Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 21

The sound tore through the air like a bowstring pulled taut and released — sharp and forceful, unmistakably powerful. Estelle, sensitive to such things, caught the sharp ring of metal splintering, followed by an uncanny silence. Not even the faintest breath could be heard.

Opening her window, she leaned out, surveying the scene below. What had once been a bow and arrow now lay shattered under the weight of some unseen force. But that wasn’t the most curious thing.

She leapt down lightly and examined a small piece caught in the wreckage — a half-bloomed rosebud.

“A rose?” she murmured, holding the flower between her fingers. Her gaze lingered on it for a long moment before tossing it into the dirt nearby.

“Is this some kind of provocation?”

“Could be,” she muttered, brows furrowed. There was something infuriating about the arrogance of it all, as if someone were toying with her without effort.

Her frustration simmered. She needed to break something — or someone.

She strode through the flowers in her garden, and this time, a soft melody reached her ears. Tonight, under the fullness of the moon, someone was singing — a song in Elvish, offering praise to the Moon Goddess, a hymn to her beauty and grace.

“Elvish?” Estelle whispered and followed the voice.

She saw him first by his hair — long, pale gold, nearly white in the moonlight. Then came the tapered ears, unmistakable. A young male elf stood beneath the trees, bow slung across his back.

He paused his song at the sound of her approach and turned. His golden eyes fixed on her.

He was striking, with the ethereal beauty typical of his kind. His lips curled slightly, amused, arrogant.

“Are you the mistress of this estate?” he asked.

Estelle nodded. “Were you just singing the third verse of the Moon Hymn?”

“I was,” he said, smiling with a pride that seemed to shimmer as much as the moonlight around him. “Did my voice bring you here?”

Estelle inclined her head. There was no denying it — elven songs had an almost sacred quality, soothing and pure.

“It reminded me of the sea at night… when I was a child, looking out the window.”

The elf’s grin deepened at that, and he stepped closer, vaulting lightly over the fence between them. “That’s the highest praise I’ve received in some time. Thank you… mysterious lady.”

He reached as though to touch her cheek, but reconsidered, and instead pulled something from his pocket — a small piece of amber, inside which was preserved a white, layered blossom. Estelle recognized it immediately: a rare bloom that only grew beneath the sacred trees of the elves.

“A gift,” he said simply, handing it to her. “I’m Orlando Reginald.”

Estelle raised an eyebrow. “Reginald? As in the elven royal line?”

Orlando gave a wry smile. “Is that going to make you refuse it?”

She sighed and accepted the gift. “No. Thank you.”

The night wind stirred his hair, the laurel crown he wore catching the light. “If you like, I’ll return tomorrow and sing again. Will you listen?”

“He’s not here by chance.”

“I know,” Estelle replied softly. Still, despite the manipulation she’d endured earlier — especially Abel Stoke’s underhanded games — this elf’s song had soothed something dark within her. That was worth something.

As Orlando disappeared into the forest, his ears glowed pink with embarrassment. He wanted to shout with glee but kept quiet — he didn’t want to disturb her dreams.

“Not a bad start,” he thought. “At least she doesn’t dislike me.”

He sighed.

“Do I really have to go to the Crown Prince’s party now?”

“Don’t you want to see him?”

“No… it’s just… the higher a noble thinks of themselves, the later their parties start.” Estelle yawned. “It won’t even begin before ten. What a waste of time and good sleep.”

She glanced at the amber flower in her hand.

“But this is lovely,” she murmured. “If he really comes tomorrow, I should give him something in return.”

What did elves like?

The mysterious voice inside her — a presence she’d long since stopped questioning — let out a breath of relief.

“She’s smiling again. That’s good. In this cruel world, she deserves more reasons to smile.”

The next day, her estate had another visitor.

Estelle — red eyes vivid as ever — opened the door herself.

“No servant?” Clarice blinked.

“There are none,” Estelle said easily. “I live alone.”

“But… who handles the cleaning, the food—?”

“I use magic,” Estelle replied as she stepped aside. “Now tell me, why are you here today?”

“I was passing nearby,” Clarice said, trailing after her. “Thought I’d check in. Heard the Earl of Stoke was here recently.”

“He was,” Estelle said, brushing a hand across the tulips.

“Tea in the garden, perhaps?”

Soon they were seated in the sunlit gazebo, a tea set laid out between them. Clarice watched her hostess closely, unable to hide her awe.

“You’re truly stunning, Estelle.”

Estelle gave a patient smile. “Thank you, Miss Clarice.”

Clarice was known to be drawn to beauty — her infatuation with the Crown Prince stemmed mostly from his good looks. Now, seeing someone more aligned with her tastes, her gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Eventually, she sipped her tea and casually commented, “Not many parties in the capital lately. Everyone’s busy preparing for the Crown Prince’s birthday, you know — the Emperor himself is attending.”

Estelle arched a brow. “You don’t have to pretend. Of course the Emperor will attend — the Crown Prince is his golden investment. He won’t abandon him without cause.”

Clarice hesitated, then leaned in. “But… the Emperor has another son.”

Estelle’s expression froze.

“A bastard?”

Clarice’s cheeks flushed, clearly thrilled to know something Estelle didn’t. “Yes! Older than the Crown Prince, apparently.”

“By a mistress?”

“No idea. But rumor says the Empress was chosen by the late Empress Dowager — the Emperor never truly loved her.”

Estelle tilted her head. “And this illegitimate son… what do we know of him?”

“Not much, only that he rules a far-off territory. My father says he bears a striking resemblance to His Majesty.”

Clarice soon left, her visit brief.

“Surprised?” the voice asked.

Estelle shrugged. “A bit. I’d never heard of him before.”

“Perhaps because the Emperor puts his trust in the Crown Prince you know so well.”

“That makes sense.”

Estelle thought of Edwin — intelligent, decisive, open to correction. Far better than the Crown Prince, who lacked foresight and autonomy.

If not for Edwin, she and Cizelle might’ve considered eliminating the Prince already.

“Can we find this bastard prince?” she asked aloud.

“You want to meet him?”

“No need. Just leave a report on the Crown Prince’s recent conduct on his desk.”

“If he’s clever and ambitious, he’ll know what to do.”

She wasn’t about to spoon-feed him opportunity.

“The Crown Prince’s hatred for you runs deep. Toxic. All-consuming.”

“I still don’t understand it,” she whispered. “I was nothing but loyal to him. So why—?”

Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice — soft, strange, familiar.

“The villainess always earns the hero’s hatred. Isn’t that how it goes?”

Estelle sat up sharply. “Is that… you? Are you still there?”

“Your Highness? Who are you talking to?”

“No one…” she murmured.

Estelle strained to hear, but nothing more came. She wasn’t sure if the voice knew this world was fictional. But she decided not to press it further — only to remember.

“It’s probably my imagination,” she muttered. “Didn’t you hear anything?”

“Nothing at all.”

She stayed quiet after that. But the words — villainess, hero — haunted her.

Far away, in the Crown Prince’s palace, rumors swirled. Outsiders saw only a shut door and priests gathered outside.

Inside, a priest with pale blond hair and a face like cold marble forced a smile.

“Your Highness… don’t worry. We’ll make your request a reality.”