The carriage ride was filled with an eerie silence that seemed to soak into the very wood. Sairael sat with his legs neatly folded together, his small boots just brushing the floor as the vehicle jolted and swayed. His dress—dark, modest, and carefully fitted—lay smoothed over his knees in careful, practiced folds. His hands rested gently in his lap, fingers lightly laced, back straight as a rod, head held at the perfect angle of obedience and poise, gaze demurely lowered so that his lashes shielded the cold clarity of his eyes. Each bump in the road tugged at his slight frame, yet he moved with the resilience of someone long trained to ignore discomfort, to behave as though his body were a porcelain doll that would never dare rattle, crack, or complain.
Madam Etheila sat opposite him, a queen in all but name within the cramped box of the carriage. Her posture was not nearly as strict as the one she demanded of her child; her back rested into the padded seat, one arm crossed beneath her chest to support the elbow of the other, as that hand’s fingertips tapped idly against her cheek. Her gaze, however, remained sharp and unyielding, the chilly weight of it fixed on the small figure in front of her—measuring, judging, always searching for flaws she could sand away with pain.
“You understand now, yes?” she asked at last, her voice smooth but hollow, like water sliding over stone. “They are leeches, all of them. If you fail, they will take everything from us.” Her eyes narrowed slightly, as if she could already see the gnawing parasites of gossip and scandal tearing at her carefully constructed facade. “You must be perfect, Sairael. Even if your father refuses to appear, you are his firstborn. You will remain the true heir so long as you give the public no reason to accept someone else in your place. They will try to make you falter, to condemn you, if you allow even the smallest fault to show.”
The words fell into the silence like nails dropping one by one into a coffin. Whether she truly feared for Sairael’s well-being or only feared for her own place at the Duke’s side, he could not say. It hardly mattered. Her concern, if it existed at all, was only ever a shadow cast in the shape of expectation and obligation. For her, his body was a shield she could wield, his position a tool to keep her from being discarded. Fear for him and fear for herself wore the same mask.
He kept his expression carefully trained, the perfect picture of a dutiful daughter carved by relentless correction. “Yes, Mother,” he replied softly, his tone gentle and mild, devoid of any indication that he had thoughts of his own. His voice did not shake. It never did, not where she could see.
The carriage wheels rattled on, the sound blending with the low murmur of Madam Etheila’s thoughts as she occasionally muttered under her breath. The words were too soft to fully grasp, half-syllables of bitterness, the vague outline of another woman’s existence. Sairael caught fragments—“that woman,” “his folly,” “her face”—but the meaning slipped away before he could fully assemble it. He knew only that his existence was tied to some old wound in his father’s heart and that his mother had spent years bleeding on the edge of it.
Nothing in his past life had ever quite made sense when examined too closely. How he had been chosen as Saint despite his gender, despite being born Ger in a country that preferred such truths buried. How a man who despised his wife so openly had nonetheless produced a child with her. Even the identity of his father’s first love remained a mystery, a stain everyone stepped around but never dared to scrub away. Mistress Mayella bore a faint resemblance to that unseen woman, or so the whispers claimed. Yet even after being taken in as a mistress, the Duke had never truly shared his nights with her, never given her the intimacy that would confirm her value. He came home rarely, and when he did, it was for quiet meals, a glass of wine, and then the inevitable retreat back into his duties, away from the cold theater of his household.
Sairael knew these things not because he had been told, but because the servants’ gossip had seeped under doors, through cracks in walls, and into the cold little room where he had been locked away for most of his early years. They might snicker at Mayella’s frustration, but they did so only out of her earshot. None of them spoke openly when Abigail was near. The girl had a talent for making people disappear, one by one, and assigning the blame to Sairael’s name like a curse. The fact that he held no power and rarely set foot beyond his own threshold did not seem to matter. Lies, he had long since learned, did not require logic to be believed. Only a victim and a villain.
His thoughts moved in quiet, secret circles as the carriage rolled on. Outside, the capital slowly stirred to life, the morning deepening, the overcast sky cloaked in thick clouds that threatened snow before the day was done. Voices rose and fell, faint through the wooden walls, merchants calling, wheels clattering, guards barking orders at the crowds that drifted through the main streets. Sairael imagined the city as it had looked in his previous life—these same roads, these same stones, but bathed in a golden light he had never been able to feel. Back then, he had walked them as the Holy Saint, the world bowing, whispering blessings, praising a sanctity they did not understand. Now he approached the same future as a frail child in a dark dress, sitting across from a woman who would gladly carve him apart if it would secure her position for another year.
By the time the sun had climbed toward its zenith, filtered pale and weak through the heavy clouds, the carriage finally slowed. The steady jolt became a rolling glide, then an almost reverent crawl as the horses were reined in to a snail’s pace. The air outside shifted, growing colder, sharper, edged with the distant scents of incense and trampled snow. Voices echoed louder now, bouncing off stone, mingling with the hollow toll of distant bells.
They were near.
Sairael’s head remained bowed, but his heart gave a small, discordant stutter against his ribs. It felt as though the threads of his first life and this second chance were knotting together in his lungs. His breath was steady, his posture unchanged, but inside him something tightened—an old memory stirring, a future repeating, a fate closing its jaws.
The carriage creaked to a complete halt. For a moment, there was only the sound of hooves stamping, the faint whuff of the horses’ breath fogging in the winter air, and the low murmur of distant prayers spoken by voices that did not know whether they believed or merely hoped. Madam Etheila shifted, smoothing her skirts, arranging her expression as though donning a mask. The brittle edge of madness in her eyes faded beneath a polished veneer of dignity and maternal pride.
When the door opened, the cold rushed in like a living thing, biting at Sairael’s cheeks and fingertips, chilling his bones. Madam Etheila descended first, one gloved hand accepted by the footman standing at attention. Her every movement was measured grace, the practiced performance of a highborn lady whose worth lay in how convincingly she could play her part before the world. Only when she had stepped down fully, composed and regal, did Sairael move.
Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.
He placed his small hand in the footman’s palm and carefully followed her, lowering himself from the carriage with the same controlled precision she had spent years beating into him. His dress did not catch, his shoes did not slip, his head did not snap up too quickly. He landed lightly on the stone, feet together, shoulders slightly drawn in. The cold air kissed his face, and for a heartbeat he allowed himself to look up.
The Grand Temple of the capital loomed before them like a beast carved from pale stone. Its spires clawed at the gray sky, reaching upward in jagged lines like fingers grasping for a heaven that might not be there at all. Statues of angels and saints lined the outer walls, their stone faces worn by age, their eyes hollow, their carved halos cracked or chipped at the edges. Snow had begun to gather in the crooks of their wings and at the corners of their mouths, making it appear as though they wept white tears that would never melt.
Bands of darker stone coiled around the temple’s base like old scars, hidden in decorative patterns and carved inscriptions. Golden inlays traced along the archways and columns, gleaming faintly even beneath the clouded sky. From a distance, the building must have looked opulent—a bastion of holy authority, a place where light could be found. Up close, the gilding looked thinner. Sairael could see where it flaked at the edges, revealing the dull stone beneath. Even the great doors, carved with intricate depictions of miracles and heavenly judgments, bore faint scratches and dents that had been carefully oiled over, their imperfections smoothed but never erased.
“Remember,” Madam Etheila murmured as she stepped slightly in front of him, ensuring that anyone watching would see him at her side, perfectly placed, perfectly groomed, the prized child of her noble house. “Breakfast with Duke Mattias was important because he should have stood with us. But since he chose not to appear, we must be more perfect still. The priests will see everything. The nobility will hear everything. Do not give them cause to doubt our worth.”
Her voice was soft enough that no passerby would overhear, yet sharp enough to pierce the skin. Sairael inclined his head obediently, his expression serene. “Yes, Mother,” he replied again, his tone gentle, emotionless. Each repetition of the phrase felt like a nail hammered into the coffin of whatever he might have wished for himself.
He could feel eyes on them—the curious glances of commoners ushered along the steps, the measuring stares of minor nobles standing in small clusters near the entrance. Some looked at Madam Etheila with polite recognition, lips curving into social smiles that never reached their eyes. Others looked at Sairael with a flicker of interest, their gazes lingering on the delicate features he could not entirely hide, the porcelain-pale skin, the dark lashes framing lowered eyes, the carefully arranged hair that gave him the appearance of a highborn daughter ready to be displayed.
None of them knew what lay beneath the dress, beneath the obedient posture, beneath the title that clung to him like a curse. They did not see a Ger, because to see it would complicate their simple world—where men ruled, women were displayed, and anything between belonged nowhere at all. In this country, a Ger was a contradiction that polite society preferred not to acknowledge. A male with the capacity to bear life threatened their hierarchies, their certainties, their fragile pride. Some called such beings shameful, as if their existence diminished a man’s worth by tying him to the labor of birth. Others coveted them in quiet, dark corners, whispering of higher chances for heirs, stronger bloodlines, purer succession. Rare, precious, unsettling—like relics one wanted to own but never admit to desiring.
The solution, for a house like the Duke’s, had been simple: cover the contradiction in silk, label it “daughter,” and expect it to bleed and obey without question.
Sairael’s small hands tightened just slightly around the fabric of his skirt before relaxing again. He could almost feel the phantom weight of the halo that would one day be assigned to him, heavy and cold and false, resting upon his head as he “blessed” those who would never truly see him. The Temple had taken his life once already, draped it in white, and called it holy. Now, somehow, the heavens had twisted time to drag him back to the threshold of that same path.
At the edges of his awareness, a faint ache pulsed—memories of the last priest he had once believed in, the one whose soft smile and gentle words had given him hope that someone within these walls might actually see beyond the role scripted for him. That hope had been torn apart in the echo of his condemnation, in the cold repetition of lies spoken as though they were sacred truth. He remembered that priest’s face among the hooded figures at the Abyss. He remembered the silence when it had mattered most.
Madam Etheila started forward, and Sairael followed half a step behind and to the side, the perfect position, the perfect distance, the perfect echo. They climbed the broad steps together, the stone cold even through the soles of his shoes. Each step felt like descending rather than ascending, though they walked upward to the great doors. The nearer they came, the more the incense hit him—thick and cloying on the air, the mingled fragrances of myrrh and sanctified oils masking the fainter scents of damp stone and too many bodies pressing through the halls. It was a holy smell, people said, but to Sairael it had always felt like a veil, a perfume sprayed over rot.
Two priests in pale robes stood at the entrance, their hands folded, their gazes sweeping over those who approached. Their vestments were immaculate—silk embroidered with golden thread, symbols of law and faith stitched along the hems. Their faces, however, were harder to read, schooled into mild smiles that did not quite match the tiredness in their eyes. They were gatekeepers of salvation, arbiters of divine favor, and yet the way they watched the arriving nobles held a strange weight—calculated, evaluating, as though tallying offerings in their heads.
“Welcome, Madam Etheila, young lady,” one of them said with a slight bow, his eyes passing over Sairael without truly lingering. “May the Light guide your steps this day. The testing of the Holy Seal will begin shortly.”
“We are honored,” Madam Etheila replied, her voice sweetened with a humility she did not possess. She dipped into a graceful curtsy that just barely touched the line between sincerity and performance, her hand resting lightly on Sairael’s shoulder, guiding him forward like a prized offering.
Sairael’s skin prickled beneath her touch, but he did not flinch. He let himself be steered, let the priest’s eyes slide past him as though he were nothing more than a well-trained child brought here to be weighed by the heavens. He inhaled the incense again, letting it coat his lungs, reminding himself that this was the path he had chosen a second time. The heavens—if they were truly watching—had given him two options. Walk the same road with a gift buried in its stones, or turn away and be left with nothing but the fading echo of what could have been. He had chosen to walk again.
This time, he would not do so blind.
The priest stepped aside and the great doors began to swing inward, their hinges groaning softly despite the care taken to oil them. Beyond the threshold stretched a dim corridor washed in colored light, the glow of stained glass spilling across the floors and walls in fractured hues that looked more like bruises than blessings. Shadows pooled between the pillars, clinging to the carved saints who stared down with blank, sorrowful eyes.
Madam Etheila tightened her hold on his shoulder just briefly, then released it, allowing him to step forward at her side.
As Sairael crossed the threshold and placed his foot upon the polished stone floor of the Grand Temple, the air seemed to thicken around him. A hollow chill seeped up from the ground, threading through his bones, carrying with it the faintest sensation of something watching, weighing, waiting. The sacred quiet that rose to meet him did not feel peaceful; it felt staged, as though the building itself were holding its breath in anticipation of a performance to come.
He took another slow step inside, the murmurs of the crowd fading behind him, the cold light of the stained glass catching in the dark of his hair. The temple swallowed him whole—once again—and the door eased shut at his back with a sound that felt far too much like finality.
