Another cut. Another stroke. Deeper this time, too deep. The blade slips against the bone, and the pain is white-hot, so bright it almost burns out everything else. It isn't screaming pain. Screaming requires a voice. This pain is silent. This pain demands obedience.
Hands press her down against the stone. Not cruel hands. Not kind. Just hands. Efficient. Practiced. Chanting fills the air like smoke, thick, suffocating, holy.
She is eight. She is a shrine girl. She is nothing more than a vessel.
The priests don't stop. Not when she twitches. Not when her body jerks. Not even when she passes out. They just wait for her to wake. Then they continue. It takes days. And when the rune is finally complete, red, raw, swollen and screaming, they call her beautiful.
They always call her beautiful.
She doesn't know how long it takes to heal. Healing means training. And when she can walk again, it means it's time to move. New god. New temple. New knife. New place to carve.
Over and over and over.
Carve. Heal. Smile. Serve. Repeat.
Anastasia woke in a cold sweat.
The dream faded fast, blood, chanting, bone. The usual.
The ceiling above her is silk-draped and softly lit, expensive and tacky in equal measure. Beside her, a man stirs.
Not John. No one's ever really named John.
Senator Robert Killjoy.
Of course.
He stirred with a pleased grunt, then rolled toward her, still half-asleep. His hand landed on her stomach like a stamp of ownership. But it didn't linger like usual, it moved. Gentle. Almost affectionate.
She forced herself to remain still.
"Morning, gorgeous," he mumbled, voice heavy with sleep and something that tried to pass for warmth.
She smiled before he opened his eyes. The exact one he liked: soft, sweet, like he'd caught her in the middle of thinking fondly about him.
He blinked, focused, and smiled back.
"I brought you something," he said, propping himself up on one elbow.
She already knew what it was. He always brought something.
He reached down beside the bed and pulled out a thin parcel, clumsily wrapped in brown paper. He handed it to her like it was sacred.
"I saw this and thought of you," he added, eyes shining.
She unwrapped it slowly, deliberately. A book. First edition. Rare. She had mentioned it once, years ago.
He remembered. Of course he did.
She looked up and smiled again, this one just a little brighter, because that's what he wanted. "You remembered," she said softly.
His face lit up. "Of course I did. You love this author."
She nodded, cradling the book like it meant something.
Play the part. Always play the part.
Killjoy leaned forward and kissed her shoulder. It was soft. Hesitant. Not lustful. Not possessive.
"I missed you," he said.
She tucked her hair behind her ear, just the way he liked. "It's good to see you again, Bobby. I missed you"
He smiled wider. Like it meant everything.
He really thinks this is love.
He didn't reach for her the way others did. Not at first. He just talked. Told her about his flight. About the way his wife was angry again. About the press. The party. The pressure.
He looked exhausted.
She listened. Nodded. Brushed his arm once, gently. The contact made him close his eyes like he was savoring it.
When he finally moved to touch her, it was slow. Worshipful.
And she gave him exactly what he needed, adoration, sweetness, surrender. Every sigh. Every look. Every movement sculpted to make him feel chosen.
He kissed her like a man starved for genuine connection.
He thinks I'm his peace.
She used to have to think about it. The pitch of a gasp. The shape of a moan. The way her fingers curled or her back arched. It used to be work.
But now?
Her body responds before she tells it to. Her breath catches on cue. Her muscles tighten, tremble, release. There's no conscious performance anymore.
Just instinct.
The illusion has become the habit. The habit has become the truth.
She hits her peak like it's a ritual.A task checked off.A chore completed beautifully.
And he believes it, completely. He watches her with awe, like she's something sacred. Like what just happened between them meant something more than muscle memory and survival.
When it was over, he didn't collapse in arrogance. He didn't bark orders or gloat. He just curled against her, fingers idly tracing the curve of her hip.
"You're the only place that feels real," he whispered.
She didn't answer. She couldn't.
Instead, she let him hold her. Let him believe.
Let him think he was special.
Let him think she was his.
Because as long as he was here, she was.
He left just before noon, exactly on time. Kissed her hand, promised to return next month. His worship, paid in taxpayer gold.
The door shut behind him. Silence. Anastasia stood, still bare, and walked to the shower. Steam filled the marble room. The water was warm, almost too warm, but she didn't flinch. She scrubbed slowly, methodically. First her arms. Then her shoulders. Then everywhere else. The soap smelled like jasmine. She hated jasmine. It didn't matter. Nothing ever did. She washed until her skin turned pink. Until the memory of his mouth faded. Until the ritual of cleansing dulled the feeling of being touched. She was a shrine. A holy vessel. A form of worship. She stared at her reflection in the mirror. Wet curls clinging to her neck. Eyes blank. Runes faintly glowing beneath her skin, like whispers under candlelight. Beautiful. Perfect. Divine. She felt disgusting. The water ran cold before she stepped out. She toweled off, wrapped herself in a robe embroidered with gold thread, and brushed her hair into loose, obedient curls. The mirror fogged, then cleared, then fogged again. She didn't bother to wipe it clean. At exactly two o'clock, there was a knock at the door. Not a soft one. Not hesitant. Crisp. Professional. Expected. Anastasia opened it without a word. A woman stood there, robed in pale lavender with a silver sash around her waist, Brigitte's colors. Her hair was tied back. Her eyes were sharp. She carried no bag, no tools, no charm bracelets or incense. She didn't need them. Priests of Brigitte did not perform rituals. They were the ritual. "Anastasia," the woman said curtly. Anastasia inclined her head in greeting, stepping aside to let her in. They didn't speak. They never did. Conversation was unnecessary. The priest already knew. She reached out and touched Anastasia's forehead. Just touch. And then, lightness. It spread through her chest first, like the warmth of a sunbeam after winter. Then her spine straightened. Her jaw unclenched. Her thoughts, messy, angry, bitter things, went quiet. Not erasure. Never that.She remembered everything.She just... didn't care anymore. Even her memories shifted. The senator wasn't so awful. He said sweet things. He smiled. He held her like she mattered. Didn't he? She couldn't quite remember what she was upset about. Something unpleasant. Something that was not important now. A breath escaped her lips, relieved, content, automatic. The priest removed her hand. "Better," she said simply. Anastasia nodded. "Thank you." She meant it. Of course she meant it. She felt better. Lighter. Almost… happy. She didn't question it. That would be impolite.And what's there to question, really? The priest turned and left, robes whispering across the floor behind her. The door closed.
And Anastasia stands alone again.Perfectly calm. Perfectly composed.
Perfectly ready for whatever comes next.
The afternoon passes in curated stillness.
She lounges in one of the upper salons—an elegant space designed for comfort and performance. Plush cushions. Soft harp music. Filtered sunlight through stained glass. Everything crafted to look divine.
The divine property must remain pristine.
At six, she dresses for dinner. A pale lavender gown today. Simple. Flowing. Not chosen by her, but laid out by the attendants. It flatters her skin. Hints at reverence.
She dines with the other vessels in the ivory hall.
The meal is exquisite, as always—artfully plated fruits, grilled fish, warm breads with golden butter. They eat like honored guests. Like royalty.
No one talks about how it's all paid for with bodies.
Anastasia sits in her usual seat, two down from the altar, one across from the newer girls. She smiles when spoken to. Offers polite nods. Gives the correct compliments on the food.
Every word is warm.Every smile is pleasant.And every response is empty.
One vessel leans toward another, voice too loud, questions too personal.
"Do you ever think about who you were before?" she asks.
Glass creaks in Anastasia's hand. Her fingers grip the stem of her goblet too tightly. A crack spiders near the base, almost imperceptible.
She loosens her hold. Sets it down with a quiet clink.
No one notices.
No one asks for more.They never do.
She is the only one like this.
The only one who bears twelve runes.The only one who endured all twelve gods' rites.Twelve temples.Twelve blades.Twelve chants rising above her screams.
She doesn't remember all the faces.But she remembers the pain.
That is the price of power.The cost of survival.
Most vessels don't survive more than three.Five is rare.Eight? Mythical.
But twelve?
Only her.
At eight o'clock sharp, a novice leans in and whispers in Anastasia's ear during dinner."The Head Vessel requests you."
Of course she does.
Anastasia finishes the last bite of poached pear, dabs her mouth with a napkin, and rises without a word. She glides from the hall like mist, unbothered, unhurried, untouchable.
Marie's office is on the upper floor, just below the god-viewing balcony. Austere. Self-important. Much like the woman herself.
They don't call her Madame. Too crude for their standards.She is Head Vessel Marie.
The office door is already open. It always is. A power play.
Anastasia steps inside. Closes it behind her, quietly, gracefully.
Marie does not look up. She's pretending to write something. As if Anastasia isn't worth noticing yet.
Anastasia waits.
She does not speak. Does not shift. Does not acknowledge the theatrics.
Stillness is its own form of defiance.
Eventually, Marie lifts her gaze.
Her lips curl, not into a smile, but something sour, something pickled in resentment. Bitterness made flesh.
"I assume the senator was satisfied," she says.
Anastasia blinks. Slowly. Says nothing.
Marie huffs a laugh that doesn't reach her eyes. "Of course he was. You always perform so well, don't you?"
It is not a performance.It is who she is.Who she is paid to be, for that short time.
Another pause. Another silence.
Marie leans back in her chair. The light cuts across the deep lines around her mouth. She's maybe forty, but looks sixty. Bitterness carves deeper than time.
"I was once like you," she says. Cold. Sharp. "Beautiful. Perfect. Everyone's favorite. For a while."
Anastasia offers no sympathy. No curiosity. No reaction at all.
Just silence.Graceful.Deadly.
Marie loathes it.
"You think your skin will never wrinkle. That your body will never fail." Her voice hardens. "But you're not immortal, Anastasia. You're just… delayed. And when they're done with you—"
She cuts herself off. Doesn't need to finish the thought.
Anastasia's expression doesn't change.
She is porcelain. And Marie is vinegar.
"You should be grateful," Marie spits, the word acidic. "You've been chosen for a divine bid tomorrow. The gods themselves will fight over you. Imagine that."
A beat of silence.
Marie rises. Circles the desk. Stops just inches away, too close, too loud, too human.
Anastasia does not step back. She meets her gaze.
Calm. Regal.
Marie studies her, jaw tight. Then, through clenched teeth:
"You think you're better than me."
Anastasia tilts her head. Barely. A blink. A breath.
No answer.
She doesn't need one.
Marie's lip curls. "You'll never be one of them. No matter how many scars they carve into you."
Anastasia gives a soft, polite nod. The kind that ends conversations.
Marie storms back behind her desk, fury silent but palpable.
"Dismissed," she snaps.
Anastasia turns. Glides to the door.Still perfect.Still untouchable.
Behind her, Marie simmers.
As bitter as her name.
She stands in front of the mirror long after the conversation with Marie has ended, if it could even be called that.
The room is silent.Too silent.The kind that creeps under your skin and settles behind your ribs.The kind you feel pressing against your chest.
Anastasia unties the lavender silk robe, letting it slip from her shoulders.It pools at her feet like a sigh.
She looks at herself.
Not with vanity.Not with pride.
With stillness.
Her reflection stares back: tall, poised, spine straight, arms at her sides, chin slightly tilted.The sconces glow gold, soft and warm, casting her skin in forgiving light.
It almost hides the scars.
Almost.
She reaches for the dimmer and turns it up.
Just enough.
Enough to see them clearly. All of them.
The runes.
Some are elegant, flowing like whispers along her thighs and ribs.Others are jagged, crude strokes carved too deep into bone.Each one tells a story. A god. A place. A season of pain.
She starts by looking at her arm.Luxor.Her entire left arm, from shoulder to wrist, minus the hands.Intricate lines loop and spiral down her skin like golden script.
Behind her ear: Ravina's.A moment of eerie peace. The only one that didn't feel like being torn apart.
Her left leg, ankle to knee: Yara.Sharp. Wild. Spiraling.The pain danced like waves across her tendons.
Her abdomen: Vitaria.She touches the spot. The ghost of agony still curls inside her womb.That one was more than pain. It took something.
Her back. Her spine. Her shoulders.Each piece of her etched. Claimed.
Twelve gods.Twelve temples.Twelve sets of blades.
No sedation. No mercy.
Pain was the medium.Her body, the canvas.She is divine by endurance alone.
Her fingers trace the delicate swirls down her ribs, Malvor's rune.The God of Mischief.
Beautiful. Chaotic. Like smoke and laughter.
There had been calm in that room.Magic humming beneath her skin.It hurt, but not like the others. Not quite.Something about it had felt… still.
The last were Brigitte's.The back of her hands. Her knuckles.Small, sharp carvings. Precision over spectacle.Reserved for the strongest.
After that, she stopped aging.
They called it a blessing.She called it a pause.
Her gaze lingers on the scars glowing faintly beneath her skin, only visible in certain light.They shimmer like constellations.
Beautiful.Delicate.Deadly.
Pain made perfect.
She did not cry. She never cried.
She exhales through her nose, a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Tomorrow, at eight, they will take her to the main temple.The Pantheon's seat.The crown jewel of this beautiful, hollow city.
A place built for worship.For spectacle.
A place where gods choose their toys.
Anastasia tilts her head at her reflection.Looks into her own eyes, calm, unblinking, framed by damp auburn curls.
She looks divine.
And in this world, that's all that matters.
She slips the robe back on, ties it at the waist with a graceful tug, and steps away from the mirror.
There is nothing else to prepare.
She is already ready.