Chapter 82: The Holy Maiden and the Cookies

Twilight Calendar Year 1192, Winter Veil Month.  

The northern border of Tania was still in the thick of heavy snow, but the flames of war had already ignited across this white land.  

The Icelanders struck with lightning speed, seizing the watch posts and lands along the icy sea coast.  

The frontline was continuously pushed forward. The unprepared Tanians suffered unprecedented losses and sacrifices.  

Reports of demons were urgently sent by carrier pigeons and swift horses to Tania’s capital, Vilansel. Priests, knights, adventurers, and local militias gathered under the summons of the lords, joining the army. The Tanians, originally preparing for the New Year, now faced war against the Icelanders.  

Yet the Tanians kept falling back on the battlefield. The battle fleet and those demons capable of wielding fiery powers crushed everything in their path, turning the war overwhelmingly one-sided, often a massacre.  

This was a New Year covered in smoke and blood. Even Purple Thorn Castle, under Viscount Colton Quentin’s rule, was tainted by the scent of war. Under the gray sky, everyone tightened their collars and hurried along.  

Shops had their doors and windows firmly shut; only the viscount’s armored guards patrolled the streets, carrying the viscount’s signed orders, visiting every household.  

Middle-aged men were forcibly conscripted as militiamen. Soldiers clad in armor stood alert, eyes fixed forward on the black fortress walls, ever vigilant.  

The city gates leading from the border to Purple Thorn Castle were tightly closed. This once prosperous city, built beside the Prague River as a transportation hub and canal port, had become lifeless.  

But on the last day of Winter Veil Month, Viscount Quentin, now forty-seven years old, donned his most proper attire.  

This medium-height nobleman, though slightly plump around the waist, still held a straight, proud posture like an old warrior.  

His angular face bore the faint lines of time; his grayish-white temples and neatly trimmed short beard gave off an imposing aura.  

A pair of iron-gray eyes, like a winter lake, were calm and detached.  

He had once been a knight, who in his youth had fought across the lands, driving out Viking pirates.  

The northern border was the most volatile area in all of Tania, frequently witnessing small-scale wars involving Viking pirates and refugees passing through from various places.  

A country’s border always had many unstable elements.  

To stand firm here, one must know how to fight and train soldiers.  

This man moved with the calm confidence of one long accustomed to power. A gold ring set with a dark red gem on his finger flickered silently, as if silently proclaiming the ancient glory in his bloodline.  

But today, he did not let his children take his place. He personally stood by the city gate, gazing toward the distant sky.  

He was awaiting a distinguished guest and had waited all morning. Finally, under the gloomy sky, he saw those flying griffins.  

They were the Twilight Church’s most powerful knight order, the White Wing Knights.  

Each White Wing Knight was at least a Silver-rank professional warrior, dedicated body, mind, and soul to the teachings of God.  

The White Wing Knights never numbered more than two hundred, but when they appeared on the battlefield, they were an invincible banner.  

Those noble knights who tamed griffins had arrived at Purple Thorn Castle, drawn by the demons’ aura.  

Viscount Quentin, a border viscount with real power on the ground, could only be considered insignificant before the White Wing Knights representing the Church.  

About ten White Wing Knights arrived today. The viscount looked up at the enormous beasts fluttering their wings as they landed by the city gate.  

These fierce creatures, capable of clawing bulls into the air, bowed their heads submissively and crawled on the ground to let their riders dismount.  

Nine knights clad in mithril armor gathered together, surrounding a certain person.  

That was the only one wearing a moon-white robe: Her Highness the Princess.  

Her flaxen hair was tied behind her back. She wore a delicate silver-wire circlet shaped like thorns on her head, a red cord bracelet with bells on her left wrist, and held a pure silver scepter in her right hand.  

Her face was plain, her features delicate. She looked no older than a young girl but carried a natural warmth that inspired trust.  

Most remarkable were her eyes—pure and clear, as if filled with silver sand, with starlight flickering deep within.  

These eyes symbolized the bearer of the name “Serefina.”  

The Sixteenth Holy Maiden, Princess Serefina. Viscount Quentin had not expected even such a highly esteemed princess to come to Purple Thorn Castle.  

Three years ago, the viscount and the king had attended the Holy Maiden’s succession ceremony beneath the high tower in Vilansel.  

That village-girl-like maiden, barefoot, climbed the thousand steps of white jade, calmly passed the trial, and reached the tower’s summit—a place the pope and the leader of the White Wing Knights could not reach. She took down the scepter and crown, inheriting the Holy Maiden title, vacant for eighty-nine years.  

Viscount Quentin hastily saluted the Holy Maiden, bowing with one knee down, offering the highest honors as if before a king.  

“Colton Quentin, respectfully welcoming Her Highness Princess Serefina and the White Wing Knights.”  

“Apologies for the disturbance, Viscount Quentin.” The Holy Maiden nodded in return.  

Without the crown and scepter, without those star-filled eyes, the Holy Maiden looked like an ordinary young woman from the neighborhood.  

Walking down the street, no one would guess she was the current Holy Maiden.  

She appeared so ordinary, yet even atop the griffin, buffeted by the cold wind, her hair and robe never fluttered out of place.  

The viscount knew the Holy Maiden had transcended the mortal realm, reaching heights ordinary people could not.  

Every Holy Maiden possessed a sacred power beyond legend—power akin to a saint. Even the demon dukes dared not act rashly before her.  

Yet the Holy Maiden position was often vacant, sometimes for over a century.  

This princess herself had only been revealed two years before inheriting the title.  

Before that, no one knew of her existence or past. She had appeared suddenly and, within two years, achieved many feats, purifying vast evils. In Twilight Calendar Year 1189, she made the name “Serefina” known again.  

“Viscount, please inform me of the situation in the northern border.” The Holy Maiden spoke softly.  

“Your Highness, please come inside the castle for a detailed discussion,” the viscount replied.  

The Holy Maiden nodded and, guarded by the White Wing Knights, entered Purple Thorn Castle.  

At that moment, a messenger hurried before the viscount.  

“Your Highness, please excuse me for a moment. Perhaps there is news of the war.” Viscount Quentin said.  

The Holy Maiden nodded and stepped aside.  

“What is so urgent?” The viscount frowned, wondering if the Icelanders had reached Purple Thorn Castle.  

“Report, Viscount!” The messenger said. “Over a hundred Tanians have arrived at the city gate. They claim to have fled from north of Alvado!”  

“Alvado?” The viscount froze.  

That place had been captured by the Icelanders at least fifteen days ago. As far as he knew, the area north of Alvado had been occupied by the Iceland warband at the beginning of Winter Veil Month.  

Not a single person had escaped from there in the past month. How could these people have crossed the Icelanders’ frontline?  

“Whose cavalry is this? Mercenaries or adventurers?” The viscount frowned deeply.  

“Apparently… just ordinary villagers. Among them are elderly, women, and babies in swaddling clothes.” The messenger said.  

“How is this possible?” The viscount was shocked.  

He suspected a trick by the enemy. How could villagers, including the old and weak, cross the Icelanders’ frontline in such a cold season?  

Even storytellers would not dare fabricate such illogical nonsense.  

“Do not open the gates to them without my permission!” The viscount ordered. “Keep them outside the gates. Their identities and reasons must be thoroughly investigated!”  

Just then, the Holy Maiden suddenly spoke.  

“Viscount Quentin.” The Holy Maiden said, “I will go with you to the city gate. Please open the gates and let them in.”  

“If any evil hides among them, the White Wing Knights and I will surely eradicate it.”  

The viscount was momentarily stunned. “Since Your Highness says so, then so be it.”  

If even the Holy Maiden could not handle the trouble, then Purple Thorn Castle was doomed to fall.  

They went to the city gate, which was pulled open. Over a hundred dusty and ragged Tanians appeared before them.  

Leading them was a gnome and a one-eyed man carrying a long spear and sword at his waist.  

The Holy Maiden approached them, reaching out to gently stroke the forehead of a coughing infant. The child immediately quieted and its complexion turned rosy.  

“Let them enter, Viscount Quentin.” The Holy Maiden said, “They are not evil.”  

With that, the viscount nodded and let the refugees enter Purple Thorn Castle. The gates were closed once more.  

The viscount’s gaze flicked toward the Holy Maiden’s face, only to see her staring into space.  

Following her gaze, the viscount saw a cookie—a spiral-shaped cookie. A young boy was biting it and suddenly began to shed tears.  

The viscount thought to himself, this thing is truly strange. Even in Alvado, cookies were hard to come by nowadays. Where did these refugees get cookies?  

Could a group of villagers really bake pastries and cakes like the bakers in Purple Thorn Castle?  

There was definitely something suspicious here.