Beneath the Surviving Princess's Joyful Facade - Chapter 105

As the high priest ranted without pause, complex emotions flashed through Miesa’s mind. She muttered between her quivering lips, “The goddess, huh.”

For a brief moment, her face reflected pure hatred and anger. She stood up from her chair, her icy wrath directed at the high priest, and took a step forward.

Miesa’s platinum hair, pale skin, and white dress glimmered with a reddish-gold hue as if absorbing the flickering firelight. Her piercing gaze and noble demeanor were unlike anything of this world, and even the high priest, who had been about to shout something with his mouth wide open, was struck dumb.

As silence fell, Miesa spoke again, her voice now calm after suppressing the storm of emotions within her.

“I received a divine oracle,” Miesa said as if stating a simple fact, her face impassive. “Yes, I received a divine oracle. As a member of the royal family, I was commanded to take responsibility for the kingdom’s wretched state.”

The unexpected declaration left the elderly high priest stammering in shock.

“W-What do you mean? You are not a saint; there is no way you could receive an oracle from the goddess.”

“Why? You don’t believe it?” Miesa slowly smiled, spreading her arms.

“I, who was neither sound in mind nor body, suddenly recovered completely. How could this not be the will of the goddess?”

The mention of the goddess’s will struck a chord with many who had struggled to comprehend the miraculous recovery they had witnessed. Devout nobles began making the sign of the cross in the air, while priests and temple guards lifted their eyes to the heavens in prayer. Moved by the proclamation of the goddess’s oracle and the miracle before them, the temple guards unhesitatingly bound the high priest.

“Do you believe that? You are being deceived by such nonsense!” the high priest raged, but his words fell on deaf ears.

Anyone who looked up could see a person who had been raving mad until just a few hours ago now standing with arms outstretched like a saint. To the temple guards, this seemed more like the goddess’s will than the high priest, who had often neglected the tenets of their faith.

Ultimately, the high priest and his alleged illegitimate son, the First Priest, were dragged away, and the Second Priest stepped forward to take their place.

The Second Priest, however, could barely stand out of fear. Confronted with what seemed to be a divine miracle, memories of his own sins flashed through his mind.

Greed, for stuffing leftover bread into his mouth, and pride, for thinking his faith was stronger than the high priest’s—these were trivial sins that would normally provoke laughter. But standing before someone who claimed to have received a divine oracle, the Second Priest trembled like an aspen tree.

“Are you the Second Priest?” came the clear voice from the platform.

The Second Priest looked up at the Margravine. No, the queen now. He could still vividly recall her, covered in blood, crouched before the office.

“I-I am…” he stammered.

Hearing his muttered reply, Miesa closed her eyes. “Tell me to lift my head.”

“Pardon?”

Still confused and seeing hundreds of eyes on him, the Second Priest stammered, “…Lift your head?”

“Very well. You are now the High Priest.”

Recognizing the voice, Miesa nodded and stepped aside. This was the signal for Eirik to usher the bewildered Second Priest—now High Priest—onto the podium.

“Where is the holy oil?”

“The holy oil… right. The holy oil.” A priest, who had kept the holy oil when the former high priest was bound, hurriedly handed over the vial. The new high priest ascended the platform, looking around nervously for his place.

As Miesa, supported by Tilberg, knelt before him, the new high priest gathered his wits and began the blessing.

“M-Miesa Esquillir, daughter of Vermelique I, shall now succeed Vermelique II and serve the goddess’s will, watch over the people, and govern the kingdom.”

“Hurry and finish it.”

“Yes, yes…”

Miesa, kneeling with her head bowed, whispered urgently. The high priest, with trembling fingers, hurriedly dipped his fingertips in the holy oil. He slowly brought his oil-smeared fingers to her round forehead.

“May the goddess’s power now protect the new queen, and may the temple serve her will.”

He skipped several parts, but since the consecration ceremony was typically conducted in private, only the bound high priest, the counselor, and the chamberlain knew the proper procedures. All those who could criticize were gagged.

Thus, the brief consecration ceremony was completed in exactly fifteen minutes. Although it was before the official coronation, it meant she could now exercise her authority as queen. The people’s attention shifted to the bound Count of Carlisle, his son, the counselor, and Viscount Maleca.

They expected the beginning of bloody retribution, but the new queen uttered an unexpected name.

“Rakane Crispin, step forward.”

Rakane, who had been waiting at the front, quickly ascended the platform. Miesa confirmed a few formalities with Tilberg and then raised her voice.

“I appoint Rakane Crispin as the head of the Marquisate of Crispin. This takes effect immediately, from this very moment.”

Tilberg handed over his sword. Following Tilberg’s whispered instructions, Miesa placed the sword on Rakane’s shoulders, repeating the words of investiture.

“Now, serve the country and act with righteousness. Shed your blood for the weak and do not hesitate to sacrifice your life for peace.”

The observing nobles grew increasingly puzzled. Why was Rakane, who they perceived as having done nothing, being honored as a meritorious subject? Why was the new queen knighting the marquis’s daughter, who had never held a sword? And where was Rakane’s father, the Marquis of Crispin?

The rapid developments concluded quickly. Rakane Crispin was appointed head of the Crispin and knighted. As the bewildered spectators remained silent, Tilberg’s voice echoed, “Bring in the prisoners.”

At that moment, Miesa staggered slightly. The relief of nearing the end, coupled with prolonged tension, was sapping her strength.

“Your Majesty, this way.”

Tilberg, closest to her, supported Miesa and helped her to a chair. Eirik glanced in their direction but couldn’t focus long. There was movement from the path leading up from the foot of the mountain. He could faintly hear the clashing of weapons.

“Prepare for battle,” Eirik signaled the knights. The knights and guards around the platform placed their hands on their swords, watching intently.

Though the Cladnier knights and Salachez’s mercenaries were stationed along the path, some had broken through. Voices rang out from all directions.

“The king is dead!”

“Rebels!”

Some members of the Central Defense Force came up earlier than expected. Moreover, when gathered by the number of torches, their numbers were greater than anticipated.

“Do not waver. The queen, consecrated, stands among us,” Eirik shouted, drawing his sword. The unarmed nobles seemed frightened, but since the Central Defense Force had not yet emerged from the forest, there was no visible danger, and no one fled.

Then, a familiar shout was faintly heard.

“The honor of Cladnier follows after death. Protect the new queen!”

Are they vassals? Eirik smirked bitterly. It seemed that those like Khalid Cladnier, excluded from the coup due to lack of trust, had rushed in, eager to prove themselves.

The vassals, unaware that the situation was nearly resolved and only needed to be communicated to the Central Defense Force, instead created further confusion with their zeal. Despite the horn signals from Tilberg and Cullen, the chaotic situation remained unresolved.

Eirik glanced at Rakane Crispin, who stood on the platform. She smiled. “You appointed me as the head of the Crispin Marquisate for times like this, didn’t you?”

With that, Rakane bent and reached out to a knight disguised as a huntsman.

“May I borrow your bow?”

The knight, a member of the Cladnier knights, handed his bow to Rakane with a nod from Eirik.

“Is the bow new?” Rakane murmured, skillfully testing the tension of the bowstring before drawing an arrow from the quiver. She drew the bowstring and aimed with ease.

Before long, the vanguard of the Central Defense Force emerged from the forest and was engaged in a skirmish with Cladnier’s forces. Thanks to her vantage point, Rakane was able to spot her uncle immediately.

But finding her target and hitting it were different matters. It wasn’t easy to get a clear shot at him, especially with the Cladnier vassals in the way. She needed to aim for a non-lethal spot, which was more challenging than a clean headshot.

However, Rakane knew this was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity. Holding her breath momentarily, she released the arrow, which narrowly missed its mark, grazing her uncle’s left shoulder instead of piercing it.

“The commander has been hit!”

The defense force members turned in unison toward the direction the arrow came from. The Cladnier vassals also paused, momentarily distracted by the distant arrow.

“The one who shot the arrow is…”

One of the defense force members trailed off, staring at Rakane holding the bow on the platform.

Hayel Crispin, Rakane’s uncle and commander of the marquisate’s knights, glared at her while clutching his pierced arm.

“Rakane! How dare you side with the rebels, you treacherous woman!” his roar echoed through the mountains.