Another cut. Another stroke.
Deeper this time. Too deep. The blade slips against the bone, and the pain is white-hot. So bright it almost burns out everything else. It isn't screaming pain. Screaming requires a voice. This pain is silent. This pain demands obedience. Hands press me down against the stone. Not cruel hands. Not kind. Just hands. Efficient. Practiced. The chanting fills the air like smoke, thick, suffocating, holy.
I am eight. I am a shrine girl. I am nothing more than a vessel.
They don't stop. Not when I twitch. Not when my body jerks. Not even when I pass out. They just wait for me to wake. Then they continue. It takes days. When the rune is finally complete. Red, raw, swollen and screaming. They call me beautiful. They always call me beautiful. I never know how long it takes to heal. Healing just means training. And when I can walk again, it means it's time to move.
New god. New temple. New knife. New place to carve. Over and over and over. Carve. Heal. Smile. Serve. Repeat.
I wake in a cold sweat. The dream fades fast, blood, chanting, bone. The usual. The ceiling above me is silk-draped and softly lit, expensive and tacky in equal measure. He'd come in late last night, jet-lagged and worn down, too tired to do more than press a kiss to my hair before collapsing beside me. We just slept. No performance. No mask. Almost normal.
Beside me now, the man stirs. Not John. No one's ever really named John. Senator Robert Killjoy. Of course. He grunts with sleepy pleasure and rolls toward me, his hand landing on my stomach like a stamp of ownership. But it doesn't linger like usual, it moves. Gentle. Almost affectionate. I force myself to remain still.
"Morning, gorgeous," he mumbles, voice thick with sleep and something that tries to pass for warmth.
I smile before he even opens his eyes. The exact one he likes. Soft. Sweet. Like he's caught me mid-daydream about him.
He blinks, focuses, and smiles back. "I brought you something," he says, propping himself up on one elbow.
He reaches down beside the bed and pulls out a thin parcel, clumsily wrapped in brown paper. He hands it to me like it's sacred.
"I saw this and thought of you," he says, eyes shining.
I unwrap it slowly, deliberately. A book. No, not just a book. My favorite author Callista Wildfire. Her book "The Love of a Lady" First edition. Rare. For a second, my chest aches. Because this, this one, wasn't part of the act. I'd mentioned it once, offhand, not to him but to the empty air between us, years ago. Something I loved. Something real. He remembered. My fingers tighten on the cover before I can stop them. The smile that spreads across my face isn't practiced, not polished, not the one he's trained himself to crave. It's mine. Startlingly, dangerously mine.
"You remembered," I whisper. Too soft. Too raw.
His whole face lights up, like I've handed him absolution. "Of course I did. You love this author."
The ache sharpens. Callista helped me have a voice, keep my sanity, and believe in love, even here. He doesn't know how much he's right. He never will. So I force it back down. Smooth the edges. Tilt my head just so, soften my mouth the way he likes. Make it the version of Anastasia he wants.
"Yes," I say, cradling the book like it's sacred because that's what he needs to see. "I love this author."
Just like that, the moment passes. The real me slips beneath the surface again, drowned under silk and sweet smiles. He leans in and kisses my shoulder. Soft. Hesitant. Not lustful. Not possessive. "I missed you," he says.
I tuck my hair behind my ear, just the way he likes. "It's good to see you again, Bobby. I missed you."
He smiles wider. Like it means everything. He really thinks this is love. He's been coming to me since he became an adult. I was his first and for a long time I was his only. For him, this isn't performance. For him, it's devotion. Love. He doesn't reach for me the way others do, not at first. He just talks. Tells me about his flight. About the way his wife is angry again. About the press. The party. The pressure. He looks exhausted. I listen. Nod. Brush his arm once, gently. The contact makes him close his eyes like he's savoring it.
When he finally moves to touch me, it's slow. Careful. Kind in a way that almost feels real. I give him exactly what he needs. Adoration. Sweetness. Surrender. Every sigh. Every look. Every movement sculpted to draw him out, to coax his pleasure forward. He responds like a man parched, drinking deep, finding comfort in the softness I've tailored just for him. He thinks I'm his peace. For the time he is here, I will be.
I used to have to think about it. The pitch of a gasp, the shape of a moan, the way my fingers curled or my back arched. It used to be work. But now?My body responds before I tell it to. My breath catches on cue. My muscles tighten, tremble, release. There's no conscious performance anymore. Just instinct. The illusion has become the habit. The habit has become the truth.
I hit my peak like it's a ritual. A task checked off. A chore completed beautifully. He believes it. Completely. Watches me with something close to wonder, like what just happened between us meant something more than muscle memory and survival.
When it's over, he doesn't collapse in arrogance. Doesn't bark orders or gloat. He just curls against me, fingers idly tracing the curve of my hip.
"You're the only place that feels real," he whispers.
I don't answer. I can't. Instead, I let him hold me. Let him believe. Let him think he's special. Let him think I'm his. Because as long as he's here, I am. He leaves just before noon. Exactly on time. Kisses my hand. Promises to return next month. His worship, paid in taxpayer gold.
The door shuts behind him. Silence.
I stand, still bare, and walk to the shower. Steam spills through the marble room like a whispered prayer. The water is hot. Almost too hot but I don't flinch. I scrub slowly. Methodically. First my arms. Then my shoulders. Then everywhere else. The soap smells like jasmine. I hate jasmine. It doesn't matter.
Nothing ever does. I wash until my skin turns pink. Until the memory of his mouth fades. Until the ritual of cleansing dulls the feeling of being touched. I am a shrine. A holy vessel. A form of worship. I stare at my reflection in the mirror. Wet curls cling to my neck. My eyes are blank. The runes beneath my skin glow faintly. Beautiful. Perfect. Divine. I feel disgusting. The water runs cold before I step out.
I towel off, wrapped myself in a robe embroidered with gold thread, and brushed my hair into loose, obedient curls. The mirror fogged, then cleared, then fogged again. I didn't bother to wipe it clean. At exactly two o'clock, there was a knock at the door. Not soft. Professional. Expected. I opened it without a word. A woman stood there, robed in pale cream with a turquoise sash around her waist, Ahyona's colors. Her hair was tied back. Her eyes were sharp. She carried no bag, no tools, no charm bracelets or incense. She didn't need them. Priests of Ahyona did not perform rituals. They were the ritual.
"Anastasia," she said curtly. I inclined my head, stepping aside to let her in. We didn't speak. We never did. Conversation was unnecessary. She already knew. She reached out and touched my forehead. Just touch. And then, lightness. It spread through my chest first, like the warmth of a sunbeam after winter. Then my spine straightened. My jaw unclenched. My thoughts, messy, angry, bitter things, went quiet. Not erasure. Never that. I remembered everything. I just… didn't care anymore. Even my memories shifted. The senator wasn't so awful. He said sweet things. He smiled. He held me like I mattered. Didn't he? I couldn't quite remember what I'd been upset about. Something unpleasant. Something not important now. A breath escaped my lips. Relieved. Content. Automatic.
The priest removed her hand. "Better," she said simply.
I nodded. "Thank you." I meant it. Of course I meant it. I felt better. Lighter. Almost… happy. I didn't question it. That would be impolite. And what's there to question, really? She turned and left, robes whispering across the floor behind her. The door closed. I stood alone again. Perfectly calm. Perfectly composed. Perfectly ready for whatever came next.
The afternoon passed in curated stillness. I lounged in one of the upper salons. An elegant space designed for comfort and performance. Plush cushions. Soft harp music. Filtered sunlight through stained glass. Everything crafted to look divine. The divine property must remain pristine. At six, I dressed for dinner. A pale lavender gown today. Simple. Flowing. Not chosen by me, but laid out by the attendants. It flattered my skin. Hinted at reverence. I dined with the other vessels in the ivory hall. The meal was exquisite, as always. Artfully plated fruits, grilled fish, warm breads with golden butter. We ate like honored guests. Like royalty. No one talked about how it was all paid for with bodies.
I sat in my usual seat, two down from the altar, one across from the newer girls. I smiled when spoken to. Offered polite nods. Gave the correct compliments on the food. Every word warm. Every smile pleasant. Every response empty. A newer young vessel leaned toward another. Her voice too loud. Questions too personal. "Do you ever think about who you were before?" she asked.
Glass creaked in my hand. I'd gripped the stem of my goblet too tightly. A crack spidered near the base, almost imperceptible. I loosened my hold. Set it down with a quiet clink. No one noticed. No one asked for more. They never do.
I am the only one like this. The only one who bears twelve runes. The only one who endured all twelve gods' rites. Twelve temples. Twelve blades. Twelve chants rising above my screams. I don't remember all the faces. But I remember the pain. That is the price of power. The cost of survival. Most vessels don't survive more than three. Five is rare. Eight? Mythical. But twelve? Only me.
At eight o'clock sharp, a novice leaned in and whispered in my ear during dinner. "The Head Vessel requests you."
Of course she does. I finished the last bite of poached pear, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, and rose without a word. I glided from the hall like mist, unbothered, unhurried, untouchable. Marie's office was on the upper floor, just below the god-viewing balcony. Austere. Self-important. Much like the woman herself. They don't call her Madame. Too crude for their standards. She is Head Vessel Marie.
The office door was already open. It always is. A power play. I stepped inside. Closed it behind me. Quietly. Gracefully. She didn't look up. Pretended to write something, as if I wasn't worth noticing yet. I waited. I did not speak. Did not shift. Did not acknowledge the theatrics. Stillness is its own form of defiance. Eventually, she lifted her gaze. Her lips curled, not into a smile, but something sour. Something pickled in resentment. Bitterness made flesh.
"I assume the senator was satisfied," she said. I blinked. Slowly. Said nothing. She huffed a laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course he was. You always perform so well, don't you?"
It isn't a performance. It's who I am. Who I'm paid to be, for that short time. Another pause. Another silence. She leaned back in her chair. The light cut across the deep lines around her mouth. She was maybe forty, but looked sixty. Bitterness carves deeper than time.
"I was once like you," she said. Cold. Sharp. "Beautiful. Perfect. Everyone's favorite. For a while."
I offered no sympathy. No curiosity. No reaction at all. Just silence. Graceful. Deadly. She loathed it.
"You think your skin will never wrinkle. That your body will never fail." Her voice hardened. "But you're not immortal, Anastasia. You're just… delayed. When they're done with you—" She cut herself off. She didn't need to finish the thought. My expression didn't change. I am porcelain. And Marie is vinegar.
"You should be grateful," she spat, the word acidic. "You've been chosen for a divine bid tomorrow. The gods themselves will fight over you. Imagine that."
A beat of silence. She rose. Circled the desk. Stopped just inches away. Too close. Too loud. Too human. I did not step back. I met her gaze. Calm. Regal.
Her jaw tightened. Then, through clenched teeth: "You think you're better than me."
I tilted my head. Barely. A blink. A breath. No answer. I didn't need one.
Her lip curled. "You'll never be one of them. No matter how many scars they carve into you."
I gave a soft, polite nod. The kind that ends conversations. She stormed back behind her desk, fury silent but palpable. "Dismissed," she snapped.
I turned. Glided to the door. Still perfect. Still untouchable. Behind me, Marie simmered. As bitter as her name.
I stood in front of the mirror long after the conversation with Marie had ended. If it could even be called that. The room was silent. Too silent. The kind that creeps under your skin and settles behind your ribs. The kind you feel pressing against your chest. I untied the lavender silk robe, letting it slip from my shoulders. It pooled at my feet like a sigh. I looked at myself. Not with vanity. Not with pride. With stillness. My reflection stared back: tall, poised, spine straight, arms at my sides, chin slightly tilted. The sconces glowed gold, soft and warm, casting my skin in forgiving light. It almost hid the scars. Almost. I reached for the dimmer and turned it up. Just enough. Enough to see them clearly. All of them. The runes.
Some were elegant, flowing like whispers along my thighs and ribs. Others were jagged, crude strokes carved too deep into bone. Each one told a story. A god. A place. A season of pain. My arm, Luxor. Intricate lines looped and spiraled like golden script. My abdomen, Vitaria. I touched the spot. The ghost of agony still curled inside my womb. That one was more than pain. It took something. My back. My spine. My shoulders. Everything but my face and chest. Each piece of me etched. Claimed. Twelve gods. Twelve temples. Twelve sets of blades. No sedation. No mercy. Pain was the medium. My body, the canvas. I am divine by endurance alone.
My fingers traced the delicate swirls down my ribs. Malvor's rune. The God of Mischief. Beautiful. Chaotic. Like smoke and laughter. It had hurt, but not like the others. Not quite. Something about it had felt… still.
The last were Ahyona's. The backs of my hands. My knuckles. Small, sharp carvings. Precision over spectacle. Reserved for the strongest. After that, I stopped aging. They called it a blessing. I called it a pause. My gaze lingered on the scars glowing faintly beneath my skin. Only visible in certain light. They shimmered like constellations. Beautiful. Delicate. Deadly. Pain made perfect. I did not cry. I never cry. I exhaled through my nose. A breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Tomorrow, at eight, they will take me to the main temple. The Pantheon's seat. The crown jewel of this beautiful, hollow city. A place built for worship. For spectacle. A place where gods choose their toys. I am a sacrifice. Sacrifice doesn't always mean a pyre. It means you become currency, and the god decides how you're spent.