Priestess Joanna hit the bed like gravity had personally declared war on her spine.

*Thump.*

The sound wasn't dignified.

Wasn't graceful.

Wasn't anything resembling the serene image she'd maintained for the past 96 hours straight.

Her golden veil twisted sideways, half-covering one eye while exposing silver-blonde hair that desperately needed washing. Ceremonial robes bunched around her waist in ways that would make Cathedral seamstresses weep.

She groaned into the pillow.

Long. Drawn-out. Completely unbecoming of someone whose job description included "embodiment of divine grace."

"3 cities in 4 days."

The words came out muffled, accusatory, directed at whatever cosmic entity thought this schedule made sense.

"Emergency blessing in Drocalia where that dragon tried to eat my entourage. Crisis intervention at the Sylphid borderlands because apparently elves and dwarves still haven't figured out property lines after 2 millennia. That ridiculous exorcism that turned out to be someone's upset stomach from bad seafood."

She kicked off her ceremonial shoes with enough force that one hit the wall.

*Thunk.*

"And NOW this apocalyptic prophecy coordination meeting where everyone expects me to smile serenely while discussing the end of civilization!"

Her voice rose despite the pillow doing its best to contain the outburst.

"I signed up to heal people and spread faith, not become a divine delivery service running on 3 hours of sleep and stress-induced prayer!"

Silence answered.

Brief. Merciful.

Then—

"Is that how a priestess of the present should speak?"

The voice rippled through the room like silk catching starlight, carrying affectionate exasperation that could only come from witnessing this exact breakdown at least 47 times before.

Joanna's head snapped up.

Golden veil sliding further askew.

Hair probably doing things that would horrify her public relations handlers.

She pointed an accusing finger at the materializing light above her bed with a pout that completely annihilated any remaining shreds of dignity.

"I'm tired, you know!"

The complaint came out almost petulant.

"How about YOU try maintaining perfect divine composure while secretly wanting to nap in every cathedral you visit! Do you have any idea how uncomfortable those ceremonial benches are?!"

*Whoooosh...*

The light coalesced.

White wings emerged first, catching ambient glow in ways that made the dingy quarters look temporarily sacred.

Divine armor followed, silver plates that hummed with protective enchantments strong enough to make reality reconsider any aggressive intentions.

Then her face.

Silver hair pulled into a single elegant bun that somehow looked both military-practical and impossibly refined.

Golden eyes gleaming with the kind of pity usually reserved for watching puppies fail at stairs.

Brunhilde, Captain of the 3rd Valkyrie Legion, settled into visible form with grace that made Joanna's collapsed sprawl look even more pathetic by comparison.

"..."

The angel's expression carried amusement mixed with genuine sympathy, like someone watching their best friend complain about a hangover they'd specifically warned about.

If any Inquisition official witnessed a human treating a high-ranking Valkyrie with such casual familiarity, the resulting theological scandal would require its own emergency council meeting.

But here, in this cramped room that smelled faintly of incense and exhaustion, rank dissolved into something approaching actual friendship.

"Your theatrical complaints remain consistent," Brunhilde observed, settling gracefully onto the room's single chair with wing-folding precision that probably required decades of practice. "Though I notice you've added 'bad seafood exorcism' to your repertoire of grievances."

"It was EMBARRASSING," Joanna insisted, finally sitting up properly while attempting to fix her veil and failing spectacularly. "The poor man thought he was possessed by a demon of gluttony! Turns out he just ate questionable oysters!"

"And you still performed the full blessing ritual."

"Well, OBVIOUSLY. Can't have people thinking the Inquisition half-measures divine intervention just because the diagnosis was disappointing!"

Brunhilde's small smile suggested this was exactly the response she'd expected.

But the amusement faded quickly.

Replaced by something heavier.

More serious.

The kind of weight that made even veteran warriors straighten unconsciously.

"Joking aside..."

Her melodic voice dropped to somewhat vulnerable.

"You understand why we truly came to Legendor."

The shift in tone made Joanna's complaints evaporate like morning mist under harsh sunlight.

She straightened despite exhaustion, recognizing the expression her friend only wore when discussing things that transcended mere duty.

"..."

Brunhilde's golden eyes gleamed with emotions that couldn't be categorized simply.

Not quite grief. Not quite hope.

Something caught between memory and impossible possibility.

"I can feel her."

The admission came softly, almost reverently.

"My former master. Aurelia... the First Star Valkyrie."

The name hung in the air like a bell that had been struck and refused to stop resonating.

Joanna's breath caught.

Every priestess knew that name.

The legendary warrior who'd led Heaven's forces during the ancient wars. The divine blade that had carved victory from hopeless battles. The symbol of everything Valkyries aspired to become.

And supposedly, completely erased from existence itself.

Yet here sat her former subordinate, claiming to sense her presence like a phantom limb that shouldn't exist but somehow still ached.

Brunhilde closed her eyes, memories flickering across her features like shadows cast by dying fires.

"200 years ago, the last true Saintess walked among us. She lasted 3 years before the spiritual burden shattered her mind so completely that she couldn't remember her own name."

Her fingers traced absent patterns against the chair's armrest.

"Before her, another 80-year gap. And before that, 130 years of silence."

She opened her eyes, meeting Joanna's gaze directly.

"For 2 centuries, no priestess has achieved the spiritual resonance necessary to become a true Saintess. The role requires connection to divinity so profound that most human souls simply cannot contain it without breaking."

The weight of that revelation pressed down like atmospheric pressure before a storm.

"You were close, Joanna."

Brunhilde's voice carried something approaching pride mixed with relief.

"Closer than anyone in 200 years. Your spiritual capacity approaches the threshold required for true Sainthood."

She paused, choosing words carefully.

"But we stopped your ascension deliberately. The burden would have destroyed you within months, and we couldn't afford to lose someone with your potential to a role that consumes its bearers like candles burning at both ends."

Joanna absorbed this quietly, exhaustion giving way to contemplative focus that sharpened her usually gentle features.

The silence stretched.

Comfortable despite its weight.

Then—

"... I know."

Her voice emerged barely above a whisper.

"And that's why I'm wondering..."

She looked up, meeting Brunhilde's ancient gaze with the kind of dangerous curiosity that questioned established doctrine.

"Why did the First Saintess betray everyone?"

*...*

The question landed like a stone dropped into still water, ripples spreading outward through implications that made even asking feel almost heretical.

Brunhilde's expression flickered.

Confusion. Frustration. Something approaching ancient hurt that time hadn't fully healed.

"The First Saintess was genuinely good."

The words came out almost defensive, as if Brunhilde needed to convince herself as much as Joanna.

"I served alongside her during the early conflicts. Watched her heal soldiers who shouldn't have survived. Saw her stand between civilians and monsters that could have torn her apart."

Her hand clenched into a fist.

"Selfless. Brave. Devoted to protecting humanity with every fiber of her being."

She ran her free hand through silver hair, the gesture betraying frustration that centuries hadn't diminished.

"I can only scratch my head wondering why she would betray the First Hero like that. What could possibly justify such treachery?"

The theological certainty that usually armored divine beings cracked slightly, revealing uncomfortable ambiguity underneath.

"The official records say she succumbed to corruption. That darkness twisted her purpose until she actively worked against everything she'd once protected."

Brunhilde's golden eyes reflected doubt that shouldn't exist in beings of absolute faith.

"But I was THERE. I fought beside her. And I never saw any signs of corruption taking root."

Joanna remained quiet, letting the confession hang between them like smoke that refused to dissipate.

Several heartbeats passed.

Then her voice emerged, carrying the kind of dangerous question that could rewrite accepted history.

"Maybe... maybe there's a bigger reason behind that betrayal?"

The suggestion felt almost profane.

"Something we don't understand about what really happened during those final days? Some context that got lost or deliberately buried in the official narrative?"

She met Brunhilde's gaze steadily despite the weight of what she was proposing.

"What if the First Saintess didn't actually betray anyone? What if she was doing exactly what she believed necessary, and we simply don't understand her reasoning?"

The heretical implication hung in the air like a guillotine blade suspended by fraying rope.

Brunhilde didn't immediately dismiss it.

Couldn't, really.

Because her own ancient memories contained gaps that uncomfortable questions had been slowly excavating for centuries.

Moments that didn't quite align with official accounts. Decisions that seemed impossible for someone supposedly corrupted. Actions that suggested purpose rather than madness.

"..."

The silence stretched uncomfortably long.

***

Evening wind chose that moment to slip through the slightly open window.

Gentle. Carrying the scent of distant flowers and approaching night across Legendor's peaceful streets.

The breeze seemed to physically carry the conversation's weight away, dissolving tension like sugar in warm water.

And somehow, impossibly, that same wind traversed dimensions.

Flowing like a river that didn't care about silly concepts like "separate realities" or "physical distance."

***

Waifuria's villa garden glowed softly under starlight that probably shouldn't exist in a pocket dimension but did anyway because Luna's magical engineering made reality negotiable.

Celis knelt among flowering plants, her eyes closed in that perpetual blindness that somehow saw more than sight ever could.

Her fingers traced leaves with impossible gentleness, moving with the kind of care usually reserved for handling butterfly wings or newborn dreams.

"You should grow well," she murmured to a struggling blossom, archaic speech pattern mixing genuine affection with something approaching melancholy. "The soil here is rich. The mana flows purely. Thou hast every advantage save one."

She paused, considering.

"The will to bloom."

The same wind that had stirred Joanna's quarters now caressed Celis's face, carrying with it echoes of conversations happening in distant places.

Her serene expression flickered.

Just for a moment.

Something complex and unreadable passing across features usually maintained with perfect tranquility.

Her hand moved unconsciously to her chest, pressing against her heart as if feeling vibrations through reality itself.

Connections threading through existence in ways that defied simple explanation.

*Bloom...*

The flower beneath her touch responded.

Petals unfurling with sudden life, color intensifying from pale uncertainty to vibrant declaration.

Not magic in any conventional sense.

Not divine blessing or elemental manipulation.

Just... response.

As if the plant recognized something in her presence that transcended ordinary categorization.

Celis's gentle smile returned, but her hand remained pressed against her heart.

Feeling echoes.

Sensing threads.

… Waiting for something she couldn't name but somehow knew approached with inevitable certainty.

"What wouldst thou do… were destiny not what was written, but what thou chose to make of it?"

She whispered as if asking a certain someone…

"..."

But too bad, the question was met with silence.

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