I towel off, wrapped myself in a robe embroidered with gold thread, and brushed my hair into loose, obedient curls. The mirror fogged, then cleared, then fogged again. I didn't bother to wipe it clean. At exactly two o'clock, there was a knock at the door. Not soft. Professional. Expected. I opened it without a word. A woman stood there, robed in pale cream with a turquoise sash around her waist, Ahyona's colors. Her hair was tied back. Her eyes were sharp. She carried no bag, no tools, no charm bracelets or incense. She didn't need them. Priests of Ahyona did not perform rituals. They were the ritual.
"Anastasia," she said curtly. I inclined my head, stepping aside to let her in. We didn't speak. We never did. Conversation was unnecessary. She already knew. She reached out and touched my forehead. Just touch. And then, lightness. It spread through my chest first, like the warmth of a sunbeam after winter. Then my spine straightened. My jaw unclenched. My thoughts, messy, angry, bitter things, went quiet. Not erasure. Never that. I remembered everything. I just… didn't care anymore. Even my memories shifted. The senator wasn't so awful. He said sweet things. He smiled. He held me like I mattered. Didn't he? I couldn't quite remember what I'd been upset about. Something unpleasant. Something not important now. A breath escaped my lips. Relieved. Content. Automatic.
The priest removed her hand. "Better," she said simply.
I nodded. "Thank you." I meant it. Of course I meant it. I felt better. Lighter. Almost… happy. I didn't question it. That would be impolite. And what's there to question, really? She turned and left, robes whispering across the floor behind her. The door closed. I stood alone again. Perfectly calm. Perfectly composed. Perfectly ready for whatever came next.
The afternoon passed in curated stillness. I lounged in one of the upper salons. An elegant space designed for comfort and performance. Plush cushions. Soft harp music. Filtered sunlight through stained glass. Everything crafted to look divine. The divine property must remain pristine. At six, I dressed for dinner. A pale lavender gown today. Simple. Flowing. Not chosen by me, but laid out by the attendants. It flattered my skin. Hinted at reverence. I dined with the other vessels in the ivory hall. The meal was exquisite, as always. Artfully plated fruits, grilled fish, warm breads with golden butter. We ate like honored guests. Like royalty. No one talked about how it was all paid for with bodies.
I sat in my usual seat, two down from the altar, one across from the newer girls. I smiled when spoken to. Offered polite nods. Gave the correct compliments on the food. Every word warm. Every smile pleasant. Every response empty. A newer young vessel leaned toward another. Her voice too loud. Questions too personal."Do you ever think about who you were before?" she asked.
Glass creaked in my hand. I'd gripped the stem of my goblet too tightly. A crack spidered near the base, almost imperceptible. I loosened my hold. Set it down with a quiet clink. No one noticed. No one asked for more. They never do.
I am the only one like this. The only one who bears twelve runes. The only one who endured all twelve gods' rites. Twelve temples. Twelve blades. Twelve chants rising above my screams. I don't remember all the faces. But I remember the pain. That is the price of power. The cost of survival. Most vessels don't survive more than three. Five is rare. Eight? Mythical. But twelve? Only me.
At eight o'clock sharp, a novice leaned in and whispered in my ear during dinner. "The Head Vessel requests you."
Of course she does. I finished the last bite of poached pear, dabbed my mouth with a napkin, and rose without a word. I glided from the hall like mist, unbothered, unhurried, untouchable. Marie's office was on the upper floor, just below the god-viewing balcony. Austere. Self-important. Much like the woman herself. They don't call her Madame. Too crude for their standards. She is Head Vessel Marie.
The office door was already open. It always is. A power play. I stepped inside. Closed it behind me. Quietly. Gracefully. She didn't look up. Pretended to write something, as if I wasn't worth noticing yet. I waited. I did not speak. Did not shift. Did not acknowledge the theatrics. Stillness is its own form of defiance. Eventually, she lifted her gaze. Her lips curled, not into a smile, but something sour. Something pickled in resentment. Bitterness made flesh.
"I assume the senator was satisfied," she said.
I blinked. Slowly. Said nothing.
She huffed a laugh that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course he was. You always perform so well, don't you?"
It isn't a performance. It's who I am. Who I'm paid to be, for that short time. Another pause. Another silence. She leaned back in her chair. The light cut across the deep lines around her mouth. She was maybe forty, but looked sixty. Bitterness carves deeper than time.
"I was once like you," she said. Cold. Sharp. "Beautiful. Perfect. Everyone's favorite. For a while."
I offered no sympathy. No curiosity. No reaction at all. Just silence. Graceful. Deadly. She loathed it.
"You think your skin will never wrinkle. That your body will never fail." Her voice hardened. "But you're not immortal, Anastasia. You're just… delayed. And when they're done with you—" She cut herself off. She didn't need to finish the thought. My expression didn't change. I am porcelain. And Marie is vinegar.
"You should be grateful," she spat, the word acidic. "You've been chosen for a divine bid tomorrow. The gods themselves will fight over you. Imagine that."
A beat of silence. She rose. Circled the desk. Stopped just inches away. Too close. Too loud. Too human. I did not step back. I met her gaze. Calm. Regal.
Her jaw tightened. Then, through clenched teeth:"You think you're better than me."
I tilted my head. Barely. A blink. A breath. No answer. I didn't need one.
Her lip curled. "You'll never be one of them. No matter how many scars they carve into you."
I gave a soft, polite nod. The kind that ends conversations. She stormed back behind her desk, fury silent but palpable."Dismissed," she snapped.
I turned. Glided to the door. Still perfect. Still untouchable. Behind me, Marie simmered. As bitter as her name.
I stood in front of the mirror long after the conversation with Marie had ended. If it could even be called that. The room was silent. Too silent. The kind that creeps under your skin and settles behind your ribs. The kind you feel pressing against your chest. I untied the lavender silk robe, letting it slip from my shoulders. It pooled at my feet like a sigh. I looked at myself. Not with vanity. Not with pride. With stillness. My reflection stared back: tall, poised, spine straight, arms at my sides, chin slightly tilted. The sconces glowed gold, soft and warm, casting my skin in forgiving light. It almost hid the scars. Almost. I reached for the dimmer and turned it up. Just enough. Enough to see them clearly. All of them. The runes.
Some were elegant, flowing like whispers along my thighs and ribs. Others were jagged, crude strokes carved too deep into bone. Each one told a story. A god. A place. A season of pain. My arm, Luxor. Intricate lines looped and spiraled like golden script.My abdomen, Vitaria. I touched the spot. The ghost of agony still curled inside my womb. That one was more than pain. It took something. My back. My spine. My shoulders. Everything but my face and chest. Each piece of me etched. Claimed. Twelve gods. Twelve temples. Twelve sets of blades. No sedation. No mercy. Pain was the medium. My body, the canvas. I am divine by endurance alone.
My fingers traced the delicate swirls down my ribs. Malvor's rune. The God of Mischief. Beautiful. Chaotic. Like smoke and laughter. It had hurt, but not like the others. Not quite. Something about it had felt… still.
The last were Ahyona's. The backs of my hands. My knuckles. Small, sharp carvings. Precision over spectacle. Reserved for the strongest. After that, I stopped aging. They called it a blessing. I called it a pause. My gaze lingered on the scars glowing faintly beneath my skin. Only visible in certain light. They shimmered like constellations. Beautiful. Delicate. Deadly. Pain made perfect. I did not cry. I never cry. I exhaled through my nose. A breath I hadn't realized I was holding.
Tomorrow, at eight, they will take me to the main temple. The Pantheon's seat. The crown jewel of this beautiful, hollow city. A place built for worship. For spectacle. A place where gods choose their toys. I am a sacrifice. Sacrifice doesn't always mean a pyre. It means you become currency, and the god decides how you're spent.