The Amber Knight Swears His Love on the Saintess’s Left Hand - Chapter 13

They walked through the capital at dusk, their pace slower than usual.

The gazes of onlookers pricked at Quill incessantly, a direct result of the woman at his side. Passersby would pull back in a fluster, letting out long, dream-like sighs.

While Quill’s appearance stood out due to its rarity, Lynette was no less striking. Her silver-blonde hair, in particular, was a legendary hallmark of the Saints, often celebrated by poets. No matter how much pain noble ladies endured to bleach their hair, it seemed they could never replicate this specific shade—the color of a snowy landscape at night.

“Next time, I shall wear a head covering,” Lynette remarked.

“Just for my own reference, what kind?”

“A hat bristling with a mountain of bird feathers. People will look at the hat instead of me, and no one will realize I am the Saint.”

Quill found it hilarious because she said it with such earnestness.

They might not realize she was the Saint, but she would certainly remain the center of attention.

“If the public eye bothers you so much, would you prefer to move to our family estate, Lady Ceryes?”

It was the land scheduled to be partitioned to his brother, Lars, when he eventually inherited the title. Having long been used as a summer retreat, it was a beautiful territory with lush greenery and a mild climate. It had a modest manor and a dedicated staff—kind-hearted people who kept the house in perfect order even in the master’s absence. If she took Nicola with her, Lynette would want for nothing.

He wondered if he sounded like he was trying to push her away. Realizing the possibility immediately after speaking, he looked at her, but she shook her head for an entirely different reason.

“I must remain in the capital. As the Keeper of the Holy Sword.”

The Saint and the Holy Sword were inseparable.

Moving the Holy Sword from the cathedral was considered a taboo, save for the two-year pilgrimage of purification. It was an ancient rule, and Quill didn’t know the logic behind it. In truth, only the Royal Family and the Saint were permitted to know what the Holy Sword actually was.

“Must you continue to visit the sword indefinitely?”

“It seems that if I gradually increase the intervals between visits, I may eventually be able to leave for a month or so for a summer holiday.”

“So, the duty continues even after the pilgrimage.”

“Yes. For as long as I live.”

He tried to keep the conversation going to avoid silence, but he had his limits. The frequent gaps in their dialogue were painful.

“Perhaps I should arrange a carriage after all?”

The townhouse was a bit far to reach on foot, especially at Lynette’s pace. Because he had followed her wish to wait until the knights finished their training, the sun was already sinking below the horizon.

However, Lynette shook her head and pulled out a small notebook.

Inside were the “wishes” she had recorded. Wishes she had already lost the ability to truly feel. Her slender, pale finger stopped on one of them.

—I want to walk on my own two feet.

It was a wish so modest it barely deserved the name.

“I know it is selfish, but would you accompany me?”

Her emotions hadn’t vanished overnight. She explained that it was like a slow descent of nightfall; her interests and concerns simply began to fade. Anything she felt would be swallowed by a fog almost immediately. Realizing this was happening, she had begun writing down her current desires in the notebook.

At first, there were the glamorous entries typical of a newly debuted noble lady. Wishes to visit certain tailors and the like. But as the pages turned, her wishes became increasingly humble. To walk. To eat a meal with someone. Toward the end, she had written: I want to think that flowers are beautiful. The final page had been torn out, but Lynette closed the notebook without mentioning it, just as she had before.

“Wherever I went, the White Knights followed, and a carriage was provided. I rarely had the chance to walk freely on my own. My physical strength has declined significantly.”

“You did say you were a tomboy once.”

“I believe I loved running through nature. My parents had little interest in the restoration of the Old Faction; they were content with a small, rural estate. I was allowed enough freedom that I hardly seemed like a noble lady at all.”

The Ceryes estate was about five days by carriage from the capital. A manageable distance for a return trip.

“Once things settle with the Holy Sword, why not return home for a visit? You’ve finally left the cathedral; please, don’t feel obligated to stay at our house. I imagine your belongings are still at your family home?”

Lynette stopped walking.

“Did you not know? My parents have already passed away.”

Quill stopped as well, struck by her detached tone.

“It is a rule that the Saint is always chosen from those who have lost their family. I had assumed you were aware.”

It was a confession that he hadn’t possessed much interest in her at all. Perhaps his father’s letters had mentioned it, and he had simply overlooked it.

“Then, the Count Ceryes is…?”

“My uncle.”

Lynette lifted a lock of her silver-blonde hair, letting it rest in her palm.

“There are no dresses for me to collect. My hair, my eyes… they no longer resemble the colors I inherited from my father and mother. I don’t think they would suit me at all.”

Quill tilted his head in confusion, and Lynette was quick to explain.

“They change. Every Saint before me has had these same colors. We share no blood, yet we become identical.”

Long lashes flickered over Lynette’s downcast eyes. They were the same silver-blonde as her hair, and beneath them lay eyes of a deep, profound blue.

“What color were they?”

The question escaped him almost unconsciously, even though he knew it might be cruel.

Lynette wore her practiced smile and slowly shook her head.

“I have already forgotten.”

Knowing it was a lie, Quill didn’t press her.

Instead, he took the notebook from her and flipped through the pages.

His eyes caught one entry among the wishes: To hold hands with someone.

“Would I suffice as the ‘someone’ in this entry?”

“Of course.”

“Then, as a reward for today’s victory.”

He lightly took Lynette’s hand. He folded the hand—which felt even smaller than it looked—into his own rough, calloused one.

“Lord Quill. People are watching.”

“They are. I wish I could be a better wall for you.”

“Should I open my parasol?”

“But the sun has already set.”

“If I open it with a confident face, as if I am merely drying it out, perhaps it won’t stand out.”

What kind of face is a ‘drying-it-out’ face? And it would surely stand out regardless.

Was she playing dumb, or was this her natural self? Beside the ever-unreadable Lynette, Quill was the only one left to struggle with his emotions, letting out a laugh.

As he laughed, Lynette’s left hand rose slightly.

Pleasure.