PROLOGUE

Before he realized it, drool had begun trickling from the corner of his mouth. He must have dozed off while he was thinking. Hurriedly, he wiped the dribble away, furrowing his brows at his carelessness.

The ship rocked like a cradle and his lap felt warm. It was only natural that he had quickly succumbed to drowsiness.

He rubbed his eyes as he yawned, causing the girl sleeping in his lap, Myuri, to wriggle in displeasure. She was about twelve or thirteen, old enough to be married off at a young age. For a long time, he had been steeling himself for the havoc her natural tomboyish disposition would wreak at her wedding, but recent events had gone far beyond anything he ever imagined.

Myuri was the daughter of a bathhouse master who he had long served under. She had been in his care since the day she was born. Luckily, she had taken a liking to him and always, always called out for him.

It was only recently he had learned that she felt romantic feelings toward him. This was not a revelation that could be brushed off as something that commonly happened to girls her age. The depth of her feelings only became apparent to him ten days ago, when they had been wrapped up in a serious matter out in the northern islands, which the pirates had made their stronghold.

His motivation for the journey had been to see for himself whether the inhabitants were practicing heresy or following the true faith. It had all been a part of the larger conflict brewing between the Kingdom of Winfiel and the Church. When he first arrived, he discovered the stark reality of poverty that no prayers could fix, as well as the truth of such an unforgiving life.

Not long after, an archbishop who had been dispatched by a large southern trading company as well as the Church arrived at the northern islands. In a place where the people were barely making ends meet, the man of the cloth had been seeking to advance a dark plot in the hopes of obtaining gold. It practically came down to sheer luck that they managed to drive the archbishop back, and if he had to recognize someone for their hard work, it would be none other than Myuri.

It had been all thanks to her affection for him, which practically bordered on something akin to faith.

He had been thrown off board into the black, freezing sea, and right when he had prepared for death, Myuri leaped into the water after him without hesitation. How many lovers who exchanged their vows could do the same?

Though he was angry with how recklessly she had rushed to act, he could no longer treat her feelings as a mere child’s crush.

He patted Myuri as she fidgeted on his lap, making triangular bits of fur on her head twitch. They were an odd color resembling silver flecks mixed into ash, the same as her hair. The curious shapes were in fact wolf ears. Myuri’s mother was Holo the Wisewolf, the avatar of a giant wolf who had long resided in wheat, a hunter of the forest who would not allow its prey to escape once it made up its mind.

His instinct as a lamb of God came from a place that was not logical.

But at the same time, Myuri was his little sister.

God would never allow a union between a father and a daughter or a brother and a sister.

He wished she would understand that, but there wasn’t much progress.

When he looked at the calm, sleeping face on his lap, he could not help but smile bitterly.

It was a problem that gave him a headache, but at the very least, time was going by peacefully.

I pray times like this will continue forever.

He prayed, and as he patted Myuri’s head, he closed his eyes again.