The sea breeze of Fauria drifted lazily through the stone-paved streets, carrying with it the scent of salt and incense. Church bells tolled from the hilltop chapel, their solemn song echoing across the island like a call from heaven itself. Cloaked in white and gold, the faithful walked in gentle procession, their hands clasped around pendants that shimmered in the morning light. They shielded them from the wind with tender reverence, as though the red stones could feel the breeze and shiver from it.
Children clung to their elders, listening with awe as they were told again the stories of miracles, mercy, and the Saint King's blessings. The grown-ups recited these tales with practiced grace, their voices gentle, eyes warm. To the people of Fauria, this was more than tradition—it was breath.
And yet, behind the smiles and soft chants, Lucia watched with quiet distance.
How easily they embraced joy. How quickly they buried their grief beneath rituals and reverent words. Their laughter sparkled like sunlight on the water, oblivious to the weight she felt pressing on her chest.
To live in Fauria was to be surrounded by color, prayer, and unwavering faith in a divine hand. But even in paradise, death lingered. Loss could strike at any time, and still, they called it a blessing.
She looked down at the leather-bound book in her lap and opened it with trembling hands. Her journal's first page bore the stains of midnight thoughts and ink-splattered bitterness. She pressed her pen to the page and began to write.
"Why must joy be borrowed from belief,
When belief brings me nothing but silence?
They sing to a god who never answers—
And I am meant to lead them in chorus.
They smile like the past has been buried,
But I see its bones in the roots of our soil.
Saint, Savior, Sovereign King—
Tell me why I feel nothing when I speak your name?"
The words bled into the page. She closed the journal softly and held it to her chest as though hoping it could absorb her doubts. Then, with a deep breath and her familiar smile fastened like armor, she stood up and walked toward the children's tent, the wind tugging gently at her white robe.
A cloud of murky incense greeted her as she entered the tent, mixing with the faint aroma of old books. The laughter of children, bright and innocent, filled the air like a chorus of birdsong. Lucia sighed, trying to steady herself.
She pulled a dusty, well-worn textbook from her satchel, the pages yellowed with time. The children's eager eyes followed her as she flipped it open, and she cleared her throat.
"This is the story of the Saint King, our savior," she began, her voice warm but heavy with unspoken thoughts.
The children, curious and restless, sat at her feet, their eyes wide. Lucia looked down at the pages, her fingers brushing over the old script, and began.
"A millennia ago,
The world of Maisine was torn by war.
Four great empires fought—
Like starving wolves in a field of bones,
Each one desperate to claim what the others had."
Lucia paused for dramatic effect, raising her hands to frame the air like a storyteller at a festival. She made a clawing gesture, mimicking the violence of war. The children gasped.
"But there was something... else."
"Something ancient. Something dark.
A mist, a shadow,
A curse that crept over the land, devouring everything in its path.
Crops withered, rivers ran dry,
The rich retreated to their gilded fortresses, while the poor—
Well, the poor had nothing left."
At this, Lucia's voice dropped, her tone shifting into something more somber. She saw the worried expressions of the children, but she kept going, immersing herself in the story.
"The world seemed lost, doomed to be swallowed by the mist.
Until, at the height of despair,
A prince emerged."
She paused dramatically, glancing at the children, who were now hanging on every word. She smiled softly and continued.
"The youngest prince of Elicia,
Darius von Elicia Eversteel,
A prince not born of blood alone,
But of fire.
He was a warrior, a tactician, a conqueror.
But he was more than that—he was a force of nature,
A shining light amidst the darkness."
Lucia's voice grew more animated as she recounted Darius' rise to power. She swung her arms as though commanding an army.
"With ruthless precision, he struck down his enemies,
Silenced his rivals,
And took his rightful place on the throne stained red by their blood.
But his power was not just military,
It was divine."
She raised her hand dramatically, as if summoning a divine presence, and the children giggled. Lucia gave them a playful wink, but her voice never wavered.
"He was not merely a king.
He was the Saint King—
Blessed by the gods themselves,
A symbol of salvation,
His aura as radiant as the sun.
Wherever he walked, people bowed,
And where he went, hope followed."
The children, wide-eyed, leaned forward, captivated by her energy. Lucia could almost hear the faint echoes of their whispered admiration.
"But, of course, every hero has his cost."
Lucia faltered a moment, her eyes flicking to the words on the page, then back to the children. She had to finish it—somehow.
"Darius united the empires,
But at what cost?
After he sealed the mist away,
He was left a broken man.
The Saint King—
Whose name was whispered with reverence—
Fell into madness."
The children exchanged puzzled glances. A boy raised his hand hesitantly.
"But... why did the Saint King go mad?"
Lucia froze. Her smile faltered.
Her fingers curled tighter around the book.
How could she explain it?
That their savior—the marble idol, the whispered prayer—had shattered under the weight of divinity?
That the stories their parents told were stitched from half-truths and silence?
She'd seen the hidden records buried in the chapel archives. Pages carefully redacted, margins crowded with nervous ink.
Theories? Sure. Divine overload. Righteous martyrdom.
But the truth?
The false answer had been etched into every wall of the chapel. Every child knew it. Every sermon ended with it.
"Ah, well," she said with a soft laugh, as if it were obvious, "his mortal body could no longer contain the divinity within him. So the gods, in their mercy, took him back—mind, soul, and spirit."
The children nodded, satisfied. It was what they'd always been told. The story everyone believed.
The story Lucia used to believe, too.
Until she found the journals.
Until she saw the pages that had been torn out, rewritten, hidden.
Until she read the final prayer…no, final note, scrawled in the Saint King's own hand—barely legible, stained with ink and something darker.
No transcendence. No divine return.
Just a man—frantic, broken, begging to be freed from the holiness they'd shoved down his throat.
By slitting that very throat.
But she couldn't say that.
The saint was perfect.
And the Church—
The Church needed him to stay perfect.
A flawless saint held the island together.
He was the reason they rose each morning. The balm they rubbed over grief.
To admit he had cracked—to whisper that even divinity could bleed—was to risk unraveling their whole world.
So she smiled again. The kind of smile that felt like splinters.
And turned the page.
"Now, who wants to hear a funny story?" she blurted, slamming the book shut with unnecessary force.
There was a pause.
"Was the throne really covered in blood?" a girl asked, wide-eyed.
Lucia blinked.
"What? No! That's just, um... poetic exaggeration! Like saying the sea is endless—ha ha, metaphor!"
She waved her arms in a vague academic gesture that could've meant symbolism or please change the subject.
Then she spotted the wooden sword propped in the corner. A gift from the festival last week. She grabbed it like a lifeline and hoisted it aloft.
"The Saint King fought the mist with this!" she cried. "He was like—whoosh! ha!—and the mist just ran for its life!"
She flailed it through the air with the grace of a concussed squirrel.
The children shrieked with laughter.
"What happened next?" someone shouted.
"He... uh... won forever!" Lucia declared triumphantly, striking a heroic pose. "The mist never came back, and everyone lived happily ever after. Just like in the stories!"
More applause. More giggles. One kid mimed stabbing the mist dramatically and fell over.
Lucia clapped. "Okay, okay! That's all for today. Off you go, now—prayer time soon, right?"
They scattered like windblown petals. The tent emptied.
Lucia stayed sitting, her fake smile still plastered on.
She waved long after they were gone. Then turned, and—
Thunk.
Forehead to wall.
"What is wrong with this textbook?" she hissed. "Demonic mist? Please. It was famine. Disease. The ancient people exaggerated it. The Saint King was nothing but a glorified warlord with good lighting and a desperate population!"
She slid down the wall and pulled her journal from her robes.
If she couldn't tell the truth aloud, she'd write it instead.
Let the page soak up the bitterness, the doubt, the drama.
Saint. Savior. Sovereign King.
She uncapped her pen.
"Tell me," she whispered, "why I feel nothing when I speak your name."