The air was thick with anticipation. The holy sigils still pulsed faintly underfoot, casting gentle ripples of light that danced across Saphy's face. Every heartbeat in the hall seemed synchronized—awaiting the single word that would determine her fate.
Would she accept the Bishop's call and step onto the divine path as Saintess of the Church?
Or would she defy the heavens and carve her own destiny, one the gods themselves might not have foreseen?
Whatever her answer… it would shake the balance between crown, faith, and fate.
Everyone watched with bated breath.
Not a single whisper dared to break the heavy silence that filled the grand hall.
All eyes were fixed on the small figure standing beneath the lingering glow of the sigils. The air itself seemed to hold still, as if waiting for the verdict of destiny.
Then, Saphy lifted her gaze toward the bishop—her expression calm, serious, and unwavering. Slowly, she bowed her head.
"I'm sorry, Your Excellency," she said softly, her voice steady despite the weight pressing upon her shoulders. "But I cannot take the mantle."
The words fell like thunder.
For a heartbeat, no one moved. No one even breathed.
The bishop's eyes widened in disbelief. Her parents froze, stunned beyond words.
To any child, the choice should have been obvious—divine favor, glory, power beyond imagination. To reject the Church's offer was unthinkable.
Gasps rippled through the nobles.
Becoming the Saintess meant wielding influence rivaling the royal family itself—an opportunity most would kill for. And yet, the girl before them, barely five years old, had refused without hesitation.
Among the sea of stunned faces, only one expression remained unchanged—the King's.
A faint smile curved his lips, his eyes gleaming with quiet amusement.
He had expected this. From the brief exchange earlier, he had already seen it in her gaze—the same unyielding light he once had as a boy.
If he couldn't read his own subject, then what kind of king would he be?
But the one most visibly relieved was the Duke of Ross.
For him, Saphy's refusal was a blessing disguised as madness.
If she had accepted the title of Saintess, she would have been bound to the Church for life—untouchable, unreachable.
Now… there was still a chance.
Bishop Jereco couldn't believe what he had heard, but from the ripple of faces and the King's faint, knowing smile, it was clear: Sapphire Rosabelle Astley had refused the mantle of Saintess. He could not let it end there. His voice trembled as he tried once more.
"My lady—would you not reconsider?"
"I'm sorry, Your Excellency," Saphy replied, steady and composed. "I fully know what is at stake. But I cannot accept."
The bishop exhaled, a sound half prayer, half resignation. "Then—could you at least tell me the reason?" He knew he had asked too much of a child, but he needed to understand; his conscience would not rest otherwise.
Saphy met his gaze without flinching. "Your Excellency, I understand why you want me to be the Saintess. But what I did for the children—I do not view it as kindness. I see it as common sense. People should help each other. I have the power to help, so why wouldn't I? If you call that kindness, then so be it. But being a Saintess requires more than kindness and light magic. A Saintess's greatest virtue is mercy. I lack that."
Hearing such measured, thorny words from a child left the hall in awed silence. The bishop listened, heart pulled both ways—moved by her honesty, convinced by her thoughtfulness. Still, he held his counsel and asked quietly, "Please—elaborate, my lady."
"Okay," Saphy said, folding her small hands as if arranging an argument. "Let me put it this way: when someone tries to harm the Saintess herself—her family, her friends—what will she do? A true Saintess will show mercy. She forgives, and she guides them back to the right path. That is what a Saintess is. But me?"
A faint leak of mana began to seep from her, a pale radiance crawling up her sleeves until she glowed. The invisible pressure in the hall tightened; breath felt heavier, words more dangerous.
"I won't forgive them," she said, her tone hardening like cooled steel. "I'll make sure that's the last mistake of their lives."
The sentence landed like an oath—and like a verdict. For a heartbeat the entire hall seemed to hold its breath, as if the world itself were weighing the consequence of a child's promise.
Looking around at the silent hall, Saphy slowly closed her eyes, taking a steady breath to calm the storm within her. When she opened them again, her gaze was firm—no longer the gaze of a child, but of someone who had already made peace with her choice.
"And I believe," she said softly, "that answers your doubts, Your Excellency."
The bishop's expression faltered. After a long pause, he bowed his head.
"Yes… it has, my lady." His voice was weary yet respectful. He knew he could not push further—the Church never forced the will of those chosen by the divine.
But Saphy wasn't done.
"However, Bishop," she said, her voice steady yet laced with quiet conviction, "I still wish to help the people—through the Church, if you'll allow it."
The bishop lifted his head in surprise, the faintest spark of hope returning to his tired eyes. "Please… elaborate, my lady."
Saphy nodded, her small hands curling into trembling fists. "When I visited the town, I saw things I couldn't ignore. People lying on the streets with fever… old men limping with untreated wounds… mothers clutching their sick children, praying that somehow, they'd last another day."
Her voice wavered slightly—but only for a moment. Then her tone grew stronger. "And do you know what hurt the most, Your Excellency? They didn't cry. They didn't beg. They just… endured it. Because they had no choice. Because healing is a luxury they can't afford."
A soft gasp escaped someone in the crowd. Even the nobles who had once looked down on the poor now found it difficult to meet her gaze.
"Healing services are too expensive," Saphy continued, her voice echoing clearly across the marble hall. "Only nobles and merchants can afford them. The cost of one healing could feed a family for years. And if the wound is deep—if the illness is grave—it costs even more."
Her hands began to glow faintly, light gathering like the warmth of dawn. "How is that fair? How can we call ourselves people of light if we turn away from those who suffer in the dark?"
The hall trembled—not with magic, but with the sheer weight of her words.
"So," she said, her tone ringing with resolution, "I want to change that. I want to build a healing hall beside the Church in our city—a place where the poor can be treated for free. And I want the Church's help to spread this message to every corner of the land."
Her eyes glistened with emotion. "If I was given this power, then it wasn't to sit on a throne or wear a crown of holiness. It was given to me so I could do something—for them."
For a moment, no one could speak. Even the priests were trembling slightly, as if seeing a miracle unfold before their eyes.
Then Saphy drew a slow breath, her tone softening. "Of course," she added, "I won't provide healing to those who can afford it. I don't wish to take away the livelihood of other healers. I only want to help those who have no one else."
She turned toward her father then, her voice gentle but full of hope.
"Father," she said, "will you help fund this?"
Count Charles froze. Those words—so earnest, so full of purpose—struck something deep within him. Pride swelled in his chest, his eyes stinging with emotion. He opened his mouth to answer—
Clap.
The sound echoed like thunder through the hall.
Everyone turned toward the source.
The King had risen from his seat, his hands coming together slowly, deliberately. His expression was one of genuine admiration. "Splendid," he said softly. "Truly splendid."
One by one, others followed. Nobles, priests, servants—until the entire hall rang with applause.
Some maids wept openly, their tears glimmering in the light still radiating faintly from Saphy's hands. Even Bishop Jereco's old eyes grew misty as he bowed deeply.
For at that moment, they all realized—
Though Sapphire Rosabelle Astley had refused the title of Saintess, she had already become one in their hearts.
The sound of applause filled the hall—loud, thunderous, and unending. And then—
"Splendid!!"
The King's voice boomed, rich and commanding. Every clap stopped instantly as all eyes turned toward him.
King Richard Maximilian Lionheart rose from his throne, his deep-blue cloak rippling faintly in the torchlight. His sharp gaze softened as it settled on Saphy.
Then, in a tone both regal and sincere, he declared,
"Saphy Rosabelle Astley… I, Richard Maximilian Lionheart, apologize to you."
He bowed—just slightly, but unmistakably.
The hall froze.
Gasps erupted. The nobles looked as if their very souls had been struck. The King—bowing?
He had never bowed to anyone. Not to dukes, not to the council, not even to the Emperor. And now, before their eyes, he bowed to a child.
The silence that followed was heavy—thick enough to make even the torches flicker uncertainly.
The King raised his head, his eyes solemn.
"The subjects of this kingdom are the King's responsibility. And I… have failed them."
He paused, letting his words linger, then continued,
"But you stood up for them—for those I could not reach. For that, I am deeply grateful."
He drew a steady breath, his voice echoing through the marble hall.
"So, there is no need for the Astley family to bear the cost. The Healing Hall you proposed will be built under royal decree. The funds will come from the royal treasury."
Then, a faint smile curved his lips.
"Please, don't refuse me. Allow me to at least keep some face… as a King reminded of his duty by a child."
Saphy blinked in surprise before bowing deeply.
"Thank you for your generosity, Your Majesty."
The King turned toward his butler.
"Wilhelm," he said, his tone firm, "make sure it's done properly."
The old butler placed a hand over his heart and bowed.
"Yes, Your Majesty. I will see to it personally."
Applause once again filled the cathedral—not loud and chaotic this time, but soft, sincere, almost reverent.
Outside, the last traces of dusk bled across the horizon, painting the stained glass in muted shades of gold and violet. The flickering candlelight danced over Saphy's figure, casting her shadow long across the marble floor—tall, unwavering, resolute.
Bishop Jereco lowered his head, whispering to himself,
"Perhaps… the heavens did send us a Saintess after all—just one who walks her own path."
The bells tolled softly in the distance, marking the end of the day and the beginning of something greater.
And thus, the girl who refused the mantle of Saintess…
lit a new dawn for the kingdom in the quiet of night.
—End of Chapter 20—