Neatly trimmed hedges bordered the grand estate grounds, their precision a testament to meticulous care.
The air was rich with the heady perfume of pastel roses and lavender, their delicate blooms swaying gently in the breeze.
As expected, the setting exuded refinement—a perfectly manicured garden nestled within the stately Marquesite estate. On the long, elegantly set table, delicate porcelain teacups rested upon gold-rimmed saucers, their intricate patterns gleaming in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trellis above. Crisp white linens draped over the table's length, while fresh-cut blossoms, arranged in crystal vases, lent a touch of natural splendor to the gathering.
Seated around the table were ten young ladies, their poised manners a silent acknowledgment of the refined company they kept. Two seats remained unoccupied—one for me and the other for—
"How are you, Aerin? I heard you were sick for days."
The voice pulled me from my thoughts. I turned, only to realize Cassandra was beside me. I hadn't even noticed her presence until now—I had thought I was walking alone.
She glanced at me with concern, her gaze searching.
I offered a small smile, feeling much better now but still recalling the exhaustion from before. "I'm doing much better now, thankfully. It wasn't anything serious—just something that happens every year."
Her brows furrowed. "Every year?"
I nodded. "Yes. It always happens exactly a week after my birthday. I don't know why, but it's been that way since childhood."
Cassandra hummed in thought. "That sounds terrible. Does it ever get worse?"
I hesitated for a moment before answering. "Not really. It's uncomfortable, but I always recover after a few days. The servants are used to it by now."
She sighed. "Still, that sounds awful. I can't imagine dealing with that every year."
I chuckled lightly. "It's just another inconvenience at this point. I've learned to manage it." Although this is only the second year for me.
By then, we had reached the tea party's seating area. Cassandra glanced at the arrangement and frowned slightly. "Ah, looks like we're not sitting next to each other."
I followed her gaze and nodded. "Seems so."
She gave me a small, reassuring smile. "Well, we can still talk later."
"Of course." I returned her smile before stepping toward my assigned seat.
I settled beside Marian and glanced at her. "It's good you're early," I remarked as I took my seat.
It had been two weeks since we last met, and now, at long last, the much-anticipated morning tea party hosted by the great Madame Carmen was upon us. The very thought of being invited to such an exclusive gathering still felt surreal. It was an honor, after all—a privilege reserved only for those whom Madame deemed worthy.
But it wasn't just the worthy she invited. Sometimes, Madame Carmen extended her invitations to those who intrigued her—young ladies who found themselves at the heart of gossip and scandal. It was her way of inspecting them, of peeling back the layers of hearsay to judge for herself whether they were as disgraceful as society claimed.
Ladies like me.
So, was I here because I was deemed worthy? Or was I merely an object of curiosity, handpicked for her scrutiny?
I wasn't sure.
"For Madame Carmen's gathering?" Marian scoffed, a hint of amusement in her tone. "One would have to be either reckless or utterly fearless to arrive late—unless, of course, they find pleasure in being examined like a specimen beneath a scholar's lens."
We shared a knowing glance before breaking into a carefully measured laugh.
Madame Carmen was a formidable presence in high society. As the wife of Marquess Maurin Tolliver, her influence extended far beyond mere nobility. At fifty-five, she was the empire's most sought-after etiquette tutor, having trained even royal princesses in the art of refinement. Yet her reach did not end there—she also co-managed the largest textile industry in Rone, a venture that further solidified her family's prestige. Every aspect of this gathering bore the mark of her meticulous control, from the carefully curated guest list to the flawlessly arranged setting.
"The Madame is particularly strict about punctuality," another young lady chimed in. She wasn't seated directly across from me, but diagonally, close enough to have overheard our exchange. "Everyone here knows that."
I turned my gaze to her, though I hadn't intended to do so with any sharpness. Yet she flinched, immediately lowering her eyes, as if she had just overstepped.
Did I glare? I hadn't meant to.
Still, I didn't bother to correct myself, for at that moment, Madame Carmen made her entrance.
She moved with an effortless grace, her posture impeccable, her expression unreadable. Dressed in a deep emerald gown with lace cuffs, she exuded authority without a single word.
A hush fell over the gathering as she took her seat at the head of the table—right beside me.
Her gaze swept over the ladies, and a small, knowing smile curved her lips. "Good morning, ladies," she began, her voice smooth and deliberate. "It brings me great joy to see both familiar and new faces among us. To those who have just come of age, congratulations. You now step into a world that will test your grace, wit, and endurance."
She lifted her teacup but did not drink, merely letting the moment settle.
"Ah, and among our debutantes, we have the esteemed daughter of Duke Melenheim."
The subtle weight of her words settled upon me like a fine silk shawl—light, yet impossible to ignore. I met her eyes, my expression composed.
"I imagine this must be an exciting time for you," she continued, her smile unwavering. "So many opportunities ahead, shifting tides… and so many watchful eyes."
A few of the ladies adjusted their posture. The meaning behind her words was evident to everyone.
Madame Carmen was a master of etiquette—she would never be so crass as to address scandal outright. Instead, she laced her words with subtlety, testing to see if I would stumble.
"Indeed," I replied with a poised smile of my own. "Change is always exciting, Madame. And I find that watchful eyes often belong to those most eager to see something remarkable."
Her smile deepened just a fraction—an expression of amusement, perhaps even approval.
"Well said, Lady Melenheim," she mused, finally taking a sip of her tea. "I do hope you make the most of this season."
And with that, the conversation shifted to the more pleasant, surface-level chatter of morning tea.
But I knew this was far from the last test I would face at this table.
Madame Carmen's voice carried over the gentle clinking of porcelain and the murmur of hushed conversations. "So, ladies, what are your thoughts on the awaited Saintess?"
There was silence as the question lingered in the air. It was a topic both revered and controversial, dividing even the most devout.
Ah, here it comes.
I had expected this. Given Madame Carmen's well-known devotion—her presence at every Sunday mass and her family's long-standing patronage of the temple—this discussion was inevitable.
"It is nothing short of a tragedy. The temple has searched tirelessly, yet eighteen years have passed without a single sign of her existence."
"Yes. The Goddess Vitas has never failed to bestow a Saintess upon us every three-hundred years, and yet, for the first time, we are left in uncertainty."
"Perhaps the temple should focus less on searching for an absent Saintess and more on the people suffering in our streets. The temple receives more donations now than ever, yet where does that wealth go? To the poor? To the sick? No. It is spent on more search parties, more priests traveling to every corner of the continent chasing nothing but myths."
My gaze drifted to the lady who had effortlessly exchanged barbs with the first two speakers. She made a compelling argument—one that hinted at a sharp mind and a background steeped more in political strategy than religious devotion.
"That is Lady Beatrice," Marian murmured beside me, her voice barely above a whisper.
"Hmm..." I cast her a sidelong glance, silently acknowledging the information with a subtle nod. Then, letting my gaze drift, I found Cassandra seated a few places away. Catching her eye, I offered her a small, knowing smile.
"That is a dangerous sentiment, Lady Beatrice. Faith is not something to be questioned so recklessly. The star shone in the sky as it always has, and it was not the temple that foretold this prophecy but the heavens themselves. Whether the Saintess was hidden or lost to us, the temple's duty is to find her." Another lady replied.
"The temple exists to guide our faith and heal the people, not to govern or dictate our affairs. And yet, we see more temple-funded expeditions in search of the Saintess," Lady Beatrice remarked, arching a brow. "It seems as though the temple is becoming increasingly ambitious, seeking power under the guise of divine will—making us believe that the Saintess will appear, wield great power, and grant us salvation."
"Well, what of the Empire's ruler?" another lady joined the heated argument. "What has the crown been doing all this time? While we may not be at war, there are still glaring issues within the government—commoners struggling under mismanagement, trade routes collapsing, beggars multiplying in the streets. Hasn't the royal family been failing in their duties as well?"
"The emperor has been working tirelessly to maintain order and strengthen the empire," another voice countered. "Meetings and initiatives have already been set in motion, including the construction of a new road to divert trade away from the bandit-infested path to Hallon, rerouting commerce through the safer City of Sanica. I've heard the Crown Prince himself is overseeing the project, along with improvements across the entire city. That's what my father told me."
Oh wow. She must be a minister's daughter to be that well-informed.
I silently sipped my tea, letting the heated discussion unfold around me, their words weaving through the air like a carefully played game of strategy. I had no intention of joining in—better to observe and listen.
"That may be, but it seems some noble houses have forgotten their responsibilities in society," the first woman scoffed. "It should not fall solely on the crown to uphold the empire. The aristocracy, too, has a duty to contribute. Yet instead of supporting the empire, many are busy lavishing donations upon the temple, weakening the nobility's influence while strengthening the clergy's grip on power."
"Correction," Cassandra interjected smoothly. "The Crown does not compel noble houses to fund the temple—it is a choice, not an obligation. If some noble families prefer to direct their wealth toward the clergy rather than the empire, that reflects their priorities, not the monarchy's failings. The Crown has always emphasized the importance of nobles serving their domains first and foremost."
"The Crown maintains a clear distinction between governance and faith," Marian added, her tone measured. "The Emperor does not interfere in religious matters, just as the temple is not meant to meddle in affairs of state. But when nobles begin favoring the temple over their duty to the empire, the balance of power shifts. If the aristocracy weakens itself willingly, then who, really, is to blame?"
Exactly. The Crown must remain separate from religion, just as religion must refrain from interfering in state affairs. The temple harbors its own political ambitions, while the monarchy governs its own domain—if the two were to intertwine, it would be nothing short of chaos, an overreach of power that could destabilize the entire empire.
What truly divides the people of this empire is not just faith, but their sense of duty toward the state. So, who is truly to blame if the nobility weakens itself? Should the Crown be faulted for not holding them tightly under its rule? Or is it the temple, which, rather than fostering resilience, encourages the people to lean on faith and promised salvation instead of taking responsibility for their own futures?
This was the very issue my father had been grappling with for some time, and now, it had escalated to the point of threatening the stability of the Crown itself. Even the younger generation found themselves entangled in the debate, pressured to take sides. It was as if certain factions within the empire were deliberately stirring unrest, challenging the monarchy's firm stance of non-interference in religious affairs—testing just how far they could push before the Crown was forced to act.
A murmur of both agreement and dissent rippled through the gathered ladies.
"There are rumors, of course…" A young woman, whom I assumed was from a lesser noble house, stated in a hesitant, almost inaudible voice. "Some say the Saintess was taken before she could be revealed to the world, that someone feared her existence and sought to erase her."
"And some believe she was never born at all," another lady added in a hushed voice. "That the Goddess Vitas has abandoned us—that she has withheld her daughter, the Saintess, as a sign of her disfavor."
Gasps of shock rang through the table. To suggest such a thing was practically blasphemy, yet it was a theory whispered behind closed doors.
The people of this world revere the Supreme Goddess of Creation, Vitas, believing that every 300 years, she sends her daughter to ascend and walk among people. This divine being, known as the Saintess, serves as a guiding light—offering support in all aspects of life, both physically and spiritually. She is heralded as a symbol of the Goddess's enduring love and favor.
Madame Carmen, who had listened in silence until now, finally spoke, her tone measured. "It is true that the Saintess's absence is unprecedented, but faith is often tested in times of uncertainty. The temple continues its search, and until the truth is revealed, speculation serves no purpose." Then, with a knowing glance, she turned toward me. "Lady Melenheim, you have been quiet. What are your thoughts on the matter?"
I had been content to simply sip my tea, letting the debate unfold around me. But at her inquiry, the table's gaze turned toward me, expectant.
I set my cup down with deliberate ease, allowing the silence to stretch before I spoke. "I have nothing in mind," I said, my tone even. "I don't even go to church—so what makes me think I have the right to comment on it?"
In truth, if she hoped for answers from me—knowing that my father, the Duke, has been handling this alongside the Emperor—she would be disappointed. I don't involve myself in politics.
I smiled at her, wide and unbothered. I didn't want to give the impression that I was weary of her, though I hoped she wasn't the type to press her ideals on others.
A hush fell over the table.
"Do you not believe in the Goddess Vitas?" Madame Carmen asked, her tone more intrigued than accusatory.
I met her gaze, unflinching. "I believe in a supreme being. But whether it is the Goddess or something else—that remains to be seen."
Another gasps rippled through the gathering. Some ladies looked outright scandalized, while others seemed intrigued, as though I had spoken something both forbidden and profound.
It was an honest answer. One I would not falter on.
This world had its goddess—one they credited for the existence of all life. But for me? I had already lived one life before this. And in that world, there were countless religions, each claiming their truth. So how could I confine myself to just one belief?
Even now, my very existence in this world was proof of something greater. Some force—whether a god or a goddess, or something beyond comprehension—had chosen to place me here. I would not deny that.
I was not trying to challenge their faith, nor was I here to justify mine. I had simply stated my truth.
And judging by the sudden lull in conversation, it seemed they were left speechless by my response. Even Madame Carmen, who was usually composed and unreadable, paused for a moment before speaking again.
"Well, I assume you're aware of the upcoming hunt?" she said, smoothly shifting the conversation. "It's one of the few events where the empire and the temple work together. I trust you'll be attending, Lady Melenheim?"
"Of course, Madame," I replied, taking another sip of my tea.
"Good to hear," she said with a nod. "I look forward to seeing everyone there. This season is full of excitement and quite busy, as you know—there will be many events happening throughout the empire. Brace yourselves, ladies." With that, the conversation shifted back to the usual flow, and the morning tea continued.
Meanwhile, I simply kept to myself—eating the desserts and sipping my tea. I didn't know these women in front of me, and I couldn't shake the feeling that they weren't exactly fond of me. I had no interest in indulging further, save for Marian and Cassandra, who were the only ones I felt any kinship in this party.
The hunt, huh? I look forward to it.