The faint morning light spilled through the tailor's windows, painting thin golden lines across the floorboards. Erika pulled her cloak over her shoulders, the smell of fresh thread and fabric lingering faintly in the air. On the table sat a small satchel—neatly packed with folded clothes, loaves of bread, and little trinkets she'd gathered through the week.
Jean noticed her by the door, one brow lifting. "Off somewhere again?"
Erika adjusted the strap of her satchel, trying to sound casual. "To the church. The little ones have probably gotten tired of waiting for me."
Jean leaned back on his stool, smirking. "Ah, so that's where my missing bread went."
"Don't start," Erika said, rolling her eyes but smiling.
Before she could reach for the door, Jean rummaged through a drawer and held something out—a small, carefully stitched doll with uneven buttons for eyes.
"I made this for John," he said, his tone unusually soft. "Give it to him for me, will you? The kid's been asking about his old toy again."
Erika blinked, then smiled warmly as she accepted it. "He'll love it. You're getting soft, Jean."
"Don't tell anyone," he said with a dramatic flick of his wrist. "It'll ruin my image."
With a quiet laugh, Erika slung her satchel over her shoulder and stepped out into the sunlit streets.
By the time she reached the old church grounds, the midday light had turned mellow and golden. The orphanage sat behind the church proper—an unassuming stone house framed by ivy and the faint hum of children's laughter spilling from the open windows. The small garden out front was dotted with wildflowers, uneven rows of herbs, and tiny wooden toys scattered across the grass.
The moment Erika opened the gate, a chorus of tiny voices erupted.
"Miss Erika!"
"She's here! She's here!"
A wave of children rushed toward her—barefoot, bright-eyed, their hands outstretched. Some tugged at her cloak, others wrapped around her legs.
"Where've you been?!" one squealed.
"Did you bring cake?" another asked eagerly.
"I missed you!" a little girl said, hugging her tightly.
Erika laughed, crouching down as she ruffled their hair one by one. "I missed you all too! And no cake this time—but I brought something better."
She opened her satchel and began handing out small bundles—tiny wooden puzzles, ribbons, and baked treats wrapped in cloth. Their laughter filled the garden again, bright and unrestrained.
Amid the commotion, she noticed a boy lingering by the doorway—John, quiet as always, half-hiding behind a column.
"Hey," she called softly, walking over. "Someone wanted me to give you this."
She knelt and held out Jean's doll. John's eyes widened as he took it carefully, as if it were something precious. His lips curved into a shy smile.
"Thank you, Miss Erika," he said.
Erika smiled back, brushing a hand through his hair. "It's from Jean. He said you'd know who it is."
Before John could answer, the wooden doors behind them creaked open. The children's chatter softened into polite murmurs as a familiar figure stepped in.
"Your Grace!" one of the nuns called softly, bowing.
The archbishop's robes trailed lightly across the floor as he entered—the faint scent of incense and old parchment following him. His eyes, kind yet piercing, softened when they landed on Erika.
"Ah," Michael said, a gentle smile tugging at his lips. "It's been a while."
Erika brightened immediately and dipped her head in greeting. "Your Grace."
He waved a hand lightly. "No need for formalities between us."
The children giggled and went back to their play, leaving the two of them to speak near the window.
"You've been well, I hope?" Michael asked, his tone fond. "It's good to see you here again. The little ones missed you more than they let on."
"They said as much," Erika replied, chuckling softly. "I just wish I could visit more often."
Michael nodded, watching the children outside. "They look up to you, you know. Many of them come from difficult places—abandoned, displaced, some from the north itself. It's rare for them to see someone who understands their struggle and still smiles."
Erika's gaze softened. "And yet the church's own nuns can't even stand to be near them."
There was a bitterness under her voice, quiet but heavy.
Michael sighed. "Even within these walls, prejudice lingers. I try to visit often—to remind them they are still children, not burdens."
They stood side by side in silence for a while, the laughter of the children carrying faintly through the open windows.
"You being here," he said finally, "gives them hope. Proof that there are still kind hands in this city."
Erika's lips quirked faintly. "Maybe. I just… see myself in them, sometimes." Her eyes lowered. "No church ever took me in. Not one. I was too northern for their taste. Back then, it was just me and Jean—him throwing mud at the brats who called me names, and me dragging him away before we got chased."
Michael chuckled, the sound deep and warm. "Ah, yes. I remember those days. You two caused quite a stir when I first met you."
"You were still a priest then," Erika said, smiling softly. "The first person who didn't look at me like I was a curse."
Michael's expression gentled with memory. "I suppose I was one of the same. I just got lucky with my father's southern features. But…" He paused, meeting her gaze. "You and I—our roots are no different."
Erika studied him quietly. His deep blue eyes caught the light, faint flecks of silver glinting within them—the unmistakable trace of the north.
A scoff escaped her, small and teasing. "Then I'd say you got the better end of the bargain. I didn't inherit anything subtle. Every bit of me screams 'north,' down to my stubborn hair."
That earned a soft laugh from him. "Perhaps. But you wear it proudly. That's something even I couldn't manage back then."
Their shared laughter lingered for a moment longer before fading into comfortable quiet. Outside, the children played, sunlight filtering through the glass panes and casting soft colors over their faces.
For once, everything felt still.
Erika fell quiet for a moment, her eyes drifting somewhere distant. The faint laughter of the children filled the room, yet her mind wandered elsewhere—far beyond the warm walls of the orphanage.
"My name…" she murmured under her breath, almost to herself.
Michael turned slightly. "Pardon?"
"My name," Erika repeated softly.
Her voice trembled, but a small, nostalgic smile followed. "I was… glad when you gave me one. Both me and Jean. You even went through the trouble of recording them in the church's ledgers—making us real. Recognizing us as citizens of the South."
Her gaze lowered, a trace of melancholy in her tone.
"Back then, and even now, I never forgot that moment. You stood before the others… and fought for our names, our existence, as if it truly mattered."
Michael let out a quiet chuckle.
"Ah… I was young and impulsive then," he said, a gentle grin tugging at his lips. "Arguing with old men in robes with old beliefs which they couldn't let go. I can still remember their faces—so red from shouting at me."
Erika smiled faintly, amused by the image.
He continued, "Still, I was fortunate. There was one High Priest who trusted my conviction enough to give me a chance. Because of that, I was able to build this place—the orphanage, the church—so children from any background could find a home here."
Michael's eyes softened as he looked out at the children playing. "It's not perfect, but… it's something."
Erika followed his eyes, warmth swelling in her chest. The laughter of the children—their innocent joy—felt like sunlight after a long winter.
She was about to reply when the faint echo of footsteps broke through the noise. Heavy, deliberate, and out of place among the light patter of tiny feet.
Michael turned his head toward the sound, his expression shifting. "Ah… it seems we have another visitor. I was expecting him to arrive early."
Erika blinked; " expecting who?" and glanced at the doorway.
" You'll see," Michael smiled.
Standing there, framed by the soft light spilling through the archway, was a familiar figure—his posture composed, his presence steady as stone. The dark of his cloak, and the familiar insignia shimmered faintly on his chest.
"Count Castell," Michael greeted warmly.
Roland inclined his head in a polite bow. "Your Holiness." His voice was low, calm—ever the noble.
Erika froze where she stood, caught halfway between surprise and a sudden rush of confusion she couldn't quite name. Of all the places to see him… here, of all days?
Then his gaze slid toward Erika.
For a moment, his eyes lingered—curious, assessing. Her deep black hair, the blue in her eyes… unmistakably northern. Yet her manner, her posture—refined, practiced. Not quite a commoner, not quite a noble.
Michael noticed his glance and, perhaps to ease the air, chuckled. "Ah, I see you've noticed Miss Erika. You two know each other, perhaps?"
Roland shook his head slightly, still studying her.
"No, I can't say that I do." Then, turning to Michael with an easy confidence, he added.
"Though I suppose it wouldn't be far-fetched. Every southern household knows my name, Your Holiness. I'm sure even she's heard of me."
Erika's heart nearly stopped. Oh no.
Panic surged—she could feel his eyes, sharp and familiar, lingering too long. He'd seen her before… though not as Erika. Not as herself. The last time he looked at her that closely, she'd been Lady Heather—the noblewoman from the masquerade, the one who dared speak to him so freely.
She quickly lowered her head, bowing with all the grace she could summon. "O-of course, my lord," she managed, voice too bright, too fast. "Who doesn't know of House Castell and its noble lineage? Your presence here is surely… a blessing for the children!"
The last words came out far too enthusiastically.
Michael blinked at her, clearly surprised, while Roland merely nodded, amused.
"Well," he said, faintly smiling. "Then I'm glad to bring some blessings with me."
Erika's complexion turned pale as she avoided his gaze entirely. You got to be kidding me, she thought.
I hope I can leave quicklybefore he starts remembering faces…