Desecration of a saint

The handmaiden moved with steady purpose, her soft-soled shoes making little noise against the smooth stone floor. One by one, she approached the rows of beds, drawing back the faded curtains to glimpse the patients within. Her movements were precise, almost habitual: a glance at their faces, a careful scan of their breathing, and a quick note scribbled into her ledger. The faint scratch of her quill was the only sound, blending with the rustle of fabric as she moved down the line.

She paused at one bed where an elderly man lay motionless, his gaunt face half-hidden in shadow. His chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths. She noted his condition, her quill hovering briefly before recording a word that was becoming all too common in her work: deteriorating. Pulling the curtain closed, she continued, her grip tightening on the ledger as though bracing herself for what lay ahead.

The youth ward was at the far end of the corridor, separated by a set of heavy oak doors. She pushed them open, the creak of the hinges echoing through the otherwise quiet space. A different kind of silence greeted her here—not the stillness of resignation, but the strained quiet of withheld sobs and muted pain. The air was thick with the scent of sickness, mingled with something faintly metallic that made her stomach churn.

Her steps slowed as she approached the first bed. A boy no older than ten lay curled on his side, his face pale and his brow damp with sweat. He whimpered softly, the sound piercing through the quiet. She hesitated, her hand hovering over the curtain. For a moment, she considered skipping this one, but duty outweighed discomfort. She reached forward, drawing the fabric back and jotting down his condition—fevered, unstable.

Her eyes caught on something that made her stomach tighten. The boy's abdomen was distended, the skin stretched and contorted as though something far too large had been forced inside. She hesitated, her breath catching as unease prickled down her spine. Gritting her teeth, she reached to pull aside his gown.

Her breath hitched sharply, and a wave of nausea surged through her. She clamped her hand over her mouth, forcing herself to swallow the bile rising in her throat. The boy's body was a patchwork of stitching and grafted skin, the seams jagged but carefully placed, with none of the haphazardness she had seen in failed procedures before. Yet, the skin itself was wrong—smooth and faintly luminous, as though it had been taken from something otherworldly.

Her gaze shifted to his face, and pity swelled in her chest. His eyes were wrapped tightly in bandages, but something beneath them glimmered faintly, a barely perceptible light seeping through the thin fabric. Her quill trembled in her fingers as she noted his condition, her handwriting uneven as she added to her previous annotations.

The sound of a loud bang from down the hall shattered the heavy silence. She flinched, her head snapping up as the echo lingered. The ledger slipped slightly from her grasp before she steadied herself, her heart pounding in her chest. For a moment, she was frozen.

Down the hall of the ward, three men strode in. The one on the left was an older man, his skin clinging tightly to his gaunt frame. His medical coat looked a size too large, though it was far from baggy. Immaculate and spotless, it matched his stern, scowling expression. Even today, as he attempted a smile, the lines of his perpetual frown were etched deeply into his face.

The man on the right was unfamiliar to the handmaiden, but his presence was no less commanding. His clothes, crafted from fine silks, glimmered faintly under the light, and the heavy jewels hanging from his neck gleamed with impressive size and value. Thick rings adorned his fingers, each shimmering with polished metal and embedded gemstones. His gut jutted prominently, suggesting a man who had never known hunger.

But the most striking figure was the one in the center. She had seen his face everywhere: in the grand paintings adorning the walls, in the statues standing sentinel throughout the city, in the coins that changed hands daily. Her breath caught, and she quickly lowered her gaze, bowing her head to avoid meeting his eyes.

"Your Majesty," she murmured, her voice steady but quiet. She stepped aside, finding a place she hoped would keep her out of his path, and waited.

The heavy footsteps of the group grew closer, the rhythmic thud echoing through the corridor until the handmaiden could feel their gazes fixed on her. She kept her eyes lowered, her body still, for it was not her place to speak unless addressed. The weight of their scrutiny made her heart race, and beads of sweat formed at the crest of her thinning hairline, dampening her skin.

Finally, the medical director broke the silence. "Handmaiden," he barked, his tone sharp and impatient. "Your log of the patients—where is it?"

The realization struck her like a blow. The ledger. She had dropped it during the commotion. Bowing even deeper, she forced her voice to remain steady. "Director, I... I dropped it."

There was a beat of silence, heavy and suffocating, before his voice sliced through the air again. "Then pick it up, you useless wench," he snapped, his words laced with venom.

Her hands trembled as she scrambled to retrieve the fallen ledger. Clutching it tightly, she raised it above her head, her body still bent in a deep bow. "Please forgive this one, your lordships!" she pleaded, her voice barely steady, carrying the weight of fear and desperation.

For a moment, there was silence, and then she heard it—a low, rasping laugh. The sound was muffled, as though the one laughing struggled to draw enough air to sustain it. It sent a chill down her spine, the unnatural cadence of it making her stomach twist. She dared not raise her head to see who it was, but the presence of their amusement felt like a shadow pressing down on her.

The ledger was taken from her grasp. She flinched as the weight left her hands, the sudden absence making her feel even smaller. A deep, authoritative voice broke through the tension. "Are these your notes on the boy?"

The tone resonated in her chest, steady and commanding, yet not cruel. It reminded her of her father's voice when she was a child, both firm and final. She swallowed hard and nodded, though she kept her head low. "Yes, my lord," she managed.

There was a pause—agonizingly long. She held her breath, listening as the pages of the ledger were turned, the faint rustling amplifying the quiet around her. At last, the voice spoke again, its judgment clear and absolute.

"These look good. Leave us."

Relief washed over her like a wave. Bowing even deeper, she murmured her thanks and turned to leave, moving toward the door with measured, deliberate steps. She didn't dare glance back, keeping her eyes on the ground until she disappeared into the hall beyond.