The barrel glowed, spilling light across the walls.

  My arm burned. Shoulder out of place. Ribs—maybe cracked.

  Every breath hurt. Blood in the mouth, metallic.

  Sound came back first.

  Water dripping. Shoes scraping. A breath that wasn’t mine.

  Then words.

  “He’s calling me a saint?”

  The voice sounded like mine but farther away, like someone whispering through cloth.

  The glow kept spreading. Dust in the air looked like snow.

  I tried to focus but the edges refused to stay still.

  It felt like drowning in daylight.

  Anna’s voice cut through, small and trembling.

  “It’s glowing…”

  Then louder, a gasp turning into laughter that didn’t know what it wanted to be.

  “I knew it—I knew she’s a saint!”

  Her shoes scuffed the stones as she ran forward, tugging at a nun’s sleeve.

  “Look! The Saints did it—they made it clean!”

  Saint.

  Her grin cracked when she saw me.

  “She’s hurt—”

  Garrick’s voice sliced in, thin and desperate.

  “She’s not blessed, she’s a fr—”

  Iren’s hand cut the air. Garrick choked the rest down, staring at the stone floor.

  The glow trembled on the water.

  The whole room bent around that barrel like it was the center of gravity.

  Iren stepped closer.

  His eyes caught the light and turned silver for a second.

  “So,” he said quietly, “the Saint’s gift was not denied you after all.”

  The nuns whispered their prayers.

  One of Garrick’s boys knelt; the other just stared like he wanted to run but forgot how.

  I tried to get up.

  My legs folded halfway and the floor caught me again.

  Anna reached me first. Her hands were shaking harder than mine.

  “She saved me,” she said to no one and everyone. “She made it clean.”

  Her voice cracked, thin as a match flame. “She’s a saint’s child. I know it.”

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  I stared at the floor, at the perfect clarity spreading where the blood had been.

  The light kept swelling.

  Edges started shaking.

  Anna’s mouth was moving but it didn’t match what I heard.

  Everything felt slow.

  Cold crept up my fingers.

  Couldn’t tell if I was shaking or the ground was.

  I tried to breathe—caught half of one.

  The room bent sideways.

  Something in my chest stuttered.

  Voices turned thin.

  Someone grabbed my arm.

  The floor rose fast.

  “…hey—stay awake—”

  “—get her up—”

  Voices melted into each other.

  I tried to lift my head. The floor tilted.

  The barrel drifted sideways, then doubled.

  Everything did.

  “—she’s bleeding—”

  “—no, it’s stopping—look—”

  My chest tightened.

  Someone touched my cheek.

  Warm, then gone.

  The whole room flickered, like a candle in wind.

  I heard Anna again, close this time.

  “Don’t—sleep—okay?”

  Her voice sounded underwater.

  Or maybe I was.

  The glow dimmed,

  or my eyes did.

  Hard to tell.

  Cold reached the back of my neck.

  Everything went heavy, then weightless.

  [next morning]

  Laughter and metal cups. Boots on tables.

  Rain hits the roof like applause.

  “—and she just touched it.”

  “Touched what?”

  “The barrel, man! Boom—whole thing went clear. Like the rust ran away.”

  “That’s not how barrels work.”

  “Did that day.”

  More laughter. Someone starts humming a hymn off-key.

  “She didn’t even look scared,” another says. “Like she’d done it before.”

  “Yeah? Maybe she’s one of them Church freaks.”

  “Church ain’t got freaks that glow.”

  “Shut up, you piss me off.”

  “So were you, and you still talkin’.”

  “Wha… what that even mean?”

  A bottle falls. More laughter.

  Voices blur—

  “Saint of the slums.”

  “Saint of sewer water.”

  [Officers’ war room, top floor of headquarters]

  Rain drummed lightly against the window, hitting the canvas like nails.

  The senior officer lit a cigar, its tip flaring orange before the smoke bled into the stale air.The other’s eyes flicked toward it once, a trace of tension at the jaw, then back to the papers.

  Maps covered the wall, pins and strings cutting up the continent.

  “Marrowgate’s been mentioned again,” said the senior officer.

  The other looked up. “By whom?”

  “Regional command. Civil reports are using the word ‘saint.’”

  “For what purpose?”

  “Unclear. It’s spreading through the lower districts.”

  “Has it reached any units?”

  “Possibly. Not officially.”

  A page turned, slow and deliberate.

  “There’s been similar language from the western front,” the senior continued.

  “What kind?”

  “Fire this time.”

  “Coincidence?”

  “Timing says otherwise.”

  “Verification?”

  “None yet.”

  They both sat still for a moment. The fan shifted the smoke hanging above them.

  “Draft a response,” the senior said.

  “To who?”

  “To no one yet. Just have it ready.”

  “Understood.”

  The junior noted it down, his handwriting neat and silent.

  “Keep the wording neutral,” the senior added. “If anyone asks, it’s being monitored.”

  “Yes, sir.”