The first thing i notice when i wake up is the silence.
Not the heavy, judging silence of the cathedral. Not the breathless, watching silence of the banquet. Just… empty silence. The kind that comes after the storm has passed and you're left alone in the wreckage.
My mouth is dry. Tastes like old wine and older regrets. My body is a single, comprehensive ache. Not the sharp, clean pain of a blade or a burn. This is a deeper hurt. A soul-deep exhaustion from wearing a mask for too long. From pretending to be a miracle when i feel like a monster.
i roll over. The silk sheets are cool against my skin. Too cool. They feel alien. Everything in this room, this life, feels borrowed.
The memory of last night plays in my head. A loop. The prince's face. The ice in his eyes. The way his hand felt on my wrist.
Cold. Clinical. Like he was touching a weapon, not a girl. Like he was disarming a bomb.
He was afraid. Not of me. Of what i made him feel.
The whispers in my head stir. The system. My parasite. My shadow-mother. She sounds pleased with me. Like a handler praising a dog that just performed a new trick.
…a fine performance, my child… she purrs, her voice a poison-sweet drip in the back of my mind. …you made the iron prince bend. you made the fortress crack…
A new notification burns behind my eyes. Not a screen. Just… knowledge. Forced into me.
[SIN POINTS AWARDED: +50]
REASON: Successful psychological manipulation of a key target post-objective completion.
The little jolt of pleasure comes. The warm rush. The dopamine hit. But it's weaker this time. It doesn't feel like a victory. It feels… hollow. Like eating sugar when you're starving. A quick rush, then nothing.
i don't feel stronger. i just feel dirtier.
i sit up, my head pounding. i touch my own lips. They still feel cold. Numb. From her kiss. The system's kiss. The Kiss of the Void. A weapon i haven't even used yet. A promise of a violation i'm supposed to inflict on someone else.
i think of Azeriel. The fire. The fury. The kiss that never happened. The raw, terrifying want in his eyes. That felt real. More real than any of this political maneuvering.
i'd rather face a god's fire than a prince's contempt. At least the fire is honest.
The system doesn't like that thought. The air in the room grows cold again. The sweet, rotting-flower smell is back. Faint, but there. A reminder. i'm always watching.
…do not think of the broken soldier, my little sinner… she whispers, her voice laced with a cold jealousy. …he is a chain. a tool. but he is not the game. the game is here. now…
A new mission triggers. It unspools in my mind like a black ribbon.
NEW OBJECTIVE: The Gilded Cage
TARGET: The Saintess, Elara. Fiancée of the Crown Prince. Heart of the Empire's faith.
MISSION: The saint is a symbol of purity. A lie told to the masses. Your task is to fracture that lie. Plant a seed of doubt. Twist the golden girl until she breaks.
My stomach turns. This is different. Corrupting an angel who tried to kill me, a prince who despises me… that's a fight. That's war.
But this… this is just cruelty.
…all love is a cage, my dear… the system hums. …and her cage is the prettiest of all. you must show her the key…
A sub-quest appears. A whisper of a suggestion.
Optional: Observe her in her sanctuary. Find her private weakness. Every saint has a secret sin. Find hers.
The assassin in me, the cold, practical part, takes over. It shoves the disgust and the pity down into a box and locks it. This isn't about cruelty. It's about survival. Elara is the lynchpin. She is the foundation of Kaelan's political power, of his public image. To break him, i have to break her first. Or break them apart.
It's a mission. Nothing more.
i get out of bed. The girl in the mirror looks pale. Haunted. There are dark circles under her too-big eyes. She looks like a doll that's been left out in the rain.
i ignore her.
i call for a servant. A different one this time. A quiet, older woman who knows how to keep her eyes down.
"Where does the Saintess Elara pray in the mornings?" i ask, my voice flat.
The woman flinches at the name. Like i've said something blasphemous. "The… the Saintess is in the Solarium Chapel, my lady. In the west garden. She… she values her privacy."
"I'm sure she does," i say.
Alone. Perfect.
i prepare. It's a ritual. The same one i used to do before a kill. But different. Instead of checking my blades, i check my weapons.
The red dress from last night is gone. Good. i choose something simple. A dark green gown. Plain. Understated. The dress of a mourner. Not a seductress. Let her think i'm broken. Let her think i'm no threat.
My hand. i unwrap the bandages. The skin is still red. Angry. But the blisters are gone. The healing is… unnatural. Too fast. The feather is just a warm weight in my palm now. A constant, low-grade fever. i wrap it again in clean linen. My secret. My chain.
My face. i look in the mirror. The paint from last night is gone. i look… young. Frightened.
i lean closer. i focus on my lips. The place the shadow-mother kissed me. i can feel it. The Kiss of the Void. A faint, cold tingling. A hum of dark power.
i don't need paint. My lips are already a weapon.
The walk to the west garden is long. The manor is quiet. The nobles have all gone home, their bellies full of lies and roast boar. They're all whispering about me. The miracle girl. The demon bride. The whore of prophecy who walked through fire.
Let them whisper.
The garden is beautiful. Obscenely so. Roses of every color climb the stone walls. The air is warm, sweet. Sunlight filters through the leaves, making dappled patterns on the stone path. It's a place of peace. A place of healing.
It makes my teeth ache.
The chapel is at the center of the garden. It's not a grand cathedral. It's a small, open-air sanctuary made of white marble and glass. Sunlight streams in, making the whole place glow.
She's there.
On her knees before a simple stone altar.
The Saintess, Elara.
She's even more beautiful up close. Her hair is the color of spun gold, cascading down her back in a perfect, shimmering wave. Her dress is simple white linen. She's barefoot. Her face, turned up toward the sky, is a study in serene, beatific grace.
She is everything i am not.
Clean. Pure. Loved.
And i hate her.
i hate her with a sudden, violent intensity that takes my breath away. i hate her for her goodness. i hate her for her simplicity. i hate her because she is the cage Kaelan has built for himself, and i am the monster he keeps locked outside.
She must have heard me. Or felt me. Her eyes open. They are the color of a summer sky. Clear. Blue. No shadows. No secrets.
She turns. And she sees me.
The serenity on her face doesn't falter. But her eyes… her eyes widen. Just a fraction. She sees the dirty white dress from the pyre, the smudges of ash i didn't bother to wash off. She sees the bandages on my hand. She sees the monster standing in her sanctuary.
She gets to her feet. Graceful. Poised. A queen in a pauper's dress.
"Lady Eve," she says. Her voice is like wind chimes. Soft. Musical. "I was praying for you."
My lips curl into a smile. It's a nasty, ugly thing. All teeth and venom.
i didn't come here to make peace.
i came to see if saints can bleed.