Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 12

Estelle recalled a moment from her past life—caught in a storm during her travels. The fierce winds, merciless and endless, reminded her of that night when she sat quietly in a hotel room, listening to rain hammer the world outside.

Now, drifting through a raging storm of space and time, she saw scattered fragments of past, present, and future all around her. Cracks in the very fabric of reality opened and closed at random. She extended her awareness, searching for a familiar spatial anchor—one that would lead her back to the human world.

But there were thousands of these rifts, all fleeting. Finding the right one within mere seconds was nearly impossible.

Still, her heart remained calm—serene as a still sea. She focused, tuning into the turbulence like one listens for a single raindrop among thousands. And finally… she heard it.

Estelle’s eyes opened. She hurled her ice-forged sword into the void, pinning the fragile moment of stability. The moment it struck, she was already moving, stepping into the frozen fracture.

And then—

The world shifted violently.

New rifts opened like jaws. The one she had chosen suddenly vanished, reappearing below her. She tried to retreat—but it was too late. The crack yawned wide, pulling her downward like a black hole.

“Ace?”

Back in the real world, Wilder saw her fingers twitch. He rushed to the bedside, grabbing her hand tightly, eyes locked on her face. Outside, thunder roared and lightning split the sky. Rain pounded the earth.

“Ace… Estelle?” he whispered again, desperate.

Her eyelashes trembled. A flicker of life. A miracle.

And then—

It was raining again.

Estelle awoke, barefoot and standing in the familiar mud of the capital’s outskirts. The air was thick, the sky heavy with rain, and crows scattered above the trees.

She lifted her arms slowly. Her body bore the signs of past suffering—lash marks, bruises, scars, and half-healed wounds. A water mirror appeared before her, reflecting a face she hadn’t seen in a long time.

The same lake-blue eyes stared back at her—but this version of her was sharper, colder. There was a proud arrogance in her features. She looked like a royal flower fallen into dust, still defiant.

The reflection blinked, then gently touched her chest.

“She is…”

She is Estelle— you, and yet not you.

The voice in her mind was respectful, almost reverent.

Forgive the lack of a proper invitation.
But I urge you to observe this place—so familiar, yet not your own. Seek. Perceive. Discover what lies buried.

Estelle stepped deeper into the woods, unconvinced.

“What’s your leverage?” she asked dryly, slicing a symbol into her wrist with quick strokes. “Why would I follow your lead?”

I know your name.

The voice remained calm.

I know you once beheaded the shadow dragon and hung its skull above the gates. That you fired arrows through a sky without light. That you walked into a plague-ridden city to save innocents, delivered medicine to the slums…

Compassionate. Noble. Do you not long to explore the world for yourself once more?

“I don’t,” Estelle said flatly. “You’ve misjudged me. I’m neither of those things.”

Perhaps. But destiny has already stirred. Ahead lie not only uncertainties—but maybe the answers you seek.

She paused at that, considering.

“That’s not enough to bargain with.”

And yet… you’re still listening.

She flicked her palm, catching falling raindrops.

“You’re right,” she murmured. “Then make a pact with me.”

“If you’re deceiving me, the very fate you speak of will erase your existence. Agreed?”

I don’t think I have the right to decline.

Elsewhere, the Stoke family’s elite knights approached on horseback. Leading them was Wilder, the earl’s eldest son.

He stared into the misty forest, his dark eyes unreadable.

“This is where she vanished?”

“Yes, my lord,” one of the knights replied, his tone dripping with disdain for the disgraced daughter who had supposedly drowned. If the truth emerged, the scandal would be explosive.

Wilder gave a nod. His voice was ice.

“Fan out. Search everything.”

If she dared return to the capital and reveal the truth—then her death would become permanent. No ashes. No trace.

Estelle heard boots crushing wet leaves. Knights were sweeping the forest. Among them was another Wilder—the version of her brother from this world. He was searching for the body of her, the Estelle who had disappeared.

She touched her heart. That version of herself—young, beautiful, noble—had been crushed under this cruel, blooming aristocracy.

A pang of sadness hit her chest. Still, she stepped out from the trees.

Wilder turned sharply. Hoofbeats stilled. A figure approached, quiet as mist.

“…Estelle?”

He expected a corpse—or someone barely alive.

But the woman before him glowed with life. Her skin flushed, her dress clinging elegantly despite the storm. Her long hair floated behind her like silk, her eyes cold and clear.

Wilder’s breath caught.

Wasn’t her leg shattered? Was he seeing a ghost?

He unsheathed his silver sword warily.

“Are you alive… or dead?”

Estelle didn’t answer. Her expression was tight, her mood clearly sour. Her scars were visible, but they seemed to enhance rather than mar her beauty. Her bloodied face still held a haunting grace.

Wilder’s heart thudded. There was something different about her.

“…Who are you?” he finally asked.

She didn’t respond. Just stared. Irritation flickered in her eyes, quiet and persistent.

“Get out of my way,” she said, voice like flint.

At her words, his horse reared, then bolted. Wilder leapt down but couldn’t move—an unseen force held him frozen. All he could do was watch her walk away.

Rain softened to mist.

On the road, she met another knight—young, golden-haired, and arrogantly handsome.

“You’re still alive?” he blurted, clearly shocked. His face twisted with disdain. He’d assumed her dead, dismissed her as nothing more than a disgrace.

Estelle ignored him completely.

To him, she was just a decorative doll. A spoiled heiress. Someone who’d once cried and begged when dragged away in shame.

He stepped in front of her with a smug smile.

“Orders are to take you to the fief. You’re already dead in the capital.”

Expecting another outburst, he leaned in—but was instead met with cold steel. He froze, panic rising. Her voice was low, cutting.

“Who gave you permission to speak to me like that?”

He tried to flee. His instincts screamed danger. But his body refused. His knees buckled. He fell before her.

Shaking, the knight could only stare as Estelle raised her hand.

“Traitor,” she said, slapping him hard. “Trash who climbs over the bodies of his own people.”

Didn’t you hire this one? the voice in her head teased.

Of course not.

She’d already expelled filth like him, sending them to rot in the sheriff’s prison.

People like that weren’t worth a thought. They would drown in their own swamp.

Estelle kicked him aside and walked on without looking back.

The rain faded. Night gave way to early dawn, stars blinking against the paleening sky. Soft hues of blue and pink melted together—colors no painter could replicate.

She paused a while to admire it, then resumed her journey toward the capital.

Elsewhere, a merchant yawned, bleary-eyed. He’d barely slept and longed to crawl back to bed.

Then—a knock on his table.

A cloaked figure stood before him, face hidden, but presence undeniable. A large ruby clinked against the wood.

“Storm’s been too rough,” he began, half-refusing out of habit.

But the voice that answered—neither clearly male nor female—cut through the fog:

“I don’t need you to do anything during the storm. I just want some skin.”

The merchant blinked.

“Not normal skin, I’m guessing… You’ll need to wait.”

“How long?”

“Three days.”

“Fine.”

The figure paused, then added, “I’ll also need a set of clothes.”

She undid her cloak.

And when the merchant saw her face, he forgot to breathe.

In the dim light, her beauty transformed the small shop into a palace.

“I’ll wait here,” she said.

And smiled.