The saintess—Lilia—stood beside the Pope now, hands folded neatly in front of her, posture immaculate. She bowed once more, a gesture practiced to perfection.
Applause followed.
Measured. Respectful. Just loud enough to be proper.
"I am honored to stand before you," Lilia said softly. "I am still inexperienced and lacking in many ways, but I hope to learn alongside the students of the academy."
Her voice was gentle, almost timid.
A harmless little bird.
The nobles melted instantly.
"What humility…"
"So young, yet already blessed…"
"To think the Goddess chose someone so modest…"
I felt a chill crawl up my spine.
Because I knew that voice.
Not as it was now—but as it would be later.
Firm. Clear. Unyielding.
The voice that would calmly suggest dismantling noble privileges "for the greater good," then look genuinely puzzled when opposition followed.
The voice that would encourage revolution with a smile and call it compassion.
'She's already wearing the mask.'
