I received a new temple garb when I woke up, to my surprise. Charis arrived at my room with it folded neatly in her arms. It was the same as the last one, monochromatic with dull grays—but the fabric was a bit more smoothened out. The first one I had, I remember, was a bit rough on the edges and had some lint balls on the inner sleeves. No matter how cleanly you wash a piece of clothing, you can’t magically erase such miniscule details in a day. She helped me change, something I’m slowly getting used to, and then took the palace dress away.

“Where are you taking it?”

Charis paused to look at me for a moment before smiling. Then, she wordlessly took it away. It left a bitter taste in my mouth, as I was planning to return it the next time I visited the palace. The dress didn’t belong to me after all. It didn’t take away from the strangeness of the general situation, though. I’m pretty sure I remembered my old dress being handed to one of the paladins when I left the palace, but I guess that part isn’t really much of a concern. They’re all the same, anyway.

If there’s one thing that’s changed the most though…

With a quiet creak, I pull the door to my room open ever so slightly. Peering into the hallway, I narrow my eyes while slowly inhaling a breath. Exhaling, I spread out a thin mist of my divinity—something I can easily dissipate. It’s delicate, like the morning frost that melts at a single touch. Because of its instability, it scatters into nothing the moment it comes into contact with something similar to itself. In this case, my weak thread of divinity gets repelled and easily falls away once it meets another person’s divinity. Just as I’d thought. My divinity bounces off of something and easily disappears, as if it were never there to begin with.

Whether it’s a blessing or a curse, I’m not being confined like I thought I would be. That doesn’t mean I’m free to roam around though, it seems. I’m definitely being watched. If I’m going to be under surveillance, I would honestly prefer that said person would just guard my door upfront. At the very least, it’s better than creepily hiding in an empty room or behind a wall. That’s almost screaming you’re being shady, isn’t it? Do they think I am a fool? Judging by the response I got, it’s not that gray haired paladin. While it’s true all living beings have divinity, if it isn’t a corrupted beast, my divinity can only be disturbed by someone who has dabbled with divinity. Otherwise, using my divinity to find Shivani in crowded places would be fruitless and overwhelming.

Well. More fruitless than it already has been.

The average commoner or noble doesn't tend to get any sort of divinity training, at least that’s how it was back in the era I lived in. It seems like that holds true now in any case, since I don’t think I detected any other sources of divinity back in that ballroom despite the copious amount of nobles that attended. Even in the temple, where divinity training is encouraged, the amount of people actively able to wield divinity were very few. That’s why talents and geniuses like Kaspar were valued and respected.

Oh, that’s right. Since I’m going to be watched for a while, I may as well make use of this situation, right?

Pulling the door to my room open, I spread out a thin mist of my divinity again, but a bit stronger—this time, to figure out their exact location. As my wave of divinity flows out, it blooms through the walls, into the empty rooms, and fills the corridor. A light ‘click’ and ‘clack’ from my boots dully resound in the hallway with a muted noise as I approach. My eyelids grow lax, closing as they fall as I lightly drag my fingertips against the slightly chalky texture of the marbled, stone brick walls. When I was younger, I’d long memorized the old and gray stone bricks. They were cold, and sometimes slippery while occasionally lined with a thin layer of dead moss. Children were often sent to do menial chores to keep the place clean, since Father wouldn’t dare spare any of the temple funds for cleaning. I’m not surprised that the majority of the temple rooms and buildings have been renovated and rebuilt. Nonetheless, even though it looks a little different, it’s evident from the dirt of my fingers to the trembling of my bones from the buildings’ mere silhouette—the temple remains the same.

My hand against the wall halts, and it falls to my side as I near the corner. There hasn’t been any movement, but they must have noticed by now, surely? It’s not the gray haired paladin after all, and I wasn’t being careful with my divinity. One paladin, sure, but I’d start doubting the temple’s credibility if more than two of their best warriors can’t detect the amount of divinity I had been sending out.

“Hey.”

There’s a light rustle of fabric almost in line with a jolt of surprise. I don’t look past the corner though, averting my eyes haphazardly.

“I want to look through the Temple’s Archive. Can you show me where it is?”

A couple quick clacks against the floor as they come out from behind the corner.

“O… Of course, Your Holiness.” It’s the female paladin from yesterday, with her curled hair collected into a ponytail again. Freckles dot her cheeks in her fluster, her paladin’s cloak swaying as she turns in a gesture. “Right this way, Your Holiness.”

Quietly, I trail behind her as she leads me through the uncanny temple hallways.

Those stone walls and columns that collided in round arches seemed impenetrable in my youth. They were so thick, as if meant to silence my locked up cries, lit up only by the electric charges of my Father’s sacrilege. The lighting strikes ended when divine intervention was passed and Surya announced me their daughter. Even so, the damage still crawls up my arms, the vine-like scars twisting against my skin with every step in this damned place. It stings, feeling the ghost of his breath on the back of my neck each time I help another with my divinity. A mere six years was all it took to completely destroy that girl, who left and returned to this kingdom as a corpse.

Casting my gaze up, the musty scent of aged dust stings my nostrils. Such trivialities of the temple’s past architecture were replaced with high, pointed arches that intertwined at the ceiling in ribbed vaults. It was as if it were the skeleton of a great beast, looming, with its chest cavity exposed. The altered material and thickness of the walls no longer muffle my breathing and footsteps. Instead, they now reverberate quietly, bouncing off the windowless walls and rippled narrow ceiling which resembled a monster’s teeth-lined jaw. Candles light the geometric pillars, shadows of the past dancing upon every ridge before dissipating into the fickle twilight.

If Shivani were the sun, perhaps Kaspar was like these candles—whose light emanates from your hands as momentary comfort from the foreboding darkness. Kaspar always burned bright after all, intensely so. Though he didn’t need to, when he came with me on the journey he gave his all for even the smallest things, to the point it began to worry me. He was always the first to attack, reckless, with vigorous bursts of divinity. It was as if he were overcompensating for something, though I did not know what. We seemed to drift further apart the longer the journey went on. Perhaps he was homesick, as despite our closeness, our experiences in the temple were like night and day. If the temple was my damnation…

The paladin takes a turn through the temple corridor, allowing my mind to wander to back then.

“Kaspar,” I called gently. It was a private conversation between the two of us, one we hadn’t had for a long time, since we traveled in a party of five. Privacy was a luxury. Just the night before the final battle, I pulled him aside for a moment. “How are you feeling?”

“As I usually do.”

“Really?”

“Yes,” he firmly responded, the midnight blue of his eyebrows narrowed just a bit. “Why the sudden worry?”

“Listen, I…” I held my arm, fiddling with the fabric of my detached sleeves. “I don’t want you to rush like you always do, ok?”

Kaspar’s eyebrows narrowed as he closed his eyes in a stressed sigh.

“In that case, you need to stay behind and stick to healing.”

“Kaspar, you know I can’t do that.” I remember the scars on my arms throbbing, pinching a piece of the fabric covering them. “It’s the main vessel this time, stronger than anything we’ve fought before. You know that only me and Shivani can kill it for good.”

“Then you can easily leave it to that guy and lay low, I’m sure he can handle the vessel just fine. He’s the ‘Sundrop Knight’ after all.”

“And I am the Saintess!” I stressed. “Listen, we don’t know how many beasts there are going to be. Arcene is going to stay behind, so we won’t have support from Ark. It’s going to be just the four of us again, and I don’t want you to get killed.”

“Then what about you, huh?”

“What do you mean, ‘what about me’?”

Kaspar drew in a disgruntled inhale, turning away from me. His eyebrows furrowed, chaos bunched between them, as he closed his eyes tightly. He brought a hand up to massage the bridge of his nose—an old habit of his that he picked up from Father, while the other was placed on his hip.

“This will be our last battle.”

“I’m aware of that.”

“We are so close to finally getting this over with.”

“Kaspar,” I rasped. “What are you trying to say?”

He hissed out a heavy, almost angry sigh, laced with irritation. Kaspar’s nostrils flared as he opened his eyes to finally look at me clearly. Even then, I could tell. From the way his jaw clenched, how his calloused fingers worn from years of violent weapon use dug into his hip, and how his topaz eyes darkly ignited that he was frustrated with me.

“Don’t you understand, Mayari?” His tone was venomous. I’ve never heard him speak that way before, and it frightened me. “I left the temple to protect you! We are so, so close to finally leaving this dirty and forsakened outside world. Once this battle is over with, the two of us can finally return to the temple, home, as heroes and I will not have you dying on me, now!”

I remember that sudden dread, as if my stomach had dropped, and my heart sunk. By then, I already knew Kaspar had some personal reason for coming along. After all, the journey to purge corruption was supposed to be a job for only ‘The Saintess’ and the ‘Sundrop Knight’. Despite that, Kaspar had traveled and fought with us from the very beginning. I never thought anything of it, because Kaspar has always looked out for and comforted me. What left me with nagging guilt was that he thought I would come back to the temple with him after our journey was over. I couldn’t tell him, not then, that I would never go back. How could I tell him that I wanted to live in this ‘dirty’ outside world he hated, and that I would part ways with him and go with Shivani?

“Kaspar, I… I have no intention of dying!”

“Really, Mayari? I don’t know anymore! You’ve changed!” He threw his arm in a gesture as he took a step closer. “It was fine in the beginning when you still kept to the back for support while I took the front, but these days you’re always charging ahead straight into danger and actually fighting! You’ve let this ‘Saintess’ thing get to your head, and it’s made you foolish.”

He forced a shaken exhale through his teeth. “Don’t you remember when we fought that other fragment? When you got your shoulder hit with corruption, and you were out for a week constantly writhing in pain, even as you slept? I get you have this divine healing or whatever, but dammit Mayari, just because you’re God’s Daughter doesn’t mean you’re a god, yourself!”

His harsh words stung my eyes, flinching as guilt and doubt crept into my chest. In the beginning, I was like a doll simply doing what I’d always been told. But, by the time the final battle with Corruption arrived, I truly grew into my role. Villagers united from being abandoned in the kingdom’s outskirts, children laughing and making the most of their lives even in the darkest of days—it was a reminder of what I wanted to protect. However, was that only arrogance? In my love for humanity, was I worrying the others and neglecting myself? I didn’t know, not then, and not even now.

Kaspar sighed, combing his hand through the midnight strands of his hair. “Just stop—stop going into places where I can’t be there to protect you.”

That tense silence between us grew thicker, like crystalized honey. Deep lines of frustration were ingrained on his face. It was as if he were waiting for my changed answer, and for just a split second, he reminded me of Father, though I did not know why. That thought scared me. I knew well after all—that Kaspar was so different from him. But no matter how much my heart wavered, my decision remained the same. So in a quiet, yet firm tone, I declared it to him—the man I had simultaneously envied and looked up to as an elder brother, who looked like such a fragile child at that moment.

“... I have to fight, Kaspar. Not just because it’s my duty, but because I want to.”

“... fine. Whatever. Have it your way then, and I’ll have it mine.”

His tone was cold, and that made my heart ache. We had stepped away for so long, the others seemed to rally together to check up on us from beyond the bushes and trees. Kaspar left, not turning to look at me once, and pushed past them. I couldn’t look at them, afraid I might have burst into tears then and there. Heavy, clinking footsteps upon the forest floor comforted my ears, and iron greaves had taken my hand into theirs. It was something so simple, yet it was all it took for me to crumble in their arms.

Kaspar held on to his word.

“We’re here, Your Holiness.”

I lift my gaze up to the large dark wood doors barring this room’s entrance. Tentatively, I held out a hand and placed my palm against the hardwood, looking up at the gate. It loomed over me, and at that moment, something inside me stirred—a doubt that’s been gnawing at my chest, gradually, in bits and pieces. A mere shadow cast over my heart, one that I refused to acknowledge.

“When I enter, I want to be alone.”

“Understood, Your Holiness.”

Swallowing the static, I pushed the archive’s door, heavy and solid. Dust filled my nostrils and I breathed out a cough. There is a difference between a library and an archive—the temple having both. While the library in my memories is bigger, lit up with large windows and corroded brass chandeliers, the archive is much different. A library is meant as a public means of entertainment and knowledge. Those who resided in the temple had little to do with themselves, so the children had the tendency to use it as a designated hang out. However, the temple’s archive is located deeper within the temple—a small, dark, and rarely touched room. The walls are thick, and there isn’t any natural light.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Feeling the wall in the darkness, the smooth surface of a candle lamp clinks against my fingers. Unhooking it from the wall, I use the light from the doorway to find the candle. It’s a long and narrow one, encased in a glass cylinder with the mouth at the top. When I was younger, you’d usually just use another candle or light source of sorts, but I don’t really see one. It’s still daytime as well, so walking down the hallway to find one is unlikely. Tilting my head, it’s not that I really need one I guess—it’d just be a bit difficult.

Staring intently, I began inhaling softly. Forcing my blood to flow quicker, I felt my skin warm. My fingertips start to tingle, and the hairs on my skin begin to stand up. Nevertheless, I don’t tear my eyes away from the wick of the candle. I am a bit nervous, but I can’t let it get to me. Just focus on the wick, imagining the putrid smell of burnt linen and thread. Slowly, I pour out my divinity in a drawn out exhale—just barely. Don’t let it spread, focus on one, tiny point. My efforts are painstakingly rewarded when I catch the frayed end of the wick turn a dark reddish-brown, a small speck glowing orange, before the wick is finally enveloped in flame. It takes only a second—a sigh of relief, blinking away—and the candle head has erupted with an angry, smoky blaze. Dry, putrid air scratches up in my throat and nostrils as a sudden strike of light flashes in my vision, flickering between an ominous electric blue and bright red. Hairs on my skin stand up, smoke stinging my wide eyes, and my hand flinches away on impulse—it’s all consuming, the loud shattering of glass and the growing expanse of fire. It crawls upon the floor, a roaring flame, eating up what’s left of the claustrophobic room’s oxygen, all while using the aged dust like dispersed spores as fuel for its pillaging.

“Your Holiness!”

Streaky shadows on the wall scatter aimlessly like a disturbed pile of ants, and the light is snuffed out instantly. The residue of some sort of pressure brushes past my cheeks, and it feels like the air’s been knocked out of me as I topple to the floor along with another’s heavy weight. It happened so quickly—the burst of light coming and going, as if it were never there. But I saw it, didn’t I? Electric blue, like lightning, hazy and suffocating. My fingers feel cold, stiff as they tremble like they haven’t in years as the bitterness spreads into the cavern of my chest. How easily my vision blurs, the remnants of scars pulsing like the day they were carved into my arms.

“Fa…”

I suck in a raspy gasp, inhaling more of that thick smokiness.

“Father…!”

“Your Holiness, you must leave this room—this smoke and dust isn’t good for you.”

A large hand, just barely against my clothed arm, and I push them away.

“No! Just—Just leave me be!”

I can’t leave—no—not until I find it—proof of their existence. My shaken vision slowly focuses in the doorway’s light, her silhouette overtaking it. The female paladin, with an unreadable expression, cast in darkness. Outlined by light, the strands of her hair are unnaturally illuminated, a ghostly platinum blonde. A pale, shadowed hand is extended, sickly pure white sleeves of gilded trims.

“But, Your Holiness—“

“I said leave!”

The gloved hand flinches, fingers gradually clenching into a retracted fist as the uniformed arm shrivels back against her full body.

“… As you wish, Your Holiness.”

A shuffle of fabric, slow, almost hesitant. A dull sound of heels dragging against the cold floor, quiet clacks and there’s a shadow in the doorway now. It casts over me, looming, the long and loose strands of my hair hanging beside my vision as I lock my blurred gaze onto the dust covered ground. A moment. Two.

“I will keep the door open for Your Holiness, as the light has…” Her voice trails off. “If Your Holiness requires my service, I will be a little ways down the hallway—to give Your Holiness privacy. Excuse me.”

The shadow upon me lingers, just a bit longer, before disappearing behind the doorway, accompanied by light, muted footsteps. Something scratches in my throat, dry and bitter, and I cough. An emptiness blooms inside my chest, limbs heavy as if weighted. I don’t know how long it was—me, collapsed against that old floor. The tremble of my limbs stops, and that urgency returns bit by bit, and with it my resolve.

“… I need to find it.”

Pulling my knees closer, I steady myself, standing back up and making my way toward the shelves, practically falling against it. They’re plunged in darkness, so feeling for them is all I can do. The thickness of old wood is scratchy between my fingers, and just a bit further in are books. Cured leather encasings, they’re uneven and roughly textured like lizard skin. Brushing against the spine leaves multiple layers of dust coating my fingertips. There’s a lot of them, tightly packed against one another.

But these aren’t what I’m looking for.

Dipping my fingers up to the compressed pages, they’re fine and thin—paper. The texts in this section may be old enough to be covered in dust, but they’re not that old. Paper was much too fragile, so easy to destroy back in my era. Paladins were recklessly practicing and training their divinity, divinity that was meant to be destructive. Back when there was chaos and calamity brewing because of Corruption, the practice of divinity was needed much more, so damage was expected. Forests were infested with beasts, so wood was also difficult to come by. These aren’t the documents from my era.

Bending my knees, I felt the pages of the books on a lower shelf. Thicker pages, but cut short and thick. They’re more uneven, too, but almost soft in texture than sharp. Cloth? Some kind of mix between cotton and fiber? That would make more sense. The Ouranos Kingdom focused more on crops than livestock. Livestock drew more attention from corrupted beasts, after all, and was more expensive to raise and protect—a luxury those outside the capital could not have.

Tentatively, I pulled one of the books forward, walking towards the light from the doorway. Rubbing the burnt label with my thumb, I squinted at the numeral engravings. An M, a C…

I frown, furrowing my eyebrows. Still too late. Rubbing the dust off my fingers against the fabric of my skirt, I turn around back into the shadows. Feeling for its spot on the lower shelf, the emptiness welcomes it back. If the other ones were like it, that means the years are engraved into the cover, right? I don’t necessarily need the light then. Taking the book next to it, I feel for the depression the burn mark left behind, tracing the dust-covered numbers with my fingertips. It’s a longer stretch of them—another M, another C…

I pause. There’s a new book every decade.

Shoving it back into the bookcase, I stop to think. Picking along the edge of the shelf, there has to be around twenty books on each. Two hundred years for each level? If the higher shelves are of the most recent centuries then the ones closer to the bottom have to be the older documents. Standing up on my toes, I feel deep inside the top shelf, where it’s empty aside from a handful of books without a single layer of dust in them. There isn’t enough—there’s still another two hundred years left.

Turning my head, I look to the other side of the room. Is there another shelf there?

Taking a step, I flinch and grab onto the side of the bookshelf as my foot slides against the floor. The old storage unit shakes with my abrupt action, and the few books on the top shelf fall loose onto the floor with loud tumbles. Clinging onto the shelf, I press my side into it for support, the wood dipping into my side. The place where it pokes into my ribs begins to ache and I wince.

“Damn…”

I slide down onto the floor with an irritated sigh. Glancing at the sole of my boots, I can just vaguely see the swish marks left behind in the dust on the floor. I get that no one really enters the archive, but couldn’t they keep this place better?

Turning my head back over, my eyes have adjusted to the dark slightly. The outlines of the top books are barely visible on the floor, toppled over along with…

Pressing my lips together, I crawl over. Reaching out to it, I turn it back from its side. It’s a box? Must have fallen when I slipped. It’s a box made of a material I’ve never seen before. Sturdy, yet also flimsy, as if it were some kind of durable paper. I slowly scoot myself over to the light, taking the box with me, where I examine the insides. There’s old and dried parchment of stiff texture, tied together in some sort of new twine as if they were to be a book that never got properly bound. It’d be a short read, too—the cover paper, blank, with only a few pages following it.

Rubbing my fingers against the paper, it’s weird. It almost reminds me of vellum. Thinking about it, vellum is probably easier to come by now, than it was back then. Animal hides are expensive—or at least, they were.

Glancing at the bottom of the box, under the strange bunch of documents though, is a large and old book. A tattered cover, definitely gone through its fair share of years with all of the stains and creases. But what makes my body go cold are the numbers, nearly faded, on that worn cover.

“… What?”

It’s the century I was born in.

Throwing the poorly pieced together documents aside roughly, I grab ahold of the book left within the box, eagerly placing it onto the floor right into the light. Any sort of suspicion or doubt doesn’t even cross my mind. This is it. All of a sudden, my body feels hot, pumping with adrenaline. Carefully, I place a finger gently under the cover, and turn the page. Another, and another—before I know it, I’m flipping them incessantly. The handwritten text is faded, but still legible, sorting the members of the temple by family name and title. Orphans and commoners are first, those without either. Next are nobles in order of rank who joined—quite a lot of them. Both of their sections take up most of the book, with how many came and left in those hundred years alone.

But Kaspar wouldn’t be any of those—because he became a Paladin. So he would be closer to the end, among the higher ranked members of the congregation—sharing the Ka Surya name.

Kaspar ka Surya. Kaspar ka Surya. It repeats in my mind, echoing desperately.

“He doesn’t mean it, you know.”

“How do you know that?”

“He’s nice to me, isn’t he? I’m his best pupil, after all. Trust me, you just need to work hard, and His Holiness will surely forgive you!”

We used to be so young. Even though he was older than me, he didn't seem to understand it—Father’s cruelty. Just like the others, he never protested or fought for my sake, but he was there—always consoling and comforting me afterwards, picking up the pieces and putting whatever was left together. He deserved it—to be known as a hero.

I make it to the ‘K’ section of first names.

“Kaspar—“ Midnight blue charges forth, a battle cry. “—what are you doing?!”

It was going so well. Zen and Kaspar held up the beasts—me and Shivani pouring all of our divinity out for the final attack. The sudden spark of lightning and the crackle of thunder distracted me for just a single moment, along with Zen calling Kaspar back—midnight blue dashing ahead, reckless as he leapt for Corruption—

And then blood, with Kaspar’s left arm across the wasteland—his body, thrown only a little ways away.

“Kaspar!”

Shivani stopped for a moment—moving their hands to sign something, but I was already gone. I crouched down, raising my hands to charge my divinity forth—biting my lip through the resounding pain that shook throughout my body—there was so much blood—

“—Kaspar you need to stay with me, stay with me—!“

The clinking of metal rushing closer, so I instinctively turned—and then I saw it—

My legs moved, pushed up on their own—a concentrated beam of corruption unleashed—Shivani, behind—!

There’s no name.

There is no Kaspar ka Surya.

This is a mistake. It’s quiet. Too quiet, dead.

“Oh,” it comes out of me, like spilled ink, “I’m so stupid. He’d be listed with the Popes at the end.”

I didn’t notice it—I didn’t. My voice wasn’t weak. It didn’t crack. My fingers against the paper are stable, and they will keep turning the page.

It’s going to be there.

It will be there.

“There are no records of The Saintess’ comrades at all.”

So why.

“There are no records of The Saintess’ comrades at all.”

Why am I remembering all this now?

“There are no records of The Saintess’ comrades at all.”

I turn the page—scanning the only name written—

“There are no records of —”

Casimir ka Surya.

The pages fall apart against the wall’s impact, ripping as it collides with the dusted floor, like the cremated ashes of a corpse. I throw the back of my head back against the old stone wall, and it throbs, my hands limp beside me.

“… ha.” It bubbles up, twisted. I don’t even recognize it as my voice.

“Hahahahaha.”

My eyes sting, wide, and the world blurs, morphing together like some mirage. Is that what this is? A mirage? An illusion? My face feels hot, and an intense pressure grows with an ache somewhere in my nose. I get it. I get it now—that foreboding feeling, that feeling that’s been gorging itself in my stomach and twisting in my gut this whole time. Like something tore my chest back open again and has been slowly splashing vodka—such a stinging, burning sensation—into my freshly gouged out rib cage where my heart should’ve been—but there’s nothing. There was nothing to begin with.

I was in denial, but I knew didn’t I?

That there wouldn’t be anything.

I hunch forward, slow and achy, like rusted cogs of a wound up clock struggling to perform. My eyes turn to the doorway, to a thin pile of old parchment with a black cover page.

Why was that paired with this decrepit record?

Wobbly, I slide up the wall behind me. A step. Two. I feel like a corrupted beast, something dead, yet alive—something that shouldn’t be alive. My joints feel locked into place, trudging my heavy legs stiffly forward. The papers—vellum—are between my feet and I stare down at them.

What are you?

I pick at the twine. Scratching it. Clawing at it. Pulling my fingers through it until it cuts off the feeling—the circulation—and it rips. The twine rips, fragmented on the floor like trash. A useless cover page falls, revealing careful, patient, calligraphy.

Oh.

I see.

I know this writing. I know this writing very well—smooth on the textured vellum, made with a finely crafted, prized and precious pen—glass, was it? Dipped into expensive Ambros Ink, bought with funds that should’ve been for the unfortunate. I think I can still smell it—the concentrated, putrid, rotted stench of the exotic fruits used to make it. My eyes scan the page, slow, oh so very slow, taking in every detail.

The sewer rat stopped crying at some point. She’s stopped speaking at all. It’s a shame, really. But that only means it has been a success then, hasn’t it? At first, I didn’t think this sort of method was possible. Divinity is privy to each individual, after all, flowing and replenishing like one’s blood. It has always been used offensively, and not to mention paired with flashy visuals. But why was healing so different, leaving nothing behind? The manipulation of divinity is simple, excreting it from your own being. To the chosen, it’s as easy as breathing. Healing is no exception, yet it is as if you are sharing your divinity. Would this not be the same as transferring your own flesh and blood? This got me thinking.

If you can give divinity to another, what happens when you reverse the process: forcefully taking it, instead?

I didn’t need to read the rest. I really didn’t.

Why would I need to, when I know of it most?

I need not read more, letting the scraps fall dully onto the cold ground. Treating it like a schoolgirl’s diary entry, it was even signed at the bottom of every entry. I step out the door, the blotted signature seen from the corner of my eye, leaving the discarded papers behind. My feet seem to move automatically, a simple walk through the corridor. I thought, when I first laid my eyes upon that cursive writing, I’d spiral into a panic again.

But my mind is strangely clear. Much, much too clear,

You know, I thought it was strange. Divinity is individual. Even if I send out a thin film to locate another wielder of divinity, there is no actual exchange. Divinity does not combine with another’s. Oil and water do not mix, after all. But the Paladin, she snuffed it out—the fire I made. Divinity can clash against each other. But that’s not what she did. She didn’t put the fire out by attacking the divinity I released.

She mixed her divinity with mine, and nullified the flame by taking back her own. The paladin controlled my divinity by absorbing it with hers, leaving nothing visual behind. You could not do that back in my era—such a thing wasn’t possible. Divinity exchanges like that just isn’t possible—

Unless you heal. Unless you give. Unless you take.

A stick drags into the dry dirt, engraving careful words almost hidden by night.

[Healing hurts... doesn’t it?]

It did. By god, it did. My little hands would tremble, every cell in my body recoiling with tremors, all whilst recalling the numbing, fluctuating static. Each time I’d heal, all I could remember was the pain—as if my blood was flowing backwards, clotting up in my veins but still forced to move. What kind of Saintess can’t even heal?

My legs burn, and I realize I’ve been running. Where? I don’t know, but my heart is beating so loudly in my chest and my mind just won’t stop.

Those vellum records—though old, they were clean. Pristine. Not a single bit of dust on them. That box, too—it’s an invention, a creation of this era, isn’t it?

A thousand years is a long time. It’s a long time to develop the Ouranos Kingdom’s divine power. How many people looked at those records? In these one thousand years, how many people looked at those records—those disgusting records left behind by Casamir ka Surya?

Left behind by Father.

My skin feels hot, and my head is light—airy, even. Everything is clear, and my mind feels sharp.

They were so clean, preserved so well! Did they think of him as a genius? Did they hail Father as a genius for his discovery, for making a breakthrough in the use of divinity? After I—a child—was sent away to fight a divine war, did he live in deep seeded comfort? Did he drown himself in respect, recognition, luxury?

Something is rotting in my stomach, decayed and spoiled, twisting up fumes that choke the oxygen in my throat. Dirty. So, so, so dirty. It stings my eyes, lingering behind just to remind me of the filth that lives on inside me—the nauseating filth that makes up half of my being.

How much? How much of this era, this modern era’s divinity, was based off of my suffering?!

The courtyard. Is the courtyard where I am now? I laugh. I admit it, I laugh—a cruel, sardonic laugh.

“—the two of us can finally return to the temple, home, as heroes—“

“There are no records of The Saintess’ comrades at all.”

The Saintess’ Torturer became a renowned genius, while the Saintess’ Party was forgotten.

I’m sick.

Someone bumps into me—or rather, I suppose I bump into someone. Firm, yet careful hands steady my shoulders, preventing my stumble.

“Your Holiness? What are…”

I gaze up into green, that almost looked golden under the sun’s piercing light.

“Your Highness—no. Iliazo—“

I grip onto the cotton fabric of his shirt.

“Take me away. Please. I can’t stand it here any longer.”

My eyes burn, and I can’t read his face.

“This place makes me sick.”