The Royal Wedding
"What… what has happened here?"
Count Wilhelm of Meyer stepped forward inside the pitch-dark temple as he spoke. Splash. A wet sound followed. Lowering his gaze, he saw blood pooled across the floor. The archbishop's blood, spilled upon the dais, had flowed down the steps and soaked the ground.
"I don't know," Roberta replied, looking down at the archbishop. "By the time I found him, he had already passed."
The archbishop looked like a sleeping old man. His expression was peaceful. His eyes and mouth were closed, and his pale skin was dimmed beneath the orange glow of oil lamps. Even the blood he had shed merely deepened the red of his priestly robes, so at a glance, it was difficult to recognize that he was dead.
Roberta had come to the temple with Fritz to summon the old man. Ulrich had sent word in the morning that he had something urgent to discuss, yet there had been no response.
However, when the two entered the temple, they caught a metallic scent in the silence. Every door had been shut, and the air inside was thick with the smell of blood. That was how they discovered the archbishop's corpse.
"You met him this morning, didn't you?"
"Yes. I came again to deliver Sir Ulrich's message."
"There was nothing unusual then?"
Wilhelm asked whether anything about the surroundings or the archbishop's demeanor had seemed off, but Roberta silently shook her head.
There had been no issue with the meeting that morning. She had simply conveyed that Dithmarschen's adopted son wished to speak with him urgently and requested a meeting at night. The archbishop had agreed.
"The guards?"
Wilhelm turned to Fritz.
"They're all dead."
It had been too dark to see before, but corpses lay scattered throughout the temple. These were the men sent to the archbishop's side as soon as the nobles arrived in the capital, Iselburg.
Like the archbishop, their bodies bore signs of being stabbed and cut by weapons. Yet there was no corpse that could be presumed to belong to the culprit, nor any other trace.
"The archbishop isn't a fighter on par with a mage, but…" Wilhelm muttered to himself. "To deal with even the guards this quietly?"
"Who could have done this?"
Fritz looked deeply troubled.
"For now, it's not the Pantheon."
As Wilhelm spoke, Ulrich climbed the steps and knelt on one knee before the archbishop. Placing his right hand on the old man's forehead, he closed his eyes.
"The Pantheon… Kormilius wouldn't do something like this. The archbishop may have refused the summons, but it's not enough to warrant this."
Roberta inwardly agreed. Even if the archbishop had committed a greater sin, the conclusion would be the same. The Pantheon had no room for such actions.
They were preparing for an all-out war against the empire of the Jokuster dynasty. The empire was not like the Kingdom of Osnover. The emperor's authority was firm, and even under excommunication or priestly summons, many clergy would ignore it and take sides.
"Likewise, it's not the clans or the nobles."
That left only one possibility.
The heretics known as the non-deification faction.
Ulrich had mentioned them before. The non-deification faction—those heretics believed that the Third Era created by Kormilius, and even the Holy Church itself, were lies. And after being branded heretics and hunted for over a thousand years, their hatred had reached its peak.
They had even massacred an entire village near the capital, Iselburg. With their activity already confirmed, it was unthinkable that none of them were present in this city.
Above all, from their perspective, the current situation was a perfect opportunity. If King Richard of Osnover won, the Pantheon's influence would be greatly weakened. And even if Richard lost, the damage would still be significant. Either way, they had nothing to lose.
"They're the only ones who stand to gain from killing the archbishop."
The archbishop had been a mediator—a key to resolving everything.
Ulrich had planned to use him as a guarantor to persuade the newly risen nobles. There was no concrete evidence to prove their claims. Speaking of past ties or hidden truths would not suffice without proof.
Unless someone already trusted Ulrich because they knew his past actions—like Roberta or the Hilderson clan—his words would sound like nothing more than nonsense.
Thus, the authority of the Holy Church's archbishop had been necessary to support their claims. But with Archbishop Vinicio dead, that foundation had collapsed.
"We need to hide the body immediately. Fritz, go to the palace."
Fritz looked startled and asked, "What? Hide it? The body?"
"Yes. We can't let it become known that the archbishop is dead."
"But even if we hide him, we can't conceal the fact that His Eminence has disappeared. And if it's discovered that we hid it, won't that cause even more trouble?"
"Even so, for now, no one will think he's dead."
Even the sudden death of a common priest would cause an uproar, and Vinicio was the archbishop overseeing dioceses across the entire kingdom. If the group gathered here to seek the Pantheon's forgiveness realized he was dead—
"It's better if they believe Richard has taken the archbishop hostage. If anything, that might keep them in check."
"But that's…!"
"It's not a fundamental solution."
Wilhelm turned to Ulrich.
After keeping his eyes closed for a while, Ulrich opened them again.
"Roberta, Vinicio's seal."
"I haven't retrieved it yet."
Ulrich took a round seal from the archbishop's robes. It resembled the one Tapio, the apprentice priest, had carried in the village blessed by Kunkan. However, the archbishop's was made of silver.
It was a token given to those who had received priestly ordination, and over time, a custom had formed: when a priest died far from home, their seal would be offered to the Pantheon.
The archbishop's seal was sticky with blood. Ulrich wiped it clean. The symbol of Nenus, the god of the sea, was revealed.
"..."
He stared at it for a moment, then handed it to Roberta.
At dawn, people began heading outside the city.
A temporary structure had been erected in an open field a short distance from the western gate—a rectangular jousting arena. It had been built immediately after King Richard ordered the royal marriage.
Roberta walked among the crowd entering the arena. She wore plain clothes instead of her priestly robes, and Fritz, dressed the same, followed beside her. Ulrich was not with them; he had said he would come later and sent them ahead.
She found a seat among the commoners and sat down. The seating was divided into three sections. With the arena at the center, the upper section was reserved for the king, the royal family, and guests including dwarves, while the left and right sides were occupied by the Hilderson clan and the Pantheon-aligned newly risen nobles.
"There are a lot of empty seats," Fritz remarked.
More than half were vacant. Expecting chaos to break out soon, many had packed their belongings the day before and fled the city.
"It's stranger that this many seats are filled at all."
The same was true on the nobles' side. Those absent were likely waiting at their encampments, ready to bring in troops and engage in battle at a moment's notice.
Roberta surveyed the spectators. Few were smiling; tension and vigilance were written clearly across their faces. Even when they spoke, they did so in hushed whispers, leaning close to one another.
"Now that you mention it, it is strange," Fritz said.
"Strange how?"
"Both sides brought armies, didn't they? Shouldn't they be clashing already? Does it make sense to set up a jousting arena and play around like this?"
"No, it doesn't," Roberta answered, moistening her dry lips with her tongue.
As Fritz said, the atmosphere was peculiar. Tens of thousands of soldiers stood divided into two opposing forces, yet a jousting tournament was being held in the middle of it? One would expect someone to shout in outrage, asking if this were some kind of joke—but no one did.
Neither side objected; both attended. And they watched each other warily, as if bound by an unspoken agreement: If they don't provoke us, we won't provoke them. They cast sidelong glances at their opponents.
"Sir Ulrich said it himself. No one wants a civil war."
It was fear—the fear born of civil war. A pervasive dread that one wrong step could drag them back into that abyss again. They had drawn their swords because they had no other choice, yet they had no desire to swing them.
Because of this, the jousting tournament proceeded as planned despite the standoff, and when dusk fell, a grand banquet was scheduled to follow. If nothing went wrong, they would likely attend that as well, maintaining this uneasy balance.
The jousting remained quiet throughout. Even when lances and shields clashed with loud noise, there were no cheers or jeers. Riders fought and bled, yet at most, faint grumbling could be heard among the citizens.
No one could focus on the matches. The secular lords, in particular, were too busy watching their counterparts across the field, wary of any sudden move.
'Today… or tomorrow… or the day after.'
Roberta looked up at the gloomy sky.
It had been perfectly clear until yesterday, but clouds had gathered since morning, and the air carried the scent of damp earth—a sign of impending rain. A single drop landed softly on the bridge of her nose.
'If someone were to stir chaos, now would be the time.'
Calmly, she studied the entire arena. After a while, her gaze stopped on a certain man. He had a scruffy beard, a flushed face, and disheveled hair, blending in among the commoners.
Her instincts whispered—it was Ulrich.
His disguise was completely different from the one she had seen at the mage's stronghold, yet she recognized him. That ragged man was Ulrich, and his eyes were fixed on someone.
Following his gaze, she saw a neatly dressed middle-aged man. He sat with his legs crossed, watching the jousting with a blank expression.
'Why… is he watching that man?'
Ulrich studied him intently. Then, as the middle-aged man rose to his feet, Ulrich followed suit and left the stands. Roberta hurriedly stood up as well.
"Where are you going?"
Without making a sound, she mouthed, Ulrich. Fritz's eyes widened as he followed her. The two exited the arena at an ordinary pace so as not to draw attention.
Outside, tents were densely set up, but there was no one around. Neither Ulrich nor the middle-aged man they were following could be seen. Roberta sharpened her hearing and moved between the tents.
From somewhere, the sound of metal clashing rang out repeatedly.
"This way."
"Huh?"
"The sound is coming from here."
As they approached one of the tents, the metallic noise grew sharp enough to pierce their ears. Roberta and Fritz placed their hands on their waists and quieted their footsteps.
A wind carrying the scent of wet earth blew past. Beyond an open passage, four figures came into view—three surrounding one.
The three looked rough—sweat streaming down their faces, flushed, breathing heavily. In contrast, the man standing before them, holding a single sword—Ulrich in disguise—remained silent and still.
"You're showing remarkable restraint."
"There's still much I need to ask you. Don't try anything foolish."
"Foolish, you say." The man in the center of the three smiled. He was the very middle-aged man Ulrich had followed from the stands. "Does it matter anymore? You already know everything, don't you?"
Roberta and Fritz stepped inside, but no one paid them any mind. Ulrich looked only at the three men, and the three looked only at him.
"You already know what we've done, what we want, and what you must do. Is there anything you don't know? Ulrich of Dithmarschen?"
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