A little over four years had passed since the start of Sairael’s life as a Saint-in-training. Time had moved in a blur of repetitive motions, as though something unseen was quietly guiding the path forward. Many things had happened during that span. One of the most notable was the departure of the Princess, who had left the kingdom two years earlier in a grand display of fanfare meant to showcase the importance of her political marriage.

  Not only had Sairael found the event difficult to ignore, but nearly every citizen of the empire had attended. The Church itself had arranged a formal send-off for the Princess, honoring her as a former candidate. Sairael and the four remaining Saints-in-training were each tasked with presenting her with a Holy Flower, granting ceremonial “blessings” for her future marriage. Even the Princess’s husband-to-be had arrived in person, escorting her back to what would become her new home.

  Time passed, and the mental and physical torment Sairael endured fractured his mind in ways he could no longer fully understand. Again and again, he had been forced beyond his limits. Now, he found himself unable to recall anything of his previous life beyond that final moment. At times, it felt as though he was slowly losing his sanity—trying to remember what he was even struggling toward in the first place. His thoughts were splintered, unable to determine whether the memories of the life before his return were real at all, or nothing more than illusions born from exhaustion.

  Another change during those four years was Abigail.

  Sairael faintly remembered that, at this point in his first life, Abigail had somehow joined the Saint candidates through underhanded dealings with both the Church and the royal family. Yet in this life, he had not seen even a trace of her presence within the Church. He wasn’t sure anymore whether he was truly reliving the same path he once had. The unease that settled in his chest whenever he noticed these subtle differences only worsened his already fragile mental state.

  At present, Sairael waited quietly for his next assigned task. One of the junior priests—Sir Jonathan, who in his first life would later betray him—was collecting the scriptures Sairael was meant to study. Now ten years old, Sairael had begun advanced scripture lessons. The earlier editions had long since been memorized by heart, copied endlessly over the last four years until the words felt etched into his bones.

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  “Junior Saint Sairael, your scriptures,” a low, respectful voice called out.

  Sairael blinked, momentarily dazed, before straightening his slightly relaxed posture. He stepped forward and accepted the holy book, moving it carefully to the stand on his desk. His hands adjusted the tome with practiced precision, opening it to the first page. His touch was smooth and deliberate, careful not to damage the fragile text.

  “Thank you, Sir Jonathan,” he said. His voice was slightly lower than that of most girls his age, but carefully moderated—softened with the femininity he had been forced to learn.

  The junior priest gave a small bow and stepped back, folding his hands as he waited. Sairael began transcribing the old testament into a fresh booklet, preserving the sacred words as instructed. Time passed quietly, marked only by the faint scratch of ink against parchment and the gentle rustle of pages set aside to dry.

  By the time Sairael finished, dawn had already begun to creep into the sky. Neither he nor Jonathan had left the room—just as they never did—remaining until the task was complete. Sairael closed the ancient scripture with care and returned it to Jonathan, who finally offered a subdued goodnight before departing.

  Stretching his stiff fingers, Sairael moved to the window. Pale light bled into the horizon as he stared out at the morning sky. His thoughts were conflicted, unsettled. The book he had just transcribed was the very one Abigail had ruined in his first life. That memory—one of the few that remained clear—had resurfaced while he worked. He remembered showing the damage to Sir Jonathan, only to be punished for weeks in the prayer chamber to “repent” for defiling a holy text.

  This time, the transcription was flawless.

  That difference alone was enough to make him uneasy. Every deviation made him fear that he had altered something crucial—changed a step without realizing it. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his mind refused to recall enough of his previous life to identify where things had diverged. Sometimes he thought it was because the Princess had not vanished, but instead left through marriage. Other times, he suspected it was Abigail’s failure to become a candidate at all.

  But none of those moments were within his control. Nor could he have changed them even if he had wanted to—every waking hour had been consumed by training.

  A deep sigh escaped him as he closed his eyes and leaned lightly against the window frame, pushing the gnawing worry aside. Even if things were changing, there was nothing he could do now. Dwelling on it would only fracture him further.

  Soon, he would be named Saint. The final remaining candidate was scheduled to leave by the end of the week—the notice had already been sent. With Abigail absent from the path this time, Sairael would be appointed earlier than before. What that would mean, he did not know. This time, he hadn’t even heard a whisper of the rumored betrothal that had followed his ascension in his first life.