Grand Duke Charmant Valerius didn't look holy. Honestly? He looked like he'd personally invented the concept of sin and then decided it wasn't profitable enough.
That was the first problem.
He didn't wear white. He didn't glow. He didn't carry incense or holy scripture. He wore black—clean, expensive, tailored lines with zero excess. Just power, sitting there neatly. And the silence? The silence in the room was so heavy I could feel it pressing against my eardrums. We were in a side hall that smelled like stone and citrus polish, like someone had tried to disinfect a murder scene with a bunch of oranges.
Charmant Valerius. Duke. Sword-holder of the Church. The man who'd be sitting front-row at my potential execution tomorrow. He didn't smile. He didn't frown. He just... watched. Like he was counting every single lie I was holding behind my teeth before one of them inevitably slipped out.
I sat straight, hands folded, my "Saintess posture" locked into place. Inside? My brain was basically sprinting barefoot over Lego.
The priest beside him cleared his throat, sounding like he had a mouthful of gravel. "His Grace has a question for you, Saintess."
Of course he does. Because why would I get a five-minute break to breathe?
Charmant finally spoke. His voice was calm, low, and annoyingly reasonable. "Tell me," he said, leaning back just an inch. "What is purity?"
Ah. There it is. The trap question.
I felt it instantly. Purity wasn't just a word here; it was a weapon. If I gave the textbook Church answer, I was a puppet. If I said the wrong thing? Heretic. Either way, I was dead—the only difference was how pretty my funeral would be.
I swallowed. My throat felt like paper. According to the Church, purity was obedience. Submission wrapped in gold silk. But according to the dead girl's notebook? Purity tests were just traps.
Charmant's eyes didn't move. He wasn't impatient. He was patient in the way a predator waits for a wounded animal to make a noise. I could answer like a robot. Purity is faith. Purity is devotion. Or—I could answer like me. Modern, messy, and tired of being threatened.
I lifted my gaze, meeting his cold blue eyes. "Purity," I said, my voice softer than I felt, "is consistency."
The priest's forehead wrinkled in a frown. Charmant's eyebrow twitched. Just a tiny, tiny bit. Ooh, I see you, Duke. You're listening.
I kept going before my common sense could stop me. "If someone only acts pure when a crowd is watching," I said, "then that purity is just... decorative. Like a cheap vase."
The silence that followed was heavy. The priest inhaled sharply, looking like he'd been slapped with a wet fish. Decorative. Yeah, I really just went there. I felt heat crawling up my neck, but I pushed through. "Purity that vanishes the second you're alone isn't purity. It's a performance."
I held my breath. Charmant didn't look offended. He looked interested. The dangerous kind of interested.
"And how," he asked calmly, "would you define performance, Saintess?"
Oh, you want more? Okay, let's do this. I smiled—small, polite, the kind of smile that says I'm about to ruin your day. "Performance," I said, "is when the act matters more than the outcome. You can pray ten times a day in public. Perfect words, perfect posture."
The priest nodded, clearly approving. Wrong move, Buddy.
"But," I continued, tilting my head slightly, "if you step on someone weaker on your way to the altar... what exactly are you purifying?"
The silence this time was deafening. The priest's face drained of color. Charmant didn't react, which was way worse. He stared at me like he was peeling layers off an onion—slow, careful, and deeply curious.
"You're suggesting," he said, his voice as smooth as silk, "that intention matters more than ritual."
"Yes." That one word felt like stepping onto thin ice.
Charmant's fingers tapped once on the armrest. Tap. "Then tell me... what is intention?"
Second trap. I almost laughed—not because it was funny, but because he was so damn clever. This wasn't theology. This was an interrogation dressed up as philosophy.
"Intention," I said slowly, choosing each word like I was walking through a minefield, "is what you're willing to do when there's no reward for it. No praise, no status, no power." I paused, then added lightly, "Not even the promise of heaven."
The priest sucked in a breath. "How dare—"
Charmant lifted a hand. Instant silence. He looked at me for a long, long moment. Long enough for my palms to start sweating and for my fake smile to feel like it was cracking. Then, he leaned forward.
"And you," he said quietly, his voice dropping into that private, dangerous register. "Are you willing to do good without a reward?"
That was personal. I met his eyes. Truly met them. They were dark and sharp, but there was a flicker of something... lonely. "I don't know," I said, being 100% honest for the first time.
The priest gasped. Charmant blinked. I just shrugged, feeling very human and very out of place. "I'm not holy. I'm scared. I want to live. But if doing the right thing is the only way I can live with myself... then I'll try."
Try. Not a vow. Not a holy promise. Just a messy, human try.
The room went dead silent. Charmant stared at me like I was a puzzle he'd finally found a piece for. Finally, he smiled. It wasn't warm. It was a thin, sharp curve of the lips.
"Interesting," he said.
My stomach dropped. That wasn't a compliment. That was a hunter recognizing his prey had teeth.
The priest looked like he was about to faint. "Your Grace—"
Charmant stood up. The movement was so smooth it was predatory. "The Saintess will attend tomorrow's test as scheduled. I will be watching very closely."
His gaze locked onto mine. "Saintess Cio... don't disappoint me."
Disappoint. Meaning I'd passed one test but walked straight into a bigger one. As he turned to leave, his cloak brushed past me. He leaned down, his voice reaching only my ear.
"Lies told well can save lives," he whispered, sounding almost amused. "But truth told badly... gets people killed."
He walked away without looking back. I stayed in my chair, smiling, looking every bit the perfect Saintess. But inside? I knew one thing for sure.
Charmant Valerius wasn't the Church's lapdog. He was the man deciding if I was worth keeping around or if I was just another "decorative" saint that needed to be replaced.