Chapter 2: The Saintess' Secret Pain

The candlelight flickered against the pristine marble walls of the Saintess' private chambers, casting restless shadows that danced with each uncertain breath she took. Elara sat on the edge of her bed, fingers tracing along the pale skin of her wrist, her breath slow and measured, her heart hammering in her chest like a caged bird. The realization of her situation had settled in like a weight she could not escape. This was her body now. This was her reality. And with it, the impulses that had once been mere words on a screen had become an undeniable part of her existence.

The dull ache of her earlier collapse had faded, but it had left behind a lingering sensation, a whisper against her nerves that she could not ignore. A shiver coursed down her spine, and she exhaled slowly, her fingers tightening against the sleeve of her nightgown. The thoughts were growing louder. The need.

She swallowed. There was no one here. No one to see, no one to judge. If she was careful, if she kept it hidden, then it would be fine. The Saintess had always suffered in silence. That was how she had written her, how she had designed her fate. It was only natural that she would continue to play the role.

With shaking hands, she reached for the silver hairpin resting on her bedside table, its delicate form catching the candlelight. She turned it between her fingers, her breath shallow as she pressed the pointed tip against her palm. A slight pressure. A sharp sting. Her lips parted, a soft gasp slipping free as warmth bloomed against her skin. It was so small, so insignificant, but the rush of sensation that followed sent a shudder of relief through her limbs.

She pressed harder.

A thin line of red welled against her pale flesh, and her vision blurred for a moment, overwhelmed by the sheer realness of it. The pain was hers. No longer just imagined, no longer a fleeting fantasy. This body, this world—it responded to her, obeyed her desires in a way she had never truly comprehended before.

The small wound throbbed, a pulse of heat that spread up her arm, curling through her stomach like fire. She let out a trembling sigh, savoring the sting as she tilted her hand, watching the crimson bead swell before trailing down her wrist. It was beautiful in its own way. A secret indulgence meant only for her.

But it wasn't enough.

Her free hand clenched against the fabric of her nightgown, nails digging into her thigh as she bit her lip. She needed more. Needed to feel it deeper, needed to prove that this was real, that she was here, that this body was hers and not some lingering illusion. The hairpin trembled between her fingers as she traced it along the delicate skin of her forearm, just below where the golden embroidery of her sleeve rested.

She hesitated. If she went too far, someone would notice. The attendants, the priests—they would grow suspicious. And yet, the thought of stopping left an emptiness curling in her chest.

Slowly, deliberately, she pressed down, dragging the pin in a thin, shallow line across her arm. The sting sharpened into something more potent, and a quiet whimper escaped her lips before she could stop it. She bit down harder, muffling the sound as warmth spread across her skin. Another line. Then another. Each one precise, delicate, nothing deep enough to scar. Nothing deep enough to leave permanent evidence. Just enough to feel.

Her breathing quickened, her pulse hammering in her ears as she watched the red lines form, stark against her pale skin. It was hypnotic. Addictive. A secret only she could know. A pleasure only she could understand.

A knock at the door shattered the trance.

Elara froze, the hairpin slipping from her grasp to clatter against the floor. Panic seized her, cold and sharp, as she yanked her sleeve down over her arm, pressing it tightly against the fresh wounds. The blood would soak through if she wasn't careful. She swallowed hard, forcing her voice to remain steady.

"Y-Yes?"

The door creaked open slightly, and the same silver-haired attendant from earlier peeked inside, her expression unreadable. "Saintess, are you still awake? The High Priest wished to check on you before morning prayers."

Elara exhaled shakily, willing her trembling hands to still. "I am well. Tell him he need not worry."

The girl hesitated for a moment before nodding. "As you wish, Saintess. Please rest well."

The door clicked shut, and Elara let out a slow, shaky breath. Her heartbeat was still racing, adrenaline thrumming beneath her skin. Carefully, she lifted her sleeve, inspecting the damage. The cuts were shallow, the blood already beginning to dry, but the evidence of what she had done remained stark and undeniable.

She knew this was dangerous. She knew it was foolish. But as she traced a finger along the marks, shivering at the residual sting, she also knew that she would do it again.

Because this was who she was. And no matter how hard she tried to deny it, no matter how well she played the role of the Saintess, this desire—this need—was something she could never erase.

And sooner or later, someone was going to find out.