The next few weeks after the Purification Ritual became a blur of pain—sleepless nights and constant hunger bleeding together until Sairael could no longer tell one day from the next. Within the first three weeks of training, he was ordered to repeat the purification four more times. And as if that were not enough, he was expected to keep pace with the nine other Saints-in-Training, completing every task assigned to the group as though his body had not already been stripped raw.
The days were filled with holy scripture readings, prayer meditations, copying ancient texts until his fingers cramped, and fasting that lasted long enough to make the world tilt. Some nights, he was summoned again for purification, led through silent corridors as if it were simply another lesson. He had been made to believe this was normal—that all candidates endured the same schedule. He didn’t realize the truth: the extra purifications were only for him, and even the daily workload was quietly doubled, each demand added to tighten the noose around his mind.
The Head Priest did not want Sairael merely obedient—he wanted him emptied. Broken down until nothing remained but a compliant shell, exhausted to the edge of madness. Other candidates faced their own variations of harsh training, and a few had already dropped out, unable to endure what they called “unfair treatment.” But none of them were being carved apart the way Sairael was.
The only one granted anything resembling gentleness was the Princess. She received the basic “tests” and ceremonial instruction, her status shielding her from the worst of the Church’s methods. She knew the Church had already decided who the true Saint would be; she remained only to preserve royal dignity before witnesses. Even so, she carried her own burden—an unwanted shadow that followed her too closely, always seeking to approach, always trying to wedge itself into her life.
Sairael, finally granted a rare moment to breathe, wandered the garden paths with his body aching and his head buzzing with hunger. His frame had grown thinner than the others, small and delicate even by the standards of Ger—made worse by meals reduced to “discipline,” and fasting assigned as “devotion.” He found it harder, and harder still, to remember details from his first life. To be frank, the more time that passed, the more he began to forget. It felt as though that other life had been nothing more than a fever-dream, and even the memory of dying—how real it had been—blurred with every spiritual bath.
Only that strange, unnamed shimmer—the color he could never fully describe—kept him from slipping completely into the haze. Whenever it rippled through the air, his mind cleared for a heartbeat, as if something unseen refused to let him be swallowed.
“Princess Angela! I’m here to visit again! I’m sorry I didn’t come yesterday—Papa took me to eat cake!” a young voice called out.
Sairael’s thoughts snapped apart. He turned and saw Abigail rushing through the garden in a fluffy dress, moving toward the Princess, who had been tending to flowers. From where he stood, Sairael watched the Princess go rigid. A tremor ran through her, subtle but unmistakable, before she rose and—almost awkwardly—forced herself to greet the four-year-old.
The same wrongness clung to Abigail as always. That faint purple ripple, the air bending in ways it shouldn’t. Even her childishness felt practiced—movements too deliberate, tone too carefully shaped, like someone reciting a role instead of living it. The sight made Sairael’s head throb. Stranger still was the Princess’s reaction: the royal heir, meant to be bowed to, seemed compelled to offer respect to a mistress’s child instead.
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Sairael exhaled slowly, his heart humming in his chest as he forced himself to look away. Even if his memories were fading, his instincts remained sharp. His body wanted to avoid Abigail the way flesh recoiled from rot. And despite knowing he should understand what would happen to the Princess in the future, he couldn’t risk changing his path too early. The wrongness in his chest sharpened, stinging—his face paling another shade as he turned to leave.
He did not see what happened next.
That same unknown shimmer—silent, precise—slithered toward the Princess and Abigail. It moved like a blade through fog, latching onto the purple ripples invisible to human eyes and choking them down. Abigail’s body shuddered. Her gaze flicked around, narrowing with brief confusion, as if she could feel something resisting her—something she could not see.
“I’m busy, Lady Abigail,” the Princess said suddenly, her tone colder than winter stone. “Stop coming to the Church during my training, and refrain from seeking me out. We are not close.”
The moment the unseen pressure loosened its grip on her mind, the Princess’s posture straightened as if she had awakened from a dream she hadn’t known she was trapped inside. “I don’t want to see you again,” she added, brushing dust from her skirt with sharp, final motions before turning away and leaving the stunned child behind.
Abigail froze. Her eyes widened as she stared after the Princess’s retreating figure. Hidden inside the oversized sleeves of her dress, her hands clenched until her nails bit skin and drew thin streaks of blood. Then her expression shifted—resetting into the helpless mask of a wronged child. Tears welled on command. She turned and began to walk away as if heartbroken, her shoulders trembling in practiced sorrow.
The purple power tried to unfurl again—quiet, hungry—aiming at the servants tending the church grounds. But the unknown shimmer struck once more, swift and merciless, severing the attempt before it could take hold.
None of it was witnessed. Abigail did not understand why her “cheat” failed. Sairael continued on, using the remainder of his rare rest in uneasy silence. Even the Princess, unaware she had been helped, released a long breath and walked to seek the Head Priest. It was time to discuss how they would soon end her role as a Saint-in-Training. She had remained as long as her father required. Royal face had been preserved. Now she would prepare for her journey to the neighboring kingdom, where political marriage negotiations awaited.
Though still a child, she was already the oldest among them—fourteen years old—and that meant duty came early. She had accepted what it meant to be a daughter of the royal family: peace treaties forged with vows, stability bought with a lifetime. Yet she did not dread the match. Her future husband was her age, and for years they had exchanged letters—carefully, warmly, building a closeness that felt almost like freedom. She longed to leave this false holiness behind and live not as a Princess on display, but as the Duchess beside the boy she had come to love.
As she moved through the grounds, her mood lifted until she began to hum softly, the strange devouring sensation fading from her skin. For the first time in days, she felt light—as if she might float away on the breeze.
The world did not notice what had shifted. Only the heavens above saw the subtle change, and the lines of fate bending almost imperceptibly. They had promised Sairael proof of innocence if he followed the same path—but they had not told him the full truth: by repeating his life, he had become the pressure that corrected its flaws. His presence allowed the hidden corruption to be challenged, the parasite weakened, the devouring slowed.
Those who would have been consumed now slipped beyond its teeth.
And with each life spared, the thing lurking beneath holy stone lost another thread of control—another chance to twist the minds that were meant to protect the Saint, and turn them into executioners.
