The candlelight from the upper floors didn’t reach this deep.
Wrapped in the illusion granted by the Veilweaver’s Charm, Noel adjusted the hood of his cloak. His reflection—if one could call it that—was no longer his. Instead, it was Saint Charlotte’s form staring back: soft features, delicate stature, and most notably, that unmistakable pink hair.
Only the strands of that hair peeked out from beneath the hood. The rest of his body was concealed beneath a dark traveling cloak, designed to blend in and deflect attention.
’Forty-five minutes. That’s all I’ve got.’
He moved with careful, deliberate steps through the monastery’s western wing. The halls were quiet—oppressively so. Two guards stood by the arched wooden doors that marked the entrance to the lower levels. When they saw him approaching, their posture shifted imdiately.
"Saint Charlotte," one said with respectful composure, lowering his head. "May the Divine Light watch over your steps."
Noel inclined his head slightly, pressing a hand to his chest in acknowledgnt. He didn’t speak—there was no need. Silence lent authenticity.
The guards made no move to stop him. One stepped aside and opened the door.
"Please be mindful. So of the high clerics are ditating below."
Noel nodded once more and stepped through the threshold.
Stone steps curled downward into shadow, illuminated only by intermittent blue-glow sconces. His footsteps echoed faintly as he descended into the depths.
The air was different down here—cooler, heavier, with an undercurrent of incense and old stone.
’Ti to see what lies beneath the holy light.’
He reached the bottom, stepping into the first of many hallways that made up the hidden foundations of the Holy Capital.
Noel advanced quietly through the lower corridors, careful not to draw attention. The place wasn’t what he expected.
There were no forbidden rituals. No locked doors oozing with dark mana. No tortured prisoners in chains. Just... rooms.
Clerics and priests were moving about like it was a normal evening. So were reading old tos in dimly lit libraries, others played card gas or whispered chants in quiet corners. Two older n argued over whose turn it was to polish the ceremonial candlesticks.
’This is what they’re hiding? Honestly is fucking disappointing...’
Noel stepped to the side as a robed figure passed, giving a quick bow to the disguised "saint." They didn’t even glance at his face—just the pink hair and the robes were enough.
He reached a long hallway lined with heavy wooden doors, all of them open. One revealed a monk sleeping with a book on his chest. Another held two clerics sorting through crates of incense. Another was filled with crates of dried food.
Noel turned a corner, growing more agitated with each step.
’There’s nothing here. No signs of a plan. No traces of the Circle. Nothing like what Kaelith prepared.’
Ti ticked in his head. Maybe twenty minutes had passed since he entered.
Then he heard voices from the stairwell above.
Footsteps.
"Saint Charlotte?"
It was one of the guards.
Noel froze behind a pillar.
Another voice answered—a familiar one.
"Uh... yes?"
The tone was confused, hesitant.
It was the real Charlotte.
Noel clenched his jaw.
The guards were clearly thrown off.
"Apologies, milady, but... did you not just pass this way a few monts ago?"
"No... I’ve only just arrived," Charlotte replied, trying to keep calm. "You must’ve mistaken for soone else. Maybe... a novice sister?"
A beat of silence.
"Of course," one of them said slowly. "Forgive us."
Noel didn’t stick around to hear more.
He doubled back imdiately, careful to stay out of view, and started retracing his steps toward the upper levels.
’Damn it... I found nothing useful. And now she’s here.’
The dim hallway stretched out in front of him like a quiet warning.
Noel moved quickly, but not too quickly—just enough to appear calm. Composed. As if nothing was wrong.
His disguise still held. The long pink hair from the Veilweaver’s Charm swayed with every step, the loose robe brushing the ground. The hood remained low over his eyes, casting a faint shadow over the upper part of his face.
Two guards stood at the final archway.
He was almost out.
One of them gave a polite nod. "All well, Saint Charlotte?"
Noel returned it with a soft, rehearsed tone. "Yes. I just needed so air... and quiet."
The guards didn’t stop him.
He passed by, steps echoing softly against the stone.
Then—
"Wait a mont," one of them said suddenly.
Noel paused.
"Yes?" he asked without turning.
"Forgive the intrusion, milady, but... could you lower your hood? Just to confirm."
’Shit.’
Noel’s heartbeat didn’t spike—he trained himself better than that—but inside, sothing twisted.
He turned halfway, slowly.
That’s when another voice cut in, gentle yet confident.
"There you are, sister! I’ve been looking all over for you."
Charlotte.
The real one.
She appeared just behind them, waving softly, walking toward Noel with her usual warmth and innocence.
The guards blinked.
"But—" one started.
She turned to them with a bright, apologetic smile. "Oh, please don’t worry, brothers. My sister and I sotis get confused for one another. It’s the hair." She giggled.
Noel didn’t speak.
He simply turned and walked toward her, letting the illusion dissolve the mont they passed out of sight.
The guards exchanged glances but said nothing more.
Once they were alone, Charlotte took Noel’s arm and gently guided him through the corridor. Her expression didn’t change until they reached the edge of the main hall.
She wasn’t smiling anymore.
"We’re going to talk," she whispered, serious for once.
The heavy doors of the confessional room closed with a soft thud behind them. The warm glow from a pair of lanterns flickered gently, casting quiet shadows across the stone walls.
Charlotte walked ahead, her steps slow, thoughtful. Instead of entering one of the booths, she took a seat on a wooden bench in the open space. Noel followed and sat across from her.
For a mont, neither of them spoke.
Then Charlotte broke the silence.
"Noel... what were you doing down there?"
Noel leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on his knees. "Investigating."
Her eyes narrowed, though her voice stayed calm. "Investigating what?"
"The lower levels. Trying to find out if soone down there has been hiding sothing."
Charlotte tilted her head, her expression unreadable. "And you thought pretending to be was the best way to do it?"
He didn’t flinch. "No one questions the Saint."
She sighed. "I guess I should be flattered."
Noel didn’t respond.
Then Charlotte glanced toward him again. "You weren’t going to hurt anyone, right?"
Noel looked up at her, his voice steady. "No. Why would you think that?"
Charlotte hesitated. "Because of what I heard in the confession room..."
Noel raised an eyebrow slightly. "Ah. So it’s about that."
Charlotte blinked, surprised. "Wait... you knew it was on the other side, right? But how?"
Noel gave a short nod. "Yes. I ca back later that night. There was a pink hair left in the booth. Long, unmistakable. Only one person around here has that color."
Charlotte’s mouth parted slightly. She looked away, flustered. "...You’re really sothing else."
Noel’s voice was dry. "You can say it. I’m a bastard."
"I was going to say pervert, but bastard works too."
He groaned under his breath. "Why do I even talk to you."
Charlotte offered a small smile, but her tone shifted as she asked more seriously, "So? What were you hoping to find down there?"
Noel leaned back, his green eyes sharp. His next words ca with a weight that settled heavily between them.
"Soone wants to kill you."
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