Clive stood over the Saintess's lifeless body, his sword still slick with blood. The red rage drained from his veins, leaving him cold in the graveyard air.

  He hadn't meant for it to end like this. Even as his body had moved on instinct, even as the sword found its mark, some part of him had hoped for another way. She'd been a monster, yes. But monsters were made, not born.

  [HP +20]

  [MP+20]

  [Power level+20]

  [Clive Weston]

  HP:225

  MP:125

  Power Level: 140

  The moon cast everything in silver, turning her blood black against the white robes. Her face had lost its hardness in death. She looked younger, almost peaceful now. The way she might have looked before the world broke her.

  Clive wiped his blade on the grass and sheathed it. Then, something caught his eye. Something propped against a stone pillar near where the Saintess had first stood. His Canvas of Reality. On it, was a single rose, half-finished. The Saintess must have drawn it while waiting for him.

  Clive stared at the incomplete flower. He took his brush and followed her lines, completing what she’d started. He added depth to the petals she'd sketched, shadows where her light strokes suggested form. Each line felt like a conversation with her ghost. Then he added the surrounding landscape, bushes, and more flowers.

  When he was done, he touched the canvas with power.

  [Background: Rose Garden]

  The graveyard transformed. Roses bloomed from every surface, climbing the tombstones, carpeting the ground, wreathing the ruins in red, white and pink. Their scent filled the air, sweet enough to mask the copper tang of blood.

  The Saintess's body lay in a bed of roses now. Petals drifted down from nowhere, settling on her still form. One landed on her lips, red as blood, red as love, red as all the choices that led to this moment.

  Clive knelt beside her and closed her eyes. The roses rustled around him. Their thorns drew lines of blood on his arms, but he didn’t mind it. Pain for pain. Blood for blood.

  He stood and looked at Isiah's tombstone, now wreathed in white roses. The carved name was clear in the moonlight. Whatever kind of man Isiah had been, he'd been loved. Loved enough to drive someone to madness. Loved enough to damn an entire town.

  Clive pulled out his sketchbook and tore out a single page. On it, quickly but with care, he drew the scene—the Saintess at peace among roses, the moon above, the suggestion of a man's ghost standing watch beside a grave. He folded it carefully and tucked it beneath a stone on Isiah's tomb. Someone should remember them as they'd wanted to be. Not as villain and victim, not as Saintess and templar, but as two people who'd loved each other enough to plan a life with goats and gardens, far from the expectations that had ultimately destroyed them.

  Clive walked from the ruins, leaving the rose garden behind. The garden would fade eventually. The magic was temporary, like all beautiful things. But for tonight, the Saintess would rest in beauty, surrounded by flowers

  The gates of Marblehaven stood open when Clive returned. He was alone. Every templar and priest was either dead or had run away in shame of their guilt.

  [Achievement Unlocked: You alone will survive]

  5% buff to power level when fighting alone.

  People emerged from doorways and alleys as he walked through the streets. First one, then five, then dozens. They followed him in growing numbers. No one spoke. They watched him with weary eyes that held too many questions.

  By the time he reached the town square, half of Marblehaven had gathered. They formed a circle around him, close enough to see the blood on his clothes.

  "Where is the Saintess?" The question came from multiple voices at once, overlapping into a chorus of need.

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Clive turned slowly, taking in the crowd. The truth sat heavy on his tongue.

  She's dead. I killed her. She was turning you all to stone because the church murdered her lover.

  But looking at their faces, desperate, frightened, hopeful, he understood that truth wasn't always kind. These people needed to believe in something. They needed their faith intact, even if that faith had been built on lies and cruelty. Take that away now, tell them their Saintess had been the monster all along, and what would they have left?

  "The Devil," Clive began, his voice carrying across the square. "He corrupted the sacred grounds, tried to claim the Saintess's power for himself."

  The crowd pressed closer. Someone sobbed.

  "She fought him." The lie came easier than he'd expected.

  "But where is she?" A woman pushed forward, tears streaming down her face. "Where is our Saintess?"

  "She gave everything to save you." Not entirely a lie. In death, she had saved them, just not in the way they'd believe. "The battle against such evil demanded a price. She knew that. She paid it willingly. And now the Devil will trouble Marblehaven no more."

  An old priest stepped forward, his face etched with disbelief. "The Saintess... is gone?"

  Clive met his eyes steadily. This man had probably known about Isiah, might have even supported what the church fathers had done. But accusing him now would accomplish nothing except more pain.

  "She died as she lived," Clive said carefully. "In service to Marblehaven."

  A strange sound rippled through the crowd. It wasn’t the sound of crying, nor cheers. It was the noise of people who didn't know how to feel, who'd been saved and lost their savior in the same moment. Some fell to their knees in prayer. Others stood frozen, processing a world without the Saintess's presence.

  A young woman approached, holding a basket of bread. Her hands shook as she offered it to him. "For... for helping her. For being there when she... when she needed someone."

  Clive accepted the bread. "She wasn't alone," he said quietly. "I want you to know that. At the end, she wasn't alone."

  The woman nodded and retreated, clutching that small comfort.

  More offerings appeared—coins he couldn't accept due to his artistic restrictions, food he had no appetite for, blessings from people who didn't realize they were thanking their would-be killer's executioner. He stood there and accepted their gratitude with a smile that felt like broken glass.

  "Will there be a funeral?" someone asked.

  “I’ll leave that to the church.” But even as Clive said that, he thought of the rose garden. "She's at peace, though. Sometimes that's ceremony enough."

  The crowd began to disperse slowly, people drifting back to their homes in twos and threes, some still praying, others whispering about what would happen to Marblehaven now. Amidst the thinning crowd, Clive spotted Lucia, Emma, and Garrett standing near the fountain. They'd been watching from the edge of the square, but as the mass of bodies cleared, Lucia broke into a run.

  She crashed into him hard enough to knock him back a step, her arms wrapping around him. Emma was right behind her, joining the embrace before Clive could even process the first impact.

  "Clive, you're back." Lucia's voice was muffled against his chest. "We were worried about you."

  Emma pulled back first, her hands smoothing down his sleeves before letting go. Lucia held on a moment longer, then stepped away abruptly, color rising in her cheeks.

  "When Garrett said the church summoned you, and then you didn't return..." Lucia trailed off, her gaze catching on the blood staining his clothes.

  “We were worried you got into trouble with the church,” Emma added. “Dad wanted to storm the church when you didn’t return. Said he wouldn’t lose another apprentice to their politics. I had to hold him back.”

  "You should have seen him," Lucia said, but her attempt at lightness cracked. "And then someone spotted you heading out of town with the Saintess and all those templars. And now you come back alone, covered in—" She gestured at his bloodstained shirt.

  Garrett approached more slowly. “Are you alright.”

  Clive nodded.

  "You should have said something," Lucia continued, "You should have told us. We could have—"

  "Could have what?" Garrett's voice cut through her words. "Could have gone with him?"

  "Yes." She turned on the blacksmith. "He went with me to Shadowfen for the midnight blossoms. Nearly died for it. The least I could have done was—"

  “Don’t be foolish. He had the Saintess with him, and even she didn’t return.”

  "The devil," she said. "Is it..."

  "It's done." Clive's voice came out rougher than he'd intended. "No one else will turn to stone."

  Emma's hand found his again, squeezing gently. She didn't ask any further. None of them did. Maybe they'd heard his speech, or maybe they just knew better than to push for details that would only bring pain.

  "You look like hell," Garrett said finally. "When's the last time you ate?"

  Clive couldn't remember. Time had gone strange since the graveyard. "The crowd gave me bread."

  "Real food," Emma corrected. "Not offerings. Come on."

  They formed a protective circle around him as they moved through the square, deflecting the few remaining townspeople who approached with questions or blessings. Lucia walked slightly ahead, while Emma stayed on his other side and Garrett covered the rear.

  As they walked, Clive smelled the scent of roses on the wind. It couldn't be real—they were too far from the graveyard, and the garden would have faded by now anyway, leaving two bodies—one in the earth, one above it.

  He wondered if Isiah would have wanted this, if he'd have chosen his own death over the town's suffering.

  Probably, Clive thought. The kind of man who'd planned to leave everything for love would have understood sacrifice. He'd have opened his own throat before letting Diana carry this weight. But Isiah never got to choose.

  And now Clive would carry their secret. The town would heal, would tell stories of their martyred Saintess. Children would grow up believing in her sacrifice.

  The rose scent faded. Just his imagination, then. Or maybe not.

  Lucia's shoulder bumped his, pulling him back to the present. “Come on Clive, let's go.”

  In the end, we are all just stories we tell ourselves about who we might have been.

  — Goddess of stories and theatregoing