Chapter 4: The Sweetness of Pain

The temple bells tolled in the distance, their echoes a reminder of the structure that governed every waking moment of Elara's life. Dawn had barely kissed the sky, yet the priests and priestesses were already preparing for the morning prayers. The corridors of the holy sanctuary bustled with quiet footsteps, murmured chants, and the scent of burning incense.

Elara walked among them, her expression serene, her posture perfect. To any observer, she was the image of piety. The perfect Saintess. A girl so pure, so gentle, so filled with divine light that she could never harbor darkness within her heart.

If only they knew.

Beneath the long, flowing sleeves of her ceremonial robes, Elara's fingers twitched. Every step she took, every moment she remained in the presence of others, was an act of restraint. The dull ache of yesterday's indulgence still lingered, a reminder of the solace she had carved into her own flesh. It was not enough. It was never enough. The need simmered beneath her skin, waiting, pleading to be fed. But she had to be careful. The temple was no longer as forgiving as the solitude of her chambers.

She had to be smart about it.

As the sermon began, Elara lowered herself to her knees on the marble floor, surrounded by rows of priests and acolytes. The High Priest stood at the altar, his voice a deep, soothing murmur as he led them in prayer. The rhythmic cadence of his words blended with the flickering candlelight and the scent of aged parchment, forming a cocoon of stillness.

Elara bowed her head, folding her hands together. She should have been focused on the prayer, on the divine words that spilled from the High Priest's lips. But her thoughts drifted elsewhere—to the sharp edge of a hairpin hidden beneath her sleeve, to the sensation of steel kissing skin.

The temptation was unbearable.

She let out a slow, measured breath, adjusting her posture as she carefully maneuvered her fingers beneath the fabric. The metal was cool to the touch, almost soothing in contrast to the warmth of her skin. No one was looking. No one would notice. If she was careful—

"Elara."

Her entire body stiffened.

The voice was soft, barely above a whisper, yet it sent ice coursing through her veins. She turned her head slightly, enough to see the girl kneeling beside her.

Sophia Everhart.

Elara swallowed, forcing a serene expression as she met the blonde's gaze. Sophia had always been beautiful, even as a character in the game. Her golden hair cascaded in soft waves, her emerald eyes held an unshakable resolve. She had been the game's protagonist, the one meant to gather allies, to forge bonds, to defeat the darkness. And yet, in this world, something about her gaze felt different. Sharper. More knowing.

"Are you well?" Sophia asked, her voice quiet enough that only Elara could hear.

Elara forced a smile. "Of course."

Sophia's gaze flickered downward, and Elara had to resist the urge to check her own hands. Had she moved too much? Had she given something away? No, it wasn't possible. She had been careful. And yet, the way Sophia studied her felt intrusive. Unnerving.

The blonde hesitated before murmuring, "Your hands are trembling."

Elara's breath caught in her throat.

Quickly, she folded her fingers tighter, forcing stillness into them. "I am simply cold," she lied smoothly.

Sophia didn't look convinced. But before she could say anything more, the High Priest called for the final blessing, and the prayer came to an end. The congregation rose in unison, their voices harmonizing in a final chant before dispersing.

Elara turned swiftly, eager to escape. But Sophia caught her wrist before she could take a single step.

"Elara."

The touch was gentle, but the weight of it sent panic coursing through her. She looked up, meeting those unrelenting green eyes.

"If something is troubling you, you can tell me," Sophia said, her grip tightening ever so slightly. "I won't judge."

Elara's heartbeat hammered against her ribs. She forced another soft smile, the perfect mask of the Saintess. "There is nothing to confess."

A long silence stretched between them.

Finally, Sophia let go, her expression unreadable. "If that is what you wish."

Elara turned before she could waver. She walked swiftly through the temple halls, keeping her expression serene even as her pulse pounded in her ears. She didn't slow until she reached the safety of her private chambers.

Once the door was shut behind her, she exhaled sharply, her hands trembling once more. That had been too close. Too reckless.

Slowly, she unfastened the hairpin from her sleeve, holding it between her fingers. The temptation surged once more, stronger than before. She pressed the tip against the inside of her wrist, a soft, sharp prick that sent shivers up her spine.

The pain was real. Tangible. Proof of her own existence.

A breathy sigh escaped her lips as she pressed a little harder, just enough for a thin line of red to bloom against her skin. Her eyelids fluttered as the familiar rush coursed through her veins, a wave of warmth and relief.

She tilted her head back, savoring it. This was hers. Her secret. No matter what happened, no matter how closely Sophia or anyone else watched, she would not give this up.

Pain was her sanctuary.

And no one would take it away from her.

The next morning, Elara moved with even greater caution. She had nearly been caught once—she would not allow it to happen again. The weight of Sophia's scrutiny still lingered, a reminder that she needed to be more careful, more precise.

And yet, the urges did not fade. If anything, they grew stronger. The thrill of near-discovery had only added fuel to the fire.

By the time the afternoon sermon concluded, she had already planned her next indulgence.

She excused herself early, claiming fatigue, and retreated to the abandoned wing of the temple where old relics gathered dust. It was the perfect place. No one would disturb her here.

Her hands trembled as she reached into the folds of her robe, pulling out a thin, sharp needle she had stolen from the infirmary earlier that day. The thought of it had been enough to make her breath hitch with anticipation. Now, as she pressed the tip against the inside of her thigh, she shivered.

A slow, deliberate press. A sharp bite of pain. A small drop of crimson welling against her pale skin.

Her lips parted in a silent gasp.

She did it again. And again. Small, controlled pricks, each one sending tiny bursts of sensation through her nerves. She exhaled shakily, her head resting against the cold stone wall as she reveled in the warmth spreading through her body.

This was what she needed. This was what kept her sane.

A floorboard creaked in the distance.

Elara froze, her breath catching in her throat. Her heart pounded as she swiftly covered the marks, stuffing the needle back into her sleeve. She pressed herself into the shadows, straining to listen.

Footsteps. Drawing closer.

She bit her lip, forcing herself to remain calm. If she was caught here—

The footsteps stopped. Silence filled the air.

And then, a voice. Amused. Curious.

"I wonder," Sophia murmured from the doorway, "just what our dear Saintess is hiding."

Elara's blood ran cold.

Sophia was watching her.

And she was enjoying it.