My new morning routine?
1. Wake up.
2. Remember I'm officially scheduled to die at sunrise.
3. Pretend that's totally fine and I'm not about to barf.
Easy. Super healthy. Not stressful at all. Lies. I'm actually vibrating with so much anxiety I could probably power a small village. My hands were shaking so hard I had to sit on them for five minutes just to make them stop.
I sat in front of a mirror that probably cost more than my entire previous life's savings. The room was gorgeous in that "sacred prison" kind of way—white walls, gold details, and lace everywhere. It looked like someone had robbed a palace and then tried to make it look religious. Lottie, my maid, stood behind me with a hairbrush. She's young, maybe my age, but she looks like she's been carrying the weight of the entire world on her shoulders.
"You mustn't frown, Saintess," she whispered, her voice barely a breath.
I blinked, trying to relax my facial muscles. "I'm not frowning."
She paused, checking my reflection like she was looking for a microscopic crack in a diamond. "...Your mouth is frowning," she said softly.
I looked. Damn. She was right. My eyes were calm, sure—pro level acting—but my mouth? My mouth looked like it was personally offended by God. My face was trying to be holy, but my lips were in full-on rebellion mode. Great. Even my own anatomy is trying to get me executed today. I forced a smile, but it looked creepy—like a doll trying to flirt with a ghost. Lottie gasped, "Perfect."
Perfect? Girl, I look like I'm about to sell you holy insurance or join a cult.
Lottie brought out a tray with a white cloak, a crown, and—you guessed it—orange juice. This world is weirdly obsessed with citrus. "This will sweeten your breath," she said. I took a sip. It was that classic sweet-then-sour punch. Honestly? Mood. It smiled at me and bit me at the same time.
"Now," Lottie said, "we practice the aura. Saintess eyes do not look... they embrace."
Embrace? With eyes? How even? I practiced in the mirror, trying to look "embracing" but I mostly looked like I was about to burst into tears. Lottie clapped her hands. "Yes! That's it! The look of divine sorrow!" So the Saintess vibe is basically just 'Religious Disney Princess having a nervous breakdown.' Got it.
Lottie adjusted my cloak, reminding me that the people were "hungry" for hope. She didn't mean it metaphorically; she meant it literally. The kingdom was starving, and I was their only vitamin. When I asked how long she'd served the Saintess, her hands froze. She'd known the previous one. The one Charmant said was dead.
"She was kind," Lottie said, her voice coming out thin and fragile. She didn't say anything else, but her eyes went somewhere dark and cold. I wanted to say sorry—for the girl she lost, for being the wrong soul in this body—but in this place, 'sorry' felt like a landmine.
Then, things got real. Lottie looked at the door, then pulled an old, dusty wooden box from under the bed. "I wasn't supposed to take this," she admitted, her human eyes sharp with genuine fear. "I don't want you to die too."
Inside was a notebook. The dead Saintess's diary. I flipped the pages, my heart doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs. It wasn't full of prayers. It was a list of survival rules: Smile. Always smile. Never eat what they offer. Never drink what they bless.
I froze. Never drink. The Citrus Relic test. My stomach did a slow, nauseating flip.
I turned the page and saw a line written so hard the paper almost tore: DON'T TRUST THE CHURCH. My breath just... left me. Valerius, the Bishop, the "holy" guys—it was all a massive, gold-plated lie. I kept reading, my brain screaming at every word. Valerius smiles when he lies. Purity tests are traps. The Duke is not their dog.
Charmant. The man in the front row. He wasn't their puppet? Then what was he? A wild card? Or an even bigger threat?
The notebook ended with a final, bleeding warning that felt like a slap: If you're reading this... you're already in danger.
Well, crap. Understatement of the century.
"Someone is coming," Lottie hissed, her face going ghostly pale.
Heavy, rhythmic footsteps echoed outside. Clack. Clack. Clack. The Church. The guards. The death countdown was officially at zero. I slammed the notebook shut and shoved it back into the box while Lottie slid it under the bed with practiced speed. I grabbed the orange juice again—not because I wanted it, but because my shaking hands needed something to hold so I wouldn't look like a vibrating mess.
The door creaked open. A priest entered, his face masked with a perfect, holy smile. But now, all I could hear was the diary's voice: Valerius smiles when he lies.
"Saintess," he said sweetly, his eyes scanning the room. "It is time."
I put on my best 'embrace eyes' and fake-smiled until my cheeks actually throbbed. "Yes. Blessings of Dawn."
His gaze flicked to the half-empty glass of juice in my hand, and for a split second, his smile sharpened. It wasn't holy. It was predatory. He was pleased. He knows I drank it. Why the hell is he happy?
As I walked past Lottie, she stayed bowed low, but her fingers brushed mine for a fraction of a second. A tiny spark of human contact in this cold museum. She whispered three words that chilled my very soul:
"Don't drink."
My heart stopped. The world seemed to tilt. Lottie, honey, a little late for the warning! Because I already had. I'd swallowed the "sweet breath" juice and now my stomach felt like it was full of lead.
I followed the priest into the long, echoing hallway, my heart screaming. I realized then that holiness wouldn't save me. Heaven wasn't looking out for me. I had to be a better liar than the people who invented the lies, or I was going to end up just like the girl who wrote that notebook.
Dead.