Chapter 3: The Saintess' Hidden Rituals

Elara awoke before the first light of dawn, the weight of secrecy pressing against her chest. The cool air of the temple brushed against her bare arms as she sat up, careful not to disturb the fresh marks she had left upon herself the night before. The wounds had stopped bleeding, but the lingering sting was a welcome presence—a reminder that this body was hers to control. She let her fingers ghost over the fabric of her nightgown, feeling the dull ache beneath, a quiet comfort only she could understand.

She had spent the last day in careful observation of the priests and attendants, memorizing their schedules, their habits, the moments when she would be left alone. The temple was a place of peace, of prayer, of unwavering devotion. But beneath its serene exterior, Elara had begun carving out a small space for herself—one filled with whispers of indulgence and self-inflicted relief.

Her first task of the morning was as always—prayer. A duty expected of the Saintess, performed in the grand chamber beneath the towering stained-glass windows. She knelt before the altar, hands clasped, voice steady as she recited verses that she had once written into the game's lore. Her lips moved, but her mind was elsewhere—counting the minutes until she would be free of watchful eyes.

As soon as the morning ritual ended, she made her way toward the eastern wing of the temple, where a lesser-used chamber stood in disrepair. No one came here. The old storerooms held only dust and forgotten relics, a perfect place to indulge in what she could no longer resist.

Her hand closed around the silver dagger she had stolen from an altar offering days ago, hidden beneath the folds of her robes. She pressed her back against the cool stone wall, exhaling sharply as she rolled up her sleeve. The wounds from the previous night were still tender, but the hunger for sensation outweighed the caution she should have exercised.

She pressed the tip of the dagger against her inner forearm, just above the old marks. A small puncture—barely enough to break the skin. The sharp sting sent a thrill through her, and she closed her eyes, savoring the feeling before dragging the blade down in a slow, careful line. Her breath hitched, the warmth blooming against her skin once more. It was intoxicating. Addictive.

A quiet creak echoed through the hall outside, and Elara stiffened. She quickly pulled her sleeve down, tucking the dagger back into the folds of her robe before pressing herself against the shadowed corner of the room. Her heart pounded as she listened to the footsteps growing closer.

"Elara?"

Her breath caught at the sound of a voice she recognized. Sister Marianne, one of the older priestesses, had paused near the entrance. Elara schooled her expression, stepping into the dim light with a serene smile.

"Sister?"

Marianne regarded her with a small frown, eyes flicking toward the barely concealed tension in her shoulders. "You shouldn't wander alone. The High Priest worries for your well-being."

"I was merely reflecting," Elara replied smoothly, folding her hands together as if in prayer. "This place brings clarity."

The priestess hesitated before nodding. "Come, child. Breakfast awaits."

Elara exhaled softly, forcing herself to follow without hesitation. She had been careless. But she would be more careful next time.

Because she knew she could not stop. And she wasn't sure she even wanted to.