The hand touching her cheek glowed. In that instant, the soldier's leg wound closed without a sound. The torn skin knitted together. The bleeding stopped. As if time itself were rewinding. "[gentle]Thank you, Saint…" His voice was hoarse. Relief finally returned to his exhausted face. Aria smiled quietly and moved to the next person. The holy mark carved into her left wrist—faintly gleaming gold, the proof of this nation's saint—flickered with soft light. The healing ward of the Solvarna Grand Temple had been packed with people since morning. This was Heliodor, the capital of the Soltia Kingdom. A city of white stone and golden ornaments, nestled in the eastern hills of the continent. Rising from its center was this grand temple, crowned with a spire forty-five meters high. Aria had lived here since birth. Wounded soldiers brought from the front lines formed a queue, as they did every day. Aria continued to place her hands on one person after another, her white and pale blue saint's vestments stained with blood. Her pure white hair swayed with each movement. Her clear blue eyes looked straight ahead—only at the wounds before her. The tenth. The twentieth. The thirtieth. Words of gratitude layered upon each other. "You saved me." "The pain is gone." "Saint, Saint." Aria smiled each time. She was practiced at making that smile. She'd been doing it since she was five years old. And then the fortieth. Aria placed her hand on the last soldier's arm. The wound closed. The moment she witnessed it, something deep in her chest—wavered. (…What?) It wasn't joy. It wasn't pain either. It was something like a sensation diluted in water. The joy she'd felt touching the relief of each healed person had become somehow hazy. Distant, as if obscured by mist. "[gentle]Thank you, Saint." "[gentle]Please rest well." Listening to her own voice, Aria wondered: Was that warmth genuine? It must be exhaustion. She'd healed forty people without a single break. She told herself that, and kept her smile in place as she stood. --- In the evening, while tidying the healing ward, a voice came from behind. "[gentle]Forty people again today—you did well to see it through." It was Helena. A priestess who had served the temple for many years, around the age of Aria's mother. Her brown hair was neatly bound, and her face was always composed. She was practical, and didn't waste words. Aria turned around. "[gentle]Thanks to your support." Helena looked at Aria's face and frowned slightly. "[serious]…Your complexion is poor. Did you rest at all today?" "[gentle]I'm fine. I'm used to it." Helena paused for a moment, then spoke while folding the used cloth. "[serious]Over a hundred have come from the front this week alone. More than last month." Aria's hands stopped. Over a hundred. That meant that many people had returned wounded. That meant the fighting continued beyond the ravine, every single day. "[sad]When will this war end?" She'd murmured it without realizing. Helena's face grew troubled, and she dodged the question. "…Who knows." A short silence fell. Outside the window, the sun was sinking. From Luce Street in the castle town below, the distant bustle of the evening market could be heard. Helena spoke quietly. "[serious]It's been going on for two hundred years. The Yang Vein of the East and the Dark Vein of the West. Ever since the Great Schism War split the continent in two." Aria knew this. As a saint raised in the temple, this history had been repeated to her since childhood. The power of the Yang Vein, which rained down from the heavens, sustained the Soltia Kingdom. The Dark Vein, which welled up from the depths below, sustained the Nocvel Demon Kingdom. Once they had been a single nation, but conflict had torn the continent east and west. Ever since, they had fought across the ravine. The ravine. The Divine Ravine—a massive fault line running north and south through the continent's center, with a maximum depth of six hundred meters. Beyond it lay Nocvel. The only bridge that could cross it was the Caren Stone Bridge, and passage required permits from both nations. Every day, wounded soldiers crossed that bridge to return home. Every day, someone else died. "[sad]No one has an answer, do they?" Helena didn't respond. That was the answer. Aria resumed tidying. Her hands folding the cloth moved slightly slower. In the corner of the healing ward, a scrap of used linen lay on the floor. Aria picked it up, checked the soiled side, and hesitated about whether to discard it. Only a little blood had seeped through—the cloth itself could still be used. In the end, she added it to the pile of laundry. That was how days ended. Through the accumulation of such trivial decisions. --- In the middle of the night, Aria couldn't sleep. Even lying on her bed, her eyes remained open, staring at the ceiling. The room was silent. All the priestesses living in the temple were already asleep. (I'm thinking again.) She sighed and sat up. On nights like this, she went to the roof. She passed through the temple's interior and climbed the narrow stairs. The stone walls were cold. Her footsteps echoed. At the top, the spring night breeze brushed her cheek. From the top of the forty-five-meter spire, the night view of Heliodor always took her breath away. The white stone city was dotted with lights. The glow of holy stones, nurtured by the Yang Vein, shone a soft orange. It's beautiful, Aria always thought. But tonight, her gaze quickly turned west. Beyond the horizon. Past the Divine Ravine, toward Nocvel—a red light flickered. Fire. They were fighting again. Someone was dying again. Aria gripped the railing with both hands and stared at that flame. She closed her eyes, trying to pray. That's when she noticed. Her cheeks were wet. Tears were falling. But— (That's strange. It feels thin.) It was an odd sensation. She was crying, yet her chest didn't ache at all. Usually, just seeing this sight would tighten her chest until she couldn't bear it. But tonight's tears felt forced. Her emotions felt distant. Aria touched the tears on her cheek with her finger. They were cold. They existed, certainly. But the sensation deep in her chest was somehow thin. As if she were crying someone else's sorrow instead of her own. (Am I breaking?) Something stirred deep in her chest. Fear. This was fear. Not sadness at someone dying in war, but something more direct. The fear of her own emotions disappearing. Every time she used her healing power, something inside her was worn away—that's what it felt like, and Aria gripped the railing tightly. There was no basis for it. But this sensation was different from exhaustion. Something deeper was slowly vanishing. She wanted to tell someone. But who could she tell? The priestesses in the temple were kind, but talking about this would only worry them. If she told Helena, it would only trouble her. (I'm alone, after all.) Saints were born only two or three times per century. Chosen as resonators with the Yang Vein, they were raised in the temple. Food, clothing, and shelter were guaranteed, and their social status was high. But personal freedom was almost nonexistent. This was Aria's only home. Yet sometimes she felt like she was in a cage. She hated thinking such things and quickly suppressed the thought. It was a selfish worry. People were dying outside. She just needed to use her power here. That was enough. Telling herself this, Aria gazed vaguely up at the night sky. Heavy footsteps sounded behind her. --- Aria turned around. An elderly man with white hair swept back approached, his temple vestments fluttering in the wind. His gait was slow, but his eyes were anything but. Sharp. Cold. Morgus Tein. The chairman of the Council of Elders—Elderath, seventy-eight years old. The figure who commanded the temple's highest decision-making body and held the strongest influence over Soltia's current politics. Aria hurried to bow. "[scared]Morgus, at this hour…" The old man didn't look at the stars at all. Aria didn't face him directly either. They simply stood side by side, as if gazing into the night beyond. And he spoke. "[cold]The sacred marriage ceremony at the Yang Wheel Festival—the candidate has been decided." Something in Aria's chest contracted sharply. The sacred marriage ceremony. A system concerning the saint's marriage. The Council of Elders—all five of them—had to unanimously approve before a saint could marry anyone. To be bound to someone without approval meant the penalty of Yang Vein severance. Permanent sealing of magical power. One hundred twenty years ago, Saint Lina had married without permission and actually received that penalty. The record remained in the temple's ancient documents. Aria had read it as a child and couldn't sleep for days afterward. "[serious]Your marriage partner will determine the future of this nation." Aria opened her mouth. "[scared]I'm not yet…" Morgus didn't turn around. "[cold]A saint's heart belongs to the nation. Your feelings are irrelevant." He left those words behind and walked away. His heavy footsteps faded into the distance and eventually disappeared. Aria couldn't move. She gripped the railing with both hands, trying to suppress the trembling in her knees. Her mind wouldn't work properly. The candidate had been decided. She would be forced to marry someone. Her feelings didn't matter. If she resisted, Yang Vein severance. Fear. Terror. But something else was caught in her chest, something deeper. (My heart belongs to the nation. My feelings don't matter.) That was what she'd always been told. That was what a saint was, she'd been taught since childhood. She understood. She understood, but. She remembered tonight's thin tears. She remembered the sensation of something inside her being worn away. She remembered her emotions becoming distant. And now, on top of that, she was being forbidden even to have feelings. (Then what's left for me?) There was no answer to that question. Aria simply looked up at the night sky. --- She stayed like that for a while. Tears threatened to come, but wouldn't. They were even thinner now. Even when she tried to force them out, nothing came. The emptiness inside her was so profound it terrified her. The night wind moved her hair. The western flames still flickered. Somewhere, an owl cried. Then a light streaked across the night sky. A thin line, running from east to west. Just one, swift and sudden. A shooting star. Aria's eyes followed it reflexively. The light's trajectory headed toward the ravine and vanished into the darkness. (Beyond the ravine.) Her body stiffened slightly. She couldn't tell if it was an ill omen or the beginning of something. Only that the light had disappeared somewhere, and it felt as if an unseen someone was there, and she couldn't look away. It was strange. She'd never seen the ravine's far side, never been there. She only knew Nocvel as the enemy in war. Yet somehow. Even as her emotions were fading away, that shooting star's trajectory pierced her chest and wouldn't leave. Aria tried for a while to understand what that sensation meant. But she couldn't. Unable to understand, she simply held the cold railing. The spring night was still chilly. The stone roof of the temple seeped cold up through her feet. Still, Aria couldn't move. It was much later before her feet finally obeyed. She returned to her room and lay on her bed. She closed her eyes. She didn't know if she would sleep. But it felt like she couldn't even cry anymore. Today, when she'd healed forty people, had ended. It was a day when she'd been useful to someone. That much was certain. So why was her chest so quiet?