Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 2

Cizelle Hawke.

A man shaped by early loss, whose heart had long been shut away — colder than the frost on winter stone.

An unparalleled talent in the empire, and the emperor’s most trusted subject, he remained distant from all power-hungry nobles, keeping them at arm’s length.

That was Cizer — before he met Estelle.

Their first meeting was unexpected. A boy in his late teens kneeling in front of an eight-year-old girl, asking for her name. In that moment, she became something no one else had ever been to him: a friend.

A friend — not an ally, not an obligation, but someone truly dear. An equal.

And the man once thought to be emotionless… changed. Slowly, quietly, imperceptibly — the ice began to melt.

Edwin could still recall the palace gatherings of his youth. Estelle, even then, had no interest in mingling. While the other children played and laughed, she preferred solitude — sitting on the garden swing with her chin in her hands, lost in thought.

She was reserved, proud to the bone, naturally distant — but she had the kind of beauty that stopped you. Her gaze, especially… it stirred something inside him.

Her father, the well-respected Marquis Stoke, had once approached her with the young prince Edwin in tow. Edwin, then little more than an awkward boy, remembered how gently her name was spoken.

“Lady Estelle.”

She looked up.

Those eyes of hers — they sparkled brighter than any gemstone in the crown. But they weren’t empty or shallow. They were soft, deep, full of life.

She didn’t smile. Her features were flawless, almost doll-like, as if sculpted. But those eyes gave her soul.

“Your Highness,” she replied coolly, rising to curtsy.

Edwin’s heart stuttered in his chest. In that moment, he couldn’t even look her in the eye — a girl five years his junior had stolen the breath from his lungs.

He, too, had been a prodigy.

But unlike Cizer’s emotionless detachment, Edwin was polished, practiced — always smiling the right smile. His swordsmanship had earned him early praise, and elite mentors trained him personally.

He was the ideal heir — born to lead, raised to rule.

He’d always kept a grip on everything: his image, his emotions, his surroundings. Until Estelle.

Her presence disrupted him. She was a dissonant note in his carefully arranged melody — wrong, and yet alive.

So, he began avoiding her.

Not abruptly, but with subtle grace. He kept their distance as natural as possible. And it worked — they barely crossed paths. Even though the emperor had considered pairing them, he never pushed it.

Still, Edwin would always find himself looking her way.

She’d be there, seated quietly and alone, an ethereal figure in fine silks. A portrait come to life.

Sometimes, she would lift her gaze, catching his for just a second. A slight nod. Then she’d look away again.

That fleeting moment — the unspoken understanding — stayed with him. The avoidance became less deliberate. He even began to look forward to those silent exchanges.

She didn’t draw near. But Edwin was patient. He thought that if he simply waited, gently, she might one day come closer on her own.

He wasn’t yet aware of what he truly felt. But it was warm, hopeful, like a dream.

And then the dream shattered.

Cizer appeared at her side.

Two people who rarely let others in had found each other. The bond between them closed off the rest of the world.

The emperor praised his prized protégé without restraint, but Edwin — standing in his shadow — could barely hide the storm behind his eyes.

Everyone saw it. The capital whispered of the bond between the withdrawn Grand Duke and the noble girl. They were like a pair from some forgotten myth — belonging only to each other, yet somehow more present in the world than ever before.

Especially for Cizer — his servants noted how the man who once seemed to loathe life itself was slowly beginning to open his heart. Estelle had changed him.

They all assumed things would continue this way.

“Milady.”

The graveyard wind tugged at her cloak. Estelle crouched in front of the tombstone, pressing violets and roses into the earth.

“It’s cold tonight. Wrap yourself up,” Phoebe urged gently.

Her gaze drifted to Estelle’s lace-covered hand. “You shouldn’t let your hand get chilled.”

Estelle raised that same hand to brush the stone, then stared at it for a long time before standing. She turned to accept the cloak, but froze.

A figure stood a short distance away — not close, not far — watching her silently.

Dark hair, violet eyes. Dressed in the formal uniform of a duke, sword at his hip. The eyes were darker than the amethyst gem at his collar.

“Lord Arnold,” Phoebe greeted with a polite nod, while Estelle averted her gaze, unwilling to meet his for even a moment.

Phoebe’s eyes darted up again. The resemblance was jarring — Arnold’s face was almost a mirror of Cizer’s, enough to make the heart jump.

“Come to pay your respects to Cizer?” Estelle asked coolly, eyes fixed on the flowers.

“My uncle asked me to look after you,” Arnold replied, ignoring the question.

“I don’t need it.”

At last, she looked at him — really looked. Arnold, the so-called “villain” of the original tale.

Cizer’s nephew. Though their titles made them uncle and nephew, the age gap was small — barely five years.

Arnold, as written, was sharp and unfathomable. After Cizer’s death, he inherited his position. And in the story, he constantly clashed with Edwin for the heroine’s affection. Possessive to a fault, his love frightened more than it charmed.

But none of that was what made Estelle push him away.

It was something else.

A memory surfaced.

“You can think of me as your uncle,” he had said once.

Grief still fresh from Cizer’s death, her father barely able to stand — and then Arnold, face so like Cizer’s, came far too close. He whispered low, voice honeyed with false comfort.

“Will that make it easier to bear?”

In that moment, Estelle’s sorrow turned to rage.

Her gloved hand had struck him across the face, hard enough to sting her fingers.

“Get out.”

Her voice trembled with fury. “Don’t come near me again.”

Arnold hadn’t reacted. He simply turned back to look at her, expression unreadable.

“My lady…”

“If your heart is forever bound to my dead uncle…” he murmured, voice almost gentle.

“I don’t know what I might become.”

Let go of him, he seemed to plead.

Let him fade.

And love me instead