Grant Me Your Grace

Dahlia had just finished her bath and was about to go to bed.

“Your Highness, Priest Hovan is here.”

“Priest Hovan?”

Dahlia blinked wide-eyed at the unexpected visit. Hovan usually visited the Princess’s palace during the day, so his arrival in the middle of the night was somehow unwelcome.

“…Tell him to come in.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Soon the door opened and Hovan stepped inside.

“Your Highness, the Princess.”

Dahlia returned Hovan’s curtsy and quickly scrutinized his demeanor. 

Any glimmer of hope she had had vanished into thin air at the sight of Hovan’s sunken eyes.

“I suppose we should go.”

Hovan bowed his head further at the meaningless question.

Unconsciously swiping at the underside of her chest, Dahlia smiled weakly and rose to her feet.

“Come, Priest Hovan. It’s late, and you should get some rest.”

Dahlia walked with Hovan, her face dejected. 

They entered the deepest chamber in the palace, the same chamber they had entered together on the day of Maksru.

It was called the Prayer Chamber by the maids of the palace. 

The door to this chamber, which was off-limits to all but the Princess and the Priest Hovan, was often opened on the day of Maksru. 

So, it was thought that this was the room where the two would pray together and then exit.

The reality was quite different.

“Are you ready, Your Highness?”

Hovan asked, and Dahlia nodded. She took a seat on the chair in the center of the prayer chamber.

Hovan stepped in front of her, holding a dagger the length of his index finger. 

As he knelt and tied a white cloth over her eyes, Dahlia slowly lifted the hem of her skirt. 

Candlelight shadows flickered over her unblemished white thighs.

“Don’t worry, I’ll do it, just like always.”

Dahlia wrapped Hovan’s hand around the dagger and pressed it against her thigh. Blindfolded, Hovan followed her lead as if swallowing his heartache.

“May God’s grace be upon this place.”

A brief prayer. Hovan drove the dagger deep into Dahlia’s inner thigh.

“Ouch…”

Dahlia let out a stifled groan as the pain tore through her flesh, and as blood trickled down her smooth thigh, Hovan collected it in a white porcelain jar.

The blood from the deep wound quickly filled the jar halfway.

“There it is.”

Dahlia said, pressing the wound firmly with a clean towel. Hovan stood up, shielding his eyes, and turned away quietly.

“You’ve done well, Your Highness.”

Guilt was thick in Hovan’s voice, and Dahlia smiled bitterly as she lowered her dress.

“Is this what Brother Saltar is looking for?”

Asking now what she should have asked before the deed was done, first because she already knew the answer, and second because, whether she knew the answer or not, it was something she would eventually have to deal with.

There were far worse punishments awaiting those who refused. 

Saltar was a cruel man, and he took advantage of Dahlia’s resilience to push her to the edge of pain.

Besides, even the most divine blood could do no good if it was not breathing or if the body was dismembered. 

This was why Dahlia was not immortal despite her divine power. If her throat was cut or her heart was ripped out, she would eventually die.

“Yes, Your Highness.”

Unwrapping the cloth that covered her eyes, Hovan sealed the vial and bowed grimly.

“General Abassih says he broke his left wrist while riding his horse.”

“Wrist… I see.”

Dahlia clutched her own left wrist. The blood hadn’t even flowed yet, but already her wrist tingled as if the pain of the other had reached her.

General Abassih was a powerful nobleman, the general of a family that had long guarded the borders of the fringes. 

He had recently traveled to the capital to attend the Maksru but had decided to stay a little longer because of a gift from the gods.

A founding family and a powerful central nobleman, General Abassih was one of the most important people Saltar would need to include to solidify his hold on the imperial throne when he eventually ascended.

Now that General Abassih has suffered a wrist injury. In response, Saltar would have been forced to offer sacred blood.

The only problem was that it was Dahlia’s blood, not his own.

“This blood… why did it come to me and not my brother Saltar?”

Dahlia muttered sorrowfully as she looked at the vial in Hovan’s hand.

The Crown Prince was first in line to the throne in Baran, just like in most countries, but that was only true for those with divine power.

The manifestation of divine blood upon a princess who was not even the heir to the Chalice was a threat that could shake the very foundations of Baran’s imperial power.

Crown Prince Saltar was warlike, ambitious, and greedy, much like the Emperor himself. 

He has always felt that he must take the throne, and he has been obsessed with it since childhood. 

At any given moment, the secret of his blood could be discovered, and he could be killed by his brethren or other nobles.

The more he grew restless, the more he oppressed Dahlia, the more often, and brazenly, he took her blood.

He would continue to do so, passing off Dahlia’s blood as his own, and to those who would one day lead him to the throne, Saltar would say, with a smirk, 

“Fear not, for the goddess will be with us always.”

Dahlia closed her eyes and muttered to herself, a phrase from the sacred temple, but now more familiar from Saltar’s lips.

Nothing could have embodied the Crown Prince’s arrogance better.

Dahlia was always afraid that at any moment Saltar might sit on his throne and treat her like an animal to be slaughtered.

“Are you all right, Your Highness?”

Hovan asked worriedly. Dahlia met his gaze silently, and he lowered his head.

He always felt guilty of the wounds he’d inflicted on her body with his hands.

“No, it’s not. I’m just glad it’s Priest Hovan.” 

Dahlia smiled weakly at Hovan.

“It’s a fate given to me by the Nuit Goddess.”

“…”

“I would have preferred not to have known.”

Shaking her head, Dahlia looked at Hovan. He was one of the few people she could lean on.

“At least, you don’t think I’m anything less than an idiot.”

“…Your Highness.”

Hovan’s eyes lowered at that.

Despite being a young man, Hovan had been chosen to be the next High Priest, and as such, he had been put in charge of Dahlia’s blood. 

As a man who serves only the goddess and whose body has never been able to hold a woman, the Emperor must have felt he was best suited to guard the secret of her blood.

Thus, whenever Saltar demanded it, Hovan was forced to serve as the bearer of the blood.

In his heart, he wanted to refuse. 

‘How painful it would be to tear a woman’s body apart with my own hands and receive her blood.’

But before the imperial family, a Priest, let alone a High Priestess, was a mere flickering candle. 

A candle that burns for a long time if oil has been poured on it, but one breath could snuff it out.

How could a Priest of Baran be expected to disobey an order to ‘do it for the good of Baran,’ and Dahlia could not blame Hovan, considering his position.

“Be safe on your journey, Priest Hovan.”

“May the Nuit Goddess be with the Princess this night.”

Bowing politely, Hovan left the prayer chamber first. Dahlia watched him walk away, then rose to her feet.

Limp… limp…

Her wounds hadn’t healed yet, and it was hard to get on her feet.

Of all the places to cut, the inner thigh was the one with the most flesh on a skinny body. This was done, so the blood would drain longer, but it was also a way to prevent the blood from getting on her clothes.

If the blood showed on her clothes, it could be faked as menstruation.

Even the rationale was shameful.

Letting out a small breath, Dahlia began to walk again.

Limp… Limp, limp.

Thud., thud, thud—

Fortunately, the leg was fully healed the moment she left the prayer chamber. The blood, which was said to heal any illness or wound, also healed its master’s wounds quickly.

Thanks to this, Dahlia was able to endure thousands and millions of cuts.

The real pain hadn’t even begun yet.

✨

“Your Majesty, I have what you ordered.”

Kalpani the beast held out the bottle to Saltar. He took it, felt the heavyweight clink inside, and smiled contentedly.

“Bring General Abassih inside.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

Kalpani stepped outside, followed by General Abassih, his left arm in a sling.

“Your Majesty.”

“Have a seat, General.”

General Abassih took his seat with a stiff bow. He gazed in wonder at the chalice before Saltar.

“This is the…”

“Yes. This is my blood, the holy blood of the gods.”

Saltar smirked, the corners of his mouth curling upward.

“Sacred blood is only offered in the sacrifice of Maksru. I cherish the life of General Abassih and wish to heal him quickly, but I cannot bring myself to show you the unholiness of cutting my own flesh, so I have asked you to stand aside for a moment.”

At Saltar’s words, General Abassih bowed deeply.

“How dare I question the Crown Prince’s wishes, I deserve to die for my imprudence and for daring to blemish your body.”

“If General Abassih dies, then who will dare to hold this country of Baran, for I know the loyalty you have given to the country of Baran, and you have willingly given your blood for it…”

Saltar patted General Abassih on the shoulder and smiled softly.

“You shall have my blood without reservation.”