Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 3

It wasn’t hard for the nobility to figure out Arnold’s intentions — in fact, the truth had been plain for quite some time.

Among aristocrats, whose private indulgences and moral boundaries often blurred, even a fixation on one’s own uncle’s former “companion” was hardly scandalous. In their world, power excused everything — even the unacceptable.

And with the Earl of Stoke neither openly supporting nor opposing the idea, Arnold had no need to keep his motives hidden. On the contrary, his pursuit of Estelle grew more brazen by the day.

If anything, the nobles found Arnold more unsettling than Cizer had ever been.

He bore the same face — near identical in appearance — but the resemblance stopped there. Where Cizer had been distant and restrained, Arnold’s coldness carried something far darker. He could smile at you over wine, and a moment later, toss you to your ruin with that same serene expression.

Yet now, that same man kept his distance — quietly, cautiously trailing behind the girl he desired.

His eyes were locked on her, heavy and unyielding, like chains only he could see. The girl’s silhouette looked even slimmer than before — her once vibrant figure now subtly fragile. Since Cizer’s death, she’d been steadily wasting away.

But Arnold had no desire to possess her.

He had spent too long revering her from afar. She’d always stood above him — unreachable, untouchable — and he’d gladly destroy himself if it meant lifting her even higher. Yet at the same time… he couldn’t stop himself from dragging her down into the dirt with him.

Estelle moved quickly.

She crossed the cemetery without pause, passed through the rare blooms in the garden, and stepped briskly onto the winding stone path. The wind picked up, tangling her veil and hair across her face. Phoebe, ever-loyal, hurried after her, glancing nervously behind them.

“No need to look back.”

Estelle climbed into the carriage. “Let’s go.”

“But…”

Phoebe’s voice trailed off, worriedly peeking at Arnold still seated atop his horse. Estelle let out a low scoff.

“If he wants to chase shadows, let him.”

Her slender fingers lifted the crimson curtain, revealing a face so flawlessly sculpted even the Pope had once been captivated by it — and yet, that same face was devoid of warmth, as empty as winter frost on stone.

“We’re going home.”

Their eyes met through the veil of distance — her gaze flat, his drowning in obsession. There was something suffocating in Arnold’s stare, something consuming. She stared back for a beat, then slowly let the curtain fall.

He mouthed something she didn’t bother to read.

The Stoke family’s estate, positioned close to the royal palace, reflected their favored status and long-standing influence. It was here that Estelle’s brother, Wilder — heir to the family title — found himself pacing his study, unable to focus on his paperwork.

“She’s still not back?”

The words barely left his mouth when the sound of carriage wheels echoed through the grounds. From the window, he saw her step out — starlight embroidery trailing behind her like falling dusk.

But Wilder’s smile froze before it formed.

He saw the quiet fury behind her still expression.

“Es.”

She had just set foot on the stairs when he called her name. She turned back.

“Father.”

Earl Stoke, for whom aging seemed optional, looked every bit the man who had fathered a daughter like Estelle. With jet-black hair and a composed face, he looked not much older than thirty. His features, sharp and refined, were always composed — even when hiding a thousand motives.

He approached her slowly, brushing a stray petal from her hair.

“You saw the duke again, didn’t you?”

Estelle didn’t answer. She turned away, lips pressed in a line. Her face, bathed in silver moonlight, seemed paler than ever.

She hadn’t smiled in a long time.

“Ace…” he said gently, “must everyone else be invisible to you if they’re not Cizer?”

She hesitated, lips parting, but then sighed instead of speaking.

“I’m tired, Father.”

Those who knew the original story well understood: neither the Earl nor his son were heroes.

Earl Stoke was cold to his core, a man whose only loyalty was to power. Even his children and late wife had always been tools in his grand design. As for Wilder — though he played the role of dutiful heir — he would one day fall deeply for Hibel, leading to a deadly clash with the crown prince.

Estelle was the sole daughter of his second marriage. Her mother, having passed away two years after her birth, had left her in the care of the manor’s staff. Though rarely visited by her father, she lacked nothing — her upbringing wrapped in luxury, her every wish granted.

Too much freedom. Too little love.

“That kind of indulgence,” the nobles whispered in hindsight, “is what broke her.”

Later that night, Estelle extinguished her candle and slipped into bed. She couldn’t understand her father’s actions anymore. Did he really want her to marry Arnold? Then why cloak it in this strange, uneasy warmth?

It wasn’t just him. Wilder too… something about him was changing.

Knock knock.

“Ace? Are you awake?”

“I am.”

“May I come in?”

Wilder entered with a glass of warm milk. His features mirrored his father’s, but he still carried the soft vitality of youth — that flicker of something not yet hardened by time.

“This is for you.”

“Thank you, brother,” Estelle said, accepting it with surprise. She didn’t seem any different outwardly, save for the lingering pallor in her cheeks.

Wilder watched her closely as she took a sip, leaving a faint trace of milk on her upper lip. She licked it away absentmindedly.

His eyes clouded for a second — sorrow, maybe.

“Brother?”

Wilder shook it off with a practiced smile and took back the cup.

“I could tell your mood was off. Did something happen at the gathering?”

She paused, then spoke flatly: “Nothing much. Only… it seems the Crown Prince has fallen for Hibel.”

She glanced up at him, testing him. Will you be angry? Will you do something reckless?

But Wilder only blinked once, calmly. Not a trace of affection flickered at the mention of Hibel. He gave a cold, calculating reply:

“Seems the temple and the throne are finally drawing closer.”

Then, with a gentler tone, he brushed a hand over her cheek.

“Rest well, Ace. Goodnight.”

He stepped out and found what he’d expected: his father was already there, silent at the end of the corridor, watching Estelle’s door.

Wilder’s warmth vanished. His eyes grew sharp as he strode to meet the Count. Earl Stoke merely turned, gesturing toward his study.

“I still don’t see why you insist on forcing Arnold toward her,” Wilder said coldly.

The Count ran his fingers over the violets on his desk and smiled faintly.

“A memory can’t be defeated unless it’s replaced.”

He tapped a petal and let it fall.

“Arnold… does carry a ghost’s face.”

Whether his daughter wanted a duplicate or not didn’t matter to him.

If someone could tear down the phantom that ruled her heart — or even just slip into its shape — then that was enough. Ten replacements, a hundred… no cost was too high.

But his daughter — his precious, impossible daughter — was far too loyal.

Too loyal for her own good.

The Count’s smile disappeared. His voice turned cold.

“Pathetic.”