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��I would rather love a coward than mourn a legend.��

This is pure perfection in a tiny package of pristine prose. To read Alix E. Harrow’s The Six Deaths of the Saint is like being hunted by wolves—you think you see the kill coming as you are locked in it’s eyes but then, suddenly, you are struck again and again and again from all sides. Harrow delivers so many surprises in this short tale, each as an eloquent emotional blow that by the end you’ll feel as battered and bruised as the narrator, wanting to scream your own battle cry in the climactic crescendo of swords spilling blood as destinies and empires are on the verge of being reduced to forgotten rubble. Even the subtle shift from second to first person perspective has a shocking implication enfolded inside in this story of a child who repays her debt of life by becoming a legendary warrior in service to a prince, aided by recurring visits from the Saint of War who guides her through danger and towards violent victory. A fantasy, a fairy tale, a warning against violence in the service of power, and a story of doomed love that brought tears to my eyes, The Six Deaths of the Saint cuts like a blade and completely knocked me out.

��I have made my life a work of blood alchemy transforming a child into a devil into a saint, a kingdom into an empire, a prince into a god.��

Alix E. Harrow has such a gift of prose that manages to be comforting and devastating all at once. The story relies on a lot of looping and retelling, though it continuously feels fresh while also feeling like a story that has been polished by the waves of centuries of retellings until it shines without a hint of impurities. I was gripped the entire way through, feeling the sorrow of the girl-become-warrior so ��wanted so badly to be beloved�� that she would sacrifice all for a prince who’s desire for her as a weapon she mistakes for love.

��your squire watched you carefully. his eyes landed on every pink scar, every old injury that still ached. “is this love?�� he asked softly����

It helped that this story made me recall a favorite novel, Jeanette Winterson’s The Passion which similarly explores the misguided service out of love for a political icon who can only love their own power (and also contains an additional narrative of doomed love). There is a shocking twist about halfway through, but the way the narrative then coils around itself and delivers a cavalcade of emotions blows after that makes the twist feel tame in comparison. It is a fantasy that feels like it could be right at home in a Doctor Who episode but ultimately it will make your heart a home.

��You saw yourself as an unholy triptych, three into one, one into three: she the girl, you the Devil, and I the Saint. And you understood, finally, that there had never truly been a she or a you but only a terrible, lonely I.��

There is an element in this which, without spoiling the twist, made me think about how sometimes we realize we are the only one truly looking out for ourselves. It is bittersweet and lonely here, as it is in life, but I found something rather empowering in it as well. To imagine ones past self (or future) watching you in the present and wanting you to succeed, to want to make a choice of actions that wouldn’t let the tender 8 year old you once were disappointed in who they would become, thats something I think we would all benefit to keep in mind. This story goes some wild places and manages to do so in such a short space while still feeling earned and properly built-up. The subtle differences in each cycle of the story, particularly the development of the relationship between the girl and her squire, gave me chills and really drove this story home.

��You found you did not mind being a devil, so long as you were his.��

A huge thank you to Liv for recommending this. It is a quick little story, one that took less than an hour to enjoy yet I’ve spent the entire day still consumed by it. A dark tale, but one that will keep the light on inside your heart.

5/5

��When you die, little Devil, a kingdom will fall to its knees and crawl to your bier. In a thousand years and a thousand after that, they will still sing of the Prince and his Devil.��