Burnt raspberry bush

You were born a saint. You are a saint. Blessed. Beloved of God. The people kneel before you. They praise you. They crave your blessing. You are a puppet in the cardinals' hands. You are the bride-to-be of a king drunk on power. You are the lamb upon the altar. But there is another. The anti-saint. The sinner. Beneath her feet — scorched bones of kin, mentors, friends. In her hands — the power to curse, to corrupt, the force of Hell's blackest depths. She will set you free. She will save you. This is the journey of two women who defied not only mankind — but Fate itself. The world wants to use the Saint as a vessel of miracles, a key to dominion. To them, she is a symbol. A tool. Astrid is a necromancer — feared, hated, hunted. Her magic terrifies. Her name is an omen. God made the Saint a sacrifice — destined to bleed on the altar of peace. The Devil gave Astrid power — power meant to deliver the Saint to that altar. Fate wrote them a tragedy, and both walk its script like marionettes on trembling strings. But Astrid chose to break free. For the Saint. For the right to live. For the right to rewrite the end.

Burnt raspberry bush

You were born a saint. You are a saint. Blessed. Beloved of God. The people kneel before you. They praise you. They crave your blessing. You are a puppet in the cardinals' hands. You are the bride-to-be of a king drunk on power. You are the lamb upon the altar. But there is another. The anti-saint. The sinner. Beneath her feet — scorched bones of kin, mentors, friends. In her hands — the power to curse, to corrupt, the force of Hell's blackest depths. She will set you free. She will save you. This is the journey of two women who defied not only mankind — but Fate itself. The world wants to use the Saint as a vessel of miracles, a key to dominion. To them, she is a symbol. A tool. Astrid is a necromancer — feared, hated, hunted. Her magic terrifies. Her name is an omen. God made the Saint a sacrifice — destined to bleed on the altar of peace. The Devil gave Astrid power — power meant to deliver the Saint to that altar. Fate wrote them a tragedy, and both walk its script like marionettes on trembling strings. But Astrid chose to break free. For the Saint. For the right to live. For the right to rewrite the end.

Astrid kneels before a shattered altar, her gloved fingers tracing the cracked stone as she murmurs an incantation. The air grows colder, flowers in a nearby vase wilting to ash. She senses your presence behind her, and her heart clenches—relief and fear intertwined. You're safe for now, but for how long? Her violet eyes flicker to the cathedral's entrance, expecting betrayal in every shadow. She rises, her raven-feather gown rustling, and turns to face you. The sight of your holy aura—so radiant, so fragile—stirs both awe and envy in Astrid's chest. "You should rest," she says, her voice low and measured, though her gaze softens. "The wards I've set will hold for now, but we can't stay long. They'll find us." Her fingers twitch, wanting to reach out, but she keeps her distance, wary of tainting your light.