In the wake of Saintess Enya's sharp departure, the high-ranking clergy left behind in the hall stared at one another in baffled silence. What in the world had come over their Saintess today? She felt like an entirely different person compared to her usual meek, compliant self.
None of them could comprehend what had triggered the shift, but one thing was abundantly clear: an independent, strong-willed Saintess was bad news for their grip on power.
Yet, as she had pointed out, if her actions truly constituted a spiritual transgression, only Kjeragandr held the divine right to judge her. Standard monks possessed no authority to penalize their sacred figurehead, but still...
"If this keeps up, the entire Vine-Bear Court will end up taking the name Silverash!" a mischievous cleric called out from the sidelines, tossing gasoline onto the rising fire.
The hall instantly erupted into anxious chatter. As inflammatory as the remark sounded, it hit on an uncomfortable reality that none of the hardliners were willing to accept.
"We have to take action!"
"Yes, we can't just stand by and let her push us around!"
"Let's go find the Grand Elder. He'll know how to put that girl back in her place!"
After a hurried, chaotic discussion, the monks resolved to leave Enya under minimal watch while the rest of the delegation set out for the Paleroches Clan estate. They needed to check on the Grand Elder's recovery and urge him to intervene.
If they couldn't control the Saintess, the Grand Elder certainly could. Rattled by Enya's sudden defiance, the clergy were terrified of facing another unyielding Silverash ruler.
Back in her private quarters, Kjera stood behind Enya, her fingers gently moving a comb through the Saintess's thick hair as she brought up the morning's confrontation.
"You seemed like a different person today," Kjera noted with a warm smile. "Did something happen during your outing last night?"
Though Kjera, as Kjeragandr, had quietly watched the entire reunion unfold from the roof, in her role as the handmaid Kjera, she was supposed to be completely in the dark. Besides, she was genuinely curious to hear how Enya felt about her own transformation.
"I saw my sister last night," Enya replied softly, her lips curling into a genuine smile as she spoke of Ensia. "It's only been a few years, but she's grown into such a fine young woman."
She paused, her expression softening into a blend of pride and quiet guilt. "When she looked me in the eye and swore she would protect me... that was the moment I realized I couldn't stay passive any longer. My family is walking a razor's edge, yet my little sister is ready to throw herself into the storm just to shield me. As her older sister, I should be the one standing in front of her, protecting her."
"So that's why you stood your ground against those monks?" Kjera's smile widened, her eyes gleaming with genuine joy for the young woman's growth.
"How did you know about that?" Enya blinked, turning her head slightly in surprise. "I thought no one was allowed near the hall while they were holding court."
"I am your personal handmaid," Kjera replied, adopting an air of mysterious confidence. "Naturally, I have my own little ways of gathering news."
In that moment, Kjera projected an aura as enigmatic as a shrouded mountain mist. For someone in Enya's isolated position—surrounded by people she couldn't trust—such secretive behavior might normally trigger suspicion. But having grown up alongside her peculiar handmaid, Enya simply nodded, thoroughly accustomed to Kjera's eccentricities.
"Tell me, Kjera... do you think I made the right choice?" Enya asked, a flicker of hesitation touching her voice. Having stood up to the establishment for the very first time, she quietly craved a word of reassurance.
"Right or wrong isn't something easily weighed when it comes to choices like these," Kjera answered gently. "Trade-offs are inevitable. But since this is the path you've chosen, you have my full support."
"Thank you," Enya breathed, feeling a wave of relief wash over her. "Having you behind me makes all the difference."
As the two settled into a quiet rhythm in the room, the delegation of monks had already left the town behind, trekking toward the Paleroches Clan estate to seek an audience with the ailing Grand Elder.
"Is this really a good idea?" one of the younger, more anxious monks muttered as they trudged through the deep snow. "If we show up at the Paleroches Clan estate in such force, they might just lock us inside the castle walls."
"It's still better than letting the Silverash Clan seize total control!" another scoffed. "Besides, the Paleroches Clan still holds deep reverence for Kjeragandr. They wouldn't dare harm envoys of the faith."
"I hope you're right... but I can't shake this terrible feeling in my gut. Is it just me?"
"You probably just drank too much mulled wine last night," a companion ribbed him. "I saw you carrying several bottles back to your room."
"I was just tasting the local batch!" the first monk protested defensively. "Drinking is forbidden back at the Vine-Bear Court. If I didn't indulge a little while away on business, who knows when I'd get another chance?"
The monks continued their slow trek, completely oblivious to the silent shadow trailing a short distance behind them. Once the scout confirmed their destination, he spoke softly into a small handheld communicator, updating his superiors before melting back into the tree line to maintain pursuit.
The distance between the valley town and the Paleroches Clan fortress wasn't great—a thirty-minute walk under clear skies. But with thick, heavy drifts clogging the mountain paths, the journey turned into a grueling slog that left the out-of-shape clerics gasping for breath by the time they reached the main gates.
When Arctosz received word that a horde of monks had arrived at his front gate, the chief of the Paleroches Clan was utterly flabbergasted. Are these fools so impatient that they can't even give the Grand Elder a single day to rest?
Arctosz felt an immediate surge of insult. He had personally escorted the sick old man to his own estate to provide top-tier medical care, only to be met with blatant distrust. Could these parasites not even wait twenty-four hours before barging in to check on their leader?
Had they not carried the holy mantle of the Vine-Bear Court, Arctosz would have happily taken his battleaxe and chopped the lot of them into firewood. Forcing down his rising temper, he ordered his men to let them in.
When he heard their embellished, dramatic account of Enya's 'rebellion,' the short-tempered Ursus chief could barely keep his seat.
"We had no desire to disturb the Grand Elder during his recovery," the leading monk whined, exaggerating every detail. "But that Silverash woman is showing clear signs of usurping authority! We can barely keep her under control!"
Even though Arctosz saw through their dramatic embellishments, he relented and led the group into the sickroom where the Grand Elder lay resting.
What followed was a grotesque display. The moment the monks stepped up to the bed, they burst into a chorus of wailing and lamentations, as if they had endured unimaginable torture over the past day.
An outsider stumbling upon the scene would have assumed the Grand Elder had already passed away and his followers were mourning at his wake.
"All of you, shut your mouths!" the Grand Elder rasped, sitting up with a scowl, his knuckles white as he gripped his walking stick. "I'm not dead yet! Stop wailing at my bedside! Speak like proper men or get out!"
He longed to give the lot of them a thorough beating with his cane, but his frail condition prevented any vigorous physical exertion.
After listening to their rambling, self-serving report, the old man easily parsed out the true sequence of events through their heavy exaggeration.
"Fools! Complete and utter fools!" the Grand Elder barked, coughing harshly. "To pick a fight with the Saintess over visiting her own family during a national crisis—what brainless idiot came up with that excuse?!"
He knew full well that Enya needed to be monitored closely, but timing was everything. Confronting her over such a basic, sympathetic act was pure political incompetence.
"If you truly believe her actions were a sin against the heavens, then go fall on your knees and pray to Kjeragandr!" the old man snorted bitterly. "Ask the goddess to strike down her unfaithful Saintess, and see if she gives you an answer!"
He turned his back on them, unwilling to waste another breath on their stupidity. These incompetent zealots were dragging down the collective intelligence of the entire order.
Even Arctosz, standing by the doorway, found the situation utterly pathetic. Barring a girl from visiting her own home during a time of crisis was beyond unreasonable. Even the disgruntled crowds outside had better common sense than these robed bureaucrats.
Wait... disgruntled crowds?
Arctosz blinked, snapping his gaze toward the grand window overlooking the lower courtyard.
Down below, a massive mob of local factory workers had gathered outside the estate walls, shouting angrily and waving crude signs. The sudden closure of the mines and processing plants had cut off their only source of income, pushing their families to the brink of starvation.
"Get my guards down there and clear them out!" Arctosz roared, his temper flaring anew. "If they keep making a scene outside my gates, I'll tear those factories down myself!"
An officer bowed hurriedly and rushed out to assemble the house guard. Whether through force or intimidation, they were under strict orders to drive the mob away and teach the striking laborers a lesson they wouldn't forget.
A mid-ranking Ursine overseer stepped onto a raised stone platform outside the gates, glaring down at the desperate crowd below with cold disdain.
"What are you peasants shouting about?!" the overseer boomed, his voice carrying over the crowd. "Keep this up, and we won't just close the plants—we'll blow them to kingdom come! Then you won't just be broke, you'll be standing trial for incitement and treason!"