Pilgrimage [Western Fantasy] - Chapter 7
Memories are like a mirror, and Kleist had been staring into that mirror for far too long.
He’d reflected on himself again and again—each glance showing fragments of pride, jealousy, and fear. He had always seen himself as gifted, but standing in Estelle’s shadow, he’d felt something worse than defeat: insignificance.
Where he once carried arrogance, he now carried dread. Facing Estelle, the fear ran deeper than anything he’d felt facing Hibel. Her brilliance was not just exceptional—it was otherworldly. Like a divine force wearing human skin.
But there was something else about her that chilled him just as deeply—her coldness.
He couldn’t forget the final day of training.
It was supposed to be a moment of liberation. The paladins had survived Estelle’s brutal drills, and now they were finally free. And yet, when the night fell silent, Kleist felt hollow.
Unable to sleep, he slipped out of bed, careful not to wake the others, and climbed out the window. Beyond it stretched a field of violets, their scent faint in the air. As he crossed it, a hushed voice caught his ear.
It was Estelle. And Cizelle.
Even though the voices were quiet, he could make them out—and something in him stirred. Curiosity? Jealousy? Whatever it was, it pushed him to approach the lake where the voices came from.
Hidden behind flowers and low shrubs, Kleist spotted them—Estelle and Cizelle seated side by side by the water’s edge.
It wasn’t the romantic rendezvous he’d expected. There was no intimacy beyond the gentle stillness between them. Cizelle held Estelle’s hand. They said nothing for a while. Their black hair shimmered under the moonlight, and they gazed into each other with a closeness that hurt to witness.
Kleist’s chest tightened.
He dug his hand into the grass, fingers trembling, eyes burning. Then, as he raised his head again, he met Estelle’s gaze.
She smiled.
It wasn’t mocking. It was the kind of smile that belonged to someone who had nothing to hide. Joyful. Uncomplicated. And as Cizelle brushed a petal from her hair, the flower drifted into the lake like a farewell.
Kleist couldn’t breathe.
The memory shattered.
Back in the temple, he snapped out of the past and stared up at the statue of Light. Its marble expression radiated calm, as if it could see directly into the storms brewing in his heart.
“Kleist? What are you doing here?”
The voice echoed through the vast, sacred hall. The saint—serene, golden-haired—approached him, her expression a perfect match to the divine statue’s: gentle, forgiving.
Behind her came another figure, cloaked in black. Estelle.
She barely spared him a glance before speaking, cold and direct:
“Still injured? Then go. You’re just getting in the way.”
Kleist tried to protest, staggering upright. “I can still fight. That undead mage—he’s strong.”
Estelle didn’t turn. “With your dominant hand wounded and necrotic energy still lingering? No. The best thing you can do is rest.”
Even Hibel offered a polite smile and chimed in gently: “It’s best to follow Her Highness’s advice.”
After a long pause, Kleist turned to leave. His footsteps echoed hollowly, and Estelle never looked back.
“Your Highness?”
Estelle nodded to Hibel. “Let’s go. Your quarters.”
As they made their way toward the saint’s residence, Estelle’s nose twitched. A foul, unnatural stench lingered in the air.
“Necromantic energy?”
It didn’t make sense. The Temple of Light sat atop powerful purification wards. For a dark mage to summon undead here—even weak ones—was no small feat.
“The Nether Wolf,” Hibel confirmed as they approached her bedroom. Oddly, the two maids who usually stood guard were nowhere to be seen.
‘Maybe the Pope finally decided to act,’ Estelle thought to herself as she pushed open the door.
White.
Curtains of enchanted silk floated in the moonlight, brushing against her skin. She caught a fold and squeezed it tightly.
‘Even the curtains are embedded with layered protective magic… and still, the enemy got in?’
She turned to Hibel. “Do you keep recording stones here?”
Hibel frowned. “Yes—but they’ve all been destroyed.”
“No injuries to you, only damage to the surveillance? Convenient.” Estelle muttered, half amused, half suspicious. “Live as usual. I’m staying tonight.”
She remained beneath the great statue, removing her cloak and letting it fall to the floor.
Moonlight poured through the open ceiling like a spotlight on the goddess above. Time seemed still, untouched. But Estelle’s pulse quickened.
Something was coming.
She closed her eyes.
Then, suddenly, wind howled outside the temple—sharp, freezing, unnatural. Estelle’s eyes snapped open.
A burst of holy light exploded in Hibel’s room, countering the paralyzing cold that had seeped in.
A sword with a rose-carved hilt pierced the marble floor, pinning a dark purple cloak. The cold that followed spread instantly, ice climbing up the sword.
This isn’t necromancy, Estelle realized, her hand resting on her scabbard. This is something else.
The cold intensified. Delicate furniture cracked. Treasured items shattered on impact.
Outside, paladins arrived in haste, sensing something was wrong. Kleist dragged himself along, pain etched into every motion.
Just as he arrived, Hibel collapsed onto him, shielding him from falling shards of ice.
Their eyes met for a breathless moment, then she stood and dashed back toward her room.
The ice had sealed off her quarters, forming an impenetrable prison of frost.
“We’re locked out,” someone muttered grimly.
Kleist grabbed a fellow knight. “Get His Holiness. Now!”
Estelle can’t be harmed.
Inside, she exhaled, and the mist froze mid-air. A rose of frost formed and settled in her hair—beautiful and eerie, like a blossom left at a grave.
Her vision blurred. She was back at Cizelle’s tombstone. She gripped her forehead, dizziness rising, but she knew the attacker hadn’t left.
She wasn’t wrong.
The sword that should’ve been encased in ice came free with ease. Her swing was instinctual.
Outside, they heard cracks. The sound of splintering ice. Hibel tried casting fire spells—but the ice didn’t melt.
Estelle’s strikes sliced through the room in all directions.
Bl00d seeped through the walls.
She froze.
She could feel it—someone was here.
“Kleist!”
His voice echoed from outside, but there was no response. His hands trembled—whether from pain or fear, he wasn’t sure.
Then someone called out:
“His Holiness!”
The Pope stepped forward, placing a hand gently on Hibel’s shoulder, channeling holy energy so intense it caused a migraine.
“Step back, Hibel.”
He wore a regal white cloak, his features barely marked by age. His eyes scanned the frozen corridor with quiet understanding.
“It’s not just ice magic,” Estelle murmured inside. Her eyes were fixed on the bloody cracks in the wall. “Not pure, at least.”
She looked toward the outside. “So… the old man’s here too.”
Kleist struck at the ice again, channeling light into the crack, but nothing budged.
The Pope smiled faintly at the sight, then pressed his own magic into the ice.
Warmth flooded in. The air thawed. Estelle turned sharply.
She saw a face.
The ice cracked loudly, splitting along the walls. Then—collapse.
The roof gave way. The structure trembled.
Estelle stepped forward from the ruins, the moonlight catching the single rose of ice in her hair. Frost clung to her lashes. The Pope opened his mouth to greet her—
But stopped.
Her expression…
It looked like a sculpture melting.
Like something beautiful on the verge of breaking.
Her hollow eyes finally met theirs. A tear slipped down her cheek.
“…How could this be…”
Then everything went dark.
And Estelle collapsed