Emilia stood among the fallen, the soft glow of dusk casting long shadows over the forest clearing. The knights, ever dutiful, had already buried the bodies of the assassins. She didn't know whether to feel grateful or annoyed, but the system, as always, left her no room to choose.
[Kneel and offer prayers] it instructed in its usual, oppressive words.
She sighed inwardly, but her body moved on its own, forced into the solemn position the system demanded. Gracefully, as if she had willingly chosen this path, she lowered herself to her knees beside the freshly dug graves, her hands clasped together in silent prayer. Her lips formed the words, "May their souls find peace in the next life," though deep inside, she wished she could scream at the absurdity of it all.
They tried to kill me, for heaven's sake! Emilia thought, frustrated. And now I'm praying for them?
The wind rustled through the trees as her prayer concluded, and when she finally stood, her gaze met Raphael's. He stood at a distance, his arms crossed over his chest, watching her with an expression that was nothing short of cold disdain.
The tension in the air between them was palpable, and for a moment, they just stared at each other in silence. Emilia couldn't help but feel the weight of his judgmental gaze pressing down on her. It was clear he thought little of her actions.
"Sometimes people make bad choices because they are forced to," she said softly, though it wasn't her true voice—it was the system, twisting her words into something gentle and saintly.
Raphael's eyes narrowed, and he let out a low scoff. "Only a fool would believe that."
He turned on his heel, his heavy boots crunching against the dirt as he walked away, his back rigid with frustration. "You're wasting your time," he muttered. "Praying for murderers. Condemning your own survival with this stupidity."
Emilia felt a spark of anger flare within her, but the system, as if sensing her frustration, quickly smothered it. She wanted to shout back at him, to explain that she wasn't being naive, that this entire situation was ridiculous. But her mouth didn't cooperate.
Instead, her voice emerged soft and graceful, carrying an air of almost divine patience. "One shouldn't judge another's life without knowing the full story."
Raphael's pace faltered for a moment, and for a brief second, she thought he might respond. But he didn't. He just kept walking, shaking his head slightly as though he couldn't understand her.
Emilia groaned inwardly. Great. He probably thinks I'm an idiot now.
As Raphael continued to brood, he called over one of the knights, motioning for him to spread out a mat for her to sit on. Despite his frustration, it seemed he still had some sense of duty, at least. The knights, who had been busy preparing the camp, quickly moved to obey his command, laying out the mat for her beside the campfire.
Emilia took a deep breath as she moved toward the mat, her steps steady and controlled, even though she wanted nothing more than to collapse into bed and be done with the day. She sat down, the softness of the mat offering little comfort to the mental exhaustion gnawing at her.
The camp buzzed with activity as the knights prepared for the night. Some of them stole glances at her, their expressions a mix of awe and confusion. It was clear they didn't quite know what to make of her—was she truly a saint, or was she just an enigma, a common girl with holy powers who didn't belong?
I don't belong here, Emilia thought bitterly. I didn't ask for any of this.
But she wasn't allowed to voice that thought. The system wouldn't let her. It demanded that she keep up the act, to play the part of the gentle Saintess who could do no wrong. Every word she spoke, every action she took, was filtered through the system's lens of perfection. Even when she was tired, even when she was frustrated, it forced her to be composed and serene.
Raphael remained silent, standing near the edge of the camp, his back turned toward her. His sword hung at his side, still stained with the blood of the assassin he had killed to save her. He hadn't spoken another word since their brief exchange, and Emilia couldn't decide whether to be grateful for his silence or irritated by it.
As the night settled in and the campfire crackled warmly in the center of the clearing, Emilia's mind wandered back to the earlier attack. The assassins had worn the symbol of the blue moon—the very same ones who had killed Emilia in every timeline of the game.
Why? Why now? she wondered. I left the village early. I avoided every trigger. So why did they come for me?
She stared into the flames, the light flickering in her deep blue eyes, but no answers came. Instead, the system flashed its familiar status window in front of her.
[You have survived the attack. Holy power remains stable.]
As if that made her feel any better.
Her fingers twitched in frustration, but she forced herself to remain still. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't escape the system's control. Not yet. If she could just make it through this—if she could prevent the world's destruction—then maybe she'd finally have the freedom to live as she pleased.
But for now, all she could do was play her part. And hope that somehow, some way, she would survive whatever was coming next.
*****
Raphael sat by the fire, his gaze locked on the black-haired girl who quietly sat on the mat, eating fruit with a calm, almost serene expression. The scene before him felt surreal. His mind still swirled with the whirlwind of emotions from earlier, the chaos of the attack, and the weight of the revelation that had upended everything he thought he knew.
He remembered the moment he received the news—a girl with black hair and blue eyes had been found, matching the vague descriptions they had of the Duke's lost daughter.
Now, as he watched her, he could barely comprehend what to feel. For so long, he had lived with the belief that Adelaide, his sweet and kind sister, was the only one. Adelaide, with her golden hair and pale blue eyes, had been the perfect embodiment of the royal family's grace. He had protected her, cherished her, loved her more than anything in the world. But this—this unexpected twist—had left him unsettled.
The knights, who knew of his affection for Adelaide, had shared worried glances when the attack happened. They knew how protective Raphael was, how deep his love for his sister ran.
And yet, when they arrived and found not just an ordinary ambush but a coordinated assassination attempt, Raphael hadn't hesitated. He had fought the assassins with everything he had, his mind racing through the possibilities.
Why would someone want to kill her? he wondered, his brow furrowing as he continued to watch Emilia.
It didn't make sense. If she was merely a commoner—raised far from the politics of nobility, unknowing of her royal blood—why would the Blue Moon assassins target her? Raphael had no doubts now—there was a spy within the Duchy. Someone knew about her, and they wanted her dead before she could step foot into the capital.
He had seen the symbol on the assassins—the same symbol tied to countless betrayals and conspiracies. But their motives remained a mystery.
Raphael ran a hand through his hair, sighing heavily. Despite his anxiety, he had maintained his composure, outwardly calm as ever. He couldn't let his knights see how unnerved he was. No, he needed to be strong, for the Duchy, for his family, and now, for Emilia.
But what disturbed him even more was how Emilia reacted. Even after being attacked, even after nearly losing her life, she had insisted on burying the assassins—praying for their souls, showing them mercy.
He allowed it, standing back as she knelt and offered her prayers, her delicate hands clasped in front of her as she murmured words of forgiveness. He didn't understand it, not fully. Her kindness was foreign to him. He had always believed in justice, in punishment for those who did wrong.
Mercy? For them? he thought, still baffled.
The knights, though confused, had obliged, helping with the burials, albeit reluctantly. They followed orders, but Raphael could see the uncertainty in their eyes. They didn't know what to make of Emilia either. Who was this girl, who not only resembled the Vilheim family but carried a gentleness that defied the cutthroat nature of noble life?
Sitting on the log, Raphael watched Emilia closely. Her long black hair, so much like his own, caught the flickering light of the campfire. The deep blue of her eyes mirrored his, and the Duke's, unmistakable marks of the Vilheim bloodline.
And yet, everything else about her seemed different—her quiet demeanor, her softness. There was a grace to her that reminded him more of the holy women in the temples than the politicians and noblewomen he was accustomed to.
He had expected her to be more like her mother, Rosalline—the second princess, infamous for her cruelty and arrogance. Rosalline had been cold, calculating, a woman who cared only for power and her own gain. But Emilia? Emilia was nothing like that. If anything, her mannerisms were more like those of his own mother, Natalia, who had always been gentle, despite the harshness of the world around her.
She's different, Raphael mused. So different from Adelaide.
Adelaide had always been the sunflower of their family, radiant and bright, flourishing in the protective walls of the Duchy. She was delicate, but she thrived in the environment that had nurtured her since birth.
But Emilia—Emilia was like a peony, blooming in a filthy, forsaken place, untainted by the darkness around her. There was strength in her gentleness, a quiet resilience that both intrigued and unsettled him.
Raphael shifted slightly, leaning forward as he rested his arms on his knees. He was still grappling with his first impression of Emilia. He had always thought Adelaide to be the one he needed to protect at all costs. But now, with Emilia sitting there, calm and composed despite everything, he felt a new kind of responsibility weighing on him.
The irony was not lost on him. He had spent years ensuring Adelaide's safety, never doubting that she was the one he needed to protect from the world. And now, here was Emilia—the real daughter of Duke Vilheim and the Royal Family's bloodline—thrust into his life.
And there was another thought that gnawed at him, one that he didn't want to admit.
What if Emilia is in more danger than I realize?
The enemies his stepmother Rosalline had made, the conspiracies still lingering around the Vilheim name—what if all of it had been lying in wait for this moment? He clenched his fists, the weight of responsibility pressing down on him.
"I need to keep an eye on her," he muttered under his breath, though there was no one around to hear.
As the night deepened and the campfire crackled softly, Raphael's gaze never left Emilia. He couldn't shake the feeling that the events of this day were only the beginning. Something darker loomed ahead, something tied to Emilia's past—and perhaps to her future.
And he was certain of one thing: no matter what happened, he would protect her. Just as he had sworn to protect Adelaide, he would do the same for Emilia. Because whether she knew it or not, she was now part of the Vilheim family. And he wasn't about to let anyone take that from her.