Chapter Warning: This chapter contains themes of child abuse and harsh disciplinary practices. Reader discretion is advised

  Sister Burki raised an eyebrow, half amused. "Giselle, has anyone ever told you you're a bit too radical for your time? You're only six years old."

  "Five," Giselle corrected matter-of-factly.

  Sister Burki chuckled, her eyes softening. "Still... it’s okay to want to grow up a little faster—but maybe let’s take some time to just be five first, hmm?"

  Giselle scrunched her face, clearly deep in thought, before asking, "Are you mad because I called you a fake vegetarian for thinking about eating meat?"

  "No," Sister Burki replied with a smile, trying not to ugh. "Shouldn't you be enjoying the harvest festival today with the other children?"

  "I was told I couldn’t go," Giselle said, crossing her arms and looking away. "I'm still mad about it, but I have to be the bigger person... even though I don’t want to."

  Sister Burki's smile softened as she observed the little girl’s serious expression. "Giselle, do you want to come with me to the market? We’ll be buying materials for everyone to wear. I noticed our garbs are getting a bit too worn."

  Giselle's eyes went wide, her expression suddenly brightening. "You know how to sew?" she asked.

  "No," Sister Burki ughed, her tone warm. "I just pay someone to do it for me."

  Giselle’s face scrunched up as she thought for a moment. "Why don’t you just learn how to do it yourself? That way, you wouldn't have to spend all your money!"

  Sister Burki chuckled softly, amused by the little girl’s bluntness. "I'm still a noble girl at heart," she said with a pyful smile. "I’m still adjusting, you know? I never had to worry about sewing before—people always helped me with my clothes."

  Giselle tilted her head, a serious frown appearing on her face. She said nothing, but her expression deepened as her gaze shifted to Sir Lemoine, the old man standing nearby, looking as stiff and formal as always.

  "Lady Schultz, it's time for your tutoring, come along now," Sir Lemoine said, his tone crisp.

  Giselle froze, her brows furrowing in confusion. "Lady Schultz?" she echoed, looking between Sister Burki and the old man.

  Sir Lemoine’s stern gaze softened, though his posture didn’t shift. "You were taken in by the high priest, correct? It’s your current surname," he expined, his tone gentle but firm.

  Giselle’s eyes widened as she processed this. "Oh... right," she muttered, still trying to understand. She wasn’t used to being called by that name, but it made sense—sort of.

  "Agghh—..." Giselle winced, her eyes wide and filled with shock as she rubbed her sore knees, the sting of the paddle still fresh.

  Lemoine stood over her, his expression stern, holding the paddle firmly in his hand. "I told you to pronounce your words clearly, Lady Schultz," he said, his voice clipped. "The Saintess lessons are not to be taken lightly. You will learn the proper form of speech if it takes every hour of the day."

  Giselle bit her lip, trying not to let tears form, as she held her head down, quivering.

  Whack!

  "Sit straight!"

  Giselle obeyed, her body rigid with hate, but her thoughts remained elsewhere. She couldn’t help but wonder why these lessons mattered so much. After all, there was already a Saintess.

  What purpose did she serve to deserve this hell?

  Later that night, as she adjusted her pillow, her thoughts began to wander. A small idea crept into her head—the idea of running away.

  But even as the thought formed, Giselle knows how impossible it would be.

  The church has watchmen who patrol every perimeter of these grounds, their nterns casting long shadows in the night, and the nuns participate in patrols both inside and out. Eyes and ears are everywhere.

  She looked over at the corner where the mouse usually watched, remembering what the high priest had said about mice not being trustworthy guides. Maybe that little creature could help her escape?

  The high priest walked down the halls, jingling his ring of keys and whistling a tune.

  He made his way to the west wing, and to that door, that damned, wretched door—the one with evil carved into it, a nguage from hell.

  Pushing open the door with disgust, he caught sight of Brother Seidel—Seidel, whose name meant "beer," one of the most sinful indulgences in their faith, a symbol of excess and temptation.

  Seidel stood hunched in the corner of the room, his eyes darting nervously as he shifted uncomfortably on his feet.

  "Where's Sister Cécile?" the high priest questioned, his voice sharp as he stepped into the room.

  Seidel stiffened, avoiding the high priest’s gaze. "She—she was supposed to meet me here, but..." He trailed off, wringing his hands. "I... I haven’t seen her since the harvest festival today. Why do you want to know of her whereabouts?"

  The high priest narrowed his eyes, a cold sneer forming on his lips as he took a step closer to Seidel. "You don’t question me," he growled. "I ask, you answer."

  "I'm sorry," Seidel stammered, his voice trembling. "I didn’t mean to—"

  The high priest raised a hand, silencing him. "Enough. Just bring her here. If she is not found, you'll answer for it. Do you understand?"

  Seidel nodded, his face pale with fear. "Yes, I understand. I’ll find her."

  "See that you do," the high priest spat, turning on his heel and marching toward the door. "I will not tolerate failure."

  Seidel watched him go, holding onto the wall for support. What the hell did Cécile do to anger him so much?

  kokiboki