Chapter 70
The maid with the scarf under her nose watched unblinkingly as Evangeline downed the wine. Only after Evangeline and Kinder Toten returned their empty glasses did she resume walking.
How strange. Holy Water had no effect on Evangeline Rohanson. Was she not a demon after all?
She'd seen her swallow it—not some trick, but genuine wine laced with Holy Water. Downing it in one go felt like flaunting that Holy Water wasn't her weakness. As she fiddled with the empty glass, the supervising maid snapped at her.
"Hey, you! What are you dawdling for? No time to rest—get back to serving wine!"
Nodding, Saraka picked up the plated glasses again. She mixed Holy Water from her apron pocket into every one. Several times, her wine glasses were snatched mid-stride, but she didn't protest. Holy Water wasn't poison—whoever drank it was fine.
"Give me a glass of wine too."
Fortunately, she reached someone with business before the glasses emptied. Saraka handed Whikel Viscount one and relayed her request.
Unlike his reputation, Whikel Viscount was sharp-eyed and tight-lipped—a card Saraka used often. Lately, she'd been deploying him usefully to build ties with Count Rohanson.
"Got it? Just subtly provoke the Hosakwin Duke. Heh, how'd you know that's my specialty."
Hosakwin Duke had sticky fingers and a fiery temper. He especially lost rational judgment when angered. By provoking him through Whikel Viscount to throw a wine glass at Evangeline, he'd follow through predictably.
It didn't work when drunk. What about poured on? Or on wounds? Saraka's heart raced vividly, like dealing with heretics locked in the underground dungeon.
Evangeline and Kinder soon approached Hosakwin Duke. He smashed one intact glass and grabbed another to throw. Saraka hadn't expected the knight commander to embrace and shield Evangeline. Fearing interference, she'd had Muetta Sir lure him away briefly—only for him to return.
Whikel Viscount averted his eyes guiltily at the slightly botched plan. But Saraka was too elated to care. Under her scarf, her scarred mouth split into a bizarre grin.
Whikel Viscount thought the knight commander was hit by plain wine, not Holy Water-mixed. But the duke's second glass was also laced.
"Ow!"
The maid cleaning the floor definitely cut her hand. She'd dismissed it as a mistake, but Saraka witnessed the slice clearly. The Holy Water in the wine healed it instantly. Yet the knight commander's wound showed no sign of recovery despite direct Holy Water hit.
'Found it....'
She'd sought Evangeline's secret but uncovered the knight commander's weakness instead. An unexpected harvest.
Evangeline sent Gabriel off to change, soaked in wine and blood.
Saraka followed him out. No one cared if a maid slipped away—easy movement.
Servants weren't treated as fellow humans by nobles. Covering half her face with a scarf raised no eyebrows.
Except Kinder Toten. She'd inquired kindly, revealing how well she gauged people. Truly regrettable. Without her son, she'd be a perfect Rahel devotee like painted.
Saraka's chest ached recalling Archbishop Marik's order banning Holy Water to Kinder Toten. No choice—openly supplying the cursed would brand the temple money-grubbing. Afterward, Kinder Toten grew to despise Saraka—or rather, the one she represented—as hypocrites.
Saraka quietly tailed the knight commander.
"Sir Gabriel! How'd you end up drenched in wine?"
"Circumstances. Could you fetch a change of clothes?"
"Yes! Right away!"
The knight left to find attire and soon returned with crisp garments. Saraka, waiting nearby, offered to deliver them.
"You'll deliver to Sir Gabriel? Then, please do."
Saraka took the clothes and entered Gabriel's waiting room. He'd stripped off his soaked top.
"Delivering for me? Thank you."
Unlike other knights, Gabriel accepted politely without dropping honorifics. Saraka glanced coyly, hiding her face—really to conceal her torn grin. Heart pounding, she hurried out fearing it'd be heard.
She'd seen clearly. A round scar marred Gabriel's chest.
When 'Her'—Archbishop Marik—could still speak clearly, barely breathing, she'd paused thrusting Saraka's hand into the brazier to share past memories.
"Fire reminds me of old times. Haha, not when my family burned in heretics' arson, leaving me barely alive. Much later. Saraka, heard of His Majesty's youngest?"
Her cheek and jaw burns suppurated, mouth agony preventing speech—Saraka shook her head. Archbishop Marik thrust her hand into the brazier anyway, continuing heedless of screams.
"Said to die before first cry—but untrue. How do I know? I smuggled the prince."
Saraka needed every word from Archbishop Marik. Amid shrieking torment, she strained to listen.
Per Archbishop Marik, royals bore noble blood crests unknown publicly: ouroboros dragon, tail-devouring symbol of infinity and eternal imperial vigor.
Trusted priests inscribed them. Under Emperor Mater, Archbishop Marik's role.
Branding newborns with fire, healing with Holy Water, blessing. Flesh regenerated; brand scarred like tattoos.
"But Holy Water failed on the youngest. Don't be shocked, Saraka. Some are born so—past sins too grave, rejected by Rahel even reborn: wretched, pitiable, ugly."
They reincarnate, atone repeatedly till purified for Rahel's embrace. No mercy till then. Like the youngest prince, Kinder Toten's son.
Emperor ordered death; Archbishop Marik gave the infant to foster parents instead. Emperor raged upon discovery, but she denied using him for leverage.
"Must breathe long, atoning till fate ends."
Thus hastening Rahel's love.
Ignorant Emperor accused her of blackmail, rampaged, sent knights secretly to kill the prince.
But found only foster parents—abandoning the child, living lavishly on rearing funds. Child's whereabouts unknown; Emperor killed only them.
Rahel-rejected often die young. Saved foster parents, yet prince met fate. Archbishop Marik prayed he survived, suffering somewhere.
"Now face and hand match mine."
Withdrawing from brazier, Archbishop Marik smiled tenderly at identical scars. Saraka mimicked, twitching scarred mouth.
"Saraka... With same facial and hand scars, none'll distinguish us. Seeing lower face and hands under veil, they'll think you me."
Gripping melted hands warmly, she taught spotting the prince: failed brand scarred like wingless, clawless dragon—a snake.
As said, knight commander's body bore it. Abandoned young, unaware of meaning—unfazed showing it.
Saraka calmed racing heart, heading not to hall but imperial grandchild's room. A pious-seeming holy knight guarded—seemingly.
Praying hands clasped, eyes shut; incongruously, dismembered corpses littered: five heads, seven arms, over thirteen legs. Not late, yet how many died?
"Lord Azael."
At her call, serene eyes flashed open. Azael Astaroth wasn't Pararos under Gabriel—Archbishop Marik's personal guard. Azael chided.
"Late, Saraka. Got bored, played with palace attendants briefly."
"Confirming what Archbishop Marik lost delayed me."
Obviously Gabriel.
Azael's breath cleaned the serial-murder scene. Blood scent lingered, betraying horror.
"So devoted even to dying folk."
Azael mocked flatly, rising to embrace her. Unwinding scarf revealed scarred lower face. Undeterred, he removed her glove—glaring burn scars beneath, melted-like. Leisurely tracing, he murmured.
"What appeals in the maker of such scars."
Archbishop Marik inflicted them deliberately. Saraka never resented—raised so. Azael knew mockery futile, changed topic.
"So, tried Holy Water?"
"Yes. Ineffective on Evangeline Rohanson. Not a demon, seemingly. Unbelievable, but cursed constitution perhaps?"
"Think that's truly human?"
Azael scoffed incredulously. Dare call human one bending demons to kneel?
Saraka smeared Holy Water from apron vial on her hand, splashing Azael. Flesh melted bubbling where droplets hit.
"Made her drink, splashed drops—no change. Demon would've melted like you at one drop."
"Hard to regen—spare me experiments?"
Azael guessed her pique: resentment for slighting near-deified Archbishop Marik.
Flesh slowly regenerated. Slower than last—endless starvation. Barely enduring from heretic massacre twenty years ago, gorging then.
"Then what?"
A god? Unlikely.... Azael recalled pristine white form stirring mere glimpse dread.
"Saraka. Truly frame Evangeline Rohanson?"
"Precisely because it's her—meaningful."
Saraka nodded firmly. Azael wanted her excluded as uncontrollable; Saraka oppositely.
All to recreate Archbishop Marik's era: dazzling temple zenith, heretic massacres.
She taught burning Saraka's hand: direct experience paramount. Mere matching scars insufficient. Only reliving, vividly, her longed massacre makes one her truly.
Demon-bowing, Holy Water-immune: perfect rallying foe for faithful.
Azael buried nose in Saraka's nape, inhaling. Amid sweet human scent, nauseating trailed. Evangeline's identity unclear, but this identifiable.
"Plauros."
Scent-imprinted: infiltrated hall, brushed her. Plauros tracked Azael's scent here too.
Suppressing nausea, Azael urged changing. Saraka shed maid garb for weak-stomached knight.
"Plan disrupted?"
"None. Fooling Plauros easy. Useless sans eyes."
Bad matchup, really. Azael exhaled. Hall lights out now. Human panic audible; Plauros most flustered—blinded, flailing blindly.
Couldn't miss the farce.
