposite the cathedral square.

Inside a discreet townhouse, Pope Saint An IV and Lord Monroe awaited him—both exhausted from the day’s ceremonies.

They sat not in the upstairs bedroom, but in the ground-floor parlor.

Catherine was there too.

The three gathered around a square table laden with simple yet hearty dishes.

The frail, golden-haired girl clutched the picture book Shel had made for her, watching him with eager eyes.

"You stood guard outside the cathedral all day, and now you’ve come to visit Catherine at night. Thank you for your trouble," said Pope Saint An IV. "No one could attend to her today. She must have felt very lonely. So tonight, we gather simply to keep her company. No need for new stories—just a meal together."

Shel couldn’t refuse. He took his seat.

The Pontiff dissected his bread with meticulous care, eating tiny bites.

Shel sat stiffly at this small table flanked by a Pope and a Sword Saint, too nervous to eat freely.

Monroe seemed equally tense, hesitating to touch the thick stew and roasted cheese flatbreads until the Pontiff urged, "Eat well, both of you."

Only then did the two men dare ladle soup and grab bread, heads bowed as they ate.

Catherine alone enjoyed her meal freely.

After two slices of bread and a small bowl of stew, the Pontiff set her fork and knife crossed upon her plate.

She dabbed her lips and turned to Shel.

"Shel, these past six months—you’ve worked hard. We see your capability, your reliability. I’ve troubled you often with Catherine’s care. Though Monroe granted you an attendant’s post, I’ve heard... whispers. That you secured it only through Hilna’s influence and flattery."

Such rumors did swirl.

After all, a rootless youth of ordinary talent had gained a foothold in the City of Glory—and a coveted position many dreamed of—simply as Hilna’s guardian.

Let alone the near-meteoric future awaiting him.

Gossip was inevitable.

Shel opened his mouth to dismiss it, but the Pontiff raised a hand.

"No false modesty. Your service to me deserves better reward. You shan’t be slighted."

He’d never understood why the Pontiff cherished Catherine so deeply. Even accounting for respect toward Aether Monroe, the time and care she devoted to the Sword Saint’s secret daughter far exceeded protocol.

Most in the Holy See knew the Pope rarely intervened in daily affairs. Cardinals handled routine matters; she merely reviewed summaries and gave cursory approvals.

Rumors claimed she secluded herself for deep meditation or arcane study.

Who’d imagine she’d spend her days like a grandmother, tending to a Sword Saint’s hidden child just a street away from the cathedral?

"Aether." The Pontiff suddenly called the Sword Saint’s name.

Monroe shot up from his seat, bowing reflexively. "At your service."

"A minor disturbance in Lorentalan. Nobles are banding against the Archduke’s new laws. He’s requested the Holy See’s support. We must back him, yet those nobles are also our allies. A delicate matter—I need you to go."

"Shel is your attendant now. Take him. Create opportunities for him to prove himself. Upon return, grant him a Papal Guard commission. It’ll give him proper standing to seek audiences with me. Depart within these New Year days. Swiftly."

"Understood." Monroe sat back down.

By custom, Shel should have knelt before the Pontiff, tears streaming, swearing undying loyalty.

But Pope Saint An IV despised theatrics.

"No thanks are needed, Shel. This is Catherine’s due. If you wish to show gratitude, read her a story. Then go home and rest."

Catherine, who’d waited patiently, beamed and handed Shel the picture book she’d clutched all evening. Her gaze held pure anticipation.

Avoiding her eyes, Shel settled onto the parlor sofa with the mentally young woman beside him.

He opened the book and began reading—but exhaustion from standing all day, compounded by the meal, had already seeped into his bones.

His voice grew softer with each page.

Yawns overtook him.

His words faded...

And he fell asleep.

In the haze of dreams, rare leisure was still haunted by tangled thoughts.

*"Lord Charles? Lord Charles?"*

A girl’s gentle voice called to him.

It scattered the chaos of his dream, pulling him back to wakefulness.

Blearily, he opened his eyes—and met a pair of beautiful emerald pupils. Catherine.

He’d dozed off mid-story on the sofa.

She hadn’t fussed. She’d simply knelt beside him, watching with concern until he stirred.

So his first sight upon waking was her gaze.

Remembering the visions he’d seen during past eye contact, he instinctively raised a hand to shield his face—but his arm was numb from sleeping awkwardly.

Strangely, no chaotic prophecies flooded his mind this time.

"Shel? You’re awake." Monroe, who’d been resting with closed eyes on the opposite sofa, opened them at the movement. "You passed out. His Holiness has already left."

"My apologies. I was... indiscreet."

"No matter. I’m weary too." Monroe stood. "Catherine, stop staring. Go upstairs to bed. Shel must return home."

Catherine’s shoulders slumped in disappointment, but she lowered her head, then lifted it to nod at her father.

Shel, however, never learned whose voice had called him *"Lord Charles"* in his dream.

Catherine was mute.