The Delegation Of Gratitude

This New Year’s Eve Grand Mass was emotionally chaotic enough. On top of that, the three were plagued with worry over Roze, and at some point, they collapsed into sleep.

That night, sleeping so deeply she wouldn’t have noticed being carried away, Lyset dreamed.

Though she could not leave now, the vision that had always come to her mind when dancing under the full moon on the hill unfolded in her dream.

A hut in the forest, a warrior of God bravely fighting with a sword, and within the hut, a beautiful woman praying to Olrun and the Goddess Manafreya.

Soon, the warrior of God, cruelly cut down…

The woman collapsed on the floor, unconscious.

The hut ablaze.

A cold cave, a woman with a swollen belly at the brink of death.

And a spreading white light.

The vision had always ended in voices—but the dream carried on differently.

A flash of golden hair with a reddish glow, like a lion’s mane, brushed past her shoulder.

She could not see the eyes, but there was a sharp nose, a chiseled jaw, splendid armor, and a sword.

Even in the dream, Lyset realized it was Christoph.

And then the same immense voice resounded.

—Take him. Prepare him. He will, with you, bring ruin to all things and lead a new beginning. He too is my instrument, and yours—this I grant you especially!

Hearing that voice, Lyset sank into overwhelming ecstasy and lost consciousness.

While Lyset lay unconscious, footsteps approached the room.

They tried to be quiet, but the old floorboards of the convent groaned under their weight.

The footsteps stopped at the door,

Creeeeak!

The door slowly, cautiously opened.

There was Roze, trembling, with two enforcer nuns looming grimly behind her.

One of them spoke in a low voice.

“Quietly, without waking anyone. Take only your habit and Scripture. Quickly.”

Roze entered the pitch-black room, the candle already snuffed out.

From the other beds came only the steady breathing of Lyset, Adelin, and Iselin.

“Hurry.”

The cold, low urging.

In the darkness, Roze carefully opened her wardrobe and took two habits. Then she approached the desk for her Scripture.

Four Scriptures lay lined up on the desk.

As she reached for her own on the left, her eyes caught sight of Lyset’s hairpin on the desk.

“…!!!”

Behind her, the two nuns stood silently in the dark, waiting.

Thinking her actions hidden in the dark, Roze clutched the hairpin and hastily carved letters into the desk.

Underground. Morten. Roze.

“Not done yet?”

Startled by the voice, Roze snatched her scripture, tossed the pin onto Lyset’s blanket, and left for the corridor.

The two Sisters stared at her.

“It was dark… I couldn’t see which one was mine…”

“Silence! Shut the door.”

Roze, trembling, shut it carefully.

Then, following them, she walked to the small door beside the main chapel.

A duty nun at the desk produced a key and unlocked it.

A narrow staircase stretched downward, dim candles spaced along the thick stone walls casting eerie light.

Distant muttering voices… an unbearable stench wafted from below.

“Follow us.”

This was the underground prayer chamber where she would be confined for six months.

Terrified, Roze stumbled after the Sisters leading down.

She looked back desperately, but the duty nun only crossed herself with a blank face and shut the door.

Early morning.

The rising bell rang; everyone got up, tidied bedding, and readied for Mass after breakfast.

Lyset too awoke with difficulty, wincing at the pain in her still-unhealed back as she climbed from bed.

She recalled her dream of Christoph, the command to take him, prepare him, that he would bring ruin and renewal with her—and she began to fold her blanket.

Clang!

As she shook the blanket, a plain metal hairpin clattered to the floor.

“Huh?”

It was her hairpin, which she had left on the desk as usual. It should never have ended up in her blanket.

“Why is this here?”

Puzzled, Lyset looked at the desk.

“…!!!”

Words were carved into the desk—words that hadn’t been there before bed.

“There’s something carved here!”

At Lyset’s cry, Adelin and Iselin rushed over, following her finger.

—Underground. Morten. Roze.

“Underground, Morten, Roze… what does that mean?”

While Adelin murmured, Lyset noticed one Scripture missing.

“Sister Roze’s Scripture is gone! It was here yesterday.”

“No way!”

Iselin dashed to the wardrobe and flung it open.

Roze’s habit was gone.

“She must have come while we slept.”

Iselin stared blankly at the empty wardrobe.

“Look—Underground, Morten, Roze… what could it mean?”

“The meaning is clear—her Scripture and habit missing prove it.”

“Say it, Sister Lyset. Let me hear if you think the same as I do.”

“It means she’s been imprisoned underground. And that her father, Sir Morten, must be told—by us, through her.”

“Yes, that’s it. Iselin?”

Both turned to Iselin.

Iselin nodded in agreement.

“Yesterday during the hymn, Sister Roze looked toward Sir Morten and cried. Whatever’s been tormenting her might be something beyond anything we imagined.”

“Something beyond?”

Adelin looked at them both, speaking firmly.

“For Sister Roze, so devout a nun, to ask her father to be told—it must be enormous. She’s been dragged to the underground prayer room. Regardless of her vows, she’s asking us to help her.”

“……”

Silence fell.

But there was no clear way forward.

Then a thought struck Lyset.

“I’m entering the Castle today. I’m part of the delegation.”

“We know—you’ll be briefed by the ceremonial priest later.”

“If I meet Sister Roze’s father inside the Castle…”

There she stopped, recalling the stern-faced man who had scrutinized her hair and eyes.

He had certainly sensed something about her.

Lyset remembered her role and fell silent.

“Sister Lyset, why stop? So if you meet Sir Morten inside?”

“If I meet him, I’ll tell him. But whether I’ll get the chance—I don’t know.”

“Try anyway, somehow.”

Lyset thought quietly. Roze had been someone she could rely on, someone who cared for her dearly.

“All right. I’ll create an opportunity. All I can do is pass on those carved words anyway.”

“Yes. Please do.”

Adelin and Iselin nodded.

All morning, the delegation was briefed and trained again by the ceremonial priest on gifts, greetings, and etiquette.

In truth, Lyset had little to worry about.

Along with the tribute, she had already received a letter of thanks. All she had to do was offer a short reply after the delegation’s greetings. Nothing more.

The ceremonial priest delivered an important message.

“This time, the delegation is to accept the hospitality of Lord Christoph as it is. If he requests anything, you are to comply—so long as it does not violate the duties of faith. This is the instruction of High Priest Kraf.”

All nodded in understanding.

After lunch, they changed into new priestly and nun’s garb, donning white caps for the ceremony.

The ceremonial priest fastened a golden belt, tucked a fir branch in it, sprinkled salt, and took the lead. At the sound of his bell, two delegation priests carried the Cathedral’s banner and the white flag of official duty.

Confirming all was ready, the priest rang his bell again and led forward. The delegation’s steps fell in rhythm with its chime.

The distance from cathedral to main castle was not long, yet as they walked, all citizens who saw them knelt, crossed themselves, and recited Scripture.

The delegation returned each gesture kindly with the Sign of the Cross. As forewarned by message, the guards swung open the great castle gates.

Baron Arnesen, the castle’s ceremonial officer, awaited at the gate, knelt, and crossed himself.

He led them forward, followed by two knights in ceremonial dress.

‘Hm…?’

As he walked, the priest frowned in puzzlement.

The baron did not lead them into the castle proper but along the inner wall, where guards they passed knelt in respect.

‘Not into the castle? Then where?’

Normally, such a reception would be in a banquet room or the lord’s office.

For a response to tribute from the cathedral, it was always there. Never elsewhere, in his memory.

But Baron Arnesen led them elsewhere.

Through a space between walls to the back of the castle—they smelled horse manure, heard neighing.

A door opened onto the martial arena—broad grounds for knights and guards to train and drill horses.

‘The training arena?!’

The priest stumbled in shock, the bell in his hand clattering off-beat.

The delegation exchanged uneasy looks. Only Lyset, visiting the castle for the first time, walked on in ignorance.

“…!!!”

Between the high walls, sunlight flooded in as the gates opened, blinding them.

“Ahhh…”

The priest gasped in awe, the others likewise stunned at the sight.

The full two hundred Knights of the Nastrand Duchy stood in rows to either side.

Fully armed, they wore not dress robes but crimson cloaks trimmed with gold—the colors of the Duchy—fluttering in the new year’s wind.

Behind them, the Guard corps in ceremonial dress stood in perfect ranks.

A long carpet stretched from the gate down the center.

At its end rose an ornate wooden dais, upon it the ducal throne, and seated upon that was Christoph.

Beside him stood the Duchess and family, all clad in splendid attire.

And flanking them, Sir Morten the Knight Commander and Fynel the Guard Captain, with ten subcommanders each, encircled the dais.

‘This is nothing less than a coronation!’

The priest gaped in disbelief.

The Duchess, upon receiving word of the delegation’s visit days before, had devised this grand spectacle.