Even after all the fanfare, the awe-filled stares, the bowing and reverence, I found myself sprawled across the impossibly soft bed like a confused sack of potatoes.
The sheets were silky smooth. The canopy above me shimmered with gold-threaded embroidery, depicting halos, wings, and divine radiance. A soft floral scent lingered in the air—lavender, maybe, and something sweeter I couldn't name. Everything screamed luxury, a life too far removed from the one I had known.
But my mind was too full to appreciate any of it.
The three attendants remained in the room, moving with a quiet rhythm that suggested my very breathing dictated their pace.
One stood by the door, as still as a silent sentinel.
Another was organizing the drawers near the wardrobe, even though I hadn't touched anything inside.
The third was gently polishing the marble floor. The same floor that sparkled with such perfection it could've served as a mirror.
I lay there, eyes unfocused, letting the silence wrap around me like a too-heavy cloak. My thoughts clawed at the edges of understanding.
'Saint…' I still couldn't say it out loud without cringing.
Eventually, I sat up, fingers threading through strands of hair far too soft to feel real. The weight of it, the way it glistened under the light—like spun silver and moonlight—still startled me.
"Um…" I began, voice barely above a whisper. "This is the Holy Empire, right?"
All three attendants paused at once, freezing mid-task as if I had just given a divine command.
The one at the door turned with a gentle smile. "Yes, Young Saint. This is the Holy Empire of Lux."
Lux.
I nodded slowly, the word settling into my mind like a stone dropped into deep water.
'So it is a theocracy…'
"Then the ruler… is it a pope?" I tried to sound casual.
The attendant at the wardrobe bowed slightly. "The current sovereign is His Holiness, Pope Elvarion Septimus."
My heart slammed against my ribs.
Elvarion Septimus.
It echoed in my mind like a death knell.
That name—there was no mistaking it.
Not just a name. The name.
The supreme pontiff from a novel I had read years ago, tucked under blankets in the dim light of a summer evening. A powerful figure in the background of a story full of war, divine calamities, and the rise of a destined hero.
The Holy Empire of Lux.
The Divine Saint.
The Blessing that covered the capital.
The miracle on the steps, the fainting, the reverence… the way people had looked at me.
It all clicked. Piece after piece slamming into place.
This was the world of Evernight Ashes—the dark fantasy novel I had devoured and obsessed over.
A world of divine wars, crumbling faith, and prophecies written in blood.
And me?
My name—Yesha—the Saint?
I remembered him now.
He wasn't the hero. He wasn't the villain. Not even the wise mentor.
He was the spark.
A side character meant to die young, pure, and tragically—his death a symbol, a necessary loss to unify the continent under holy purpose. His martyrdom would ignite the young hero's heart and send him marching toward fate.
A domino.
The first to fall.
And I was him.
My body went cold.
I slowly lay back down, staring at the golden threads overhead as my thoughts spiraled like smoke in a storm.
'No way… no way no way no way—'
The floor attendant looked up, concern pinching her brow. "Young Saint? Are you unwell? Shall I summon a priest?"
I swallowed hard and shook my head, forcing a smile. "No. I'm okay. Just… dizzy."
She bowed low and returned to her task, but I could feel her eyes flickering toward me now and then, watching.
But I wasn't okay.
Not even close.
Because this wasn't just some new world.
It was that world.
And I wasn't just anyone.
I was a sacrifice dressed in white.
My fists clenched under the blanket.
'I'm not going to die for someone else's story.'
I didn't know how I would survive. I didn't know what it would cost. But if there was one thing I had learned in my past life—it was that nothing changed unless someone forced it to.
I looked out the tall window, where sunlight kissed the alabaster spires of the Holy City.
They all thought I was their Saint.
Let them.
But I would be the living Saint.
No matter what this world had written for me.
---
A week passed.
Softly, like snow falling on feathered wings.
Time in the palace slipped by with surreal gentleness—wrapped in incense, silken robes, and whispered blessings that clung to the air like perfume. My every need was anticipated, my every movement observed. I had my own retinue now. Attendants followed me down corridors, recorded my meals, documented my daily schedule as though the world might crack if I skipped a prayer.
If I didn't know better, I would've believed I was divine.
Even the rulers of kingdoms knelt before the Saint.
At first, it was suffocating.
Now… it was routine.
I no longer got lost in the endless wings of the palace. I knew which corridor led to the sunrise balcony, where the painted sky spilled light across golden tiles. I memorized the best hours to avoid formal processions. I learned how to stand still during sermons without fainting.
And, most unexpectedly…
I grew close to him.
His Holiness, Pope Elvarion Septimus.
The supposed living conduit of the divine.
To the world, he was a pillar of sanctity.
To me, he was… well, the old man who kept sneaking me sweet fig rolls behind the choir's back.
He wasn't what I expected.
He laughed more than a holy man should. Sometimes, he fell asleep while I was mid-sentence. He had this habit of gripping my shoulder with his bony fingers and saying, "A Saint's smile is a heavier crown than a king's," before promptly forgetting his own advice and napping in the garden.
I didn't trust him.
Not fully.
But I liked him more than I wanted to admit.
Still, I never forgot who he was. Or who I was supposed to become.
The Cardinals, Archbishops, and senior clergy remained cautious around me, as if I might vanish in a beam of light at any moment. But I learned their rhythms. Learned how to bow just low enough. How to speak softly but clearly. How to bless with two fingers and tilt my head just enough to seem ethereal.
I became the Saint they expected.
And I hated how easy it became.
Sometimes, I'd catch my own reflection in the polished glass walls—draped in pale robes, silver-white hair cascading like threads of moonlight, eyes half-lidded in holy serenity.
I looked… untouchable.
Unreal.
'A porcelain doll on an altar,' I thought once.
And the thought stuck.
Because that's all I was.
A beautiful vessel.
An offering.
---
Nights were hardest.
When the silence returned and I was left alone beneath the canopy, I would lie awake and think of him.
The hero.
The boy chosen by prophecy. The one the world would bend around. The one who would arrive just too late to save the Saint.
He wasn't here yet.
But I knew he would be.
The novel called it the Awakening Arc—a year from now. Maybe less. It was the turning point.
The Saint, me, would be sent to a distant sanctuary on a ceremonial journey.
But it would be a trap.
Demons cloaked in shadows and flame would ambush us.
The knights, though elite, would fall.
And I would die.
No body recovered.
No final words.
Just loss.
An emotional crescendo designed to shake the world into motion.
The boy would arrive moments later—his heart shattered, his fury ignited—and the hero's path would begin.
My death was a chapter heading.
A plot device.
I wasn't even me.
I was a message.
'This is what happens when you wait too long.'
I pressed a hand to my chest, feeling the slow, steady thump beneath my skin.
Alive.
Not a symbol.
Not yet.
And I wouldn't let myself become one.
"I won't die," I whispered.
Not for the world.
Not for prophecy.
Not for anyone.
If the world wanted its tragedy, it could write a different one.
Mine would be a story where the Saint lived.
Where he fought back.
Where he changed everything.
Even fate.
Even the script carved into the stars.