After five days and nights of bumpy travel, the carriage finally stopped in this mountain village. The coachman remarked that it was nothing short of a miracle that we hadn't encountered a wolf pack along the way. I replied that I had often prayed for a safe journey, which only stirred up his long-held frustrations. He complained that if I had truly cared, I should have arranged for church guards to accompany us. I explained that I didn't have the authority to do so, though I felt ashamed as I realized I agreed with him. The Church should do more to ensure the safety of missionaries and their guides on such perilous trips. It wouldn't be an unreasonable request.
The couple hosting me was very warm and hospitable. They were both nearing fifty, belonging to one of the more well-off farming families in the village. At the very least, they had raised eight children—a testament to their hard work and optimism. The dinner they prepared for me was bountiful, featuring their traditional specialty. Apparently, they often served this dish to welcome guests. Unfortunately, I've never been able to stomach pig offal. Still, I couldn't reject such hospitality, so I ate about eighty percent of it. My stomach, however, was not pleased. I should avoid using certain words to describe the food they graciously offered. Tomorrow, I'll have to find a way to explain why I can't eat it again. After dinner, I spent an hour in conversation with the couple and four of their children in the living room. The first question, as always, was the simplest yet most essential: why had I left my homeland to come to such a remote place to preach?
Now, as I sit here by the oil lamp, pen in hand, I truly feel the weight of the fact that it has been seven years since I left Stormwind. In these two thousand five hundred-plus days, I've faced that question countless times and regretted each time that I couldn't answer it honestly. My incomplete answer serves the mission well enough—if they knew I was being punished, they wouldn't trust me—but in truth, this is a consequence of my own mistakes.
Seven years ago, when I first began this journey, I couldn't even state my real name to the parishioners. Now, I can admit during my sermons that I failed the Holy Light, that I disappointed my colleagues in the cathedral. But that is not progress. What I must continue to do is atone for my sins through preaching. The parishioners simply need a good missionary to reaffirm their faith. But what I seek is the gaze of thousands of eyes and the ears of countless listeners. For the clergy of the Northshire School of Personal Enlightenment, what I am doing is deeply hypocritical and selfish. I don't subscribe to their philosophy, but I can't claim to have absolute confidence in myself either.
"When will you return to Stormwind and leave this life of wandering?"—that's the second question I fear, because the answer is completely beyond my control. I've made no request to return, and I don't know what the cathedral currently thinks of me. I continue to await a judgment. I am a prisoner, not of the Holy Light, but of my own shortsightedness and folly.
As the first entry since arriving here, this may not be the most appropriate way to begin. Fatigue always brings out my melancholy. Ironically, my sermons now carry a more uplifting and motivational tone than when I was in Stormwind. Perhaps this is what I need, what the parishioners need, and what the Church wants me to do. I can't deny that in every new parish, I look for the opportunity to tell her story. And I always receive a positive response. Those who listen to me understand the irretrievable losses in life. They want to believe that courage and perseverance can always overcome the suffering that makes us vulnerable.
Yet, her story isn't entirely true. Each time I tell it, I present it as a legend from ancient texts, not something I witnessed firsthand. If I were to defend myself, I could say it's "for the effective spread of the Holy Light." But I'm already a prisoner; my defense holds no weight.
Perhaps I seek more than just redemption. A simpler motive also drives me.
The hosts are truly generous. I won't waste their lamp oil with my doubts.
—Hylan Ludwig Journal Entry #2376, Ninth Year of Wandering
"I'll take it," said Bossia, as she took the cup from the servant's hands and stepped into the room.
Hylan lay under a blanket, half-reclined on the bed, his back propped up by pillows. Bossia approached him; Hylan waved his hand, indicating she should place the cup on the table beside him. She did so and then sat down on the chair by the bed.
"How are you feeling?"
"I don't trust my own feelings on matters like this. But since the doctor said I'm fine, there's no need to worry."
"So, you still plan to..."
"Don't inform anyone yet. The ceremony must proceed as planned tomorrow."
Forty minutes earlier, when someone had suddenly approached Hylan on the road, Bossia hadn't wasted time thinking about what was happening. The assailant had struck Hylan with a short wooden stick, but before he could land a second blow, Bossia had twisted his arm and subdued him. The attacker was now bound and locked in the basement under guard. Apparently, he was furious with the recent spread of the True Prayer congregation and blamed certain candidates for doing nothing to stop it. After a drunken night, he had stumbled upon Hylan while he was out and followed him here.
"Why did you go out alone the night before the ceremony? Even if this hadn't happened, it would've caused trouble if your supporters had seen you."
"I wasn't completely alone. A servant was with me until I reached the front of the house. I only walked into the garden by myself."
"When you become Archbishop, you'll always have church guards with you at night…"
"I know. Perhaps I wanted one last look at Stormwind by night without a guard following me. Please, hand me the cup."
Hylan took the cup from Bossia, drank a sip, and asked, "Are you completely free now?"
"No one is watching me anymore. Though some of the things I brought back to Stormwind are still being held, I suppose I'll have to find Bishop Nehari to retrieve them. I heard he came to see you this morning, but no one's been able to find him since."
Hylan reflected on his conversation with Nehari, hoping he was still willing to attend the ceremony. He drank more water before handing the cup back to Bossia to place it on the table.
"You've already received Benedictus' relics."
Bossia, who had been watching Hylan, lowered her gaze.
"Yes."
"Then congratulations. You went through a lot to obtain them."
"Thank you. As for the difficulties... many were my own fault."
"Of course, I'm not asking about the contents of the relics."
"No, I know you're not… There's really nothing to hide. It's just the correspondence between my parents and him."
"That's wonderful, Bossia. As far as I know, you didn't have many ways to learn about your parents before this."
"Indeed. I'm... very grateful. To be honest, I had somewhat anticipated what would be inside. So when I opened the box…" She paused. "At least, when I saw what he left me, I wasn't as tense or upset as I'd imagined."
Bossia raised her eyes and found Hylan looking at her. She hesitated for a moment, holding her breath slightly.
"Bossia, why are you here today?"
"Bishop Hylan, I…"
"You have something to discuss."
"Yes. I'm sorry. Now I'm starting to feel nervous."
"I can see that. Perhaps because you've just received the relics, you're easily affected. Whatever it is, if you feel you're not ready, you can come to me after the ceremony tomorrow."
"No. I must speak with you before the ceremony. He would want me to."
"He?"
"My godfather."
They fell into a brief silence. Bossia could sense that Hylan had some inkling of what was to come. She stood up, walked over to the door, and shut it tightly. With her hand on the door for a moment, she seemed to be making sure their conversation wouldn't be overheard. Then she returned to her seat.
"Bishop Hylan."
"Go ahead, child."
Child. It had been a long time since Hylan had addressed her in that way. When she had been under house arrest, questioning Hylan's motives, the term had felt patronizing. But now, it was different. It gave her the courage to speak.
"Among the relics, there was something that doesn't belong to me. My godfather entrusted me with the decision of what to do with it. I believe the right thing is to deliver it to you immediately."
Bossia retrieved a small object from the leather pouch at her waist, cradling it gently in both hands, and raised it to Hylan's shoulder. He shifted slightly, glanced at the object, then at Borgia's face before taking it. His back sank against the pillows with a heavy breath.
It was a small notebook, no larger than a hand. Its black cover was etched with grooves, reflecting light at certain angles. The curled edges of its pages bore the marks of countless battles, all without a victor. The scent of aged paper forced one to focus. Hylan held the book with his left hand, his right thumb brushing across the slightly rough, glue-bound edges, as if sensing the ink from long ago seeping into his skin. He didn't open it.
"It no longer belongs to me. Perhaps it belongs to no one now." After a brief pause, he spoke to Bossia. "Have you read what's inside?"
"No, no, I haven't. I opened the first page, realized what it was, and immediately closed it. I've never seen this particular notebook before, but I know what it was used for. It belonged to that mute woman..."
"Hilsbeth. It was how she and I communicated."
"Yes. Her handwriting... I still remember it. And there's also a letter from my godfather with instructions for me. After reading it, I understood more clearly. This letter also must be given to you. Here it is."
She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket, unfolded it, and handed it to Hylan. He placed the small notebook on his right side and took the letter, glancing at its beginning.
"The letter is addressed to you," he said.
"Please, read on."
As Hylan silently read the letter, Bossia sat beside him, her hands gripping the edges of the chair, as if ready to stand or retreat but unable to decide. She felt that perhaps the moment Hylan finished reading, her long journey would finally reach its true conclusion.
Bossia:
I hope by now you've browsed through the letters. I cannot predict how they've made you feel, but I hope you are neither disheartened, disappointed, nor discouraged. I believe that even after eight years apart, my impressions of you haven't faded. However, I cannot estimate what kind of person you've become after such a long time—after all, I don't know when you will read these words.
As a man and as a cleric, I've made many mistakes. Your departure from the Church and Stormwind was the culmination of the errors I accumulated over time. During that period, what was challenged wasn't my faith but the way I practiced it. These methods turned me into a corrupt, dishonest person. When I severed our spiritual bond, I was filled with cold indifference, convinced it was a just punishment for your sins. But it was all an illusion, a construct to preserve my self-image. I never stopped searching for you, though the reasons changed with time: from anger to remorse, to a simpler—if you'll accept me saying so—paternal duty.
There's much more I wish to say, but for now, let me begin with this: Bossia, I'm sorry. I failed you, and I betrayed the trust your parents placed in me. This cannot be explained away as mere confusion.
Perhaps when a person focuses on a simple goal, their view of the world becomes clearer—not duller, but more adept at discerning what truly matters. I believe that's what has changed in me over these past years. Once, I greedily pursued too many things that didn't belong to me, using the Archbishop's power and influence to become a beast ruling over the plains, far removed from being a true servant of the Holy Light. Even during my most successful moments, my life was filled with fears and anxieties I couldn't confess. It was only this single, simple goal—finding you—that allowed me to wipe away the sediment clouding my vision. The more time passed, the clearer my memories became: studying tirelessly, striving to raise you well. These are pure memories. In the fourth year after you left Stormwind, I accidentally found the correspondence between your parents and me. Before that, I had forgotten where I'd kept them. When I laid eyes on them, an overwhelming sense of dread washed over me, suffocating me. In that moment, I didn't know who I was or why I still stood on this earth. It was a crisis far deeper than a loss of faith—it was an existential threat to my very identity. I couldn't spend half my life building myself up only to spend the rest tearing it down.
In the years that followed, I've tried to find my way back to the right path. Some mistakes cannot be undone, such as my reputation for lavishness and my overemphasis on ceremonial rituals, both of which are deeply ingrained in the minds of many. But my aim isn't to force others to change their opinions. As for how much I've changed or how effective those changes are, it's not for me to judge. The truth saddens me because I know the extent of my illness. Before I inevitably return to dust, all I hope is that I've tried my best.
However, there is one mistake I cannot correct on my own. I need your help. Read carefully and think hard, Bossia.
The corruption that marred my clerical life began long before you left Stormwind. It's impossible to pinpoint its true origin, but there is one pivotal event that accelerated my moral decay and gave me the power to indulge in my wrongdoings.
When I was forty, I participated in the election for the next Archbishop. My opponent was my former mentor, Bishop Hylan. Undoubtedly, his wisdom and reputation far exceeded mine, and the outcome should have been clear. You know what happened next: Bishop Hylan fell ill, abruptly withdrew from the election, and I ascended to the Archbishop's throne.
But that isn't the truth. I stole that honor from Bishop Highland—by stealing something personal and using it to blackmail him.
You might remember that Bishop Hylan cared deeply for a mute woman who lived in the church. She wasn't a cleric, though many called her Sister. She communicated through a small notebook she always carried, and you used to converse with her that way.
She and Bishop Hylan had a long, complicated history that I found intriguing, and my curiosity eventually became malicious. Shortly before the election, I stole one of the notebooks she used in her private conversations with the Bishop. Using the personal contents within, I forced Bishop Hylan to withdraw. This was my action. This was the source of my so-called glory for the next ten years. I extorted my mentor, the man I once admired most.
If you've read this letter, you've at least seen the black notebook beneath it and perhaps even read some of its contents. In truth, I couldn't have truly threatened Bishop Hylan because the contents were purely personal, with no real political leverage. Yet it was precisely this personal nature that made my scheme so successful. I still remember the dim look in Bishop Hylan's eyes as I quoted passages from the notebook. His history with this woman might have been his greatest personal torment, and I threatened to expose it publicly.
I now believe that it wasn't Hylan's fear that allowed my plan to succeed, but his sense of guilt and his desire to protect that woman. Back then, I didn't care why—I only cared that I had won. No one believed that a forty-year-old Benedictus could defeat Hylan Ludwig, but the Holy Light chose me! I was its true representative! Even if your parents had witnessed it all, they couldn't have stopped me.
Bossia, you must wonder, if I truly seek redemption, why haven't I personally returned this important object to Bishop Hylan? Over the years, Hylan has refused any private meetings with me. Entrusting this to a third party would be dangerous, and given his status as both a bishop and candidate, I couldn't pass it to him covertly, as I've done with you. If it must be returned, I've missed the best opportunity. In my healthier years, I failed to awaken to this truth. Now, as death approaches and countless eyes watch my every move, my fear grows. Though decisions made in illness may be fraught with instability, I believe this one is wise.
The evidence of my sin lies before you. With the same sincerity, worry, and hope that your parents placed in me, I now place these matters in your hands. How you handle them is up to you. I've set a deadline for the destruction of these relics because, if too much time passes, the people involved may no longer exist, and your feelings might evolve beyond my expectations. No matter how much of the black notebook you read, do not share its contents—at least not before discussing it with those involved. I trust you in this because the notebook contains matters of deep personal significance to you. If you are still the Bossia I once knew, you won't recklessly expose what's written within.
I suppose this is the end. These words from the grave will soon belong to eternal silence. Bishop Hylan once taught me not to place the proof of my faith in any one individual, yet I seem to have done just that. Bossia, may the Holy Light forever illuminate the path ahead of you.
Hylan placed the letter down. He saw that Bossia was resting her right hand against her forehead, her elbow propped on her tightly closed knees, her left hand across her abdomen as if trying to avoid something, but unable to find a way out.
"Why did the godfather… entrust this to me?" she asked.
"I think he explained it quite clearly. In his sickness, he needed someone he could trust to fulfill his final wish. That person is you."
"I almost… failed him. I've made so many mistakes."
"We all make mistakes, child, and you're still young. Look at me—just tonight, I nearly made a mistake with serious consequences, and it was completely pointless. Not to mention the thing you brought to me. Honestly, I was a little afraid to see it again, because it forces me to remember and then reflect on whether I've learned anything from my past mistakes."
Bossia wiped her eyes with the base of her hand and looked at Hylan.
"Was it right to return it to you?"
"Of course."
"I apologize on the godfather's behalf. But I won't ask for your forgiveness on his behalf. I can't understand the depth of the hurt this caused you."
"All of this ended long ago. As for the contents of the notebook, are you interested?"
"To say I'm not at all interested would be a lie. After all, the godfather specifically mentioned someone I know. But I absolutely won't pry or spread anything."
"That's fine. In fact, you have the right to know. I don't intend to bury this forever; otherwise, I wouldn't be grateful it came back into my hands. I can tell you now, the person of great significance to you mentioned in Benedictus' letters is Jorgen."
"Jorgen?"
"Yes. After the ceremony, if there's a chance, I can tell you more. And perhaps we can discuss together how to handle this piece of history. I believe there are still many wrongs waiting to be corrected and compensated. That's enough for today."
"...Bishop Hylan, I was ready to forget this relic, but now that you've said all this, if I don't get to learn more, I'll feel regret and always have it on my mind."
"You've looked so dejected since you returned to Stormwind, child. Now that this matter is settled, you can lay aside some of your extra worries, and your anticipation for the future will help with that. At the very least, consider this my gift to you. Remember, you saved me from the attackers and fulfilled Benedictus' final wish."
"Perhaps I was just lucky. Over the years out there, I've seen so many people who should have lived easier lives… If they had the chance to grow up in the cathedral, they would certainly have done better than I have."
"I doubt that, child. I've heard about what you did in Silithus. Remember, you're braver than you think. People are willing to entrust things to the brave. While such actions carry risk, risk is not the same as gambling. I believe Benedictus would be proud of you, just as I am now."
Bossia didn't know how to respond. She felt the familiar urge for self-denial rising within her, and perhaps it was stronger now than at any other time since she returned to Stormwind, but she knew that if she rejected Hylan's judgment, she would fall back into an endless cycle of self-blame.
—Maybe I can think of it this way.
I've made mistakes, that much is true. But whether the chance to correct them is offered by someone else or won by myself, the key is that I finally took hold of it. Just as the godfather did.
"...I shouldn't keep troubling you. Let me guard the prisoner in the basement. Tomorrow, when it's appropriate, I'll take him with your guards to where he needs to go."
"You're not going to rest tonight?"
"No, I definitely won't be able to sleep tonight. Besides, I'm used to these kinds of things after my time in Silithus."
"Then I leave it to you."
"Good night, Bishop Hylan, and… thank you. Tomorrow's ceremony will surely go smoothly, and…"
She hesitated. It wouldn't be right to say "magnificent" or "unforgettable," but merely wishing for smoothness seemed too bland, and she couldn't find the right words to add. Hylan noticed this. "Go on, child. Good night," he said, relieving Bossia of some of her burdens as she left the room.
The house quieted down. It wasn't just the fading of voices. Bossia had taken away the vitality that filled the room, even though she was clearly still deeply troubled. Hylan believed that no matter how loudly an elderly, sick man might speak, his aura remained quiet and steady. When he delivered speeches, this aura would remind people of a banner standing on a watchtower; but when he was alone in a room, as he was now, it resembled more the dust on a tombstone.
The small black notebook lay beside him. He picked it up again and placed his thumb on the cover. Opening it was difficult. He knew what was inside. The story that he fell ill during the archbishop election was not entirely a lie. The black notebook recorded his irreparable mistakes. Benedictus had stolen it and used it as a tool for mockery and threats, causing Hylan to lose the mental strength needed to serve as archbishop.
Tomorrow was the coronation ceremony. He should rest peacefully. But to completely banish memories and fall asleep was clearly impossible. So he decided to try to confront them intentionally. To remember how it all started, as a test for himself. He thought that perhaps his praise for Baucier's courage was no accident, or simply an expression of his views on her. If these withered fingers could only weakly rest on the cover of the black notebook, then perhaps tomorrow they would also be unable to lift the archbishop's crown before so many watching eyes.
Maybe, in the end, I am a selfish and hypocritical person. I am far from being worthy of a holy office.
A year ago, I received notice of my reinstatement from the cathedral, and I declined, citing a desire to continue my ascetic journey. I once believed this to be a heartfelt, sincere, and faith-rooted reason, fully explaining my choice not to return to Stormwind. But that was not the truth.
I stayed in one village after another, spreading her story. I believed that if I spread it far enough, I would eventually hear news of her again. A woman who once had the most beautiful singing voice but lost it, along with almost all her future—how she continued to live strongly under the guidance of the Light. This was the story that moved the most believers in my nine years of wandering, but it was a clumsy and crude fabrication of the truth. I spread it because I wanted to find her.
And this foolish hope actually came true.
I saw her, and a child with her.
When the villagers told me that there was also a mute woman living among them, if I said that the thought "Maybe it's her" never crossed my mind… No, there's no point in denying it. I have already fallen deep enough because of lies; no confession will save me.
The villagers said she had always lived with her sister and brother-in-law. The sister was named Esther, who died a few years ago, and her husband was named Sam. Who were these strangers? She certainly didn't have such relatives, so could these two be Cornwall and his lover?
Light, what should I do?
I was at a loss. Seeing her again brought me no joy… because I realized I had no idea why I had been searching for her in the first place.
At least, please tell me, do I still have the right to ask for your guidance now?
—Hylan Ludwig, Journal Entry from the Ninth Year of Wandering, Number 3017