The announcement came quietly.

  No bells rang. No crowds gathered. No holy fanfare followed the words. Instead, the notice was delivered as most things were within the Church—through a junior priest who spoke in a subtle tone, as if offering nothing more than a simple reminder.

  Sairael was informed just after morning prayer.

  “You will remain within the inner sanctum today,” the Head Priest said, his voice smooth and measured. “There will be no lessons, no copying, no fasting. You are to rest.”

  Rest.

  The word felt foreign.

  For nearly four years, rest had been treated as indulgence—something he had always been told was reserved only for the most important moments. Those who served in the name of the Gods were not meant to possess such luxuries.

  Sairael bowed, as he had been trained to do. “Yes, Head Priest.”

  The man studied him for a long moment, eyes sharp beneath their aged calm. There was something evaluative in that gaze, something that pressed against Sairael’s skin as if weighing how much of him remained intact.

  “Tomorrow,” the priest continued, “the final rites will be completed.”

  He did not say Saint. He did not say ascension. He did not say chosen.

  Yet the unspoken words carried more weight than those spoken aloud. After this brief moment of rest, Sairael would no longer be the child of his father’s house. He would become Sairael—Saint, chosen by the Gods. His future would be bound entirely to what the Church deemed fit for him.

  Tomorrow, Sairael would no longer be a candidate.

  Tomorrow, he would belong to Heaven—or to the Church’s interpretation of it.

  The Head Priest dismissed him with a gentle wave, already turning away. Sairael retreated without a sound, his feet carrying him through corridors he knew too well. Stone floors worn smooth by centuries of reverence. Walls heavy with incense residue and whispered prayers that had long since lost their sincerity.

  The inner sanctum was quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Sunlight filtered through narrow stained-glass windows, casting fractured colors across the floor—reds, golds, pale blues. Beautiful. Distant. Untouchable. Sairael lowered himself onto a cushioned bench near the far wall, folding his hands neatly in his lap.

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  He waited.

  Time stretched.

  Minutes bled into hours, and still no one came. No priests. No attendants. No summons for purification. No whispered corrections. It was as though the Church had withdrawn its hands all at once, leaving him suspended in an unfamiliar stillness.

  His body didn’t know what to do with it.

  Without tasks to anchor him, the ache beneath his ribs surfaced. Hunger gnawed faintly. Fatigue pressed against his limbs. And beneath it all, something colder stirred—a sense of approaching finality.

  Tomorrow.

  He tried to remember his first ascension.

  The memory slipped through his grasp like water through his fingers.

  He knew it had been painful. He knew there had been chanting, hands placed upon his head, holy power forced into activation until his vision fractured into white and gold. He knew he had knelt before an altar that felt more like an execution block than a blessing.

  But the details were gone.

  Only the emotion remained.

  Fear.

  Not of death—but of being seen too clearly, too late.

  Sairael’s fingers tightened slightly in his lap.

  I’m forgetting again, he realized dimly.

  The thought should have frightened him. Instead, it settled into him like resignation. Perhaps this was part of the design. Perhaps Heaven had never intended him to remember everything—only enough to keep walking forward.

  A faint ripple passed through the air.

  Sairael’s breath caught.

  The shimmer—colorless yet comforting, light without hue—flickered briefly at the edge of his vision. His mind sharpened for a heartbeat, clarity slicing through the fog like a blade.

  You are still here, something seemed to whisper—not in words, but in certainty.

  The sensation faded almost immediately, leaving behind only the echo of warmth.

  Sairael exhaled slowly.

  That presence—whatever it was—had become constant. The purification baths, the prayers… they all seemed to feed that strange, colorless light, allowing it to grow stronger. He often felt it lingering at the edges of his awareness, ever present.

  Perhaps that was why he still existed as himself at all.

  Footsteps approached.

  Sairael straightened instantly, posture snapping back into flawless form. A junior priest entered, carrying a folded garment of pure white cloth.

  “You are to wear this for the final rites,” the priest said, placing it reverently beside him. “You will eat tonight. A full meal. Consider it… preparation.”

  Preparation.

  The priest hesitated, then added quietly, “It will be the last meal you take as you are now.”

  Sairael nodded. “Thank you.”

  The priest left without another word.

  Left alone once more, Sairael stared at the folded garment.

  White.

  Always white.

  Purity, they called it.

  But white stained more easily than any other color.

  He reached out and touched the fabric. It was soft—too soft, almost indulgent against skin that had known only restraint. For a fleeting moment, he wondered if this was mercy.

  The thought faded as quickly as it came.

  Outside, the Church continued as it always had. Prayers were spoken. Bells rang on schedule. The faithful knelt and rose, believing in a holiness that did not include him.

  Tomorrow, they would call him Saint.

  Tomorrow, Heaven would close its fist.

  Sairael lowered his gaze and waited, breath steady, heart quiet.

  He had walked this path once before.

  And even if his memories were crumbling—

  —even if the world shifted beneath his feet—

  He would walk it again.

  Because there was no other choice left.