Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 23
The moment that voice echoed behind her, Estelle felt physically ill.
Not emotionally—not anger or sadness—but something far more visceral. Like tasting something rotten, her stomach churned. She clutched her mouth, gagging violently.
“Miss?” Orlando was beside her in an instant, concern flaring in his eyes. Forgetting all etiquette, he stepped forward and gently steadied her, his hand patting her back with nervous care. “Did you eat something that disagreed with you?”
Estelle didn’t respond right away. She just lifted her head slightly—and spotted the Crown Prince.
That did it.
She gagged again.
It was instinctual—pure, undeniable revulsion. Her body reacted before her mind could.
Across from them, the Crown Prince stood frozen, face dark with disbelief. He had always existed at the center of admiration, never scorn. The open disgust on Estelle’s face stunned him—and the watching crowd. For a moment, all sound seemed to vanish under the hum of embarrassment and rising tension.
Beside him, Hibel—his fiancée—showed no sympathy. In fact, her lips twitched in faint amusement. Misery finds comfort in comparison, after all, and seeing someone else’s fall felt like a strange kind of justice.
Estelle murmured, her voice rough: “Water… I want some water.”
Orlando brushed a few strands of hair from her cheek and offered a soft smile—filled with more than admiration now, something deeper, something like devotion. “Let’s get you something to drink.”
But before they could walk away, a sharp voice cut through the air.
“Estelle!”
It was the Crown Prince, striding forward in a rage, his tone cutting. He stared at her, then at Orlando, and something inside him broke.
“You’re really this desperate now? It hasn’t even been that long, and you’re already clinging to the Elf Prince?”
His words were venomous. But before anyone could even react—
Crack.
Orlando struck him. One clean, furious punch sent the Crown Prince sprawling to the ground.
The air thickened.
Estelle’s expression didn’t change. If anything, it grew colder. Around her, the temperature seemed to drop several degrees. The high-pitched screech of an attendant rang out as he rushed to his fallen master—but Estelle only sighed, irritated.
“So noisy,” she muttered, covering her ears. Her voice wasn’t angry, just… tired. The squire stopped in his tracks, suddenly feeling as though invisible hands were wrapped around his throat. He dropped to his knees in fright.
“Prince Orlando!” Hibel, no longer entertained, finally stepped in. Unlike the fallen prince, Orlando held real power—heir to the Elven Kingdom, already entrusted with authority. She could not ignore this.
She hurried forward, lifting her skirts. “Your Highness, what do you think you’re doing?”
Orlando ignored her. His fists clenched. He was ready to strike again.
“Don’t,” Estelle said softly, placing a hand over his fist. “He’s not worth dirtying your hands.”
The Crown Prince, hearing this, felt a flare of shame and fury. “Estelle! You just stand there and—”
She cut him off with a look.
“You really think if you throw a tantrum, I’ll just smile and forgive you?”
Her voice was cool, almost amused.
“The Crown Prince of the Empire… Not just blind, but proudly disrespectful to women as well.”
She stepped forward—and pressed her foot against his ankle. Not hard, just enough to make him flinch.
“I’ve told you before. My name is Eureka Adelaide. I’m not ‘Estelle.’ That woman loved you—foolishly, wholeheartedly—and you spat on that love like it was yours to discard.”
Her voice rose slightly.
“What—are you suggesting that every woman who’s ever loved you must remain single forever? That no one who’s ever looked your way can move on? Are they possessions, to be kept on a shelf until you decide they’re worthy?”
Gasps spread through the onlookers. Estelle could feel the tide turning.
Hibel felt it too. The temperature of the crowd had shifted. Whispers now ran through the nobles—especially among the women.
“Didn’t think His Highness would say something like that…”
“Shameless…”
Young noblewomen, proud and educated, began casting disgusted glances at the Crown Prince. They had all been taught the importance of dignity, of choosing wisely. For a royal to suggest that a woman’s love meant forfeiting her future? Unforgivable.
“And another thing,” Estelle said, voice calm but ringing clear. “I never met Miss Stoker—but I heard what she did for you. Whatever her faults, she loved sincerely.”
Silence fell like a blanket.
Estelle’s eyes swept the crowd. No one dared meet her gaze.
Because the truth was undeniable: many of them had mocked the girl out of fear. Fear of someone who loved so deeply, who gave so freely. Fear that they could never do the same.
“Even someone like me,” a noble lady murmured, “would hope for a love like that.”
Estelle turned her attention back to the man beneath her.
“I think we all want to be loved like that—irrationally, unconditionally, selflessly.”
Her voice softened, but not with kindness.
“You scorned her devotion like a fool who inherits a fortune and spends it recklessly, thinking it will last forever.”
“But love, like wealth, runs out.”
She lifted her foot.
The Crown Prince lay still, trembling.
“If I were that girl,” Estelle whispered, “and saw you now, I don’t think I’d waste my love on you again.”
Yet her eyes shimmered with unshed tears.
“I saw you today—and it ruined my mood.”
She smiled faintly, bitterly. “Guess that’s just my luck.”
The Crown Prince didn’t respond. His usual pride crumbled. His lips moved, searching for some defense—but there was none.
All he could see in his mind was her—the girl who once smiled at him in the garden, flowers in hand. No one had ever smiled at him like that before.
And now… she was gone.
Replaced by someone who looked just like her but could barely stand the sight of him.
He reached out in desperation. “Estelle, I didn’t mean—”
But she was already turning.
She gave Orlando a warm, reassuring smile, ignoring the man behind her completely. “Let’s go home.”
Orlando shot one final glance at the prince—just in time to see him faint from the stress—and nodded. “I’ll walk you back.”
They left the chaos behind without another word.
The walk was quiet.
Several times, Orlando seemed ready to speak—but held back.
Finally, Estelle broke the silence. “I’m sorry.”
Orlando blinked. “For what?”
“For getting you dragged into all that.”
Orlando thought for a second before shaking his head. “You don’t need to apologize. My beliefs—our faith—won’t let me just stand by while a man shames a woman like that.”
In the elven culture, where the Huntress Goddess reigned supreme, women held enormous respect. Any insult or violation wasn’t just personal—it was sacrilege.
The manor appeared too quickly—Estelle reached for the iron gate.
“Wait!” Orlando called, catching her sleeve.
She turned, eyes wide and unreadable.
He hesitated, but then—
“I know it’s sudden, but… I have feelings for you.”
Estelle didn’t flinch.
“It’s like being a sunflower,” Orlando said, voice shaking slightly. “Always turning toward the light. That’s how I feel about you.”
“I admire you. Deeply.”
She took it in, calmly. “Thank you,” she said.
But it was clear.
“No need to say more,” Orlando said with a faint, sad smile. “I know how you feel. But… is it all right if I keep trying? Even if nothing comes of it?”
She looked away. “That’s your choice.”
He didn’t stop smiling. “Even if you don’t admit it, Miss… you’re kinder than you let on.”
Estelle sighed, half exasperated. “Love makes people foolish. But eventually, it wears off.”
Orlando chuckled. “There’s a banquet coming up. The Crown Prince’s birthday. I was going to go alone—no familiar elves in the city with me. Would you come with me?”
“No,” Estelle said immediately.
Orlando looked crushed. “You know I probably won’t find another partner after today’s chaos…”
Estelle hesitated—then relented. “Fine. Just this once.”
The next morning, the doorbell rang.
When Estelle opened it, an elven guard handed her a large gift box.
She stared at it, expression blank.
“His Highness asked me to deliver this. It’s your outfit for the banquet,” the guard said with a formal bow. “Good day, Lady.”
Before she could return the box, he was already retreating—graceful, fast, and completely uncatchable.
Estelle stared after him, then looked down at the box in her arms.
“…Regretting this already,” she muttered.
Back at the palace, the Crown Prince had locked himself in his study. Refusing to leave, refusing to speak.
Wimborne paused outside his door, frowning. Something was off. The Crown Prince