"Where is she?"
"Wha—"
"WHERE IS SHE?!"
Arzhen's scoffing, confused face was the last clear thing he remembered. Everything after was a red-hazed blur. He mindlessly stormed out of the temple, through the city gates, and into the deep woods. Somewhere. Anywhere. Wherever she might have been left.
Cecilia… Of course Arzhen wouldn't tell him. That fool would have left her to die in a ditch if he hadn't already killed her outright.
Memories of her surfaced in his mind. Her sea-glass eyes, a shifting mix of blue, green, and grey… her gentle smile, her sharp teases, her quiet, formidable wisdom…
"You work so hard for someone who doesn't respect anyone, or the world," he had once accused her.
"What do you mean I don't respect anyone?" she had asked, genuinely curious. "I respect you."
"Hah." He had scoffed then, too proud to admit how much that simple statement meant.
Cecilia Araceli might not have been a true Saintess. But she was fundamentally different from every single sycophant and snake in that temple today. And in their shared, cynical understanding of the world, that made the two of them alike.
When everyone else conveniently forgot that Cecilia's "ill omens" had fortified the coastal towns against the last hurricane, he remembered. When they dismissed her "warnings of collapse" that closed the unstable mines a week before they caved in, he did not.
But why cling to inconvenient truths when you could bask in pleasant, comfortable lies?
As the cheers for Ruby's gentle, empty prophecy had washed over the temple, Eastiel had tried to convince himself this was for the best. He knew the foundation of the world was growing weaker, all while it preened, believing itself stronger than ever.
But he had preferred the thought of Cecilia being free of that crushing burden.
No. He had never hated Cecilia. He only hated what the world had forced "Saintess Cecilia" to become.
Political marriage with Arzhen Vasiliev? That shortsighted, arrogant fool?
Hah.
And now? Had he killed her? After everything?
All her intelligence, all her careful precautions, the Meleth Flower, the agreement she'd made with him, and he had still murdered her.
Eastiel had always said, to anyone who would listen, that Cecilia was better off never being a Saintess at all. The world always assumed he despised her.
No.
No one in this wretched world had admired Cecilia Araceli more than him.
His idol. His muse. His role model.
"If you were never a saintess, you wouldn't need to marry him," he had once told her.
"Correct, Lord Eastiel. You're smart," she had smiled at him. "But don't hate him too much. Let's believe in him a little bit more."
He had once prayed she was wrong. Now, he would give anything for her to have been right. That Arzhen would never hurt her. And yes, Arzhen might never be able to hurt her in a way that truly mattered to her… but did that matter if the bastard could just… kill her?
"Cecilia…"
Hours later, Eastiel finally collapsed, his strength spent. His breath came in ragged sobs.
"Ah…" he gasped, his own claws tearing at the skin over his heart, hoping he could physically rip out the agony. "Where are you, Cecilia…"
Tears, hot and shameful, fell to the forest floor.
"I was wrong—" his voice broke, a raw confession to the uncaring trees. "—please be our Saintess—"
He had thought that by dethroning her, he could save her.
He was a fool.
Those vile beasts… those two-faced people… he had underestimated the sheer depth of their evil.
"Please… God… whoever is listening…" he begged, his forehead pressed into the dirt. "Bring her back."
His golden eyes snapped open, the despair within them igniting into a bottomless, incandescent hatred.
Bring her back, or he'd send everyone else straight to her side.
***
"A year of prosperity, bountiful harvests, golden peace."
Cecilia sneered as she read the words nailed to the city bulletin board. So, the bitch had decided to completely ignore her warnings.
Back in her office at the temple, the one she'd likely never see again, were meticulously prepared predictions of multiple disasters slated for the coming year.
She had spent years compiling that data. How dare Ruby brush it all aside and issue a feel-good prophecy? Was she truly that blind, or was this a deliberate political move to make her debut prophecy a crowd-pleaser?
A year ago, Cecilia had received a seemingly routine report from the northern territories. It spoke of newly discovered mines, opened without prior extensive research, and a sudden influx of new wool products hitting the market.
The entire operation was structured to benefit one family alone. The Arctic Werewolf tribe, the Delanivis.
Cecilia had always known she wasn't a true Saintess. Ironically, that was precisely why she was so sensitive to things that seemed too convenient, too much like a "miracle."
When she looked deeper, all paths led back to one woman.
Ruby Vaiva.
She'd heard that name years ago. Ruby had been the number one candidate for the Saintess title before she'd vanished without a trace.
With the prime candidate vanished, they dragged Cecilia, an orphan known only for her uncanny insight and helpful nature, from the clinic she'd been adopted into, and thrust her onto the altar as a makeshift replacement.
It was enough to calm the public and stabilize the empire's political game. After all, the Iondora Empire's prosperity hinged on its ability to consistently produce a future-seeing Saintess every generation.
That day a year ago, Cecilia had known two things with certainty. Ruby Vaiva would return, and this woman was the first and true love of her own bonded mate, Arzhen Vasiliev.
Well, their bond had always been one of political convenience, so the news wasn't a blow to her heart. If anything, it was a matter of logistics. She had even spoken to Arzhen about Ruby's potential return. After six years bonded to the man, she felt he deserved to know. She wasn't the type to hide things.
Not to mention, she'd already begun planning their clean, safe separation. She would find the rare Meleth Flower for them.
"You… you truly agree to sever our bond?" he had asked once, a strange look in his eyes.
Cecilia had simply nodded. "I won't stand in the way of your reunion. Just let me find the flower first."
And then, something shifted.
Suddenly, after that day, Arzhen became… gentle. He was kind, almost loving. He agreed to her wishes, bought her gifts, and would talk with her for hours. For a woman he had treated with cold neglect for six years, this sudden warmth was bittersweet. So, Arzhen was capable of love after all. It just took the prospect of reuniting with his true love to bring it out.
But perhaps it was all a lie. Everything had been a lie.
It was all for the sake of Ruby's smooth return.
Because the moment Ruby did return, Cecilia felt the change almost immediately. Important documents began to vanish from her desk. Crucial reports no longer reached her in a timely manner.
It had only been three months since Ruby's return, but in that time, no one had bothered to tell her one critical piece of information. That Ruby had accidentally bonded with Nikolas, the Arctic Werewolf Chief's son.
They had deliberately hidden it from her.
Arzhen. It must be him.
So, while she had believed she was preparing for a safe, mutual separation… she had been walking straight into an ambush.
In front of the bulletin board, Cecilia's hand clenched into a white-knuckled fist.
She should've known.
No. She had known. On some level, she had seen the signs.
But she simply couldn't bring herself to acknowledge the lie. She had clung to the fantasy, because for a time, Arzhen had been a very important man to her.
It was a cruel irony that the forest where he'd finally killed her was the same one where she had almost died eight years ago, a year before their bond was formalized. Back then, he had been her hero, the one who'd saved her.
In time, she discovered that even that rescue had been staged. A carefully orchestrated event to create a politically convenient "fairytale" love story. Well, God forbid a woman dared to dream, even for a moment.
For someone who prided herself on predicting the future and deducing fate… she had been the biggest fool of all. All it took was wanting to believe the wrong man. But even if she could turn back time… could she ever have truly escaped the intricate, suffocating web of their political machinati—
Grasp—
Cecilia flinched. She looked down at her hand, finding her clenched fingers gently pried open and enveloped in a warm, strong grasp. She looked up and was met with a smile so radiant it almost blinded her.
"How could you be this upset?" the man teased, his voice a familiar, grounding rumble. "You're the one who boasted about being a fake saintess, and now you're worried over the new one's prophecy?"
Cecilia could only look up at Oathran helplessly.
Heh.
What a way to pull her spirit back from the brink.
.
.
.
.
.
.
---------------------------------
Snippets for next chapters:
"Do you have any idea what a bond does to a beast?"
"You were covered in his scent yesterday," the man growled directly into her ear, his breath hot. "That nauseatingly thick scent he left on you—" His voice was a raw, animalistic sound. "It makes me go crazy…"
"Are you so eager to get covered in mine now?"
"Lord Oathran… but…" Cecilia's voice was small, her eyes widening with a dawning suspicion. "I'm a virgin. And Arzhen… he never touched me. Not even to hold my hand."
"Oathran," she began, her voice barely a whisper. "Can you cover me with your scent?"
"Is it selfish to ask that of you," she continued, "when all I want is to eliminate all of his trace from my body?"
Something broke.
Something. Everything. Everywhere. It was the world. But it was intangible.
Oathran's hand tightened around hers.
"It is an honor, Saintess Cecilia."