The Amber Knight's Vow to the Saint's Left Hand - Chapter 3.2
The air in the sanctum was far too stagnant to befit a holy place.
Unlike the open, airy halls of the Langbart estate, the atmosphere here was heavy, cloying—something that sought to ensnare and consume.
Only Lynette could perceive this presence.
“Welcome back, Saintess.”
As she passed, the clerics of the sanctum bowed in reverence.
To see grown men and women humbling themselves before an eighteen-year-old girl—by any reasonable standard, it was an unsettling sight.
Right and wrong.
Fitting and unfitting.
She wove together the remnants of her past self, the instincts of the girl she had been until she was sixteen, and the experience of her eighteen years.
From them, she fashioned the appropriate response.
“Please, there is no need for such formality. I am no longer the Saintess.”
The clerics merely smiled placidly in return, seemingly satisfied with the response she had given.
They were blissfully oblivious—untroubled by the eerie contradiction of a Saintess who was supposed to be devoid of emotion suddenly behaving as if she possessed them.
One didn’t need emotions to survive.
Navigating this world was no different from maneuvering through the social games of a noble gathering.
Not that Lynette had attended many—just the one.
That One Night at the Ball
The night she made her debut at sixteen.
Standing alone on the balcony, Lynette watched as a brilliant light descended from the star-scattered sky.
Of course, it was not a star.
It had no true shape, no warmth.
It simply was.
It fell between her collarbones, about three fingers’ width below, then melted into her skin as if dissolved by her body’s warmth.
A sharp sting followed.
An imprint, delicate as the petals of a flower, bloomed on her skin.
Far away, in the Aschefallen Mountains, the howls of magic beasts rang in celebration.
Somehow, their cries reached all the way to the royal capital of Aikrant.
For a long time, Lynette hadn’t even realized that she alone could hear them.
Startled by the distant howls, she turned frantically, only to find herself surrounded.
The Celies family, once cast out from the political heart of the kingdom, was now an empty noble title in name alone.
Even as a debutante, she shouldn’t have commanded such overwhelming attention.
Had she done something improper?
But the people encircling her were all smiling.
Then, someone spoke.
“Congratulations, Saintess.”
That one voice triggered a chorus.
One by one, the crowd erupted in praise, proclaiming her the Saintess.
Lynette understood, then.
She turned desperately, searching for an anchor amid the tide of jubilant faces.
And beyond them, she found her uncle.
His expression was dark with greed, his smile blackened by ambition.
She realized, in that moment, that this was his goal all along.
That ever since the deaths of her parents, he had raised her as his ward for this.
To use the Saintess as a stepping stone back into the royal court.
Her fingers trembled.
Her skin grew cold.
She wanted to scream—Why me?—but the roar of the crowd swallowed her voice whole.
She was swept backward, pressed against the glass doors of the balcony.
And in the reflection of the glass, she saw herself.
She gasped.
The hair she had inherited from her late parents.
The eyes that had been theirs.
The star had stolen them away.
A stranger stood in the glass, staring back at her with silver-blond hair and deep blue eyes.
The Sanctum of the Holy Sword
The chamber of the Holy Sword was as frigid as ever.
Here, only here, spring had been banished, leaving behind an eternal winter.
The Saintess’s robes were thin, and the stark contrast between the world outside and the sanctum’s frozen air made her shiver.
She removed her shoes and stepped onto the icy floor.
With each step forward, the voices swelled in exultation.
The sound—at first like the howling of beasts from that fateful night—gradually shifted, taking the form of human speech.
The Holy Sword was calling.
It knew the Saintess had returned.
It cried out for a sacrifice.
“You have returned, my bride.”
A bride was meant to be something joyous.
Something worthy of celebration.
But Lynette had no response for the voice.
Instead, she approached the nearby bed.
With slow, deliberate motions, she climbed onto it and lay down on her back.
She undid the top two buttons of her gown to ease her breathing, then closed her eyes.
A familiar sensation crept up her legs—something brushing against her, inch by inch.
Even if she opened her eyes, she knew she would see nothing.
She had learned that the first time she was brought here.
Back then, she had screamed until her throat went raw.
But given enough time—two years, to be precise—one could grow accustomed to anything.
The deep crimson stone set into the center of the Holy Sword’s guard gleamed dully.
Even with her eyelids shut, its light forced its way through, seeping into her vision.
She cracked her eyes open slightly.
That stone…
It resembled the eyes of Quill Langbart.
That was her only solace.
A slow, trembling breath escaped her lips as she endured.
Nothing physically touched her.
And yet, something invaded her mind, ravaging her body from within.
Even with her emotions stripped away, her body still responded.
Illusory hands crawled along her skin, sliding up her legs, tracing over her thighs.
At the same time, phantom fingers caressed her cheek, glided down her neck, and trailed lower.
The mark of the Saintess, burned into her chest, seared with unbearable heat.
She clenched her teeth, bracing herself against the violation.
All she could do was count the seconds.
Three.
If she counted to three, the discomfort would pass.
Beyond that, a new wave of revulsion would come—but if she counted again, that too would fade.
Erase it.
Again and again, she counted, erasing each new wave of degradation.
And so, piece by piece, Lynette erased her emotions.
She erased joy.
She erased the thrill of excitement.
She erased the anger that might have fueled her resistance.
She erased the tears that might have washed this all away.
How could people praise her as the Saintess when she had been defiled beyond salvation?
Even as she tried to suppress them, ragged gasps escaped her lips.
Hearing them, she mocked herself.
Yes—this expression, twisted in silent laughter, was far more fitting in this wretched place.
“Rather than the smile you wear for society, I would prefer that one.”
A voice echoed suddenly in her mind.
She snapped her eyes open.
Her right hand reached out toward the crimson stone, almost pleadingly.