The Amber Knight Swears His Love on the Saintess’s Left Hand - Chapter 1

How long had it been since he last showed his face at the Langbart townhouse?

Between its poor location on the outskirts of the royal capital and Quill’s own lack of belonging there, he rarely returned. He was perfectly content living in a single room at the knight’s barracks; expansive living quarters only made him restless.

He recalled the last time he’d been summoned. Something about a garden party at the end of autumn. Now, the horse chestnuts swaying beyond the wall were heavy with pale pink blossoms. Without him noticing, spring had arrived.

The moment Quill stepped into the manor, a shrill, piercing shout hammered against his eardrums.

“Honestly! Why are you so late getting back!?”

Nicola barked from the top of the stairs right by the entrance hall.

In the House of Langbart, everyone from the steward to the gardener was treated as family. Following that tradition, Nicola though a housemaid was like an older sister to Quill.

“Is there a problem? I made it back in time for dinner, didn’t I?”

“Is there a problem? Why on earth would Master Quill show his face at the Order on such an important day?”

“Because I’m a knight.”

As a Black Knight of the Eiklant Kingdom in charge of his own squad, Quill struggled to understand why he was being scolded for doing his daily duty. Nicola, however, was clearly unsatisfied with his answer. She pumped her right fist up and down in frustration.

“You were supposed to be off today, weren’t you?”

“‘Supposed to be’ doesn’t mean ‘must be.'”

“That was a polite way of telling you to stay home! Master Quill, today is the day you welcome your fiancée! She arrived ages ago!”

Nicola scrambled down the stairs and circled behind Quill. She began shoving his back, her face flushed red. Given the sheer difference in their physiques, her efforts didn’t move Quill so much as an inch.

“Just go! Quickly! The Saint is already waiting in her room!”

“Her room? You don’t mean mine, do you?”

“What are you thinking? Her room! Surely you received the letter from the Count saying she would be moving here from the temple!”

Was that in there? Quill raked through his memory, then immediately gave up. The news was likely buried in one of the many letters in the mountain on his desk perhaps acting as a paperweight for a magic tome or being used as a bookmark. Regardless, the wheels were already in motion. There was no point in Quill protesting now.

Harried by her constant “Hurry, hurry,” he reluctantly climbed the stairs. He kept the thought to himself that Nicola’s long-winded lecturing was the very thing stalling him. In any case, his job today was simple: show his face, share a meal, and offer a brief “I look forward to our time together.” That should fulfill his obligations.

Apparently, the Saint had been settled into the furthest room at the top of the stairs, right next to Quill’s own bedroom. He couldn’t help but think of all the rooms she could have been in, it had to be that one. But since he’d be holed up in the barracks again starting tomorrow, it wasn’t a major issue.

“My Lady, it’s Nicola. Master Quill has arrived!”

At the announcement, a sharp clatter echoed from inside the room.

Quill’s hand instinctively went to the sword at his hip. He signaled a startled Nicola to step back and pushed the door open.

The room was filled with furniture and decor so fine it was hard to believe they’d prepared it in less than a month since the engagement was proposed. An intricately designed mirror caught his eye. The fact that a full canopy bed had been sourced in time spoke to the sheer intensity of the Langbart family’s effort. His mother, who had half-given up on him ever marrying, clearly didn’t want to let this chance slip away.

The woman sitting before the vanity turned toward him, her long silver-blonde hair swaying. It rippled with bands of light like a bundle of high-grade silk. Her skin was so pale it seemed never to have known the sun, and her eyes were the deep blue of the ocean. Her lips were soft and full.

Beautiful. Staggeringly beautiful.

That was Quill’s assessment of his fiancée. He had assumed the rumors were just exaggerations—she was a Saint, after all—but with looks like these, she would have been the talk of high society even without a holy title.

“Eeeek!”

Nicola’s high-pitched scream erupted from right behind Quill.

“I—I’ll get bandages! I’ll treat it right away!”

She dashed off frantically. Despite her flightiness, Nicola was actually an excellent maid. Quill had been relieved to hear she’d be attending the Saint; he knew he could leave things in her hands.

But it was no wonder Nicola had lost her composure. Quill himself couldn’t fathom what his fiancée was doing.

Her snow-white arms were bare to the elbows. In her right hand, she held a small knife.

Blood dripped from her left thumb, tracing a crimson line down her arm. She held her right wrist beneath her left elbow, seemingly out of consideration to keep the blood from staining the floor.

Looking at the scene, the only word that came to Quill’s mind was self-harm.

Had she been unable to endure the unwanted engagement? But the Crown Prince had said she was the one who brought the proposal forward.

Perhaps she had arrived and taken a dislike to her future in-laws, or the room?

Or maybe the location? The townhouse was far from the capital’s commercial district—plenty of greenery, but hardly “glamorous.”

Or was it the maid? Nicola was capable, but she certainly appeared high-strung.

With his thoughts in a jumble, Quill approached his fiancée.

He pulled out a handkerchief, wiped the blood from her elbow to her wrist, and gently wrapped the source—her left hand.

“Am I correct in addressing you as Lady Lynette Ceryes?”

“Yes. That is correct.”

Good grief, Quill thought. Even her voice sounds like a Saint’s.