Book 1: Epilogue

  For the first week after she “awoke,” she wandered in a dense fog of confusion. She had no idea where she was, who these people around her were, or why her head throbbed with scattered fragments of memories she couldn’t fully piece together. Her surroundings were bleak and grimy—run-down walls, squeaking floorboards, the pungent smell of dampness and decay. It was, she would discover, an orphanage that was on the verge of kicking her out for being another mouth to feed without any means to pay.

  Just as the matron was about to shove her out onto the street, the floodgates of her memory burst open. She remembered everything—her name, Hana, her life back in modern-day Seoul, her job as the personal secretary to the illustrious and somewhat infamous Myeong Mirae. She remembered the near-illicit thrill of seducing her boss’s chauffeur, Mr. Sung, and the dangerous risk of being caught. She remembered her boss, Miss Myeong—how she both hated and admired the woman with an obsession that bordered on love. Or perhaps simply just hate.

  Yet there she was: alone, penniless, and apparently stranded in what felt like a completely different world.

  Scant seconds after her mind cleared, the situation became even more bizarre. People dressed in strange robes appeared out of nowhere and whisked her away, speaking in hushed tones of service to a deity. They dragged her down half-collapsed corridors and out to a battered carriage, pulling her from the orphanage before she could even catch her breath. At first, the only thought that crossed her mind was how strange it was that they mentioned a Goddess—she had always heard that the God of the Bible was male. Perhaps they were some peculiar, new-age cult.

  She would soon learn that her assumption was partially correct. This was, in fact, a cult—one far larger and more serious than she could have ever imagined—devoted to a so-called Goddess of Justice named Avaria. Apparently, they were the main “Church” of the region she had found herself in. The most inexplicable part was that she could somehow understand their every word. Despite the foreign syllables rolling off their tongues, her mind comprehended it all perfectly.

  They were rough with her, especially when it came to their bizarre rites. At one point, they hauled her to a sacred pool and performed what they called a “baptism,” holding her under the water so long that she nearly drowned. When she finally emerged, gasping and hacking for air, they proclaimed her a potential Avatar—or Saint—of their Goddess. Then they gave her a new name, one she barely registered at the time because her lungs still burned from want of oxygen.

  While submerged in the ritual pool, she remembered the moment she had “died.” The memory had slithered back like a vivid nightmare: a grand charity gala, hushed whispers and polite chatter overlaying the soft strains of a string quartet. All eyes were on Myeong Mirae, who glided through the crowd like royalty in a designer gown. Lately, her boss’s behavior had been odd—she spoke in a strangely antiquated form of Korean, sprinkling archaic turns of phrase into everyday conversation. It was as though she were slipping into a different persona altogether.

  Then, amid the glittering lights and the clink of champagne glasses, a figure emerged from the fringes of the crowd—a man whose rage contorted his face into something feral. Hana guessed that he was one of Mirae’s many “casualties,” a disgruntled former business partner or upset politician—no one could quite keep track of all the people who had fallen prey to Mirae’s ruthless climb. In the space of a heartbeat, he drew a gun.

  Before the muzzle flashed, Sang-woo lunged forward to shield Mirae with his body. Without any conscious thought, Hana hurled herself forward too, an instinct deeper than reason compelling her to protect him. In that split second, their eyes met and she felt an odd jealousy as she saw him embracing Mirae.

  Then darkness swallowed her. A sudden impact smashed into her chest, stealing her breath.

  ***

  It was almost comical, in a way: Hana, someone who only ever observed a polite nod to religion on Christmas or Easter, now found herself being hailed as a Saint in a land of magic, dungeons, dragons, and monsters. Had she not experienced every excruciating second of this lunacy herself, she would have suspected it was one of Miss Myeong’s outlandish business ventures—an expensive game that the heiress had secretly poured funding into.

  Yes, Myeong Mirae. Her boss, the charming, cunning, half-North Korean defector’s daughter who had clawed her way to the top of the Myeong Group and turned Korea into her own personal playground. Hana had lived in awe—and occasionally in dread—of that woman’s almost supernatural ability to manipulate every situation in her favor.

  Even under the oppressive rule of an abusive, alcoholic mother, Miss Myeong had soared to the top of her class in school and at the same time dominated the entertainment world as a singer. Interviews from her classmates painted her as radiant and irresistible; both men and women flocked to her side as if drawn by her raw magnetism.

  But Hana had witnessed the behind-the-scenes reality: the sweat, the sleepless nights, the relentless research, the ruthless drive. She knew how carefully Mirae curated each acquisition, how meticulously she visited and vetted every venture. Nothing came easy, though Mirae’s talent made it seem otherwise.

  To Hana, it was simultaneously maddening and seductive. She had hated being Mirae’s secretary—being used, abused, forced to carry out tasks both legitimate and borderline illegal. It grated on her pride that, as a Law graduate of Seoul National University, she was sometimes relegated to fetching coffee and smoothing out her boss’s daily chaos. Yet she remained helplessly fascinated, respect warring with contempt every time she watched Mirae turn yet another impossible situation into a stunning success.

  The only true solace in Hana’s life had been her affair with Sang-woo Sung, the chauffeur and bodyguard. Where Miss Myeong treated Hana like mere property, Sang-woo treated her like a prized treasure. Their physical connection was intense—so intense that there were days she could hardly walk afterward. And the emotional release was equally vital; it was an escape from the stress of dancing attendance on her tyrannical, mesmerizing boss. They giggled over Mirae’s transparent lies, cooed over her childish tantrums, and conspired in secret corners of lavish hotel lobbies, feeding one another comfort. It was that stolen pleasure of defying Mirae right under her nose that made Hana feel alive.

  Even so, Hana had to laugh at how often she still found herself thinking about Mirae. Now, stuck in a cult stronghold in a new world, half her thoughts were consumed by the woman who had dominated her life for so long. Love? Hate? Obsession? All of the above? The lines blurred together.

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  ***

  Sitting on a wooden stool in a cramped room, she began what was meant to be her afternoon lunch. She stirred the sludge of the gruel, took a tentative sip, and made a face at the blandness. For a fleeting moment, she remembered the gourmet meals she used to share with Sang-woo in fancy restaurants—sometimes using Miss Myeong’s black card without permission.

  These people told her that simple food would bring out her innate divinity.

  Letting out a small, humorless laugh, she lifted a hand to touch her hair. It was silver now, long and flowing down her back. Her reflection in the mirror had shown a new face—an almost angelic visage that belied her true personality. The people around her had taken to calling her “the Saint of Silver.” How utterly absurd that she, of all people, would be labeled a Saint.

  The cultists continued to fret around her, talking in low, reverent tones. They spoke of prophecy, of justice, of the Goddess Avaria, and how a shining Saint would lead them to victory. Even though she understood the words, it all seemed so surreal. Still, she adapted. She had to. After years of being dragged around by Mirae’s whims—sometimes to boardrooms in Tokyo, sometimes to seedy underbellies of Hong Kong—Hana had learned to roll with the punches. If Miss Myeong had taught her one useful skill, it was that utter serenity under pressure could be a potent weapon.

  A sudden pang of longing squeezed her heart. She pictured Mirae’s dazzling grin as she crushed another business deal, or the way she’d wink conspiratorially when leading Hana into some outlandish scheme. She thought of the humiliations—fetching coffee at midnight, forging signatures on suspicious documents, covering up drunken brawls. And yes, the moment Hana decided to take something for herself by “stealing” the affections of Mr. Sung.

  Her boss had always been dishonest, but the worst lies Myeong Mirae told were the ones she told herself. Hana had seen how Mirae’s gaze would soften whenever her chauffeur and bodyguard, Sang-woo, stepped into view, her eyes wide and starry like a lovelorn teenager’s. It was almost comical, observing someone so coldly brilliant fall into such an obvious infatuation.

  In the privacy of her cramped apartment, Hana would sometimes laugh at the memory of Mirae’s starstruck expression. For all her tactical genius and ruthless ambition, Myeong Mirae could be childlike in her desires—na?ve even, hiding them behind grand gestures and bigger lies. The contrast between her cutthroat business fa?ade and the doe-eyed glances she cast Sang-woo’s way was, in a word, laughable.

  Did Mirae ever guess? Would she care? And, by some cosmic twist, did she have a place in this world too? Impossible, it had to be.

  Sighing, Hana gazed into the distance, imagining all the possibilities. This world was as real as the old one—maybe more so, with its crisp air carrying the faint tang of something else. The pain here was also real; the bruises from her forced baptism had been definitely real. The hunger gnawing at her belly was also very genuine. And yet, for all the hardship, an odd feeling of excitement lit her veins. She had been given a second chance. A chance to do what her boss had done so effortlessly—rise from nothing and claim everything.

  This time, she would no longer have to stand someone else's shadow. It was her story now, to shape as she pleased. Hana would become whomever she needed to be. And maybe—just maybe—if she ever made it back to her old world, she would finally be on equal footing with the woman she both despised and adored: Myeong Mirae.

  However, for now, she had little more than a bowl of flavorless gruel, the dubious “support” of a dangerous cult, and an ancient prophecy hanging over her head like a storm cloud. Hana closed her eyes, drew a slow breath, and tried to steady her nerves. If nothing else, she had discovered one extraordinary advantage: she could do magic. Real magic, the kind that glowed in her hands and made the impossible possible.

  She first learned of her abilities when several high-ranking cult members presented her with a bundle of age-worn scrolls, instructing her to place her hands upon them. Confused, she followed their command—only to watch the scrolls crumble into dust, as if consumed by centuries in a single blink. Where she expected horror or disappointment, the robed men and women seemed oddly delighted. In hushed, breathless voices, they proclaimed it a sign of the Goddess’s favor.

  Over the following days, she realized the scrolls’ power had seeped into her. She started with small spells—a floating orb of flame that danced in her palm, a modest puddle of water conjured from thin air, shards of ice glistening in the torchlight. She even shaped a clod of earth into the vague form of a man, just to see if she could. Each time she succeeded, the cultists erupted in praise, treating her like she was performing miracles. In truth, she found herself enjoying the adulation far more than she cared to admit. So this was how Myeong Mirae must have felt when the world bowed to her achievements.

  Despite her progress, Hana was frustrated by a notable absence in her growing repertoire: she couldn’t heal. Surely a “Saint” should have some miraculous ability to mend wounds or cure illnesses. But alas, she had yet to learn even the simplest healing spell. Rumor circulated among the cultists that one of her scrolls had been stolen—an unthinkable sacrilege, they claimed. If that scroll had contained the knowledge of healing, it was now lost to her.

  ***

  Just a few weeks later, Hana found herself in lavish ceremonial garb, presented at the royal court of King Elidion. Moments before she stepped into the audience chamber, her gaze fell upon someone standing among the courtiers: a woman with blonde hair and delicate Asiatic features—possibly Russian, if Hana had to make a guess. The young girl had an aura about her that was unsettlingly reminiscent of Hana’s old boss. Yet, despite the lack of any real physical resemblance to Mirae, she still made Hana’s blood run cold, fear coiling around her heart. It was impossible…

  She forced herself to shake off the uneasy feeling and proceed with the formalities, bowing deeply to the King. Later, in a private meeting, the monarch made a startling request: he wished for Hana—soon to be known by all as the Saint of Silver—to marry his son, Prince Velens, and lead the country into an age of prosperity. The name sounded almost too pretty for a man, but upon looking at Velens’ portrait, Hana found him every inch the dashing fantasy prince. Precisely her type, in fact. And if she played her cards right, she would become a real princess in this world.

  Still, there was a catch. In this world, she was forced to play the role of a virginal Saint. The very thought made her loins itch with frustration. In truth, Hana had always embraced her sensual side, and being forced to keep that under wraps made her feel like she was suffocating. Yet she also sensed an opportunity. She just needed to be patient and play her part.

  ***

  After accepting the King’s proposal, the cult and the palace officials announced the next stage of her strange new life: she would travel to a town called Meridian, where both the Prince and she would study. The motives behind this were twofold. One, to round out her normal and magical education, ensuring she would be a worthy queen-in-waiting. And two, to encourage the blossoming romance with Velens so that the kingdom might celebrate a grand union between the Saint and the Prince.

  Hana nearly laughed at how easy it sounded—an adolescent boy, brimming with naive confidence, facing a fully experienced woman like herself. She imagined it would be child’s play to seduce him. Her only real concern was how to maintain her saintly image while simultaneously indulging her desires. If there was one thing Hana knew too well, it was how to hide her true intentions behind a polite smile.

  She finished off her paltry meal, or soup, or gruel—whatever the bland mush was—and set the bowl aside, resolute. The King’s formal blessing, the cult’s feverish support, the promise of elevated status, and even the memory of that blonde girl… all of it swirled in her mind like an intoxicating brew.

  They called her “Este Lize, the Saint of Silver.” Very well. She would play the part, just as she had once followed every whim of her old boss. But this time, it would be on her own terms. She would save this kingdom from whatever threat loomed on the horizon… and if that meant seducing a prince, wielding wild new magic, or orchestrating a power play from behind a silly, saintly mask, then so be it.

  And, she decided with a smirk, she would hire a truly competent cook.

  And that’s a wrap on Book 1!

  TO&FQ will be on pause for about two months while Book 1 undergoes editing. However, updates will continue as usual on Patreon.