Chapter 2

Three months later, I stood in the central square of the Holy City, listening to the roar of the crowd.

"Hero."

"Savior."

"Champion of Light."

Flowers and ribbons rained down from the balconies above, carpeting the street. Red roses, white lilies, and purple irises were soft underfoot, their fragrance so thick it was almost suffocating.

Children tried to push through the crowd to touch my cloak, only to be held back by the guards. They darted between the guards' legs like nimble fish.

Women hung garlands of flowers around my neck, one after another, until the weight was almost unbearable. They laughed and jostled, trying to kiss my cheek, only to be pulled back by their husbands before breaking free to try again.

Men raised their mugs in a toast, ale sloshing over the rims and soaking my boots, unnoticed by anyone.

I smiled and waved.

My smile was perfectly poised, neither arrogant nor distant. I looked exactly like a savior out of a storybook, flawless and unwavering.

But my gaze drifted over the crowd to the spire of the cathedral in the distance.

The spire was under repair. On the scaffolding, workers crawled like ants, hauling stone and timber. I had heard that the last Demon King's residual power had collapsed half the dome, crushing thirty-seven worshippers who had been at prayer.

Where were their families now? Were they in this crowd, cheering, or were they at home, weeping?

I brought my gaze back and kept smiling.

"My hero." A child tugged at my cloak. I looked down to see a small, dirt-streaked face, but his eyes were as bright as two stars, which reminded me of a much younger version of myself.

"My hero, when I grow up, I want to be just like you. I'm going to beat the bad guys and be a hero."

I knelt to meet his gaze.

His eyes were so clean that they reflected my own face. They were the eyes of someone who hadn't stared death in the face or felt the cold blade of betrayal.

He had never spent a night shivering in some frozen mountain crack or survived a week rotting in the muck of a swamp.

It was a good thing.

I ruffled his hair. "You will," I said.

But for some reason, as the words left my mouth, the face of the Demon King flashed in my mind, along with his final words. "Every hero eventually becomes the next villain."

I didn't believe that. I was convinced that I would never repeat that tragedy.

After thirty-seven days in Highspire, I began to notice that something was wrong.

First, it was the food.

I sat down in the royal dining hall that day. The long table was covered with a snow-white cloth, the silver cutlery polished to a mirror shine, and the candles flickering in their silver holders. Servants filed in, placing dishes before me.

The plates were smaller than usual.

There were only three thin slices of meat, lying forlornly in the center of the plate, surrounded by a vast expanse of white porcelain. The side of vegetables was just a few limp strands that looked wilted.

I looked up to the head of the table.

The King was there, speaking in low tones with the High Bishop. They leaned in close, keeping their voices hushed, so I couldn't hear a word. The Bishop's lips moved, the King nodded frequently, and neither of them looked at me.

Perhaps it was just post-war rationing. I should be understanding.

Then, it was the treatment.

The captain of the Royal Knights, who had come to pay his respects every single morning, hadn't shown up in five days.

His name was Red Reginald, a man in his forties with an old scar that ran from his eyebrow to the corner of his mouth.

Every morning, he would stand at my door, right fist to his heart, and say with the utmost respect, "Good morning, my hero."

He disappeared for five days.

On the morning of the fifth day, I opened my door to an empty hallway.

I went to find him myself.

I cut through the palace corridors, circled the fountain gardens, and made my way to the knights' barracks. The guards cut me off, demanding to know my business.

I said, "I'm looking for Red Reginald."

The guard's expression was odd. He glanced at me and quickly looked away, staring at the tips of his boots. "He is out on patrol."

"When will he be back?" I asked.

"I'm not sure," the guard replied, avoiding my gaze.

I turned and left. After a dozen paces, I looked back. The guard was still there, whispering with another guard. When they saw me looking, they immediately shut their mouths, stood ramrod straight, and stared at the sky.

Perhaps Red was just busy. I should be understanding.

Finally, it was the looks.

When I walked through the streets, the once-cheering faces started to blur. They no longer called me "my hero" and no longer rushed to give me flowers. They just hurried past with their heads down, like a flock of startled sparrows.

Occasionally, someone would look up, and their eyes held something I couldn't read.

It wasn't disgust.

It wasn't fear either.

It was wariness, like they were looking at a powder keg that could explode at any moment.