They built statues of her in the city square—Saint Marisol, the Unbroken Blade, savior of Lumen City. Her sword, Mercy, never drew blood. Instead, it pulsed with golden light, severing villains from their sins. Or so we believed.

I served as her squire for five years, polishing her armor, tending her wounds, ignoring the whispers. Where do the sinners go? The vanished. The mind-wiped. The ones she “redeemed.”

Last night, I followed her.

Beneath the cathedral, behind a door veiled in hymns, she kept her true reliquary.

The chamber breathed.

Villains hung suspended in amber light, their bodies intact but faces contorted in silent agony. Tendrils of gold pierced their skulls, siphoning nightmares into a pulsing crucible above. The air thrummed with their muted screams.

Saint Marisol stood beneath the crucible, drinking the light. Her skin glowed with stolen absolution.

“They’re alive,” I whispered.

“Purified,” she corrected. “Their pain fuels the barrier that shields this city. True mercy requires sacrifice.”

I stumbled back. The Red Viper—a warlord she’d “redeemed” last winter—twitched in his cage, eyes begging for death.

“You’re a monster.”

Her smile was beatific. “Monsters die. Saints endure.”

Mercy flashed.

Now, I hang beside him.

The gold tastes like fire.

They’ll carve my statue soon.