Roze And Morten

Last night.

After nearly a week of constantly serving at the Prioress’s side, Roze was on the verge of mental collapse.

Only when night deepened did she return to the room, vacant-eyed, unable to properly respond to the greetings of passing sisters.

Then she wailed, frantically crossing herself again and again, reciting prayers of repentance like a madwoman.

At the sight, Adelin and Iselin could only glance at her in fear, unable to speak a word.

Even Lyset, too, could only watch Roze with sorrowful eyes, unable to approach.

Lyset knew only that Roze, after defending her that day, had been left behind to receive some “punishment” from the Prioress, and that her duties had since been reassigned to serving the Prioress directly.

In fact, on the day of Lyset’s punishment and the next, Roze had not returned to the room at all.

Even when they met at dawn mass, she sat far away, mumbling with hollow eyes, then staggered off toward the Prioress’s office the moment Mass ended—returning only just before the bell for bed.

“Sister Roze…”

When Lyset cautiously called her name, Roze’s body froze mid-prayer, and those empty eyes slowly turned toward her.

“Lyset.”

“Sister Roze, are you all right?”

“What am I supposed to do?”

“What?”

“No… no, nothing.”

Her eyes brimmed with tears. To see such a sad, frightened expression on the face of one renowned among the Sisters for her pride left everyone in the room silent.

Roze, though overly strict in faith and rule, was like Adelin and Iselin—a warm-hearted soul who dearly cherished Lyset.

Even amidst betrayal and loss by the convent she trusted, amidst the blasphemous carnal violation and the collapse of her spirit, Roze never once blamed Lyset, whom she had defended.

“It’s not Sister Lyset’s fault. And it’s not mine either.”

Iselin cautiously asked,

“Does Prioress Cecilia trouble you so much?”

At the mention of the Prioress, Roze’s body began trembling violently, tears spilling down her cheeks.

As Adelin and Iselin floundered in panic, Lyset, her eyes faintly glowing with blue light, quietly embraced Roze’s trembling shoulders.

“Sister Roze, please—don’t fall apart. Please… a day will surely come when everything is restored.”

It was time for the special hymn of the New Year’s Eve Grand Mass.

Morten’s eyes, against his will, turned to his daughter Roze.

The life she had yearned for since childhood—a nun’s life of eternal obedience to the Absolute, of devotion, service, and perfect purity in body and spirit.

Though all saw the convent as glory and longed for it, Morten had opposed it inwardly. To him, she was his precious, brilliant, and kind daughter—too good to lose.

That such a daughter should end her life in endless prayers, rigid beds, and meager meals was beyond Morten’s comprehension.

But no parent can win against a child’s will.

On the day of her initiation at age twelve, clad in novice habit, Morten had wept drunkenly in the commander’s office that night.

“Hmph…”

Morten stared intently at the choir moving toward the stage. Roze, who always strode proudly, now staggered forward, barely able to stand.

‘Is she sick?’

Deeply unsettled, Morten kept his eyes fixed on her.

At last, the choir lined up, and the hymn began.

Even normally, since joining the convent, Roze never looked at him during hymns—believing that even thinking of family would weaken her devotion.

This time too, her eyes fixed straight ahead, ignoring Morten.

The problem was her expression.

Her gaze was cowering, full of fear. Her eyes were sunken, her pupils empty.

Morten knew something grave had happened to his daughter. It was a father’s intuition.

“Is something wrong, Sir Morten?”

“Hmm, Fynel. My daughter—”

“Oh, Sister Roze.”

“Does she not look different to you?”

“She looks rather tired. Perhaps the preparations for both the Mass and the hymn? Christmas and New Year’s coming just a week apart…”

“Tired? Is that all you see?”

“Eh? What do you mean?”

“No… as her father, I can tell. Something bad has happened to her.”

“Ah… is that so?”

It was then.

Her vacant eyes moved, scanning the second-floor balconies. Then she found him—Morten, in stately dress, standing beside Christoph in the center balcony.

Her gaze pierced him.

“Father…”

Her lips had surely called for him.

Seeing tears stream from both eyes, Morten reeled in shock. Fynel quickly caught him.

“Sir Morten, are you all right?”

“You—you saw that too?”

“Yes, I did.”

“We must find out what happened. At once.”

“Please, Sir Morten! The Mass is still in session!”

Hearing the commotion, Christoph turned, puzzled.

“What’s the matter?”

“Ah—nothing, just an upset stomach.”

Fynel quickly answered, leading Morten out into the corridor.

“Sir Morten, you can do nothing now. Please, calm yourself!”

“Fynel, my daughter is crying to me right now.”

“Sir Morten, think of her place as a nun. Their life is harsh. Of course she is tired—and when people are exhausted, they turn to family.”

“No—that’s not it. You don’t know her as I do. I’m her father!”

“Even so, what would you do now? Remember before—when we went down to confirm the black-haired nun and caused confusion? Please, stay calm.”

“Calm? You ask me to be calm.”

“There will be a way. Through an official petition, or another channel—you will see her again.”

Morten paused at Fynel’s desperate plea for patience.

Whether or not Fynel understood his feelings, his words were right.

Given the convent’s closed nature, if he stormed in now it would only make seeing Roze harder—and likely bring worse consequences down upon her.

Morten nodded.

“You’re right. I must find a way. A proper way.”

“Do so, Sir Morten. I will look into it as well.”

“Thank you, Fynel. Let’s return.”

They returned to the balcony, but the hymn had ended, and among the choir seats, Roze’s familiar head was nowhere to be seen.

“Hm?”

Morten groaned, searching, but still—Roze was gone.

Christoph, noticing him, spoke.

“Are you feeling well, Sir Morten?”

“Yes, I am fine. Thank you for your concern.”

“Were you looking for your daughter—Sister Roze, was it?”

“Yes!”

His voice rose despite himself. Christoph tilted his head and said:

“I do not know Sister Roze’s face well enough to say for certain, but right after the hymn, an older sister led away a crying nun through the side door.”

“A crying nun…”

Morten closed his eyes tightly.

That night, Roze never returned to her room.

Lyset, Adelin, and Iselin had seen her—crying, staring at the second floor during the hymn, then dragged off at once by an elder nun as soon as it ended.

“What on earth happened to Sister Roze!”

Adelin spoke with a troubled face, but neither Iselin nor Lyset had any way of knowing.

“She looked up at the balcony—surely she was looking at her father, the Knight Commander.”

At Iselin’s words, both Lyset and Adelin nodded.

“What in the world has happened to her? And where is she now? The Prioress’s office?”

At Adelin’s worried question—at the careless mention of “the Prioress’s office”—all three felt a chilling certainty that it was the answer.

But the curfew bell had long since rung. Sisters on duty would be stationed at every corridor end and chapel entrance.

Before, Lyset had snuck out a window at the far hall to reach the hill, but the Prioress’s office could not be reached without passing through the chapel.

And the New Year’s Mass itself lasted past midnight, the only day of the year without dawn Mass, so they could not even hope to see her in the chapel.

With no way forward, the three had no choice but to pray Roze was safe and go to bed.

And perhaps, it was fortunate for them.

For had any of them witnessed what was happening in the Prioress’s office that night, they surely would have fainted on the spot.

At that very hour, in the Prioress’s office, Roze was undergoing brutal punishment.

The Prioress’s rage was boundless—Roze had nearly brought scandal again, ruining the hymn, then openly staring at her father—the Knight Commander Morten, of all people.

Fortunately, the imposing Knight Commander had not descended—but had he come to meet Roze, disaster would have struck.

Once again, her position had nearly been jeopardized. From her seat she had glanced up, seen Morten on the balcony, and realized their eyes had met.

‘He won’t come here—not a Knight Commander. He has no place in the convent!’

So it was. And so she forced herself to believe.

Roze was sentenced to six months in the underground prayer chamber. Before that, she was to endure the Prioress’s “special punishment.”

Drugged and dazed, Roze looked at the candle and whip in the Prioress’s hands as she approached.

“Better… better to kill me and cast me out.”

Roze’s lips trembled as she spoke.