The Demon King's blade pierced through my chest, and I felt nothing but relief.
Not because the pain had faded—it hadn't. My body burned as holy magic and dark energy clashed within my breaking form, tearing me apart from the inside. But relief, because it was finally over. Seven years of sacrifice. Seven years of smiling through exhaustion, healing ungrateful nobles who saw me as a tool, and standing beside a man I'd foolishly believed was a hero.
Seven years of being the perfect, empty Saint.
"Selene!" Cassian's voice rang out across the shattered battlefield, golden and clear as a temple bell. The Crown Prince—no, the Hero—stood atop a rise of broken earth, his blessed sword gleaming in the blood-red light of the setting sun. How beautiful he looked in this moment, his gilded armor catching the dying rays, his expression twisted in perfectly practiced anguish.
I'd once thought that expression was real. I'd once wept at the sight of his "pain" when a knight died. I'd once believed his lies about shared burdens.
"Stay back!" I tried to warn him, but blood filled my mouth, hot and metallic. The Demon King Ysolde loomed above me, her crimson eyes cold as winter stone. We'd fought for three days straight across the blasted plains of the Abyssal Rift. My holy barriers had shattered one by one. My healing magic was depleted down to the last flicker. I had nothing left.
This was how Saints died. Alone on the battlefield, drained of everything—hope, magic, life—until only the title remained, soon to be carved into a monument somewhere far from this blood-soaked ground.
But then—
"Selene, move!"
The voice was wrong. Too rough, too desperate. Not Cassian's rehearsed heroism but something raw and real, torn from a throat that wasn't used to shouting.
I turned my head, and my heart stopped for an entirely different reason.
Kaelen Aldric Frost, Duke of the North, the man they called a monster—he was running toward me. Not toward glory or the Demon King, but toward me. His silver-gray eyes, usually as cold as his namesake, were wide with something I'd never seen in them before.
Fear. Not for himself. For me.
"No," I whispered, my voice barely a rasp. "Kaelen, don't—it's a trap—"
He didn't listen. He never listened when it came to protecting people. That's what I'd learned over these seven years of fighting beside him while Cassian took credit for our victories. Beneath his cold exterior and brutal fighting style, beneath the scars and the reputation as the "Northern Beast," the Duke was unbearably, foolishly kind to those he deemed his responsibility.
And somehow, impossibly, I'd become one of those people.
His massive frame—a full head taller than any other knight, broad-shouldered from wielding a greatsword since childhood—slammed into me, throwing me aside just as Ysolde's blade descended again. The movement was impossibly gentle for his size, his arm wrapping around me to shield me from the impact with the ground.
The sound the blade made entering his body was soft. Almost gentle. A whisper of cursed steel through flesh and bone.
"Kaelen!" The scream tore from my throat, raw and shattered.
He staggered but didn't fall. Not yet. The Northern Duke was too stubborn for that. Blood, shockingly bright against the black of his armor, poured from the wound in his chest—a mortal blow that would have killed any other man instantly. Yet his hand still gripped his sword, knuckles white. His unique ice magic flared one final time, not as an attack, but as a barrier. Frost erupted from his boots, crawling across the scorched earth between us and the Demon King, building a wall of jagged, glistening ice in the blink of an eye.
Buying seconds. Buying me seconds we didn't have.
"Kaelen, no, please—" I crawled toward him, my own wounds forgotten. Holy magic sparked weakly in my palms, a faint golden glow against the gathering twilight. I could heal him. I had to heal him. I was the Saint. This was my purpose. To save. To heal.
His hand, cold even through his gauntlet, caught my wrist. "Don't." His voice was fading, each word a labor. "You don't… have enough left. For yourself."
"I don't care!" Tears blurred my vision, hot and shameful. When had I started crying? Saints didn't cry. Saints were supposed to be above such mortal frailties, serene and distant and eternally smiling, even in death. But looking at him, at the blood staining his lips, I couldn't remember how to be that statue anymore.
"Selene." He said my name like a prayer. Like something precious he'd never allowed himself to touch. His scarred hand lifted with obvious effort, fingers cold as a winter morning brushing my cheek, smearing blood across my skin. The touch was so gentle it broke me. "In another life… I would have…"
He didn't finish. His eyes, those fierce silver pools, lost their focus. The strength left his arm, and his hand fell to the bloody earth between us.
Kaelen Aldric Frost, the undefeated sword of the North, the Duke who'd held the monster tide back with nothing but his will and his blade—he died for me. Not for the kingdom. Not for glory. For me.
"No, no, no, no—" I pressed my hands to his chest, ignoring the gaping wound, pouring every last spark of my divine power into his still body. But it wasn't enough. It was never enough. The golden light of my holy magic flickered like a dying candle against the vast, dark reality of death. It healed nothing. It saved nothing. It simply illuminated the pale, still face of the only man who had ever looked at Selene the person, not Selene the saint.
"How touching."
Cassian's voice cut through my grief like a knife. I looked up, tears still streaming down my face. The Crown Prince stood a safe distance away, near his pristine white horse. His sword was still sheathed. He hadn't moved from his vantage point. He'd never intended to move.
"You—" Rage, cold and sharp, gave me a strength I shouldn't have possessed. "You let him die. You just stood there and watched!"
"Did I?" Cassian tilted his head, and I saw it then. Really saw it. The cold calculation in his azure eyes. The way his perfectly sculpted lips curved into something that wasn't quite a smile—it was the expression of a man admiring a completed puzzle. "I suppose I did. But that's what shields are for, aren't they, Saint Selene? To take the blows meant for more important people. To serve their purpose and then… make way."
My blood turned to ice in my veins. "What are you saying?"
"Oh, don't look so betrayed. You're a smart woman, or so the bishops always claimed." He gestured casually at the battlefield around us, at the bodies of knights and mages who'd followed us here, who'd believed in our holy crusade. "Did you really think all this was for the good of humanity? The Demon King had to be sealed, yes. The threat had to be neutralized. But the methods… well, those could be adjusted. The cast of characters, refined."
The pieces, horribly, began to click into place. Seven years. Seven years of him taking credit for my victories, of him standing back while others fought and died, of him somehow always emerging unscathed and glorified from battles that broke the rest of us.
"You've been using me." The words came out flat, dead. "Using all of us."
"Using" is such an ugly word. It implies lack of gratitude." Cassian finally drew his blessed sword—the one I'd personally spent three months enchanting with holy magic, pouring my power into the steel until it glowed with divine light. My light. "I prefer 'maximizing resources.' The truth is, Selene, you were only ever useful as the Saint. As a person? You're rather dull. All that self-sacrifice, all that mercy and forgiveness. It's exhausting to watch. Honestly, I'll be relieved when I don't have to pretend to admire it anymore."
From behind her icy barrier, Ysolde, the Demon King, had stopped attacking. She watched our exchange with narrowed crimson eyes, her expression unreadable.
"So this…" I looked down at Kaelen's body. At the loyal knights scattered across the field like broken toys. "This was all a… a political cleanup? To eliminate threats to your rule?"
"Now you're catching on." Cassian's smile widened, showing perfect white teeth. "I couldn't have the Northern Duke returning home a greater hero than the Crown Prince, could I? A man with that much popular support in a region with that many soldiers? Unthinkable. Nor could I have certain knights spreading tales that didn't center on me. But you, dear Saint, you gave me the perfect opportunity. The final battle. The heroic, tragic sacrifice. When I return—alone, battered, but victorious—I'll tell them how you died sealing the Demon King. How the noble Duke fell protecting you. How I, the Hero, fought with all my might and barely escaped with my life to carry on their legacy." His gaze swept over Kaelen. "He even made it convincingly tragic. I couldn't have choreographed it better myself."
A sound escaped me—something between a sob and a laugh, broken and hollow. "You're insane."
"I'm practical. I'm what this empire needs." He raised my sword, the blade catching the last light. "And now, I'm afraid, it's time for the Saint to fulfill her final role. Don't worry. I'll make sure they build you a beautiful statue in the Grand Cathedral. People will weep before it for centuries."
He took a step forward, his movements graceful and unhurried. He had all the time in the world.
I was too weak to dodge. Too weak to raise a shield. Too weak to do anything but kneel in the blood-soaked dirt, Kaelen's body cooling beside me.
But in that final moment, I didn't think of the kingdom I'd saved or the countless prayers I'd answered. I didn't think of my title or my duty.
I thought of the Northern Duke, who'd always treated me like a person instead of a symbol. Who'd gruffly checked if I'd eaten after long battles, leaving a bowl of stew by my tent without a word. Who'd once wrapped his thick fur cloak around my shoulders during a winter campaign, his fingers accidentally brushing my neck, both of us pretending not to notice the contact. Who'd stood beside me in silence when words were inadequate, his presence alone a bulwark against the world's expectations.
Who'd loved me, I realized with devastating clarity far too late, in his own quiet, steadfast way.
The blade descended, an arc of golden light against the darkening sky.
If I could do it again, I thought, my eyes fixed not on the sword but on Kaelen's peaceful face, I wouldn't save the world. I wouldn't be the Saint.
I would save you first.
Steel found my heart. The world dissolved into pain and then into nothing.
Darkness.
Silence.
And then—
A pressure. A distant, rhythmic sound. A smell that was wrong—not blood and ozone, but lavender and linen.
Thump-thump. Thump-thump.
A heartbeat. My heartbeat.
I opened my eyes to sunlight.