Her body’s name is Constance. It’s a nice, normal name, fitting even, for a woman called a Saintess.

A silver comb glides through long golden hair, taking care not to mess up the curls. A woman in nun attire prepares the Saintess’ face to be slathered in makeup, while another focuses on perfecting the hair. A third one is busy tying all the small, intricate bows of a white, old-fashioned dress.

The body called Constance can only sit at a vanity desk, watching the women work through the corner of her vision. Whenever she accidentally catches the eye of her reflection, she can’t help staring. The face looking back at her is the most beautiful one she’s ever seen.

The problem is that it’s not hers.

She remembers being a woman in her thirties, desperately trying to make ends meet as a grocery store clerk, and having no time to worry about her looks. A thin waist and clear skin were an impossible dream when all she had time for was work.

At first, she assumed that waking up in this body was exactly that: a dream.

It didn’t help that she woke up in a glass coffin full of white flowers. The lid to the coffin had yet to seal her in, and the priest in charge of displaying what he thought was a dead body nearly had a heart attack upon seeing her blue eyes open, alive and staring straight at him.

“Saintess Constance!” The priest had shouted while clutching his chest.

“Am I dead?” she asked upon sitting up and looking around at what appeared to be a church of some kind.

That’s when she noticed her thin, stick-like arms and incredibly pale skin. There was no way the long, delicate fingers that had never seen hard work belonged to her.

“The Goddess hasn’t forsaken us!” The priest cried. “The Saintess has been brought back to life!”

She could only stare dumbly as the priest knelt before her while throwing his hands over his head, bending them as far back as he could make his arms go. It looked ridiculous.

Before she could say anything more, the doors to the church had burst open. A man in white priest robes took one look at her and began crying so hard that it seemed to summon a whole flock of similar dressed priests.

Eventually, one of them had helped her out of the glass coffin and taken her to what can only be described as a luxurious bedroom no church ought to have.

She’s been living as the saintess Constance ever since.

The place she woke up in was the main chamber of the Cathedral of Duhella. The archbishop who resides in the church is the main leader of the religion that worships the Goddess Duhella. His power is absolute both in the church and outside of it.

She only tried to tell the archbishop her real name once.

Archbishop Pierpont, an aged and surprisingly fit man, had listened patiently as she explained that this body didn’t belong to her, that she has no idea who Constance even was, and that she’s never heard of the Goddess Duhella.

“It is the Will of the Goddess,” the archbishop had smiled at her with terrifying eyes. “Failed saints do not get second chances. Should a saint die before they have done their duty, a new soul is sent in their stead.”

Archbishop Pierpont had given her an appraising look, one that sent shivers down her spine.

“Clearly the body was too beautiful to give up, and she has blessed you with it.”

She broke out into a cold sweat upon realizing that she was still expected to fulfill the duties of the body she was currently wearing. Duties she didn’t know a thing about.

Thus began her lessons on how to be the Constance, Saintess of Duhella.

In the two months that have passed, she’s only just come to terms that she isn’t dreaming. It still hasn’t sunk in that she is expected to eventually go out and purge the demons ravaging the land.

What demons and which land, she doesn’t know. No one will tell her. Honestly, the lessons don’t seem very useful outside of learning how to scam money out of people.

The nuns and priests assigned to her mainly teach her how to be a pious believer of the Goddess, and the prayers and rituals unique to saints. Most performances require coin or offerings to be considered effective.

Her understanding of the demons she’s expected to purge boils down to “You’ll know what a demon is when you see it,” and “You’ll know how to rid the world of them when it’s time.”

As for any saintly powers she may have, well.

“You must pray with all your heart to the great Goddess, and she will bestow her gifts unto you,” she’s told by anyone she asks.

Most of her time outside of these wonderfully helpful lessons is spent in the main chamber kneeling at the feet of Duhella’s statue. She pretends to pray like a faithful saint, but it takes everything not to fall asleep.

She does pray earnestly a few times, but she doubts the archbishop would be happy to hear the words silently spoken in her heart.

“Dear Goddess, deliver me back home and away from these insane people.” “Dear Goddess, why would you do this to me.” “Dear Goddess, I want chocolate, soda, and some ibuprofen.” “Dear Goddess, the archbishop tried to hug me again today. Set his underwear on fire in the front, if you don’t mind.”

Under such a dull routine, her days blur together. It’s like she’s back in her own world, getting up and going to work endlessly except the little things that bring her joy are no longer around.

Surprisingly, it’s the adorable cat videos she misses the most.

Change comes when the archbishop receives a demand for the Saintess’ presence before the throne. She had no clue the church answered to anyone besides the Goddess, but judging by the archbishop’s dark expression, it’s not by choice.

“The palace is sending the Ashen Wolf to escort you,” Archbishop Pierpont scowls. “As if you are ready to purify the land!”

“Who?” she asks, utterly confused.

“An upstart. A sinner,” he snarls. “A duke who slew his father for the title and craves blood!”

She tilts her head.

The archbishop pinches the bridge of his nose and says, “The king is impatient to see the demons purged. The Ashen Wolf is notorious for going out of his way to kill demons no matter the cost. Choosing him as your escort is not happenstance.”

It takes her a moment to understand what the archbishop is trying to say.

“If I leave with him, I won’t be coming back?” she guesses.

“Not until the taint is purged, or you are sent into the Goddess’ loving embrace,” he says, nodding solemnly.

In other words, she’s being ordered to rid the world of demons or die.

“Well,” she pauses, unable to think of a word that encompasses the entirety of her feelings, “damn.”

Archbishop Pierpont begins muttering a prayer. For her or the world, she doesn’t know.