The procession through the Elysian Kingdom was an extravagant affair, punctuated by giant circles that the Soulnaught Army had pompously drawn across the maps.
The displaced populace, like innocent lambs, trailed behind the army, all the way to the Soulnaught Capital. There, they were registered as if they were parcels in a delivery office, offered some aid—though it was more for the Soulnaught's public relations than out of any genuine kindness—and then shipped back to their homeland.
Only now, they were rebranded with a new status, as if someone had slapped a clearance sticker on them.
The commoners didn't see much change. After all, when you're at the bottom of the social ladder, there's not much room to fall. But the nobles, ah, the nobles! They were in for a real treat. They, like the high-born from other fallen kingdoms before them, were subjected to a most entertaining change.
Now, if you're imagining a rags-to-riches story here, stop right there. This was more of a riches-to-rags situation. The nobles, once adorned in silks and satins, found themselves swapping their velvet robes for cotton tunics.
Their status, once as elevated as the tower spires they lived in, plummeted faster than a lead balloon.
Their living quarters, once sprawling mansions filled with servants and luxury, were now quaint, compact spaces. Think of it as downsizing, but with an extra pinch of humiliation.
They had traded their fine dining for bread lines, their horse-drawn carriages for common carts, their perfumed hankies for labor-worn hands.
And the best part? They couldn't do a darn thing about it. That's the beauty of losing a war. It's a great leveler. It takes a noble, strips away the veneer of aristocracy, and reveals the ordinary human underneath, just as susceptible to loss and change.
And let's be honest, there's something truly delightful about seeing the high and mighty brought down a peg or two, isn't there?
Including Duchess Delone.
“That one.”
A delicate finger pointed toward one of the chained slaves. An old woman. “Bring her to me.”
Duchess Delone was a favored daughter of the Elysian Royal Family.
Now, it's worth noting that daughters from the royal bloodline were scarcer than hen's teeth at the time, but somehow her parents managed to defy the odds and produce not one, but two daughters.
Yet, as life's twisted humor would have it, her sister snagged the queen title, leaving our dear Duchess in the dust.
Why? Well, the prevailing wisdom of the time was that her sister had the edge in the health department. Yes, they both had the same intellect and beauty—imagine two peacocks of equal plumage—but her sister was just a smidge more robust.
Contrary to the gossiping tongues of the court, Duchess Delone didn't resent her sister for it. She went ahead and married Duke Delone in a dutiful fashion, ready to carve out her own slice of a beautiful life.
Then, in a strange plot twist, her sister, the queen, kicked the bucket young after giving birth to a single son.
Enter the young prince, who was instantly eyed with suspicion, despite—or perhaps because of—his aptitude for literature and magic. The whispers of him becoming a tyrant prince began to flutter around the kingdom, like bats in a belfry.
So, what did our Duchess do? She concocted a plan to marry the prince off to an obedient, smart noble daughter as soon as humanly possible, and then, of course, to get them popping out offspring at the earliest convenience.
And boy, did they pop. A son was born. Then another. And another.
It seemed the Duchess had inherited the 'no-girl' curse herself. Was this a hex on their royal family? Why wasn't the original saint reborn? When and where would she show up?
Sure, there was no solid proof or prophecy that she'd be reborn again after her seventeenth incarnation, but she had managed to pull it off seventeen times into the same royal family. Why not an eighteenth?
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Especially now, when she'd be treated like a goddess, not like she was hundreds of years ago! What if she had cursed the Elysian Kingdom because of this? What if…
Yes, our Duchess Delone was a true believer, clinging to the prophecy with all her heart.
And so, Duchess Delone took on a grand quest - a life mission, if you will - to 'manufacture' the original saint.
Meanwhile, the royal family’s male descendants were kept at arm's length. She picked them out with the precision of a hawk swooping for its prey, always selecting the most ordinary and obedient to be the next in line.
And let's not forget, pushing them to sire a female heir.
As for the male heirs? Well, they were pushed aside faster than yesterday's news.
And then, as if to throw spice into an already simmering pot, the rumblings of war were on the horizon.
Patience, once a virtue, was now a luxury Duchess Delone could ill afford. She needed a girl, the saint, and she needed her yesterday!
So, she summoned the noble women of the kingdom, as if calling in troops for a special mission. Their assignment? To have the dubious honor of receiving the royal seed into their wombs.
It was like some twisted fertility program, where the stakes were not just personal but involved the very survival of the kingdom itself.
The Duchess's logic was simple, if somewhat desperate. Even if the kingdom did fall, and the odds were not in their favor, if the saint was reborn from one of these noble women and the royal seed, then surely the Elysian Kingdom would rise again!
It was like a phoenix from the ashes, only with a lot more birth pangs involved.
Ah, what lengths the desperate will go to for a glimmer of hope!
“Slave number 578, come.”
Without warning, her chains were yanked in a direction contrary to the human tide of fellow slaves. Just like that, she was plucked from the sea of downtrodden ex-nobles, like a single weed singled out for special attention from a garden of despair.
As she shuffled forward, her aged bones protesting every movement, her eyes fell upon a sight that seemed out of place in their grim reality: a carriage.
It was elegant and luxurious, yet in a plain, understated sort of way. The door was invitingly open, and inside sat a woman in black.
Her entire figure was shrouded, not a hint of skin on display. A round hat sat atop her head, and a veil of black lace concealed her face.
"This one, my lady?" The man who had been her chain-dragging chaperone offered the question to the veiled woman, who responded with a slow, deliberate nod.
Even in her advanced years, the once "Duchess" Delone had the wisdom not to lift her gaze and demand clarification. She was a slave now, a survivor of the brutal lottery that was war.
Especially after being forced to walk for miles and miles—witnessing the destruction the army had wrought upon the land of Elysian.
Demanding explanations was a luxury she no longer possessed, a relic of a life that now seemed as distant as a half-remembered dream.
"The original saint."
Delone's ears twitched at the utterance. She hadn't misheard, had she? The veiled woman ensconced in the carriage was suggesting...
"Did you try to reincarnate her back into the Elysian Royal Family?" the veiled woman queried, her voice a soothing blend of dream and allure.
It was at this moment that Delone failed to adhere to her self-imposed rule of keeping her gaze lowered. Her eyes, as if drawn by a magnetic force, locked onto the woman inside the carriage.
When her gaze met the woman's, the black veil had been lifted, revealing a face of such beauty, it was like a punch in the gut, a face Delone couldn't forget even if she tried.
"O...original saint...!" Delone gasped, sounding like she'd just discovered buried treasure.
The woman in the carriage responded with a gentle smile. "How did you recognize my face?"
"O-of course I'd know! Y-you've always been..." Delone stuttered, her frail hand retrieving a locket from around her neck. She opened it and presented it to the woman in the carriage as if offering a priceless artifact.
"This is the only picture of you that's left! We, the daughters of the royal family, are duty-bound to memorize your face, so that when you return, we could spot you in a crowd faster than a hawk spots a mouse!" Delone was teetering on the brink of tears.
"I see," the woman sighed, a wave of relief washing over her. "Aside from you, are there others who know of this picture and have committed my visage to memory?"
"S-sadly, today, I am the last vestige of that memory. Others may have seen this picture, but I doubt they took the time to etch your face into their minds, Your Majesty!" Delone confessed, her voice quivering like a leaf in the wind.
"Are you certain of that? Not even the last descendants of the royal family?"
"They are men! Who knows what they might do to you?! I couldn't even show this picture to my own sons!" Delone protested.
"Alright," the woman conceded, accepting the locket and studying it for a moment.
"Your Majesty, we've been waiting for you for an eternity! Please...! Please rescue us from this reign of terror...! This tyranny!" Delone pleaded, her voice on the verge of breaking into a wail.
But the woman in the carriage simply smiled and nodded. She gestured for Delone to draw nearer, then placed her index finger on the old woman's worn, creased forehead.
"And who will save the children from your tyranny?" Morgan questioned, her smile evaporating like mist under the morning sun.
"Y-Your Majesty...?" Delone asked, a look of pure puzzlement crossing her face.
Morgan pressed her finger against Delone's forehead, her voice firm. "Forget about me. Forget my face. Forget the original saint. In fact, forget everything, as a senile old woman ought to."
Days later, the once formidable Duchess Delone was deemed unfit for slave labor due to severe dementia, and discarded into an unmarked pit somewhere, as one might toss out yesterday's garbage.