Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 4

Why is she always unhappy?

It was a question Earl Stoke found himself asking on countless nights — a quiet thought that lingered as he sat by his daughter’s bed and watched her sleep.

Estelle, his only daughter, was a prodigy.

But the word prodigy alone didn’t do her justice. The world has no shortage of talented individuals. Estelle was more than that — she was the kind of miracle that appears once in a millennium, hidden away in a secluded estate outside the capital.

Her brilliance was enough to overshadow her cold and distant personality. Even when she stood apart from others at the grandest of gatherings, no one dared call her strange.

Society is quick to forgive eccentricity when it comes wrapped in brilliance.

Just like they did with Cizelle — the late Grand Duke — or with Estelle, whose extraordinary gifts even made the temple desperate to claim her as their own.

“Does Lady Estelle have any personal interests or hobbies?”

A high-ranking priest from the temple had once asked, respectfully addressing her with an honorific usually reserved for royalty — even though he was speaking to her father.

Hobbies?

To the Earl of Stoke, parenting meant little more than ensuring his daughter survived and lived in comfort. He gave a vague answer, smooth and practiced, brushing the question aside.

But the question stuck with him.

Long after he’d finished his paperwork and the rest of the house had gone quiet, he found himself staring at the last flickering candlelight, unsettled by the bishop’s inquiry.

What does my daughter actually enjoy?

It was rare for the Count to feel curiosity — rarer still when it came to his own child. But now, faced with that question, he felt something unfamiliar stir.

She’d always seemed like a porcelain doll encased in glass — too rare, too strange, too distant from the world.

The next morning, he summoned the manor’s steward.

The elderly man, dignified in his tailored uniform and silver-framed glasses, exuded the calm wisdom of age.

“She doesn’t seem to have any particular interests, my lord,” he replied. “But… she does seem to enjoy fencing.”

“Fencing?” The Earl blinked. “Are you sure? I thought Estelle’s talent was magic — not swordsmanship.”

There was no mistake. And suddenly, the Earl couldn’t help but wonder — how would the temple react if they discovered their brightest magical hope preferred a blade to a spell?

The image amused him. He raised his teacup and chuckled.

It was… curious.

For the first time, he found himself interested in this child of his — the one he had always regarded from a distance, more like a rare artifact than a daughter.

That wicked interest prompted him to do something unexpected: he visited the estate unannounced, slipping in through the grounds without alerting a single soul.

The garden was lined with white roses and chestnut trees, the high hedges all but shutting out the world. The moon hung low, brushing the walls with silver light. The Earl walked in silence, pausing now and then to admire the estate, which had grown even lovelier than he remembered.

And then, as he passed a small lake to the left of the grounds — he saw her.

She was wearing a training uniform, her figure poised and graceful, swinging her sword in crisp, cutting arcs. The whistle of the blade split the night air like a song.

Her hair shone under the moonlight. Her blue eyes, vivid like the clearest sapphire, stared straight ahead.

But there was no fire in them. No spirit.

Not even him — her own father — seemed to exist in her gaze.

“Father.”

She’d called him that, again and again, over the years. But the word had always felt hollow.

Estelle had once been treated as a saint by the temple, and she’d learned to live like one — untouchable, unreachable. Though he could brush her cheek or hear her voice, she was never truly present. Her world felt apart from everyone else’s.

He wasn’t sure if she ever admired him. Did she love him? Perhaps. But whatever affection she held was fragile — uncertain — liable to vanish without warning.

The bl00d that bound them meant little to her.

If she were to leave this world tomorrow, she would do so without hesitation, without regret.

This wasn’t exaggeration. The Count had sensed it clearly — that death, to her, was not an end to fear, but an option always on the table.

Neither wealth nor power moved her. Family ties meant little. Even warmth couldn’t anchor her.

He’d tried everything — every influence, every luxury, every unspoken plea — to awaken in her a desire to live for something. To stay. To care.

But in the end, none of it worked.

“Ace, are you happy today?”

She never gave him a straight answer.

But her silence said enough.

And then she met Cizelle Hawke.

Even now, Earl Stoke didn’t know whether that meeting had been a blessing or a curse. Was Cizelle her salvation, or the final weight that doomed her?

Perhaps it was a question no one could ever answer.

“Es.”

At the dining table, Estelle looked up from her plate. Her father slid a small black crystal box across to her.

“It came from a merchant up north. I thought you might like it.”

He said it lightly, always gentler with her than with anyone else. “Open it later, when you’re alone.”

She took the box upstairs and stared at it for a moment before opening it. Inside was a piece of rare blue amber — glowing faintly, shimmering in the light.

“Amber?”

Blue was rare, even among rarities.

She turned the piece in her hand, watching how it caught the light, then set it gently under her mirror.

“A hobby for people with too much money.”

She laughed under her breath, remembering how she’d once mocked Cizelle for his habit of collecting strange stones.

He never argued. In fact, he’d started collecting them for her, secretly.

“You always did spoil me,” she murmured. “Even if I asked for the moon, you would’ve tried to pull it down for me.”

She sighed, laying her head on her arms, scars still vivid on her right hand. Her fingers found the pendant at her neck, and she stared at it for a long time before finally getting up.

Yesterday’s encounter with Arnold had left a sour taste — she needed fresh air.

But stepping outside only brought a different kind of trouble.

A familiar voice — high and tearful — cried out in distress.

“Please, Your Grace, someone’s trying to kill me!”

Estelle turned to find Hibel, the bright-eyed saint candidate, weeping before her. Her hair was disheveled, her expression frantic.

“What about Kleist? Or Edwin?” Estelle asked, frowning.

“They’re not with me,” Hibel sniffed. “Kleist was guarding my door last night and was attacked — the attacker used magic…”

She paused, clearly rattled.

Estelle’s eyes sharpened.

“Necromancy?”

Hibel nodded quickly. “The bishop confirmed it.”

“Please — I don’t know who else to turn to. I can pay you. I swear it.”

Estelle hesitated — but only for a moment.

“…All right. I’ll go with you.”

Because behind every unknown necromancer, every brush with undeath, there might be a clue.

A clue about the one who killed Cizelle Hawke.

And Estelle would chase every lead, no matter how faint — even if it meant walking into darkness again and again