Despite her assumptions, the holy wedding dress and its accessories are surprisingly comfortable to wear. She has a hunch about why that is. To test it, she pours red wine all over the dress only for the liquid to slide right off.

Magic is so unfair.

The first time she saw the priests wave their hands to light the candles around the cathedral, she hadn’t thought much of it. It was easy to explain away with a motion sensitive mechanism in the candlestick or something similar.

Witnessing a nun creating a floating ball of light and sighing that her “spell still needs work” couldn’t be written off the same way.

Upon asking Archbishop Pierpont, he had confirmed magic’s existence by proclaiming that, “Only those gifted by the Goddess can borrow her power to alter the world around us!” When she inquired whether she had such magic, the archbishop suddenly had a meeting he needed to attend.

Figures.

At least this confirms she’s in another world instead of in a different time period or living in some weird cult. Figuring out the rules of this world will be her top priority. The heartbreak from successfully running away only to be teleported back to the cathedral would be near unbearable.

And if she can figure out how to wield magic power herself, not even this disgustingly frail body can weigh her down.

She’s in the middle of praying when novitiate Christine comes to pull her out of the main chamber. Normally, it’s a sin to distract the saintess from working, but she has a guest waiting for her.

“Duke Wulf has arrived,” the novitiate tells her with a hushed voice. “The acolytes are loading your things into the palace carriage now.”

Whether Christine means to or not, the slightly shorter woman works as a shield from the congregants who come to watch her pray. The novitiate blocks the people in the pews from reaching out to touch the saintess, which is an uncomfortable but daily ritual for her.

“What kind of man is the duke?” she asks once they’re out on the other side of the heavy, wooden doors.

“Oh, he is dreadfully handsome,” Christine’s hands fly to her cheeks to cover her blush. Once it fades, her expression darkens and she says, “So handsome there is no doubt he’s been blessed by the devil. They say he made a pact with the demon king to murder the old duke.”

There’s a demon king? It’s her first time hearing of it. Are demons intelligent enough to need bureaucracy, or is this an animal kingdom sort of thing?

“Why would someone who kills demons have a pact with a demon king?” she asks instead of inquiring more about this demon king. Considering Duke Wulf will be her companion for quite some time, she finds the idea of him murdering her to be the bigger concern.

Christine opens her mouth only to close it with furrowed brows. They arrive at the main hall before anymore can be said.

Despite its name, the main hall is an extravagant parlor that guests can be dropped off at from their carriages. Members outside the church usually stay in the main hall unless they’re here to dine with the saintess.

“By Her grace, the Saintess of Duhella has arrived,” Christine announces with a curtsey.

Saintess Constance glides into the room like a bride on her way to meet her groom. The veil on her head is pushed back, so it’s without interference that she gets a good look at the Ashen Wolf who waits for her.

Oh, she thinks, dreadfully handsome indeed.

Despite the title, Duke Wulf wears a full suit of black armor with a long red cape. The only bit of grey on his person are the streaks in his black hair, yet his face is young with a strong jaw free of any facial hair.

His eyes though, those unnatural yellow eyes boring into her sends shivers down her spine. They resemble a demon’s eyes far more than a wolf’s. She thinks she knows where the rumor of having a pact with the demon king comes from.

“I thought you’d be taller,” she says blandly.

The duke is a good deal taller than her as she only comes up to his chest, but she’s trying to shake those eyes from her person. It doesn’t work. Instead, the man’s intense stare moves from her face to her bust.

“And I thought you would be more,” Duke Wulf pauses and smirks, “saintly.”

Oh, she hates him already.

Archbishop Pierpont, who has been entertaining the duke since before the saintess’ arrival, suddenly speaks up to scold him harshly. “Duke Wulf, do not slander the savior of our world!”

She’s been under the impression that the archbishop’s power is absolute. Her assumptions are challenged as the duke loses his smirk and gazes down at the man silently. The Ashen Wolf doesn’t turn away until sweat breaks out on the archbishop’s face.

Duke Wulf bows mockingly to her. “Apologies, my esteemed Saintess. How could I ever measure up to your expectations?”

Her eyes narrow. She may have started it, but she’s not going to stand around to be made fun of. Working retail is bad enough, but at least she was getting paid to take the insults.

“Novitiate, fetch me my parasol,” she orders Christine, who scurries away with a “Yes, Saintess!” thrown over her shoulder.

She smiles at the duke sweetly, and he takes a step back. The archbishop attempts to interject but shrinks down into himself as she turns her smile onto him.

“Duke Wulf, I was out of line to remark on your height,” she says with feigned regret. Her voice darkens, “But it appears your mind is in need of some purity.”

She reaches up and rips the see-through veil from its headband. Archbishop Pierpont makes a strangled sound, but she ignores it to wad the fabric up into a ball. She prays silently for her aim to fly true, and perhaps Duhella is listening because the balled-up veil smacks the duke straight in the face.

“The Goddess has spoken to me,” she says, taking pleasure in the stunned expression on the duke’s face, “and She says to stuff that in your mouth.”

The wad of fabric is like spider’s silk and sticks to the Ashen Wolf’s armored chest. His face fills with anger, but she’s not afraid. If there’s one thing she can count on, it’s the nastiness of the older nuns who like to inflict pain.

Sure enough, there’s a spark and a bang like someone stuck a fork in an electric socket, and Duke Wulf goes flying backwards.

“Blessings to keep your mind pure,” she tells the formerly tall body of the duke before breaking out into cackles.

The band around her head squeezes, but she barely feels it.