The Accidental Saint of the Kingdom

The silk sheets felt like water against Rhovek’s skin, far too soft, far too heavy. He blinked, the morning sun stabbing at eyes that felt unnervingly clear. He sat up, his limbs trembling with a fragility he hadn’t possessed in thirty years of thievery.

He looked down. Pale hands. Soft, uncalloused, manicured.

"Damn it," Rhovek muttered, his voice a raspy, unfamiliar tenor. "This isn't my skin."

He swung his legs over the side of the bed, nearly face-planting on the plush carpet. He caught himself, his lungs wheezing in a way that made him want to cough up a lung. He was Rhovek Dalmarys now. The sickly heir. The weakling son of a noble house that had more gold than sense.

"Right," he whispered to the empty, velvet-draped room. "New life, new assets. Let’s see what the old man left in the vault."

He stumbled toward the wardrobe, pulling on a silk robe that felt like a mockery. He knew the layout of the manor; he’d spent weeks casing it before his unfortunate 'transition.' The vault was behind the portrait in the study. Easy pickings.

He moved through the hallway, his boots silent. Every breath was a labor, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He reached the study, his fingers trembling—not from nerves, but from the pathetic weakness of his new vessel.

"Almost there," he hissed, sliding the portrait aside. The steel door groaned as he keyed in the combination he’d spent months observing from the shadows.

Click.

The heavy door swung open, revealing rows of gold bars and velvet pouches overflowing with coins. Rhovek’s eyes widened. This was enough to live like a king—or get out of the city and never look back.

He reached for a heavy pouch, his mind calculating how to hide it in the folds of his robe. But as his fingers brushed the cool, hard metal, a violent, sickening jolt raced up his spine.

"No," he gasped, trying to snatch the pouch.

His hand twitched. It didn't just twitch—it jerked away, fingers splaying open with a mind of their own. His arm swung downward, ignoring his command, and tucked the pouch back into the stack.

"What in the hell are you doing?" Rhovek snarled at his own limb. "Grab it!"

He lunged again. His body resisted, his knees buckling. He felt a wave of nausea, a sudden, blinding compulsion to be kind. He grabbed a handful of gold, but instead of stuffing it into his robe, his hand marched him toward the study’s open window, which looked out over the grimy street below.

"Stop it! You useless, soft-headed sack of meat!"

He spotted a beggar huddled near the manor gates, shivering in the mud. Rhovek’s body didn’t just donate; it practically sprinted to the window, leaned out, and flung the gold with a grace that was entirely foreign to him.

Clink. Clatter.

"Hey! You there!" Rhovek shouted down, his voice cracking. "Yes, you! Take it! It's yours!"

The beggar stared up, mouth agape, as coins showered around him.

Rhovek slammed his hand shut, biting his lip until he tasted iron. "Get back here," he growled at his arm, hauling it back from the window. "I am a thief! I steal from the rich, I don't—I don't go handing out allowances!"

He stood there, panting, staring at his hands as if they belonged to a stranger. They were currently trying to smooth the wrinkles in his robe, as if embarrassed by the outburst.

"My Lord?"

Rhovek spun around, stumbling into the desk. Kervos Mairen stood in the doorway, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. The guard’s eyes flickered from the open vault, to the window, and finally to Rhovek’s flushed, frantic face.

"Kervos," Rhovek panted, forcing his face into a mask of composure. "What are you doing here?"

"I heard shouting, My Lord," Kervos said, his tone flat, observant. "And I saw you tossing gold to the wretches in the street. Is everything alright?"

Rhovek straightened his shoulders, trying to look like a man of status rather than a man having a wrestling match with his own biology.

"I was just... feeling generous, Kervos. Don't look so surprised."

Kervos raised an eyebrow. "Generous? You’ve spent the last six months complaining about the local filth, My Lord. This is a bit of a departure, isn't it?"

Rhovek walked toward him, his gait stiff, his body still itching to perform more acts of irritating kindness.

"People change, Kervos. A man in my position needs the public on his side. Charity is a tool, just like a sword. I'm merely... sharpening the blade."

Kervos studied him, his eyes lingering on the vault. "A tool. Right. Should I call for the steward to handle the accounts, or are you planning on emptying the vault to win the hearts of the peasantry by noon?"

Rhovek forced a thin, condescending smile. "I'm done for now. Close the vault, Kervos. And make sure the gate guards keep that beggar away from the estate. I have a headache."

"Of course, My Lord. Shall I escort you back to your chambers?"

"I can walk," Rhovek snapped.

"As you wish," Kervos replied, stepping aside but keeping his eyes on Rhovek’s back. "You’ve certainly got a strange way of showing your new ambition, My Lord."

Rhovek stormed back toward his bedroom, his mind racing. This body has a conscience, he realized with mounting horror. A forced, moral, noble conscience.

He slammed his bedroom door shut, leaning against it. He needed a way to bypass this. He couldn't be a thief if he was physically incapable of keeping the loot.

He turned toward the center of the room, ready to pace, but froze.

A shadow detached itself from the heavy curtains. A man in dark leathers, blade drawn, lunged toward him.

Rhovek’s instincts—his old, gutter-bred instincts—screamed kill. He sidestepped, his hand grabbing a heavy bronze bust from the side table. He didn't swing it at the assassin. Instead, his body moved with that wretched, involuntary grace again.

He ducked, thrusting the bust not into the assassin’s head, but into a loose floorboard near the rug—a hidden lever he’d spotted while casing the room.

Snap.

A spring-loaded cage dropped from the ceiling with a violent thrum, slamming over the assassin, pinning him to the floor. Behind the assassin, a secret panel in the wall clicked open, revealing a man in royal livery, hidden behind the tapestry, holding a quill and parchment.

The royal spy stood frozen, caught red-handed in the very trap meant for the assassin.

Rhovek blinked, staring at the trapped assassin, then at the royal spy who was now pinned against the wall by the cage's iron bars.

"Well," Rhovek said, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. "This certainly isn't what I intended. But I suppose it'll do."