I woke up in the wrong place. And I don't mean "wrong room" or "oops, I overslept" wrong. This was full-on, "my soul got mailed to the wrong dimension" wrong. My back was pressed against stone so cold it felt like it was trying to suck the literal marrow out of my bones. The air was thick with incense—sweet, heavy, and way too holy for a girl whose last conscious thought was probably about whether I'd left the stove on.
Then, there were the voices. A low, vibrating hum of hundreds of people, like a stadium waiting for a kickoff, except instead of a ball, they were watching me breathe. I opened my eyes slowly, praying this was just a really vivid fever dream, but the view didn't help. High ceilings, white pillars, and stained glass that scattered sunlight across my face like God himself had decided to turn on a giant spotlight just to blind me. Oh, hell no. Please, no.
I tried to sit up, but my arms felt like they were made of lead. It wasn't just fatigue, though; it was the clothes. I was draped in layers upon layers of white silk and gold embroidery—the kind of gold that basically screams, "If you get a coffee stain on this, we're bringing back the guillotine." My heart started doing a frantic tap-dance against my ribs. I looked down and realized with a jolt of pure panic that this wasn't my chest, my waist, or even my hair. My hair was now a shimmering, silvery wave that looked way too expensive to belong to a girl who usually treats dry shampoo like a food group.
I froze. I knew this altar. I knew this suffocatingly holy vibe. It was the Saintess. The kingdom's favorite puppet, the Church's shiny gold star, and the ultimate "main character" of that novel I'd read. Except I wasn't a saint. I was Cio—a girl who literally got kicked out of the family group chat for replying "lol" to a funeral announcement. Cio, you are so screwed. Like, beyond screwed. Is there a return policy for souls? Can I speak to a manager?
In front of me, a sea of people were kneeling, their foreheads glued to the floor. The silence was so heavy you could taste it, broken only by the occasional sob. A priest in white robes crawled toward me like I was some kind of unpredictable wild animal. "Saintess..." he whispered, his voice shaking like a leaf. "The people have waited three days for your awakening."
Three days? My stomach did a slow, nauseating somersault. If the original Saintess had been out for three days and no one noticed she was actually dead—or gone—then the security in this place was absolute trash. The priest lifted his hands, looking at me with red, desperate eyes. "Please. Bless them. Speak the prayer."
Right. The prayer. The thing I totally have memorized because I'm definitely a holy person and not a fraud. I looked at the crowd, then at the giant banner behind me. I couldn't read the symbols, but the vibe was crystal clear: Bless us or we might actually riot. My palms were sweating buckets inside those fancy sleeves. My brain was a complete blank, so I leaned forward and whispered the only thing my panicked mind could produce: "Uh... oh crap."
The cathedral gasped. Like, a collective, soul-shattering gasp. The priest's eyes went wide, and for a second, I thought, This is it. This is how I die. But then he started crying. "The Ancient Tongue...!" he breathed, sounding like he'd just seen a miracle. Wait, what? My 'oh crap' got translated into holy speak? A wave of relief hit me so hard I almost laughed, but then the realization followed: if "oh crap" was a blessing, what happens when I actually lose my temper?
I raised my hand, trying to look like I knew what I was doing. My sleeve fell back, revealing a gold ring on my finger shaped like a citrus branch. Seriously? Even in another world, I can't escape the oranges. I took a shaky breath, looked at the desperate, bruised faces in the crowd, and realized this wasn't just a game. They weren't looking for a symbol; they were looking for survival. I cleared my throat and said the most "holy" thing I could think of: "May you all... not die."
It was a total mess of a blessing, but the crowd exploded into sobs of relief. "Such a direct blessing! Such mercy!" the priest wailed. I just stood there, staring at my hand, wondering how long I could keep up this professional liar routine before someone realized I was just a girl who liked bargaining for discounts and was emotionally unstable on a good day.
Then, the air shifted. It wasn't a magical shift, but a "someone dangerous just walked into the room" kind of shift. The sobbing died down instantly. Heavy, measured footsteps echoed across the stone floor—clack, clack, clack. A man in black moved through the crowd like a blade through water. He wasn't wearing "church black"; he was wearing "I've killed people today" black. High collar, leather gloves, and eyes that were a cold, sharp blue—the kind of blue that doesn't just look at you, it dissects you.
"G-Grand Duke Charmant..." the priest stammered.
Oh, great. Him. The one man who didn't buy the Saintess hype. The empire's executioner. He stopped at the foot of the altar and just... stared. He wasn't praying. He was measuring me. He looked at my ring, then back at my face, his expression as unreadable as a blank check. "Saintess," he said, his voice a low, polite rumble that made the hair on my arms stand up. "I heard you woke up."
I nodded way too fast, like a bobblehead. "Yes."
He tilted his head, a faint, dangerous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "The prayer," he said. "Recite it." My heart stopped. My brain screamed abort mission! I looked at him like a deer staring at a semi-truck. The priest tried to jump in, but Charmant didn't even blink. He kept those ice-cold eyes locked on mine. He leaned in, just a fraction, and whispered something only I could hear—a threat wrapped in silk.
"You forgot your prayer," he murmured, his breath smelling like cold steel and old paper. "But you remembered how to lie."
I froze. My blood turned to ice water. That wasn't a guess; it was a verdict. He straightened up, his voice returning to a public volume. "The Saintess needs rest. The ceremony is over." He ignored the priest's protests and looked at me with a new kind of interest—the kind a hunter has when the prey finally does something interesting. "Saintess, you will come with me. And if you truly are the Saintess... you won't be afraid."
I wanted to scream. I wanted to tell him that I was terrified, but my body was already moving, my hand sliding into his gloved one. His grip was firm, a silent reminder that I couldn't run. As he led me off the altar, he leaned down one last time, his voice teasingly low. "Try not to curse in front of the Church. It makes you look... very fake."
My heart was thumping a frantic run, run, run against my chest, but I just forced a smile and kept walking. Because in this world, being a Saintess wasn't a dream. It was a cage. And I had just handed the keys to the man who was most likely to set it on fire.