"Phew—"
She swam slowly toward the incense jar, her head bobbing above the water.
Ah, whatever. If I get hurt, we’ll just split up anyway. No point overthinking it. Kynemia shook her head briskly.
Even if I said I couldn’t fix it, maybe I should call a priest to check the wound after all.
Time heals wounds, but divine power might offer a faster solution.
Just as Kynemia finished bathing and prepared to summon a priest, her maid Shane announced a visitor.
"Ah!"
An elderly man with a salt-and-pepper beard approached Kynemia, feigning familiarity.
"Hoho, Grand Duchess. You’ve grown so much."
"Huh?"
"Priest Andrea?"
"May Leon’s wings shelter you. Miss Kynemia, it’s been too long."
Priest, you’re not exactly subtle, are you? Kynemia smirked and bounded toward him.
"It’s been ages, Priest! How have you been?"
"I live each day in gratitude for the gods’ blessings. You’ve blossomed into beauty, my lady."
"Thank you."
"You truly take after your father—so lovely… er… lovely…"
Andrea’s voice faltered.
The memory resurfaced: Her father, Troy Leon, had charmed high society with his looks but died in a scandalous duel over a love affair.
"……"
"……"
An uneasy silence fell. Andrea traced a holy symbol and murmured a prayer for the departed.
"Grand Duchess, your father surely rests in peace now."
Really? Does someone who died in a love triangle deserve peace? But Kynemia bit back the words.
Let’s just pretend.
"So, Priest, what brings you here?"
"Ah, well…"
As Andrea hesitated, Kynemia gestured to Shane.
"Shane, prepare tea and snacks in the parlor."
"Yes, my lady."
"Please follow me, Priest."
Andrea chuckled and trailed behind her.
"What?! Ah—hot!"
At the shocking news, Kynemia spat out her tea, tongue scalded.
"Are you alright?"
"I-I’m fine. But what do you mean you’re retiring?"
"I’m old now. Divine power fades like water from a cracked vessel. Mine’s nearly gone."
"Ah…"
So abruptly… Kynemia’s eyes widened. While saddened by his departure, her real dread lay elsewhere.
"Then… when will a new priest come to our temple?"
"Ah… Hmm…"
Andrea’s face crumpled.
His expression says it all.
They weren’t coming—99.98% certainty.
But worse followed. He dropped another bombshell.
"Rumors suggest… the Grand Duchy’s temple will close entirely."
"What?!"
"Yes… The Church plans to withdraw from this region…"
Andrea stroked his beard, unapologetic.
Why?!
Kynemia froze, stunned. Andrea patted her head.
"…Not… okay."
I’m not okay! How could I be?!
"Hohoho…"
His awkward laugh grated.
Withdrawing now?
The Grand Duchy wasn’t poor—Leon paid the Church generously for priests.
"Priest… Is this Duke Roslin’s doing?"
At the name, Andrea’s eyes darted.
"I can’t confirm… cough! Thirsty…"
He chugged tea, healing his throat with divine power.
Kynemia stared blankly. Priests really can’t lie.
Duke Roslin—the Church’s top donor—was father to Fairy Roslin, who’d destroyed Kynemia’s parents’ marriage. Fairy Roslin had squandered her family’s fortune on Troy Leon’s failed ventures, lost upon his death.
Now he loathes everything Leon.
If he threatened to cut donations unless the Church severs ties with Leon, they’d comply.
Kynemia understood his bitterness—but who would heal her people now?
Divine power had stunted Western medicine. Even doctors could only diagnose and apply herbs.
Our territory will collapse…
Her face paled.
"Hoho, don’t despair. The gods provide," Andrea offered weakly.
Kynemia’s flat stare made him cough and look away.
This can’t be happening…
After Andrea left, Kynemia flopped onto the parlor sofa.
Hounding him was pointless. He’d shielded the duchy for years, resisting Duke Roslin’s pressure.
Sniff.
She curled up, tearful.
"Miss, are you alright?" Shane asked softly.
Kynemia fought back sobs. Disaster.
The poor couldn’t flee the territory, but the rich would. Without healing, they’d abandon Leon—leaving empty coffers and plague-ridden slums.
Visions of riots haunted her:
"Blame the Leon witch!"
"Execute her!"
Thud— a guillotine’s fall.
Kynemia shuddered, hugging her knees. I need a plan!
First option: Outbid Duke Roslin in donations—a reckless bidding war draining Leon’s coffers.
Her mental scales tipped: her father’s wealth, taxes, and Behemoth’s future income…
This is a suicidal chicken race.
The Church would profit while two nobles bled dry.
Second option: Find a new "blue ocean"—a healer independent of divine power.
The perfect munchkin…
A name flashed in her mind.
