Saint Cynthia was the very embodiment of divinity. There was no questioning it. A girl abandoned at birth, chosen by fate, sleepwalking her way to a hidden artefact buried beneath the earth, only to later return with miraculous powers. If that wasn't the making of a saint, then what was?
Luke sat there, processing it all. The contrast between her and him couldn't have been more glaring.
She was a saint. He was a scam.
Everything about her transformation into a divine figure was something out of holy scripture, whereas Luke? He was the definition of fake it till you make it. A complete fraud. A trickster. The ultimate con artist.
There was nothing magical about him—except, perhaps, the way he had ended up here. His transportation to this world was the one thing he couldn't explain, the one part of his existence that might hold a shred of actual mysticism. But beyond that?
No divine guidance. No fate-written purpose. No holy revelations.
