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, 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 passed in curated stillness.
She lounged 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 dressed for dinner. A pale lavender gown today. Simple. Flowing. Not chosen by her, but laid out by the attendants. It flattered her skin. Hinted at reverence.
She dined with the other vessels in the ivory hall.
The meal was exquisite, as always—artfully plated fruits, grilled fish, warm breads with golden butter. They ate like honored guests. Like royalty.
No one talked about how it was all paid for with bodies.
Anastasia sat in her usual seat—two down from the altar, one across from the newer girls. She smiled when spoken to. Offered polite nods. Gave the correct compliments on the food.
Every word was warm.Every smile was pleasant.Every response was empty.
One vessel leaned toward another. Voice too loud.Questions too personal.
"Do you ever think about who you were before?" she asked.
Glass creaked in Anastasia's hand.Her fingers gripped the stem of her goblet too tightly.A crack spidered near the base—almost imperceptible.
She loosened her hold.Set it down with a quiet clink.
No one noticed.
No one asked 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 leaned in and whispered in Anastasia's ear during dinner.
"The Head Vessel requests you."
Of course she does.
Anastasia finished the last bite of poached pear, dabbed her mouth with a napkin, and rose without a word. She glided from the hall like mist—unbothered, unhurried, untouchable.
Marie's office was 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 was already open.
It always is.A power play.
Anastasia stepped inside. Closed it behind her. Quietly. Gracefully.
Marie didn't look up. She was pretending to write something, as if Anastasia wasn't worth noticing yet.
Anastasia waited.
She did not speak.Did not shift.Did not acknowledge the theatrics.
Stillness is its own form of defiance.
Eventually, Marie lifted her gaze.
Her lips curled—not into a smile, but something sour.Something pickled in resentment.Bitterness made flesh.
"I assume the senator was satisfied," she said.
Anastasia blinked. Slowly. Said nothing.
Marie huffed a laugh that didn'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 leaned back in her chair. The light cut across the deep lines around her mouth. She was maybe forty, but looked sixty.
Bitterness carves deeper than time.
"I was once like you," she said. Cold. Sharp. "Beautiful. Perfect. Everyone's favorite. For a while."
Anastasia offered no sympathy. No curiosity. No reaction at all.
Just silence.Graceful.Deadly.
Marie loathed it.
"You think your skin will never wrinkle. That your body will never fail." Her voice hardened. "But you're not immortal, Anastasia. You're just… delayed. And when they're done with you—"
She cut herself off. She didn't need to finish the thought.
Anastasia's expression didn't change.
She is porcelain.And Marie is vinegar.
"You should be grateful," Marie spat, 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 rose. Circled the desk.Stopped just inches away.Too close. Too loud. Too human.
Anastasia did not step back.
She met her gaze.
Calm. Regal.
Marie studied her, jaw tight. Then, through clenched teeth:
"You think you're better than me."
Anastasia tilted her head. Barely.A blink. A breath.
No answer.
She didn't need one.
Marie's lip curled.
"You'll never be one of them. No matter how many scars they carve into you."
Anastasia gave a soft, polite nod.
The kind that ends conversations.
Marie stormed back behind her desk, fury silent but palpable.
"Dismissed," she snapped.
Anastasia turned. Glided to the door.
Still perfect.Still untouchable.
Behind her, Marie simmered.
As bitter as her name.
She stood in front of the mirror long after the conversation with Marie had ended—if it could even be called that.
The room was silent.
Too silent.
The kind that creeps under your skin and settles behind your ribs.The kind you feel pressing against your chest.
Anastasia untied the lavender silk robe, letting it slip from her shoulders.
It pooled at her feet like a sigh.
She looked at herself.
Not with vanity.Not with pride.
With stillness.
Her reflection stared back: tall, poised, spine straight, arms at her sides, chin slightly tilted.
The sconces glowed gold—soft and warm—casting her skin in forgiving light.
It almost hid the scars.
Almost.
She reached for the dimmer and turned it up.Just enough.
Enough to see them clearly.All of them.
The runes.
Some were elegant—flowing like whispers along her thighs and ribs.Others were jagged—crude strokes carved too deep into bone.
Each one told a story.A god. A place. A season of pain.
Her arm—Luxor.Intricate lines looped and spiraled like golden script.
Behind her ear—Ravina.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 touched the spot. The ghost of agony still curled 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 traced 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 lingered on the scars glowing faintly beneath her skin.Only visible in certain light.
They shimmered like constellations.
Beautiful. Delicate. Deadly.
Pain made perfect.
She did not cry.She never cried.
She exhaled through her nose. A breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
Tomorrow, at eight, they would 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