Cornwall knelt on the ground, his hands tied behind his back, staring at the bloodstain in front of his knees. His blood. The light in the cabin was dim, but he insisted that he could see his reflection in the pool of blood. Some people, after being injured, would stare at their wounds as if trying to understand how the torn flesh stored their souls, and Cornwall was doing something similar. He saw a broken, dark red map; the tiny channels and granular protrusions formed by the rough ground fascinated him. He had never known that his blood could create such a complex and intricate scene. He had thought it would be something far more savage and ugly.
For many years, he had tried to avoid becoming a victim. Now that he realized he wouldn't survive the day, the sight of his injured body seemed to distract him from the pain.
"I never betrayed you."
Though he could no longer feel the pain of his wounds, his body shook violently when this thought emerged in his mind. He remembered that voice, a voice weakly spilling from pale lips, falling tiredly into the air like futile attempts to pluck broken strings. What haunted him most was the single emotion in the voice: disappointment.
Cornwall opened his eyes wide, seeing something else in the pool of blood near his reflection. The blood droplets gathering in a depression formed her eyes. A shallow ripple became her lips. He saw Sylvia. The same woman whose face and body had filled him countless times with self-doubt and hatred, who had made him briefly wish for a life where he had never met her.
When Sylvia had first exposed her body to him, Cornwall had been too insecure to touch her. He didn't dare lower his head slightly to look at his own body below the neck, nor did he want to see his hands on her skin—even long before his forced marriage, he had never imagined he would see such a young, vibrant, and radiant body. He looked at his own hands: the slightest movement would form wrinkles lined with pale brown spots, and the uneven skin around his nails had gathered dead white skin. These hands, he thought, should only ever touch the wife he had long despised. In the awkward silence, it wasn't just Cornwall's body that had grown ugly, but his life too, especially after his promotion prospects in the security bureau had vanished. How could he not doubt whether he deserved her? His mind was too consumed to wonder whether she had ulterior motives.
Later, that night, Cornwall saw Sylvia's body covered in blood—from the two men she had killed, and some of it was her own. Until she wiped the blood from her face and revealed her gaze upon him, Cornwall had been frozen in place. He had helped her wash afterward and had pushed the bodies into the ravine, but throughout the ordeal, he had felt that the person next to him wasn't the same Sylvia whose soft skin had once made his head spin. He realized that her body wasn't as perfect as he had imagined. Her arms, back, and thighs bore scars visible to the naked eye. After she killed those men before him, she returned to being the daughter of Polunius, not someone who had ever needed his protection.
Sylvia never explained why she killed the guards and fled instead of following Shore's plan, and Cornwall didn't dare ask—this mystery became the source of his growing hatred for her. He tried to drive her away with indifference and disdain, but when he realized that wouldn't work, his hatred became more pronounced. After they found a village where they could settle, Sylvia often traveled around looking for work. Every time he saw her talking to another man, Cornwall would force himself to imagine her sleeping with him. He was convinced that she was that kind of woman. Now that he couldn't take care of her, she would go to others for what she needed. Cornwall cursed Sylvia, threw chairs at her, and drove her out of the house, only to be terrified by the thought that she could easily kill him. She never retaliated; her silence, filled with anger, was enough to make Cornwall cower. Soon, he realized there was something else growing within her that restrained her rage. She was pregnant.
This time, Cornwall's hatred for himself was triggered by Sylvia's swelling belly. In twenty-five years of marriage, he and his wife had never conceived, not even a hint of a child, so he believed this one couldn't be his. He thought that this woman hadn't just cut off his chance at a stable life, forcing him to become a fugitive, but now she wanted to deepen his humiliation even further. After a difficult labor, her body quickly weakened, and he consciously or unconsciously refused to take care of her.
Sylvia died three years after giving birth. That night, Cornwall stayed by her bedside, holding her hand weakly, feeling anxious and fearful as he withdrew into himself. He hardly recognized her anymore: the hands he had once so passionately desired, then feared, were now shrinking in his palm, stiffening like crumpled leaves.
"I never… betrayed you."
The door opened. Cornwall hadn't heard any footsteps before the person entered the room. He lifted his head; as his eyes and attention left the bloodstain, a wave of dizziness hit him. He suddenly remembered that he was a powerless prey, utterly lacking in strength and cunning, and no hunter would take pride in capturing him.
The hunter sat down on the chair in the middle of the room. The pool of blood stopped about a meter away from his toes, unable to spread any farther.
"I can send for someone to treat your wounds," Panthonia said. "If you want that."
"What's the point… of that?"
Cornwall felt blood fill his right eye socket. He didn't know where the blood was coming from or whether the eye beneath that dark red barrier was still intact. Something similar was happening with his hearing. He thought he had lost hearing in one ear, but couldn't figure out which side. These muddled sensations strangely diminished his fear of the man before him. Now, his only fear was that he wouldn't be able to speak, to have a conversation with the calm he had never known before; fortunately, he could still hear his own voice clearly.
"For you, it would mean less pain before you die. For me, I have some questions to ask you. And I don't want to see you collapse before I'm done."
"I'm fine. I can talk. It's not bad… talking with you."
"You should feel proud that you've evaded me for so many years."
"That's not it." Cornwall raised his head slightly. "I'm nothing. Sylvia saved me. And she's escaped forever. You'll never… catch her. She's free now. Shawl, even you have people you can't deal with…"
"Tell me how she died," Panthonia said after a moment of silence.
"I killed her. I did. I never believed in her. Sylvia, I'm sorry, I…"
In the midst of his incoherent muttering, Cornwall began sobbing, though it was a forced effort since his facial wounds had made crying impossible. He struggled to lift his head, his eyelids trembling as he tried to open them fully.
"What are you going to do with Jorgen? I beg you, spare his life. I know I'm going to die. I'm not afraid, but that child… I can't let Sylvia down any more. I can't do anything else to hurt her. Please, let Jorgen live."
"I don't know where this sudden self-sacrificial spirit comes from. I've seen this many times, but you're especially unconvincing, Cornwall. The villagers all know you never took care of or educated the boy."
"I know, I know… but Shawl, at least… for Hilsbeth's sake. Jorgen hates me, he only listens to Hilsbeth. She's the one who raised him. If you kill Jorgen, Hilsbeth won't survive it. I know you came here looking for her. It wasn't just Sylvia who caused me all this pain. Promise me you'll let Jorgen live, or kill me now, Shawl. I've lived too long. I don't deserve to live this long."
Cornwall dragged himself forward, his knees and calves drenched in his own blood. He tried to stand but couldn't muster the strength, eventually allowing his body to collapse. It was as if he had forgotten his hands were tied behind his back, mistakenly trusting they could support his fall. His cheek pressed against the slick ground as he strained to lift his eyes, barely catching a glimpse of Panthonia's feet as he stood and turned. Realizing that no response would come from him, Cornwall's weary pupils slid back into their sockets, his vision narrowing to the small streak of blood extending from beneath his face. In that narrow, dark red stretch, he saw Sylvia once again. Cornwall longed to hear her voice but was also terrified; he couldn't close his eyes, reach out, or move his feet. He had lost the chance to escape this final fear.
Panthonia stepped out of the cabin and ordered one of his men, stationed by the door, to clean up inside. A short distance away, Hylan sat on a rock, pressing his hands to his forehead. Panthonia approached him; Hylan raised his head, squinting against the sunlight that made it hard to see the man's face.
"Did you… kill him?"
"I didn't have to."
"May the Holy Light forgive me..."
Panthonia grabbed Hylan by the collar, pulling him to his feet.
"Don't pray in front of me, Father Hylan, especially when I've still got things to say." He let go and continued. "You're shaking. Looks like your prayers didn't help."
"I shouldn't have done this."
"I'm going to give you some orders. I know you're a sensible man, so I expect you to understand what I'm about to say. You're going back to the Stormwind Cathedral immediately to resume your clerical duties, and then wait quietly. Understood?"
"Wait for what?"
"Hilsbeth. My men will take her to the cathedral. You will take her in."
"Why me…?"
"I didn't ask for questions. You'll do as I say. Remember, in front of her, you know nothing about all of this. Also, Jorgen won't be with her."
"You can't…"
"I won't kill him. He's up on the mountain outside the village now. By the time he gets back, there'll be no one left in that cabin. I have other plans for him, but he won't die… as long as he doesn't do anything stupid. Your only concern is to return to the cathedral, resume your position, and take in Hilsbeth—no different from what you've done before. Last time, I gave this task to Cornwall, but he betrayed me. I trust you're more reasonable."
"I don't understand how you see her, Shawl. You want to save her from this place, but you won't look after her yourself, and you're separating her from Jorgen. You still plan to protect her, but why this way? The Koen incident has been over for so long; she won't bring you any enemies, surely you know that. Think it over, Shawl. You haven't even met her yet, have you? Go to that cabin, see her for yourself—you'll change your mind…"
Panthonia drew a dagger and struck Hylan on the side of his neck with the hilt. Hylan collapsed to his knees, unable to speak or lift his head, though he could hear Pantsonia's voice echoing in his ears.
"Yes, the Koen affair was a long time ago. That's why I can kill Cornwall and then kill you, but I've chosen to let you live. You should be grateful. In return for me sparing your life, you'll do something for me. I've already told you, it's not difficult. You've done it before and done it well. I don't see what you have to complain about. Stay here. My men will arrange your route and carriage back to Stormwind."
Panthonia left. After a few minutes, Hylan got up and returned to the rock. He glanced briefly at the wooden cabin where Cornwall was held before quickly averting his eyes. He had never expected things to turn out like this, but from the start, he hadn't known what he was hoping for.
After learning from the villagers about Hilsbeth and Jorgen's hardships, along with Cornwall's reputation for incompetence and mistreatment of his family, Hylan had spent nearly a week wrestling with his conscience before deciding to notify Panthonia. At the time, he felt he had no other choice—as a wandering preacher, he had no power to intervene in others' lives. After making his decision, he took naive precautions: in the letters he sent to MI7, he didn't provide an address, instead demanding Panthonia guarantee Hilsbeth's safety before he would reveal their exact location. Before he had the chance to become anxious from the long wait for a response, MI7 had already traced him through the letters. At the time, Hylan tried not to think about what might happen to Cornwall as a result; at the very least, he believed Panthonia wouldn't harm Hilsbeth or the child she had raised. His confidence stemmed partly from distant, fading memories: outside the Duke of Koen's estate, in a small grove, Panthonia had handed Hilsbeth to him and immediately turned away—at that moment, in his silhouette, Hylan saw hesitation and self-loathing, though he wasn't sure if that loathing was more for abandoning Hilsbeth or for the humiliation of obeying Koen's orders. The other part of Hylan's confidence came from the optimistic judgment natural to a cleric: Hilsbeth was a kind woman, who had so steadfastly defended her relationship with Panthonia, rejecting outside interference without hesitation, and that must have been for a reason. As long as Panthonia hadn't changed too much—
Panthonia Shawl hadn't changed, only gained more power, retaining a kind of brutal honesty while becoming more fearsome. Killing Cornwall; sending Hilsbeth back to Stormwind; vaguely indicating he wouldn't harm Jorgen, though it seemed he intended to shape the boy's future—none of this was surprising.
Hylan's neck still ached. Perhaps asking Panthonia to go and meet with Hilsbeth before making his decision had been overstepping. After all, Hylan hadn't done so himself. He was afraid to see Sylvia in the current situation; it had never crossed his mind that Panthonia might share the same hesitation.
He heard the door to the cabin open and looked over. Someone was dragging out Cornwall's body. Hylan realized that, in the simplest terms of cause and effect, he had helped Panthonia kill a man. Perhaps, back when he served Koen, he had indirectly harmed even more people—at least, he had never tried to stop it.
But things couldn't be considered this way. Only a poor cleric would use false morality to explain matters and ultimately trap himself in an inescapable maze of reasoning. Hylan found that he no longer feared the body. He had never imagined, nor wished, that Cornwall would meet a good end. Cornwall had once been a victim and also a sinner; in the world controlled by MI7, he had broken the rules and had to accept his punishment accordingly.
At least Hilsbeth was safe.
Panthonia not personally taking her away was not a bad thing.
It exceeded even the uncertain hopes Hylan had harbored.
When he returned to Stormwind, Hylan found that his refusal of the cathedral's reinstatement notice a year earlier had ironically solidified his position quickly. Most of his colleagues viewed him as a penitent far surpassing others in perseverance and determination—no cleric had ever preached in as many impoverished or war-torn areas over the course of eight years as he had. No one mentioned the Koen affair anymore; the political scandal, which had been swiftly suppressed, had not lasted the eight years of his absence. The clergy admired Hylan, eagerly studying his religious writings; the faithful considered attending his sermons a proof of their piety. Hylan knew that he owed all of this to his efforts over the years, not the story he had fabricated for personal reasons—the tale of the voiceless songstress who had lived courageously through faith. As he quietly accepted the honors, he knew he would never again mention it in public.
Panthonia's words had come true. One afternoon, an assistant informed Hylan that someone from the government had come to see him. The vagueness in the assistant's tone revealed their belief in the visitor's authority, though they didn't quite know the person's exact role. With a sense of foreboding, Hylan stepped outside the side door of the cathedral and saw two members of MI7, accompanied by Hilsbeth.
Even though this encounter was entirely unexpected, it didn't shock Hylan any more than what he had already imagined. It was clear that Hilsbeth knew exactly who she was meeting; her eyes carried a mix of exhaustion and a hidden anxiety, reminiscent of the time shortly after she married Pipin when Hylan had struggled to communicate with her.
The last time in the village, Hylan hadn't had the chance to really look at her; but now, standing before him, she left him with no choice but to face her gaze. Hilsbeth had lived like a prisoner in Duke Coan's estate for seven years, and during that time, Hylan had seen her almost daily. From her wedding to the bedridden Pipin to the eventual fall of Coan, where the estate's valuables were seized piece by piece, Hylan hadn't noticed much change in her appearance. But this time was different. After all, she was now over forty, having spent the past eight years in a small village where winters often claimed lives due to cold or hunger. Naturally, Hylan himself was a more fitting example of the passage of time. But in her eyes, Hylan could still see the woman who once sang in the cathedral choir with the purest emotions and the prisoner who played chess with him in opulent yet cold rooms to momentarily forget her suffering. The memory returned to him, along with the same feeling: when the desperate Coan attempted violence against Hilsbeth, Hylan had arrived in time to stop him, but the overwhelming sense of his own powerlessness had lingered.
—This time was different.
He was Hylan Ludwig, a well-respected priest, with hopes of soon becoming a bishop. The Cathedral of Holy Light would be his fortress—a place that neither politicians nor MI7 agents could easily enter. From this perspective, it was even safer than Stormwind Keep.
And Panthonia clearly knew this. The cathedral could shield Hilsbeth from all dangers, including himself.
Hylan still harbored many doubts, most of them concerning how much Hilsbeth knew about the situation and the whereabouts of Jorgen. But he had to set these aside for now. For the sake of his agreement with Panthonia, and to avoid opening wounds that he couldn't yet foresee, he pretended to know nothing and made no inquiries. He believed that if Hilsbeth still remembered his nature, she wouldn't suspect anything. After all, during their time at Coan's estate, he had never asked her anything about Panthonia.
From then on, Hilsbeth lived at the cathedral, occasionally doing simple tasks like the other nuns. As Hylan had expected, no one asked about her identity; they only knew she was under his protection, and the church staff, especially, did not disturb the life of a mute woman. Once things settled, Hylan was named a bishop, and two years later, he was a candidate for the next archbishop. He was far busier than ever before—presiding over the ceremony in which Benedictus adopted Bossia as his goddaughter was just a small episode in his endless work. In the steady rhythm of preaching and duties, time passed silently and steadfastly. Hylan's schedule had never been this packed, but he had also never felt such profound peace, one he deeply respected.
Eleven years passed. Hylan knew he had become the kind of cleric who, in the eyes of others, bore his graying hair and lined face as symbols of wisdom and experience. He held the authority that only someone approaching sixty could wield. In some ways, Hilsbeth had earned a similar respect—many knew of the mute woman who had served the church for eleven years despite not being a believer of the Holy Light. The bond they once shared through their past had faded as time marched on. Throughout those years, they had not seen Panthonia once, further proving to Hylan that the past, filled with lies, blood, and betrayal, had long been swept away by the dust stirred in the three thousand five hundred days that had raced by—or so he thought. He imagined that when either he or Hilsbeth passed, the other, standing before the gravestone, would no longer harbor regret for the mistakes of those turbulent days.
Because of this, on the eve of the archbishop election, when Hilsbeth chose a quiet place to meet Hylan alone and handed him a note written in her black notebook, he was utterly unprepared.
"I saw Dean and Jorgen."
Hilbes' no-longer-bright eyes reflected a gaze that Hylan had long forgotten—the doubt and unease that lingered behind her silence. Much later, Hylan learned that this had occurred the year Jorgen followed Dean to Stormwind for training. After a fire consumed a group of buildings on the eastern side of the city, Hilsbeth had gone with other nuns to distribute aid. MI7 had suspected the fire was part of a string of arson attacks, and Dean had taken Jorgen there for on-site investigation training. Until that day, Hilsbeth had never seen Dean beyond his three-day-old infancy, and she only recognized the unfamiliar face by hearing his name called. Jorgen, however—she had known him the moment she laid eyes on him. Though it had been eleven years since they last met, she was certain it couldn't be anyone else.
Had he known in advance that such an encounter was possible, should he have intervened? Hylan had no answer. Hilsbeth, it seemed, didn't suspect him of concealing anything all those years ago; she was simply sharing her discovery with deep unease. She already knew Dean had become the successor to MI7, but it was Jorgen who weighed on her mind. She told Hylan that years ago, Panthonia's men had informed her Jorgen would be well cared for, though she never learned the details. She had often imagined that he was dead. She couldn't deny that of the two children she had raised, it was Jorgen for whom she felt a mother's true love.
At that moment, all of Hylan's buried fantasies shattered, and he realized he had been living a lie for eleven years. He confessed everything to Hilsbeth that he had to—without holding back. Searching for her through his years of missionary work, informing Panthonia to save her, witnessing Cornwall's lifeless body, and striking the deal with Panthonia to care for her. By the time he was halfway through, he had collapsed into a chair, drained. The moment he finished, regret washed over him, as if he were once again the man who had first reported to Panthonia.
Hilsbeth did not say whether Jorgen had seen or recognized her. Perhaps she was avoiding speaking of the deepest wounds. Hylan had hoped she would be angry after learning the truth, but things ended more quietly than he had imagined. She sat down, took his hand, and looked at him—but the gaze didn't last long. He could feel the strength leave her fingers, and her eyes dulled, like the echo of a cathedral bell fading along the city walls. After half a minute, she let go, stood, and walked away.
Hylan understood this was a comfort and forgiveness that could never be fully realized. She was the one truly harmed, and it was impossible for her to discard the past as he had, deeming it necessary for peace of mind—especially when the two children were now so close. To ignore the consequences of Panthonia's actions, simply because he had made proper arrangements for Hilbes' safety, felt like a shameful act of evasion.
Hilsbeth later threw the black notebook into a heap of discarded items outside the church.
—Not far away, Benedictus waited for her to leave, then stepped forward to retrieve that record of the past, shaking off the dust of time that clung to its pages.
Inside the cathedral, thousands of eyes were upon Hylan. Outside, tens of thousands more were praying for him.
He had finished his speech and was about to don the archbishop's crown.
To Hylan's surprise, Nehari was there. He stood at the end of the line of high-ranking clerics, without guards, his expression calm.
After last night's events and recollections, Hylan had realized that his dispute with Nehari stemmed from a difference in goals. Nihiri's enmity toward MI7 was unyielding, uncompromising. Hylan, though he didn't wish to see MI7 perpetuating Panthonia's cruel tendencies, had to adjust his priorities when Jozen's life was at stake.
The ceremonial assistant presented the crown, and Hylan lifted it with both hands. The cathedral, which had been solemn throughout his speech, grew even quieter. The only sounds were the soft rustling of robes. Hylan suddenly felt a strain in his left forearm. Last night, he had used it to block an attack.
As he steadied his wrist, holding the crown aloft, Hylan gazed at it, aware of the people watching him at the edge of his vision. Only the clergy of the cathedral and a few invited officials could attend the ceremony. He believed none of them would be indifferent to his actions. Most admired or aspired to be like him; some saw him as a rival or enemy, perhaps even harbored hatred.
Throughout seventy-five years of life, he had grown accustomed to confronting books and dim oil lamps in solitude, viewing isolation as the path to faith and the source of long-lasting spiritual fulfillment. But at this moment, when he was supposed to be receiving his highest honor, he felt true loneliness for the first time.
After all, not a single person who truly knew Hylan Ludwig was present.