The next morning, the bells of the Grand Basilica rang out across Aethel, not with their usual solemn call to prayer, but with a joyous, triumphant peal that had not been heard in a generation. The news had spread like wildfire: the Saintess, through her divine sacrifice and unwavering faith, had pushed back the Abyss. The empire was saved.
From her balcony, Ilia watched the city celebrate. The grand plaza was a sea of jubilant people, their faces upturned towards her spire, chanting her name. "Saintess Ilia! Savior of Aethel!" Banners were unfurled, songs were sung, and strangers embraced in the streets. It was a city reborn in hope.
And it was all a lie.
She stood there, dressed in her most resplendent silver and white robes, a figure of serene grace. She raised her hand in the familiar gesture of blessing, and a wave of visible, shimmering light washed over the crowd, eliciting a collective gasp of awe. The power flowed through her effortlessly, a familiar tool in her hands.
But today, it felt different. As the Light left her, she felt a faint, almost imperceptible pull from the cord in her chest. A tiny fraction of the divine energy she was expending was being siphoned off, diverted along that unholy connection to a destination in the dark.
A tithe, his voice whispered in her mind, laced with a dry, mocking humor. For services rendered. Your gods have so much to spare.
Ilia's serene smile didn't waver, but a cold dread washed over her. He wasn't just connected to her; he was feeding on her power. Every miracle she performed, every blessing she gave, would now also nourish the greatest enemy of the faith. She was actively strengthening the devil with the power of the gods.
The irony was so profound it was almost comical. She was a walking, breathing heresy, and the entire world was worshipping her for it.
Later that day, High Cardinal Valerius summoned her to his private study. It was a room of opulent power, filled with ancient texts and gilded artifacts. He was in high spirits, a rare, thin smile gracing his lips.
"The reports are even better than we hoped," he said, gesturing for her to sit—a courtesy he rarely extended. "The Abyssal Creep has retreated beyond the northern mountain range. The blighted lands are already showing signs of recovery. It is a true miracle, Ilia. Your miracle."
"I am but a vessel for the will of the gods," Ilia replied, the practiced words tasting like ash in her mouth.
Through their bond, she felt a ripple of amusement from Zephar, a silent, dark laugh at her pious deception. It was a distracting, unnerving sensation, like having a second set of thoughts running parallel to her own.
"Indeed," Valerius said, his eyes gleaming with political fervor. "And this miracle has solidified the authority of the Holy See for the next century. The regional lords who were growing… restless, are now reminded of where true power lies."
He saw her sacrifice not as a spiritual victory, but a political one. He saw her not as a savior, but as a tool that had performed its function perfectly. The realization settled in her gut, another layer of cold disillusionment.
"Your role now is more important than ever," the Cardinal continued. "You are the living symbol of this victory. You must be seen. You must continue to bless the people, to remind them of the salvation you brought."
"Of course, High Cardinal," she said, her voice a perfect mask of devotion.
He sees you as a trophy, Zephar's voice murmured, a venomous whisper in her soul. A beautiful sword to be polished and hung on the wall, a reminder of a battle he didn't fight. Is this the man you sacrificed yourself for?
His words were poison, but they were also true. They pricked at the bubble of her lifelong indoctrination, letting in the cold air of reality. She had always known her role was symbolic, but hearing the truth articulated so cruelly by the being she was bound to gave it a new, sharper edge.
"Is there something amiss, Saintess?" Valerius asked, his sharp eyes noticing a flicker in her composure. "You seem… distant."
Ilia quickly recovered. "I am merely weary, Your Eminence. The binding, it has left a permanent… echo." It was the truest thing she had said all day.
Valerius nodded, accepting the explanation. "A small price to pay for the salvation of millions. You will recover your strength in time. Now go. The people await their savior."
As she walked back to her spire, the cheers of the distant crowd ringing in her ears, Zephar's voice returned, softer this time, more contemplative.
They celebrate a lie, little dove. They worship a girl who made a pact with their devil. Do you feel like a savior? Or do you feel like a fraud?
"I did what I had to do," she whispered to the empty, echoing hall, not sure if she was trying to convince him or herself.
A phantom chuckle was her only reply. The lie of her life had never felt more real, and the cage had never felt more secure. But now, she was keenly aware that she was not the only one rattling its bars.