The Saintess did not want to have a purpose. Not anymore.

As she grew up, the priests told her that happiness was knowing what your purpose was. If you knew your purpose, you could serve the goddess Lumina in your own way, and only then could you be truly happy. To sin, they said, was to ignore your true purpose and abandon the goddess.

"Saintess, you are special. Your purpose is very important. The world needs you. Do your best to serve your purpose and the goddess, or you will be abandoned and punished," they would say to her. And the little Saintess would nod, believing them. She believed that her purpose was to live for the people.

Over the years, once every week on gathering day in the Great Temple, the Saintess heard the prayers of the people. Some of the people wished for health, while others wished for money. Some of them wished for love, and others wished for honor and respect. They all wanted to live happily and comfortably. And the little Saintess believed the priests and thought that meant the same thing as wanting to live according to their purpose, just like her.

But as she grew older, the Saintess started to hear the prayers they spoke in their hearts, whispering to her as they spoke. Their true wishes were like shadows under the lies they spoke aloud. Someone would pray that they would succeed, but their heart they actually wished for their rivals to fail. Another would wish for wealth, but ignore the guilt they felt at not helping those in need. The Saintess saw it all, all the envy and anger and fear twisted under the people's shining words of piety. And she started to doubt the priests when they told her that all she needed to do was serve and believe.

And on the day she turned fourteen, exactly a decade after she came to the Great Temple, the Saintess had a vision of the future. That in itself was not unusual – seeing the future was her job, after all. Her purpose. But this vision did not come after a ritual. It came to her one rare night of rest where she did not have to drink the Holy Water and give official prophecies. She woke up on a cold sweat, her muscles trembling in shock. In her dream, she saw herself leading the ceremony for the new year. The High Priest stood before her as she poured the Holy Water into the large fountain in the Capital's Victory Square, the Holy Water gleaming with its faint golden glow as it mixed with the clear, plain water in the fountain. The High Priest looked a fair bit older than she was now, with fully greyed hair and deep wrinkles cutting across her face, but her expression was familiar as she frowned at the Saintess.  And then, just before the chalice she poured from was completely empty, someone stepped forward from the crowd.

The person who stepped forward was beautiful, with long silver hair that gleamed in the dawn light and deep dark eyes the color of pine needles. She looked to be an adult, but young, perhaps 20 years old, but not more than 25. Then she spoke, her voice distorted in the Saintess's vision, but the meaning was clear. Prophecies were like that sometimes – the Saintess might not be able to hear or see clearly, and the impressions might be garbled, but the main message of the vision was always clear to her. The silver–haired angel in the vision was announcing something. She was announcing that she was the true Saint.

The vision ended, leaving the Saintess wracked with pain and fear. She knew down to her very bones that the vision was true. Every second of every day since she had been claimed by the temple the Saintess had known she was not worthy of the title. When she arrived as a child, she had given up her very name, and since then priests had molded her into the shape of a Saint, but still she was not enough. And now this vision confirmed it: there was a real Saint somewhere. And someday she would come and claim her proper place.

All these years, the Saintess had given everything she had to fulfill her purpose. Even when her powers grew and she started to hear the truth behind peoples pretty prayers, she held on to her faith. She wanted desperately to be needed and useful. But no matter how she tried, the priests scolded her for her weakness, and her father looked at her with cold disappointment. The people came to her for help, but she was never enough – her power was too weak, and her faith was too insincere. Or so the priests said.

And now, she knew. It was all because she was not a real Saint. Her purpose was a lie, something she had stolen from someone more deserving. That night, alone and scared, she cried. She didn't want a purpose at all anymore.

Was it really too much to ask to be allowed to exist for herself?