Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 5
Estelle’s thoughts drifted backward—back to that final battle beside Cizelle. The battlefield had been soaked in bl00d and fire, echoing with the cries of men caught between life and death.
In a war that never seemed to end, the line between the living and the dead had long since blurred.
And yet—Estelle hated war.
It was a truth few believed. A rumor, they called it—something whispered by rivals and critics to undermine her. After all, how could the Estelle Stoke—the Empire’s youngest Swordmaster and its most fearsome weapon—possibly hate fighting?
But Cizelle had known. And her family had known too. It wasn’t a rumor. It was simply a truth that didn’t matter on the battlefield.
Because when someone needed her—when there was someone worth protecting—Estelle would walk to the very front, no matter how much she hated what came with it.
—
In the present, Saint-candidate Hibel was tending to a wounded knight. Her magic glowed in soft waves as she gently pressed her palm to the soldier’s side.
This was her third campaign. By now, her healing skills rivaled the archbishop’s, and she had become the cornerstone of the medical corps.
Behind her, a voice asked quietly, “Have the injuries been fewer lately?”
“Yes,” she answered without turning. “It seems… ever since the Rose Sword arrived.”
The Rose Sword. That was what they called Estelle now.
Hibel washed the bl00d from her hands and bowed her head. Her golden hair spilled like sunlight across her shoulders. She looked the part of a saint—flawless, luminous, revered.
Estelle Stoke, a girl whose magical affinity with light bordered on divine, should’ve been the temple’s chosen one. Her gifts were unparalleled—some said once-in-a-millennium.
And yet… she had chosen the sword.
Hibel remembered her own reaction to that news. Shock first. Then confusion. A twinge of pity.
But now, watching Estelle from afar, standing tall in her silver armor, her sword at her side and her long dark hair tied back neatly—Hibel couldn’t help but feel something else entirely.
The cold-eyed knight’s presence was undeniable.
Estelle moved past the healers, nodding politely to the soldiers who called out greetings. Even in bloodstained armor, she looked like someone born of nobility. Just one change of clothes, and she could be the star of any royal court.
“Rose Sword, Your Excellency.”
Hibel stepped forward and bowed slightly. Estelle paused, her blue gaze falling on her.
“Hibel Ander?”
“It’s an honor that you remember me.”
“Thank you—for your support from the rear.” Estelle dipped her head slightly. “Your efforts have spared our soldiers from needless suffering.”
Praise from Estelle Stoke, the Empire’s prodigy, wasn’t something given lightly. Hibel felt a quiet thrill of satisfaction rise in her chest, even as she kept her expression serene.
“It’s our duty, Your Excellency.”
Estelle gave a small nod. “If you run low on magic, come to my tent. I’ve stockpiled healing potions. But…”
Her gaze sharpened.
“Don’t overextend your power. That kind of exhaustion… damages the mind.”
“Al?”
A hand rested on her shoulder—familiar and casual. Estelle didn’t flinch. Cizelle had come up behind her, as calm and composed as ever. He didn’t pull her close, but his presence was protective, even possessive.
“Hibel,” he greeted with a faint smile.
The Grand Duke of the Empire—peerless in strength, status, and looks. He rarely smiled, and yet, standing beside Estelle, he did.
Hibel caught the faint shift in her own emotions.
Envy. Annoyance. Something sour and inexplicable tightened in her chest.
A fellow priest standing nearby glanced at her, startled by the subtle change in her face—just a flicker, like a shadow across a windowpane.
But when Hibel turned, her expression was the same as ever. Peaceful. Graceful.
“Is something wrong, Aisha?” she asked with a gentle smile.
“N-no, nothing,” the priest stammered.
Just an illusion… It had to be.
—
That night, Estelle’s tent was next to Cizelle’s. He was fussing, massaging her hands, refusing to let go even as she struggled.
“Stop it,” she groaned. “What are you doing?”
“Your fingers are stiff. You’ll cramp,” he said solemnly, rubbing her palm. “Let me help.”
“To anyone outside, it looks like you’re harassing me.”
Cizelle blinked innocently. “Then… should I let you do it to me next?”
“You’re impossible!” she snapped, shoving him away.
Outside, the guards exchanged knowing glances. One chuckled and bit his lip, pretending not to hear a thing.
The little lady kicked him out again…
Still grinning, Cizelle dusted himself off and leaned in from the tent flap. “Don’t forget to rub your calves too!”
A rustling sound came from inside. A moment later, a box flew out.
“Take it and shut up. You sound like my second father.”
He caught the box with a laugh.
It felt like all the other expeditions they’d been on. The same rhythm, the same banter, the same unspoken trust.
Estelle thought maybe, just maybe, they’d finish this mission like the others—bloodied but victorious.
She imagined him smiling at her through the smoke, holding out his hand, saying: “Let’s go home.”
—
But then the undead came.
A flood of dark energy burst over the land, shocking even the most battle-hardened soldiers.
Two women in the army had a near-inborn connection to light magic. Both felt it immediately.
Estelle woke from her light sleep with a jolt. She didn’t even bother changing—just grabbed her sword and sprinted to Cizelle’s tent.
“Undead—lots of them—just beyond the monster lines!”
Cizelle, calm as ever, fastened his armor while she spoke.
“Physical weapons are useless,” Estelle said. “We’ll need priests. Light-elemental weapons only.”
She drew her secondary sword, one laced with radiant stones.
“You have any light stones?” he asked.
“Dozens,” she said grimly.
“Too few.” She glanced at him. “I’ve got 133 back at my tent.”
That number was shocking. Most armies didn’t carry half as many.
But Cizelle didn’t ask where she got them. He just nodded. “Good. I’ll have them distributed.”
“Sizer…” she hesitated.
“Let me lead the charge. You hang back, this time.”
The fear in her voice made him pause—but not out of arrogance.
He smiled at her, gently, with the ease of someone who had fought beside her in a hundred battles.
“I will,” he said quietly. “Al.”
That moment—their last words before battle—was where everything unraveled.
And where the true disaster began