Shortly after meeting Sally for the first time, Demitria recalled her own childhood. Both dressed more like boys and preferred dueling with sticks rather than playing with dolls. The participants in such games would assign themselves roles, and as children raised within the Scarlet, their choices rarely extended beyond well-known Scarlet officials.
Demitria wasn't the best fighter, but she was the most stubborn. Often, she refused to admit defeat, continuing to swing her stick even after losing. Her friends had to adjust the rules for her: normally, getting hit on the head once would mean defeat, but for the role she played, it took two strikes. However, one day, she lost the will to fight. According to the roll of the dice, she was assigned the role she hated most: Cleric Cruan, infamous for his harsh lessons and severe punishments for disobedient children.
At the start of the game, she rushed toward an opponent. The opponent hesitated, unsure whether to attack, as Demitria neither raised her stick nor made any defensive moves.
"Go on, hit me," she said.
The opponent looked around, confused.
"I said, hit me. Think about how Cleric Cruan usually hits your palms."
"Alright then," the opponent replied and gently tapped her forehead with the stick's tip. She leaned back and fell to the ground, saying, "I'm dead. Cruan the hated cleric is dead. Killed."
In this game, the losers only ever said, "I've lost," never "I'm dead." But Demitria, recalling the grin Cruan wore while caning her palms, chose to say "I'm dead" to express her feelings. She stared at the sky and heard some soldiers nearby laughing at the children's game. She didn't know if they were laughing at her or if they, too, were pleased with the "death" of the cleric.
A week later, a group of orphans raised by Cleric Cruan stuffed the plague-infected cleric into a sack, each took turns slashing him, and then burned his corpse. Demitria, of course, didn't know these details, but her life began to change. Some of her peers seemed reluctant to be around her, and the adults scrutinized her with eyes she couldn't comprehend, whispering among themselves. One day, a Scarlet soldier crouched before her, gripping her frail shoulders.
"Are you Demitria?"
"Yes," she said, growing nervous at his expression.
"Was it really you who cursed Cleric Cruan?"
"Sir, I don't understand."
His fingers gripped her harder. "Why did you do it?"
An eight-year-old girl could never understand how rumors worked. She only knew that the soldier's blue-green eyes gleamed, his cracked lips barely moving, making her afraid.
"He was the most devout servant of the Light; he couldn't have caught the plague. Those children wouldn't… They adored him so much…"
The soldier stood and grabbed Demetia's right hand, dragging her forward. He was tall, walked fast, and yanked her joints painfully.
"Sir, where are you taking me?" She had to grasp his wrist with her left hand to avoid falling.
"There's something evil inside you," he said. "I don't know if it's a demon or the Scourge, but it cursed the cleric through you. Or maybe you're just a demon hiding in human skin. I'll make you show your true form."
He dragged her toward a building with several torture chambers. Demitria had never been inside, but every time she passed by, she could smell the nauseating odors and see guards dragging out tortured, deformed prisoners, forcing her to cover her eyes.
"No, sir, I don't want to go there."
"Stop your tricks, demon. You've deceived too many people. It's time for your true form to be revealed."
Demitria struggled in vain to free her hand, but the soldier's grip on her thumb was unrelenting. Her fingers ached, her feet stumbled painfully over stones as she was pulled forward. She glanced back, but none of the scattered passersby paid her any attention. A few friends from the stick-fighting games stood by the roadside, meeting her gaze without any reaction. Perhaps the distance was too far for her to see clearly. Taking an eight-year-old girl into a torture chamber wasn't unheard of—plague victims' children or other enemies, for instance.
Before they reached the building, the stench caused her to black out momentarily. She wasn't sure if she had cried, as there was so much noise around her ears. She began to doubt whether there really was a demon inside her, whispering mockingly by her ear, pinching her earlobe, saying, "Demetia, you cursed Cleric Cruan. This angry soldier is going to punish you. He'll find tools that fit your size. We won't save you. No one will. You've done wrong, and now you'll pay the price."
Suddenly, she heard a thud above her, and her right hand was released. She collapsed to the ground, dust rushing into her nose. She looked up to see a man in white gloves standing before the soldier, holding a sheathed sword in his right hand. The soldier knelt, pressing his left hand against his chin as he spat blood.
"Look up," the man said.
The soldier barely raised his head, his eyes struggling to open.
"Where did you get such a foolish idea?"
The man gently tapped the soldier's left temple with the sword's sheath as if comforting a small animal, then suddenly struck hard. The soldier fell, and something warm splashed across Demetia's nose.
The man knelt down, took out a handkerchief, and gently wiped Demetia's face. Even though his touch was light, she instinctively wanted to pull away.
"Demetia, my poor little thing. Are you alright?"
She nodded.
"I'm asking a question. You must answer."
"I'm fine, sir."
"Don't recognize me?"
She was about to shake her head, but quickly replied, "No, sir."
"I am High Inquisitor Ethenrion. Remember that."
"Thank you, Mr. Ethenrion."
He smiled. "Such a well-mannered child."
She glanced to her right, at the soldier's bloodied face on the ground, then quickly looked away.
"Do you know why he wanted to bring you here?"
"He said… I'm a demon. That I cursed Cleric Cruan."
"Yes, poor overworked Cleric Cruan… what an undignified death. But it has nothing to do with you."
Demitria nodded.
"The problem is, he's not the only one who thinks this way. His foolishness merely made him the first to act. Little one, you don't yet realize how dangerous you are. Are you afraid?"
"Yes."
"I can help you. But once I intervene, things won't be so simple." He paused. "I will protect you, even completely change your fate. But in return, you must offer something as well. A good child knows gratitude."
"What do you want me to give in return?"
"No, it's not exactly for me… It's something greater, grander. Your little mind can't understand it yet, so it wouldn't be fair to make you decide now. But to achieve anything, we must prepare early. Now, answer me: do you want me to protect you?"
She looked again at the soldier on her right. He was still alive, his breath producing strange sounds as blood blocked his nose.
"Yes, sir."
"Good." Ethenrion smiled and patted her cheek. "In truth, your opinion doesn't matter."
For the next month, Demitria lived in a room arranged by Ethenrion, with servants to attend her and strict orders not to leave. She had no idea what was happening outside. The room was on the third floor, overlooking a square where the Crusaders gathered. One afternoon, she heard the rise of voices below, followed by silence. Moments later, she recognized Ethenlien's voice:
"…This is an obvious misunderstanding. The little girl—I should not reveal her name—is without doubt one of our finest successors, righteous, polite, and firm in her faith. To accuse her of being a curse-bringer simply because of children's games is absurd. I must question the faith of those who so easily believe such rumors. Some of these misguided believers have already been punished. In my view—and not just mine, but also that of the Scarlet officers…" He listed a number of high-ranking names and continued, "…we believe the opposite. Her words were not a curse, but a warning, a revelation from the Light, one we have ignored…"
At the time, Demitria wasn't entirely sure if Ethenrion was talking about her. After this, Ethenrion allowed her to go outside at specified times, always accompanied by guards. The stares she received from others still frightened her, but it was because she couldn't handle so many eyes filled with such complicated emotions.
Three months later, at a small assembly where children gave speeches, she, under Ethenlien's guidance, "prophesied" an attack on the Scarlet lumberyard. The scene turned chaotic, and Ethenrion once again locked her in the small room. Three days later, her words were fulfilled: the Scarlet soldiers captured five adventurers who were trying to set the place on fire. Ethenrion didn't make a big announcement of the event but allowed the news to spread naturally. A week later, when Demitria timidly walked out to the square, she looked around and realized she was still the center of many gazes. Only, those eyes seemed different now. At that time, she couldn't fully understand the change.
A soldier quickly approached her. She was scared and grabbed hold of her guard's trousers.
"What do you want?" The guard raised his axe to block the man.
"I only…" He stopped speaking, took a step back, shifted his gaze to Demitria, and then knelt before her.
She was terrified and couldn't understand why this man knelt to her, nor did anyone explain. But it didn't matter; in the days to come, she would grow accustomed to such things. The "prophecy" of the lumberyard attack was merely the first grain of sand in what Ethenrion called a "grander purpose." She took the sand Ethenrion handed to her, raised it above her head, and slowly let it fall at her feet, one handful after another, until it became a pile, the pile grew into a mound, and the mound turned into a wall of stone, gradually placing her atop an invisible mountain.
At seventeen, Demitria underwent the naming ceremony of the Scarlet Saint. She gazed down at the sea of souls crowding around, worshiping her, and suddenly realized she was utterly speechless.