The Revered Blood

​The Hera Empire—a land where humans and blood-drinkers supposedly coexisted in peace. At least, that was the facade presented to the world. 

Thanks to those gifted with holy power. The physically superior vampires remained subservient, refraining from indiscriminate slaughter. However, today, that peace was nowhere to be found.

Elenor bolted upright, her body drenched in a cold sweat. A nightmare had just clawed through her sleep. A vision of a girl running through a burning field, screaming the name of the man who had pinned her down the night before.

"Killian, run!"

​The voice wasn't hers, yet her throat ached as if she were the one who had just shrieked in hysteria.

​"That dream again," Elenor whispered, her fingers clutching the silk sheets until her knuckles turned white.

​It was too visceral to be a coincidence. Every time Killian appeared, Lily followed in her sleep. That shadow from the past was like a parasite, filling her head with a sequence of events she had never lived, yet shaking her with the force of reality.

​The door creaked open without a knock. A young nun entered, carrying a tray of warm water and clean cloths. She froze, her face ashen, seeing Elenor sitting upright with her brown hair in disarray.

​"S-Saintess ... you are awake?" The nun bowed low, her hands trembling so violently that the water sloshed in the basin. "We heard a commotion last night ... the great hall doors ...."

​"Just fix the doors," Elenor cut her off. She slid off the bed, letting her bare feet touch the freezing marble floor. "And let no one speak of what happened ever again. You all know who came last night."

The nun nodded frantically. No one dared utter the vampire's name within these walls. He was a stain on their sanctity, a recurring nightmare. A Saintess who was supposed to be the bride of God was instead visited by a devil every time the moon turned full.

​Elenor stepped toward the tall mirror in the corner and stopped. There, on her slender neck, right above the pulse, was a faint, reddish mark. 

A bitter smile touched her lips. This body, which could knit itself back together after being shattered, was somehow unable to erase the traces Killian left behind.

‘Why did he look so broken when I asked for death?’ she wondered silently.

​She shook her head, dismissing a sympathy that had no place in her heart. She was Elenor, the woman forced to be a vessel for holy power since birth—not Lily, the woman who loved a monster.

​"Prepare the most modest ceremonial gown," Elenor commanded without looking back. "I must lead the morning prayers."

​She hurried from the room, and before dozens of congregants, she performed her spiritual routine. She remained until the very last person had left the hall.

​"Saintess, it is time for penance. I shall assist you in the ritual of prayer, so that God may grant us his mercy," the Pope said, offering a gentle, practiced smile.

​Elenor could only follow. The Pope’s footsteps echoed through the silent corridors, leading her not to the main altar, but to a heavy iron door behind the sacristy that was always locked. As it swung open, the scent of stagnant air mixed with a faint, metallic tang greeted her senses.

​"Kneel. Let us cleanse the stains of last night," the Pope said, pointing toward a stone table with drainage grooves carved into its edges.

​Elenor did not resist. She knelt toward the statue of the deity, clasped her hands to her lips, and began to chant.

​WHIP!

​The first lash landed on her back. The force sent her sprawling, her chest hitting the rough stone floor.

​"Stay still, Saintess."

​Elenor returned to her position. She accepted the 'heavenly punishment' without a fight. But the metal hooks at the end of the whip tore through her skin, dragging fresh blood to the surface.

​"This is so you remember that your body is not your own," the Pope whispered, his tone as calm as a priest reading scripture. "And why did you try to take your own life again, Saintess? How long will you persist in such a disgraceful act?"

​The whip struck again and again. Elenor’s back soon resembled a ruined red canvas. The pain was agonizing, surpassing the sensation of being doused in boiling water. She clenched her fists so hard her nails broke against her palms, and her screams remained strangled in the back of her throat.

​Only when her back was a shapeless mass of gore did the middle-aged man stop.

​"Your blood is too holy to be wasted on this filthy floor," the Pope said, drawing a dagger with a serrated blade. "Have you discovered why the monster seeks you?"

​"No."

​"Seduce him. Make him confess."

​Without mercy, the Pope grabbed Elenor’s wrist and pressed the jagged blade against her pulse. He didn't slice quickly, but pressed down slowly instead, sawing back and forth.

​"Arggh!" Elenor finally groaned aloud. The throbbing ache in her back collided with the searing, raw pain of her wrist being slowly sawn open.

​"Silence. Such sound are unbecoming of a Saintess."

​Thick, golden-red blood began to pour, filling a chalice placed beneath her arm. The Pope didn't stop there. He thrust his callous fingers into the open wound, widening the tear to ensure the blood flowed faster before Elenor’s regeneration could begin.

​"God loves a sincere sacrifice, Elenor. Feel this pain as atonement for allowing a devil to touch you," the Pope whispered directly into her ear, his face contorted with an obsessive glee at the sight of the shimmering holy blood.

​He continued to press the wound, wringing her flesh until the very last drop, leaving the Saintess trembling on the brink of a death that, unfortunately, would never come.

​"God has forgiven you."

​"Thank you," she replied, though she knew it was all a hollow lie.

​It took a long time for her power to take effect. She felt a sickening, crawling sensation as the tissues in her back began to creep toward each other, rejoining inch by inch.

​With the last of her strength, Elenor stumbled back to her room. When she pushed open the balcony doors, a deep, heavy orange greeted her. Dusk had arrived, bleeding across the horizon in a color nearly identical to the pool of blood in the cellar.

​"How beautiful," she whispered bitterly.

​She touched her wrist. It was smooth again, unblemished, as if the torture had been a mere hallucination. But her soul possessed no such power of regeneration. Every inch of her spirit remained mangled, a black hole that grew wider with every passing day.

​Just as the red streaks in the sky were swallowed by the night, a familiar scent drifted in on the breeze. The holy woman did not turn. She already knew who stood in the shadows of her room.

​"The Pope did it to you again?" Killian’s deep voice was dangerously close, vibrating against the back of her neck.

​Elenor closed her eyes, letting the tears she had held back finally fall. "Didn't you say I was yours, Killian?"

​"You are mine."

​"Then why do you let them skin me alive every day?" Elenor turned, meeting the glowing crimson eyes in the dying light.

​"Just ask. And I will raze this place and everyone in it to the ground."

​He reached out, his trembling fingers brushing a tear from her cheek. For the first time, Elenor saw a flash of tenderness in the monster's eyes.

​"Would Lily say yes to that?"

​"No. She would choose to leave and forgive them."

​Elenor smiled, realizing her choice may be the same as Lily's. For the first time, she moved closer, embracing Killian with full consciousness. He caught her instantly, pulling her tight. 

His cold fingers traced the phantom lines of the whip marks beneath her torn gown. Even though the skin was smooth, he could feel the pain that hadn't yet evaporated.

​"Respect your life. Because if you die, you will be reborn without knowing me again. I cannot bear to search for your soul for twenty-first time, Elenor."

​"Then make me yours. Make me so tainted that even God will be too disgusted to bring me back."

“You know what you said?" 

“Are you having doubts now?" 

Elenor stepped closer, allowing herself to fall into the vampire’s arms. ​That night, under the gaze of the rising moon, the sinful Saintess chose her own path. 

In the silence of the tower room, there was only the sound of ragged breath and a hiss of satisfaction as Killian’s fangs pierced her soft skin, marking a new chapter in a curse that refused to end.