Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 6

The memories faded, like smoke dispersing into the night air.

The city buzzed even after dark. Taverns were lively with mercenaries, orcs, and even dark elves laughing over spilled drinks. Music drifted from the central plaza, where minstrels plucked at strings and sang age-old ballads under the moonlight.

But the Temple of Light stood apart—silent, still, solemn. Estelle stood beneath the towering statue of the Light Deity, her face calm, unreadable.

The god’s figure loomed above—pure, gentle, and radiant. It looked down on the world with serene mercy, carved in immaculate white marble.

Stars sparkled across the sky, the moon glowed like silk, and Estelle, dressed plainly, moved through the night crowd unnoticed. No one realized the Empire’s feared Swordmaster had walked right past them.

She had never imagined losing him. Not really.

From the moment they met, Cizelle had held her hand tightly. They were comrades, confidants, soulmates—two people drifting in a foreign, uncanny world, tethered only to each other. In the early days, when she still struggled to grasp whether this world was real, Estelle remembered almost throwing herself into a lake—half-mad with the knowledge that she was trapped in a world from a comic she once read.

“I felt the same way.”

She remembered his voice—his head in her lap, dark circles under his eyes, worn down by battle. Yet his gaze was warm, familiar. “At the beginning… I felt that too, Al.”

The difference was, Cizelle still managed to go through the motions of life. He made polite conversation, played his roles. Though Estelle would call it robotic—soulless.

“Speaking of,” he mumbled one night, half-asleep and nuzzled against her, “what have you been up to lately? You’re busier than usual.”

Estelle leaned back against a tree and smiled faintly. “Teaching a few of the Temple’s paladins.”

“Mm? One of them give you trouble?”

“More like they hate me,” she said, eyes twinkling.

Cizelle cracked an eye open. “And you’re smiling about that?”

“Isn’t it amusing?” she replied, her voice laced with an odd tenderness.

Cizelle blinked, reminded of another moment—months ago—when Estelle had worn the same amused expression.

Back then, rumors had begun to swirl in the capital. Ugly things. Accusations that twisted her image from prodigy to pariah. No one knew why the Temple remained silent. But Cizelle… he had suspected.

“Was it you?” he had asked that night.

Estelle had been lounging on her bed in her nightgown, candlelight dancing across the room. Cizelle had climbed in through the window like a thief, half-joking, half-serious.

“Breaking into my bedroom? What are you, Romeo?”

“Only if you’ll be Juliet,” he replied, resting his chin in his hand.

“Too much trouble,” she yawned. “Eloping with you sounds exhausting.”

He grinned. “So you did spread the rumors.”

Estelle stared at him for a moment before sighing, voice soft: “You already guessed.”

Cizelle pulled up a chair. “How do you know I was guessing?”

“Because if you were sure, you’d just fix it and tell me not to worry. That’s what you always do.”

She looked sleepy again, hugging her pillow like a child. “Can you go now? I want to sleep. Use the usual exit.”

But instead of leaving, Cizelle took a few quiet steps to her bedside. His tall form cast a shadow over her.

“Al…” he asked quietly, blocking the moonlight. “Was it because of the emperor’s warning?”

Estelle’s eyes opened. She smiled faintly, as if he’d asked something absurd.

“What, that? No. I just thought it was… entertaining.”

It was reckless, even childish. But Cizelle didn’t argue. He merely touched her wrist gently, then left without another word.

That time, it was about gossip. This time, it was about people.

—

The paladins she was training were struggling—and the one suffering most was Kleist.

Not physically. Estelle was actually generous with material support. Her students, temporarily staying at her estate, lived like nobles. Meals, weapons, lodging—all top tier.

But emotionally? Spiritually? That was a different story.

The Temple of Light had always been split in their feelings about Estelle. Those who admired her, adored her. But those who disliked her? They despised her.

And it was no mystery why.

She was breathtakingly beautiful, undeniably talented, and—unlike most nobles—she gave back to the poor. But none of that mattered as much as the single fact that drove her critics wild:

She’d humiliated the Temple. More than once.

Historically, the Swordmasters had always emerged from the Paladin Order. That was their pride—their legacy. Even commoners or noble-born geniuses passed through that path.

But Estelle? A once-in-a-millennium mage, who suddenly chose to be a swordswoman? Who outpaced all their paladins?

It was a slap to the face.

Whispers started. Even foreign royals sent veiled comments: “Can your Order… really keep up?”

The resentment brewed quietly. And when the bishop personally ordered the Paladin elite to train under Estelle’s guidance, they accepted the order—but not with grace.

Especially not Kleist—the Temple’s golden child and top candidate for the next Paladin Commander.

Kleist was a prodigy, unmatched in skill. He had already defeated his current superior in mock combat and was publicly backed by both bishop and pope. Some whispered he might be the next Swordmaster himself.

But when he faced Estelle… he crumbled.

She didn’t even break a sweat knocking down two of his comrades. And Kleist himself couldn’t last ten moves.

She didn’t rub it in, but neither did she pretend to be gentle. The next training rounds went the same way—Estelle dominating every match with elegant, clinical efficiency.

And yet, after every defeat, she healed them without hesitation. Light-based healing spells, rare medicines—she never held back.

The bruises faded. But pride? That was harder to mend.

Even Kleist, calm and composed as he was, began to question himself. But he didn’t have much time for self-pity—Estelle’s training regimen was merciless. By the end of each day, they were too exhausted to think.

“They were getting bored,” Estelle said once, watching the Crown Prince observe her session with a look of stunned silence. “So I gave them something to do.”

And it worked.

By the time she was done with them, those proud paladins didn’t have the energy to hate her. Only the strength to collapse into sleep