Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 17
Three days later, Estelle received the emperor’s envoys at her manor.
The attendants, already aware that she might be a magician of the eighth level or higher, dared not show any arrogance. Their usual haughty demeanor vanished completely, replaced by a practiced, ingratiating smile from the elder with gray hair: “Honored Mistress, in seven days it will be the birthday celebration of His Royal Highness the Crown Prince. Here is the invitation.”
Estelle took the invitation, returning a polite smile as she asked, “His Royal Highness the Crown Prince?”
The attendant wiped a bead of sweat from his brow.
Being close to His Majesty, he knew full well that only days ago, this mage had shown disrespect and boldness towards the Crown Prince during a dance. Yet, such acts meant little in the face of overwhelming power. Even the emperor himself, upon hearing about it, had only smiled and praised her generosity.
The emperor’s mindset remained unfathomable.
“How intriguing.”
Estelle allowed herself a hint of curiosity and accepted the invitation: “Please inform His Royal Highness that I will attend.”
Silently translating this to mean, “In your heart, please convey to His Majesty that I shall come,” the attendant was delighted and bowed respectfully before leaving.
As he turned away, a fleeting unusual thought crossed his mind, but he dismissed it as trivial and gave it no further attention. He returned to the palace by carriage.
“Oh? She accepted?”
“Your Majesty, those who bask in your glory naturally desire to witness your brilliance.”
The emperor’s eyes narrowed slightly, fine wrinkles appearing at the corners of his aged face. Once a fierce lion ruling his throne and crushing all challengers, now a younger, stronger contender eyed his seat with ambition.
He knew the prime of his reign was passing, and no predator willingly relinquishes its power peacefully. A battle for dominance was inevitable.
“Luke,” the emperor called the attendant’s name, “Send more men to the feast in seven days. Instruct them to treat the mage with the utmost respect.”
“Yes, Your Majesty.”
Luke didn’t ponder the emperor’s deeper intentions. As the emperor’s voice and eyes, his role was to obey, not question.
Meanwhile, Estelle donned her cloak and returned to the merchants of Black Street.
“I want gold,” she declared, flashing a perfect smile like an immaculate white lily, presenting a sapphire in her palm.
The merchant hesitated for a long moment: “Surely you have enough gold already.”
Her tranquil lake-blue eyes held him silently, speaking volumes without words.
Eventually, he accepted the gem, murmuring, “God, are you here to bargain or to purchase my soul?”
Estelle shook her head, staring into his eyes: “I’m not interested in buying hearts. That’s harder than catching the silver moon in the sky.”
The merchant fell silent, sensing she wanted no further discussion. Estelle turned and left the shop.
After she departed, he whispered—perhaps to himself or as an answer—“But isn’t the moon right here before me?”
Later, in the tavern on Black Street, the bartender was polishing a glass when the door swung open.
A girl entered and leaned against the counter. She was neither plump nor slim, but somewhere in between. She chewed a piece of candy with her hair carelessly tied back. Her expression was distant, unreadable.
The bartender was struck dumb. Though he had never seen her before and had no portrait, he instantly knew who she was.
Noticing his gaze, the girl looked up and tapped the table: “A glass of wine, please.”
He lost all words. The quick wit he usually relied on deserted him. He mixed the drink and handed it over.
She seemed out of place among the mercenaries lurking in the shadows. The bartender noticed several dark elves whose eyes glowed faintly—hunters waiting for a chance to ingratiate themselves with her.
A burly mercenary swallowed his ale as an orc blushed and nervously approached her. Estelle said nothing, only met his gaze with a quiet glance. The orc awkwardly handed over the glass. She stared at him briefly, smiled softly, and touched the glass.
The bartender paused as the tavern erupted with whispers and envious looks.
Several night elves rose. At the forefront was a striking one. Unlike his companions’ bold attire, his outfit resembled the refined style of Mori elves—a light knight’s armor decorated with moonflowers and leaf motifs in black satin.
The silver-haired, dark-skinned elf approached with a glass of wine: “Madam,” he said, smiling subtly but confidently, “Are you in need of company tonight?”
The tavern fell silent, eyes glittering with anticipation. If the elf’s charm could be captured, many would gladly trap him.
He glanced at her, then at the wine glass in his hand.
Her face was reflected in the wine, bare of makeup except for a faint trace of lipstick along the rim—a delicate touch that reminded him of moonlight and blossoming petals trembling in the night.
She finished the wine, set the glass down to signal another round, and after studying the wine list, looked at the elf for half a minute before replying: “I have no need for a bed companion, and I’m not interested in such matters right now. Apologies.”
Her tone was gentle, but the elf caught the firm resolve beneath it. Though reluctant to back down, he knew pressing further would only worsen her mood. Yielding strategically, he offered: “If you require anything else, two glasses of gin are on offer here.”
Estelle wrapped her hair and examined the list with mild amusement: “Seems you’re not cheap.”
Naturally, the most expensive was…
“Still have Cognac?” she asked. The bartender smiled bitterly, replying, “Haven’t you had enough already?”
He recalled the assassin who returned soaked by rain, dejected like a stray dog abandoned by its master. After hearing the story, the bartender felt no pity.
A weapon aimed at its wielder’s heart is a tool better discarded.
Still, the patron was generous and considerate, likely due to his humble origins and appreciation for kindness.
The deal was the same. When the assassin crossed the line asking for help, his nature changed. The bartender sensed not greed but something darker lurking beneath.
“Is he Cognac?” Estelle thought of the assassin.
Like a loyal puppy offering his neck for the leash, she didn’t want to tame him. She could hand him the fishing rod but refused to let him follow her daily for the catch.
She downed another glass, set it down, donned her cloak, pushed open the tavern door, and left.
The bartender looked after her: “Giving up?”
The assassin rose, pressed a hand to his mouth, and remained silent.
“She doesn’t even bother to ask you,” the bartender warned, “The old man knows about your recent oddities. If you keep dodging tasks, you know what’s coming, right?”
The bartender’s fleeting sense of kinship led him to offer one final piece of advice: “If you want to see her again, at least keep yourself alive. Do you want her to pick up your corpse in the end?”
In this harsh world, those who can no longer create value end up as nothing but bones in the earth.
Estelle heard a faint, fragile cry—a thin voice echoing somewhere.
She kicked a stone, and a scream echoed from a deep alley nearby. Several drunken men rose simultaneously and charged toward the noise.
Estelle crossed her arms and watched as a group dragged a man, stripped from the waist down, throwing him to the ground like a discarded corpse.
The mercenaries and orcs jeered, mocking his exposed state, but Estelle spotted a young girl nearby, barely eleven or twelve, looking distressed.
A girl cloaked in black stepped forward. The men, momentarily silenced by her presence, ceased their lewd remarks. Some intoxicated mercenaries tried to continue their teasing but were quickly hushed by their companions.
Estelle grabbed the man’s hair and pulled him into the alley. The girl, supported by friends, was pale and trembling, bruised and scraped from the struggle, tears like rain tracing her face.
The jagged stones scraped the delicate skin of the girl. The man wailed curses, but Estelle ignored him. She yanked his hair and forced him up: “Apologize.”
He refused to listen, bloodshot eyes barely focusing as he spat: “You lowborn, do you know who I am?”
Estelle glanced at the ragged girl, whose youthful face still held a fragile beauty. The girl looked up at her silently.
Estelle pulled the man’s head back, pressing it against the wall: “Apologize.”
“You—”
Bang!
The drunken onlookers snapped to attention. The girl’s face remained calm, as if she held a weighty object in her hands, relentlessly pressing his head against the stone. No matter the insults he hurled, she wouldn’t relent until he spoke.
Her gaze hardened, growing sharper. The man finally broke, choking out, “I… I apologize. Please stop! Enough!”