For three weeks, no one questioned her absence.
The Delta Outpost was a place where exhaustion was the air itself—soldiers slept standing, officers wrote reports with trembling hands, and priests walked with eyes so heavy they looked half-dead. After the last great surge from the devil army, silence had fallen across the frontlines. It was not peace—merely the quiet of a wound trying to heal.
And within that fragile stillness, the Saintess's seclusion went unquestioned.
The Church's ward maids—dressed in pristine white, their golden rosaries glimmering faintly in the lantern light—were seen carrying her meals, her medicine, and her letters. They moved with purpose, always together, always quiet. No one dared to question them. After all, the Saintess had saved countless lives during the initial onslaught, sealing away the poisoned mana that had nearly turned Delta Outpost into a graveyard. If she was unwell, it made sense she would rest.
That was what they all believed.
