6-6

Bossia sat in the bathtub, her head tilted back, gazing at the unfinished mural on the ceiling. A cleric and a nobleman were bowing to each other, with the holy scripture floating above them, emitting a radiant light that enveloped both figures. The nobleman's attire had yet to be colored in, making the scene appear as if the cleric were worshipping a ghost. The house where she was confined was originally built to accommodate visiting nobles who came to Stormwind Cathedral for their religious practices. However, due to excessive costs and public scrutiny, the renovation work was halted halfway. Bossia remembered this happening shortly after Benedictus became Archbishop; he had personally designed some of the interior decorations and was visibly displeased when the project was suspended. Until then, Bossia hadn't realized that the godfather had such interests, as if the title of Archbishop had somehow included an affinity for furniture arrangement. Now, this house stood as a relic of the Archbishop's early attempts to explore the limits of his power, a half-finished, abandoned structure that remained indifferent to everything happening outside.

Tonight, she had taken twice as long as usual to bathe. The maid didn't urge her. Tomorrow would be the day she would receive the relic, and she had a reason to prepare herself.

Confinement was typically filled with idleness, causing her to grow weary of the slow passage of time. Aside from confronting the True Prayer Order, she felt she hadn't done anything impactful on the outside world: visiting the Archbishop's grave was entirely a personal matter, and meeting with Jorgen lacked any real significance. Yet, as everything suddenly approached its conclusion, she now felt that time was moving too quickly, so quickly that she, like the house, seemed sluggish by comparison.

The actual process of deciding the next Archbishop had already begun. Twelve senior clerics were in closed discussions within the temporarily sealed cathedral, where they were expected to reach a consensus and sign the Archbishop's appointment letter. No one was allowed to leave the cathedral or disclose any information until a decision was made. The candidates were prohibited from any public activities and usually entered temporary seclusion to avoid complications. Besides the often tedious and heated discussions, drafting the lengthy appointment letter—each word carefully considered—could also lead to disputes, making this a long and patience-testing process. Bossia recalled a case that lasted for half a month. However, this time, the King had set a deadline of ten days for the new Archbishop's coronation, so the discussions shouldn't exceed five days. It was the first night, and Bossia could imagine the clerics returning to their rooms, exhausted, still brooding over some contentious point.

Bossia hoped that Hylan would become the Archbishop, despite some doubts she'd developed about him since the attack. She'd heard from the maid that many believers had gathered in the cathedral square to pray for their preferred candidate, and at least seventy percent of them supported Hylan. From his life experience, no one was more suitable to become a religious idol. He had gained widespread recognition in his youth, only to be demoted to a low-ranking cleric due to the crimes of his patron. After wandering between the frontlines and impoverished regions as a missionary, he regained respect, only to withdraw from the Archbishop election due to illness. After years of seclusion, he reappeared when the nation most needed to solidify its faith. For Bossia, there was only one reason to hope for Hylan's success: he had once been Benedictus' mentor. However, she had no complaints if Lindy became the Archbishop either. Nehari's voluntary withdrawal had already put her at ease.

—She was concerned about what Nehari had said that day: that it didn't even count as practice. The issue was that she couldn't tell whether he'd said it to save face or as a factual statement. A man who challenges a female swordsman to a duel and then complains about her lack of skill would be considered an idiot in Silithus, self-destructing his reputation. Nehari hadn't visited her today, which was good because if he showed up the day before she received the relic, it surely wouldn't be for anything good.

That afternoon, after receiving a string of news from the cathedral's messenger, Bossia had asked about Jorgen's situation with faint hope. The messenger did not respond. When she pressed further, he stated that it was beyond his knowledge. Bossia believed him. Since their last meeting, she had been dissatisfied with his coldness, yet deeply concerned about his condition. This was precisely because she understood that, to Jorgen, she had become an outsider. After the Archbishop election, she would ask Hylan for more information.

Bossia stood up. Warm droplets of water fell back into the bathtub from her hair, fingertips, and calves. She lowered her head, placing her right hand lightly on her lower abdomen. To the right of her navel was a two-inch-long scar. It wasn't the most prominent mark on her body, but it was the one that left the deepest impression. Watching a Qiraji claw pierce her body was entirely different from being struck by a blade. Man-made weapons, though sharp, ultimately repel life, shielding part of the wielder's malice; using such weapons in combat is akin to acknowledging the rules of conflict honed by history. A Qiraji's attack, however, was something else. An assault that uses the body as a weapon is more brutal and ruthless, far removed from any notion of war ethics. It not only tears the flesh but also reduces the victim to the level of the Qiraji, as if the human spirit directing the fight didn't exist, leaving only predator and prey. Bossia sighed, not out of despondency at seeing the scar; in fact, she felt deeply grateful and reassured. Being one of the survivors of those battles and receiving the relic left by her godfather was not just her fortune, but also her responsibility.

She spent some time each day imagining what the relic might contain. She had dreamt several times about it. Since she was the only one who could see it, its contents should be something only she could understand. In fact, she was quite certain it would include something related to her biological parents, like letters. Benedictus had hinted at such things. He had once said that on the day she truly matured, he would give her something significant to guide her life. Then she was imprisoned, excommunicated, clearly far from mature, and thus didn't receive these items before leaving Stormwind. But now…

It was best not to dwell on it any longer. If she continued, she surely wouldn't be able to sleep all night. She hoped to be in good spirits when she received the relic. After drying herself and putting on her nightgown, the maid, as usual, led her to her bedroom.

"I hope you receive good news tomorrow," the maid said in the hallway.

An awkward expression. No matter what, it was still a relic. But Bossia wouldn't misunderstand her intentions.

"Thank you."

"Will you be leaving here soon?"

Bossia had never avoided thinking about what would happen after she received the relic. Since it was impossible to predict accurately, it was better to focus on the moment she got it. If external factors were ignored, she did have her own plans.

"Probably. I hope so," she said.

The maid opened the bedroom door, wished her goodnight, and remained outside. Bossia entered, about to close the door, when she suddenly realized that on any other night, a guard would have been standing outside. She quickly turned around, and in that instant, a hand from behind entered her left peripheral vision, closing the door before she could. Another hand covered her mouth from behind.

Bossia experienced a half-second of panic; as the person behind her pulled her closer with their right hand, she heard his breathing. Life's breath, hidden in the darkness, became more vibrant, confidently brushing against the back of her neck. There was no hint of threat in this breath. At that moment, she knew who was behind her. The scent of the hand covering her mouth—the strength of the fingers, the calluses on the knuckles—was all too familiar to her. The wind and sand scent between the fingers. She lifted her right hand, placing it on the wrist of the hand covering her mouth, leaning back slightly so that her back pressed against his chest. His heartbeat was strong and steady, just as it had been when they embraced each other naked or stood back-to-back against enemies. The darkness in the room enveloped her, but when she closed her eyes, she saw the footprints in the sand, the long-lost raindrops on the tent roof, the sound of the wind blowing through the crystal valley's stone crevices. The darkness became something warm and colorful.

"Miss Bossia, are you alright?" the maid called from outside.

"Nothing." The hand covering her mouth removed itself, allowing Bossia to speak. "I was just tired and accidentally bumped into the door."

"Oh. Then please rest well."

Bossia heard the maid's footsteps gradually fade away, then turned around, placing her hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him forward into the area illuminated by moonlight. She saw the face she had always hoped to recall calmly. Due to the dim light, some of his facial features became blurred, while others appeared sharper; however, neither the features nor the shadows between them were unfamiliar to Bossia. She spoke, her voice weak and fragmented from unexpected excitement and the caution of preventing outsiders from overhearing.

"Bassario."

He didn't respond immediately. After a moment, he hugged her tightly.

"You said you would leave with me," he said. "Do you know how much effort that took me?"

His voice didn't reveal any particular blame. Yet, the inner struggle he'd endured after hearing about the Archbishop's illness, the torment of repeatedly crafting the wording of the letter in his mind, and the sinking hope that the letter would ever reach its destination suddenly lost their significance in Bossia's memory. All she could recall was the night she made her promise to him. For whatever reason, she had broken that promise; and now, caught in a conflict that had nothing to do with her after arriving in Stormwind, she wasted her days in this house, which only deepened her regret. Deep down, she still understood that returning to Stormwind wasn't entirely meaningless, but at least at this moment, it seemed like the most foolish decision: abandoning something important that needed to be maintained, only to search for something she might not truly need.

"I'm sorry," she said, and then kissed him. The kiss couldn't help but be urgent; after their lips parted, she gazed at him with concern, fearing he might take the kiss as a half-hearted apology.

"Bossia, you're wearing..." He looked down at her nightgown and then back at her face. "...I like it. We can take it with us on the road."

"...You fool. Country bumpkin."