Demitria pressed her left palm against Jemar's scarred face, keeping her elbow close to her side, away from his mangled shoulder.
The day had finally come. His blood was hot. He was thinner. He wanted to lift his eyes to look at me, so close, but he couldn't. Jemar, it must hurt so much, doesn't it? You're a man used to pain. Let this moment pass quickly.
She raised her head and saw Jorgen on the other side of the bridge. I know nothing about you but your name, but thank you for bringing him to me. You must not understand this scene, just as I don't know who you are. Death has brought us together on this bridge; you, still alive, can bear witness to our destruction in this moment. Look at your enemies—the Scarlet Crusader and the Saint—see what we endure.
Her fingertips touched a faint scar on Jemar's right temple. Barely noticeable, almost entirely faded into his skin. But she knew this scar. She left it.
That day, when Ethenrion rescued her from the crazed guards, Demitria thought she could leave behind the stench of the torture chamber. She was wrong. Ethenrion said, "I want you to do something," and pulled her into one of the chambers. Inside, she saw a blood-soaked boy, chained and barely breathing.
Demitria thought the boy was dead, but when she noticed his faint breaths, she recoiled.
"His name is Jemar," Ethenrion said, "the main culprit in the murder of Priest Cruan. Demitria, take this."
He shoved a whip into her hands. She could barely grasp the thick leather, her palms stung.
"Punish him."
"Master Ethenrion, I…"
"Are you afraid? You've accepted my protection, so you must repay me—this is the first step. It's simple. Just one strike, in any direction you choose."
She glanced back at Ethenrion. He claimed to be her protector, yet she had never seen a more terrifying expression on another person. Madness, yes, but the guard who'd tried to torture her was a crude kind, like a wolf baring foul-smelling fangs. Isenlian's madness was more like a monstrous beast lurking beneath the night sea; just a glimpse of its scales could send panic among those on the ship.
Unable to look at Ethenrion any longer, she turned her face forward. The boy's eyes were tightly shut, beads of blood dripped from his eyelids, and his chest barely moved with each breath. She couldn't fathom how someone so wounded could endure another strike, or how he could still bleed. She couldn't do it.
"Please, Master Ethenrion," she was on the verge of tears. "Let me go. I don't need your protection anymore."
"I told you, your opinion doesn't matter."
Ethenrion gripped her hand, the one holding the whip, lifted it, and swung it forward. The whip lashed across Jemar's right temple, opening a wound, and blood quickly gushed out. His head jerked violently, as if to avoid the blow, but after that, there was no other reaction—no sound at all.
"Good," Ethenrion released her hand, "Well done, Demitria. Now we can leave. Why are you crying? How unsightly. Here, use my handkerchief, poor little thing…"
Demitria never understood why Ethenrion made her do that. Perhaps it was a test of her character, and she had failed; or maybe it was just a small amusement that only he could comprehend. But she knew that it was a preview of the next twenty years of her life: Ethenrion manipulating her hand to whip Jemar, just as he manipulated her mouth to utter prophecies—it was all the same.
To say Demitria never enjoyed her life as a saint would be a lie. The best rooms with the finest views, luxurious clothing, special perfumes, dinners made from the best ingredients secretly traded with goblin merchants—for all this, all she had to do was move her mouth according to Isenlian's will. A life of abundance in exchange for her freedom of speech. She began to numb herself: This isn't so bad. Every day, people died—the warriors who worshipped me, and the ones they killed. But I will live like this. If being a saint means forsaking personal feelings for the sake of others—then I will be such a saint. Scarlet Saint Demitria. My words give many people hope to survive and fight; what's wrong with that?
But she couldn't deceive herself. The sight of people cheering for her, inspired by her lies, tormented her day after day. She believed she was numb, but she wasn't. Often, she'd eat and then vomit it all out, wake up in the night, unable to sleep.
One day, when she was twenty-five, new guards were assigned to her. One of them, covered in scars, introduced himself, "My name is Jemar. I will be your guard from today." Demitria froze. It had been over ten years since she had whipped him; naturally, she didn't remember his face as a boy, but she remembered the scar on his right temple. She didn't dare meet this man's eyes, yet couldn't stop wondering: Does he remember what I did to him? How does he see me now? This man had witnessed the moment Demitria became the Scarlet Saint, and that thought unsettled her.
She avoided him as much as she could. When he accompanied her on outings, she arranged for him to be stationed far ahead, so she wouldn't have to imagine him glaring at her with hatred from behind. Jemael's presence added new torment to her already fragile mind. It showed in her appearance: her eyes sank, her steps grew weak, and her hair lost its luster. Ethenrion warned her several times to maintain the appearance of a saint.
One day, she visited a military camp for an inspection. She forced herself to stand tall, clasped her hands in front of her, hoping to regain some semblance of a saint's dignity. She didn't know if she succeeded, for the soldiers' expressions remained unchanged—still the same reverence and longing as always. They didn't worship a real person, just an illusion that fulfilled their fanatic desires. Demetia's body was merely the vessel for that illusion. She felt dizzy, her limbs weak, a ringing in her ears drowning out the soldiers' cheers.
In this crowded room, I am the only one who doesn't count as human.
When the young soldier rushed forward, Demitria didn't notice. He emerged from the crowd on the right, drew his sword, and swung at her. It wasn't until Jemar tackled him to the ground and twisted his arms behind him that Demitria realized what had happened. The camp fell silent, with only the assassin's shouts breaking the quiet:
"What kind of saint? You're a curse-bearing demon! Without your curse, there wouldn't have been that attack, and he wouldn't have died..."
Jemar pressed the assassin's face into the ground, silencing him. He turned and locked eyes with Demitria, causing her to shudder.
"Your Grace," Jemar said, "we need to leave."
Later that day, Demitria learned that the assassin's brother had been sent to reinforce an area where she had "prophesied" an attack, and he was the only one who died. "Curse-bearing demon"—hearing that term again after so many years, Demitria looked at her reflection in the mirror and let out a bitter laugh, like a dying groan. This wasn't my fault. Ethenrion made me do it. But...
Her mind was a chaotic mess. Whether saint or demon, I've been manipulating people's lives with lies—no, they weren't lies. They were based on real intelligence, carefully crafted by Ethenrion. But once spoken through me as prophecy, they became lies. The contradiction tore at her mind, the long-accumulated mental torment erupting all at once. It was as if she stood on the edge of a volcano, experiencing the intense stillness just before the lava burst forth.
If only I didn't speak.
Demitria took a small knife from the drawer, stood in front of the mirror, and stuck out her tongue. She closed her eyes and made a cut on that pink, trembling piece of flesh, then immediately covered her mouth, bending forward as the knife clattered to the floor. A warm, metallic taste filled her mouth.
Tears streamed down her face, not only from the pain but from the deep realization that she couldn't truly go through with it. If this was a lack of courage, it was the courage to self-destruct that she lacked—a childish form of rebellion. Blood mixed with her tears as it seeped through her fingers. She threw the knife out of the window and refused both lunch and dinner that day.
At night, someone knocked on her door.
"Who is it?"
"Jemar. It's urgent, Your Grace."
"You shouldn't be coming in at this hour."
"It's important. Please, open the door."
Already fearful of Jemar, Demitria didn't intend to respond, but she was afraid the matter might involve Ethenrion. The last thing she wanted was to face him, especially now that even speaking was difficult, and she couldn't risk word of her self-mutilation getting out. Cautiously, she opened the door.
"This was found beneath your window," Jemar raised the small knife in his right hand. "There's blood on it. Can you explain what happened?"
She tried to shut the door, but he was quicker. He stepped inside, grabbed her wrists.
"What are you doing? Let go."
"Apologies, but I need to ensure your safety. What did you use this for?"
She didn't respond.
"Forgive me," Jemar said, turning her wrists over to check them, then rolling up her sleeves to inspect her forearms. Next, he lifted her and set her down on the sofa, raising her skirt. When his cold, rough hand touched her knee, she shuddered.
"Unhand..." As she tried to speak, a sharp pain shot through her tongue, and she tasted her own blood again, groaning through her nose as the wound reopened.
Jemar frowned, reached out with his right hand, and placed four fingers under her chin while pressing his thumb on her lower jaw, forcing her mouth open. Before he could even see her tongue, blood splattered onto his fingers.
"You..." He let go.
Demitria shook her head, curling up on the sofa. "Don't tell anyone."
"I'm calling a doctor."
"No," she said, each word as difficult as swallowing ashes. "Leave me alone."
"You understand what will happen if Ethenrion finds out, don't you?"
She nodded, then shook her head. She had no strength left to speak. Suddenly, she realized—how did Jemar know about her fear of Ethenrion?
"I know those lies are tormenting you, but this isn't the way."
She lifted her eyes.
"This isn't what you want to do, Demitria," Jemar said. "Just like back then, when you couldn't bring yourself to whip me."
Her shoulders suddenly slumped. He remembered.
"Ethenrion had nearly all the children beat me, but you were the only one who disobeyed his orders. How could I forget? So, when I heard you became a prophet, I knew something was wrong. I thought maybe Ethenrion was using you, just like he held your hand to strike me with that whip back then. I joined your guard to find out for sure. You're not to blame. Don't punish yourself for someone else's sins."
Demitria no longer cared about the pain in her tongue. "The prophecies are all lies."
"I know."
"But I have to treat them as real. Everything is Isenlian's will. I'm just a—"
"Enough. Stop talking. Your wound needs to be treated."
"Don't call a doctor..."
"I won't. I'll bring you some medicine."
Falling into despair and numbness, Demitria realized that at least one person in this world knew her before she became the Crimson Saint, understood her suffering. In Jemael's eyes, she was no longer just a symbol but a living, breathing person. Though Sally also gave her a similar feeling, Demitria knew Sally's unwavering loyalty to the Scarlet Cross, her determination to become High Inquisitor Sally Whitemane, created an inevitable distance between them. Jemar was different. He was also an outsider at the heart of the Scarlet Cross.
On the night before Demitria's departure, Sally had almost abandoned her Scarlet Cross identity, but Demitria knew it was too late. She couldn't drag Sally into this any further.
Now, as she held Jemar, who was on the verge of death, half of her vision was his face, the other half the rushing river beneath the bridge. Inside, she felt unexpectedly calm, even a little sleepy. There were too many memories to recall, but she would rather leave her mind blank.
"I..." Jemar's voice was faint, like the sound of a drop of water hitting the bottom of a vast chasm. "I thought about running away."
The voice of a dying man. It was like the distant echo of something fragile.
"You don't need to apologize," she whispered into his ear, her mind flashing back to Sally's eyes filled with disbelief and sorrow after she had slapped her. "I thought about it too."
A gush of blood poured from Jemar's chest once more, then he breathed his last. In that endless, crushing, and all-encompassing crimson, Demitria began to hallucinate. She saw blood and flames. Flames burning endlessly over the countless corpses of Scarlet Crusaders. The flood of blood merged into a lake, and on its surface floated the broken banner of the Scarlet Crusade. She heard the wails of the dead—those slain by the Scarlet Cross before they could plead for mercy, all the Crusaders who had died, and the children who had perished before birth because their parents were killed... their children...
She turned back and described her vision to Ethenrion. At first, her voice carried a sob, but it gradually became intense, scorching, like a fierce wind blowing across scorched earth.
Ethenrion drew his sword and slashed her throat.