Chapter Text
The tavern slouched at the edge of Văduva’s Hollow, its charred beams sagging as if the land had tired of bearing them. Muddy roads veined through the village, flanked by shacks of rotted wood and crumbling stone. Smoke drifted from thinning chimneys beneath a lone church on the hill — silent, watchful, and worn.
At a battered table beneath the shredded remains of an awning, two men sat. One bore the stillness of quiet faith. The other twitched like a marionette of madness, pulled by strings no one else could see.
“I tell you, angel,” the old man rasped, spittle glinting in his beard, “you don’t see the cracks in the soil, nor the blood in the wells… but it stirs. It stirs below.”
The missionary, youthful in face but heavy in spirit, folded his hands calmly atop the table. His cassock was worn, but clean — a relic of the order he once served, now out of place in this land forgotten by time.
“I’m no angel, elder,” he replied gently, the Romanian lilt curling around his words. “Only a man. I came to listen. So speak, if you must.”
The old man leaned forward, eyes jaundiced and wild, flickering like candlelight caught in a storm. “You are a sign. The old ones knew — strangers in white will come before the storm. They shall be the light before the slaughter. Then the earth breaks… and from it, he shall rise...the keeper beneath the tombs.”
“A creature?”
“No, a hunger ,” the old man whispered. “This land was never ours. Not truly. It belonged to him. Buried beneath root and rock. They say—before kings, before the bishops built their stone idols—this place was a feeding ground. His garden.”
“A prophecy?” the missionary offered, careful not to sneer.
The old man let out a jagged laugh. “Aye. And a curse. They sealed it long ago — fed it gold, blood, and sweet sins, and buried it deep. But he feeds still. War after war. Famine after famine. He wakes in pieces. And now? Even the angels weep. And you’ve come.”
“We bear no omens,” the missionary said softly. “We’re not messengers. We fled violence. The abbeys in the north are red with blood — rebels striking at the heart of faith. We seek only shelter.”
The old man’s face twisted. “That is the omen, boy. You’re not escaping. You’re being driven. Herded. The thing chasing you — that is his hand. He’s rounding up the lambs for the final pasture.”
“But these men... they’re not demons,” the missionary said, firm but not unkind. “They rebel against the king, not against God.”
The old man slammed his fist on the table, trembling with fury. “And what is a kingdom but a lie with a crown? You think the Devil only speaks through monsters? He rules through the righteous too! Through priests and kings and men in robes! Hope may be strong, but corruption is stronger. It drips into your soul sweet as honey, sharp as ash.”
The missionary’s jaw tensed, but he did not rise. “No darkness outruns the light, elder. Even now, it endures.”
But the old man had already risen. His voice cracked as he turned to the sky, trembling like a leaf before the storm. “It’s too late. Pray! Hide in your holes and cry while you can! When he comes — he won’t knock. He’ll devour. We need light. Fire, even. We need someone to burn him. We need the angels to descend!”
He turned on the village, voice ringing like a cracked bell. “Kneel! Pray! There’s no salvation left — only reckoning!”
“Enough!” barked a voice — the tavern’s owner, broad and weathered, pushed through the doorway. With a glance, he beckoned two men, who gently took the old prophet by the arms. The madman struggled only briefly, his rage giving way to tears, then murmurs — curses, prayers, or both.
“Forgive him, Father,” the owner said, eyes lowered. “He’s always spoken like this. But every winter, it gets worse.”
“No forgiveness is needed,” said the missionary, his fingers now lightly tapping the table. “He fears what he cannot fight. We all do.”
The tavern owner sighed, gesturing vaguely toward the hill. “He says there’s gold in the soil and devils in the air. I say there’s only mud. What brought you to Văduva’s Hollow, Father?”
The missionary rose slowly, his robes catching the chill wind. His gaze lifted to the lonely church on the hill.
“We seek the priest,” he said. “We hope he’ll open the monastery gates. My brethren are close behind. We need shelter... and a place to speak with God in silence.”
“Oh, then you must have come for Father Dimitrie.” The tavern owner nodded, unreadable. “He doesn’t say much. But he listens. Like stone listens to rain.”
From the edge of the muddy street, hidden by the shadow of a collapsed stable, someone watched.
A woman.
A shawl hung over her tangled, ash-colored hair — a threadbare thing, stained with soot and survival. Her face, if fed and scrubbed, might once have passed for beautiful. But time had carved deep hollows in her cheeks, left her mouth pale and silent, and turned her eyes into stones that remembered too much.
She had seen it all — the old man’s ravings, the missionary’s calm, the crowd’s discomfort.
And her eyes did not waver.
Some places in Romania lay so forgotten that even the wind brought no news. Văduva’s Hollow was one of them—a village curled between ash-gray hills and ancient forests, too frightened to move, too stubborn to vanish.
It wasn’t abundance that sustained the people, but prayer.
Here, hunger was common, but faith cost dearly. Villagers clutched rosaries bought with their last coin, begging heaven for miracles. It might’ve been laughable—if it weren’t so tragic. They lived like cattle waiting for rain they’d never seen—clinging to hope, to ritual, to superstition.
And where desperation thrived, so did generosity.
Especially for those in white—priests, nuns, missionaries. The villagers gave them bread, shelter, reverence. Some called it piety. Others called it survival.
Because their prayers weren’t just for mercy. They were insurance.
A prophecy whispered through the Hollow: the land was never theirs. A creature slept beneath it—ancient, buried, and vengeful. The tale went that a hidden treasure would awaken it, and when it rose, the land would burn and the people would pay.
So they prayed—not to be saved, but to be spared.
And when the missionaries came, especially in times of war, they were never turned away. They were welcomed. Protected.
Not everyone shared the same faith, though.
Not the woman wearing the shawl.
The villagers were too enthralled with the missionary’s presence to notice her. Of course they were. They always fell to their knees at the first sight of a white robe, as if purity alone could banish the doom seeping into their soil.
She’d asked herself more than once: why not just leave? Walk away from the Hollow, from its cursed soil and its foolish devotion. Yet there she stood, watching. Still here.
Perhaps there were answers she hadn’t found yet.
After a while, the tavern keeper wiped his hands on his apron after engaging in such a lengthy conversation with the missionary regarding the war in the city. The missionary had introduced himself with no pomp—just quiet dignity and patient eyes.
“I don’t believe I caught your name, Father,” the tavern keeper said, settling opposite him.
“Father Petru,” the missionary replied, offering a faint but warm smile. “And you?”
“Nicolae,” the man grunted. “Nicolae Ghiță. Owner of this place, for what little that means.”
“You’ve shown kindness beyond measure, Nicolae. We expected resistance—maybe fear. But your people… they give so much.”
“Because we know what walks these lands, Father Petru,” Nicolae said darkly. “You don’t need to believe the stories, but the rest of us have seen too much not to.”
He stood then, brushing crumbs from his coat. “I’ll go fetch someone for you—Father Dimitrie, right? He’s the one you’ll want to speak to. Quiet man, but he knows the old prayers.”
Father Petru nodded gratefully. “Thank you.”
Nicolae gave a wave and trudged toward the door.
And when he was gone, she stepped in.
She approached slowly, a shawl clutched around her tightly, as if to shrink herself into the smoke curling from the hearth. “Father?” Her voice was soft, tremulous. It held the timbre of someone unaccustomed to being heard.
Father Petru looked up, surprised—but not unkindly so. “Good evening, sister.”
She paused, then lowered her head in a small bow. “Forgive me. I… I saw you outside, and I… just wanted to say welcome.”
“That’s very kind,” he said. “And your name?”
“I… they call me Bela,” she replied. “Just Bela.”
He noticed then how her cheeks were sunken, how the sleeves of her dress hung loose at the arms. The shawl she wore couldn’t quite hide how thin she was. Malnourished, maybe ill. But her eyes held a glint of something more—curiosity, maybe even suspicion.
“You’re a missionary,” she said, sitting lightly on the edge of the bench across from him.
“I am,” he nodded. “We’ve come from the north. The war has turned even the churches to ash. There are people hunting us… not just rebels, but those who think we’ve outlived our use.”
Bela nodded slowly. “They told you to come here?”
“A man at the last village we passed. Said the people of Văduva’s Hollow would open their doors. And they have.”
“They always do,” Bela murmured. “Especially for men like you. They’d give their ribs if it meant buying another prayer.”
“You speak as though that’s foolish.”
“I think…” Bela hesitated, voice tightening. “I think they’re not praying to be saved. They’re praying for it to end.”
Petru studied her then. Her eyes didn’t look away. Her voice didn’t waver. He could see a fire beneath all that ash. “You don’t believe?”
“I didn’t say that,” she said. “I just… I don’t believe in lying to ourselves. But tell me, Father—your order. Does it work with others?”
His brows lifted. “What do you mean?”
“Other religious orders,” Bela said, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve. “If someone were to join you… would they have choices? Would there be other… paths?”
He tilted his head, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips. “Do you mean to say you’ve considered taking the cloth, Bela?”
She flushed slightly, glancing down. “I’ve thought of it. I just… I want to know what I’m stepping into, if I do.”
He paused then, thoughtfully. His eyes, pale and perceptive, lingered on her face, half-hidden beneath the shawl. He was reading something deeper—lines of wear, pockets of grief, the kind of silence one doesn’t learn in a convent but in a world that forgets your name.
“Well,” he said at last, voice warm, “if you’re asking, I’d say that’s a good enough start.”
Bela had not spoken for a moment, and Father Petru had been patient with her silence. He recognized the look in her eyes: one of hunger, not merely of the body, but of purpose.
“You asked earlier,” he began softly, breaking the quiet, “about the religious orders. About how they work.”
She nodded slowly, her fingers still curled around the frayed edge of her shawl.
Father Petru leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “All the orders serve the Great Church—those loyal to His Holiness and to Rome. But as time wore on, the missionaries… we began organizing ourselves into separate groups. Not out of pride or division, mind you, but for function.”
“Function?” Bela echoed, her voice almost lost beneath the crackle of the fire.
“Aye. When one travels across regions like ours—through mountains, villages, even the war-torn cities—one must adapt. Some of the orders, like mine, are built for travel. We move lightly, with few possessions, and focus on bringing the Word to forgotten places. Others are rooted in towns, tending the poor or teaching the children.”
He paused to rub his palms together, as if warming them against the growing cold.
“Some groups… get involved in matters of politics—alliances with noble houses, even whisperings in court. They say it’s to protect the Church’s influence, but I’d wager many enjoy the taste of power. Others, by contrast, isolate themselves, tending only to prayer and scripture, wanting naught to do with worldly affairs.”
Bela’s brow furrowed, lips parting slightly. She looked younger, then—momentarily rid of the exhaustion she wore like armor.
“So… there’s many kinds,” she murmured.
“Dozens,” Father Petru replied. “And while each is devoted to the Holy Church, not all are fit for the same life. Some require rigorous learning—Latin, theology, the study of relics. Others prefer humble tasks: tending the sick, building chapels in the wild. But with war in the north and unrest even in the east…” he sighed, “this is not the best time to go seeking them.”
He tilted his head slightly, observing her. “If you were fortunate, one of the orders might come here. Might. And if so, they could offer to take you in. But that’s rare these days.”
“I see,” Bela said, her eyes lowering.
He gave a small smile. “You could join ours, if your heart leans that way. We take new sisters from time to time. It would be easier, safer. Especially now.”
She chewed her lower lip, silent again. The fire cracked. The wind brushed the windowpane.
“I was still wondering,” she said finally. “What are the orders in the city? If… if I ever got there.”
Father Petru’s brow lifted at that. “You’re persistent, I’ll give you that,” he said, voice touched with amusement. Then he straightened slightly, like a teacher preparing a lesson.
“Well, we belong to the Order of Saint Iacob. We focus on missionary work—traveling to villages like this one, living among the people, teaching, and protecting the Word. Many of us come from humble homes ourselves. We understand hunger. Suffering.”
Bela nodded, listening intently.
“There’s the Order of the Sacred Cup,” he continued. “They serve in cities mostly—monasteries, schools. They’ve deep ties to old noble families. If you’re drawn to books, they’d welcome you. But they can be strict. Very proper. Not kind to those who speak out of turn.”
She smiled faintly, a crooked sort of thing. “Not for me, then.”
“Then there’s the Order of the Lamb’s Blood,” he said more grimly. “They’re healers, but they take in the broken. War orphans. Widows. Those with nowhere else to go. They live among the sick and dying, often in plague towns. Saints, in their own way… but they walk with death more than light.”
Bela's face darkened.
“The Sisters of Divine Silence—they tend to cloisters. Sworn to silence and prayer. They don’t leave their convents. If you wanted peace from the world, they’d offer it.”
But Bela was still watching him, unmoved by any of these.
He was halfway through describing the Brotherhood of Saint Severin—an order known for training young priests as guards and scouts—when her eyes flicked, alert.
“You mentioned another,” she said, almost too quickly. “The one with… charity work? They used to come here.”
He stopped mid-thought, furrowing his brow. “Ah. Yes. That would be the Order of the Morning Star.”
She leaned forward, her hand briefly twitching at the hem of her skirt. “Tell me more of them.”
He smiled, surprised. “I’m fond of them, truly. Their leader, Father Lucien, used to serve beside my own mentor. We were all once part of the same root, before the Orders branched off. They traveled the South mostly, holding charity feasts, tending to famine-struck towns. Always cheerful. Always singing.”
“They came here?” Bela asked, her voice catching.
“Most likely,” he replied. “They passed through much of the region before the war. But when talk of violence rose in the north, they departed early. Headed southwest, I believe. Wanted to reach the edge of the Carpathians before things turned dire.”
Her fingers tightened against her knees.
“Do you know where exactly they went?” she asked quietly.
Father Petru shook his head with a gentleness that almost hurt. “I wish I did. They were never ones to chart their travels. They go where the Lord calls. Could be anywhere now.”
Bela stared into the fire, as if hoping the flames might point the way.
“You speak as if this Order matters deeply to you,” he said, after a moment. “Why this one? Ours isn’t so different.”
“I don’t wish to join them,” she answered carefully. “Not exactly.”
He raised a brow. “No? Then what is it you seek, Bela?”
She hesitated, choosing her words. Then:
“I was hoping they would return here. I needed to speak with someone among them. A friend of mine—he left with the Morning Star. I have… a message for him. From someone he once knew.”
“Someone from the Hollow?” Father Petru asked, suddenly attentive.
She nodded.
“What’s his name?” he asked. “I may know him. The Church is smaller than it seems, in truth.”
Bela lifted her eyes. There was pain behind them—old, quiet pain, sealed under layers of memory and dust. A hush had fallen over the hearth as Bela uttered the name.
“Father Athanasius.”
It hung in the air like a whispered psalm, echoing into the dark rafters above them. Father Petru stilled at the sound. His fingers, worn and calloused from long days on the road, moved to his chin, where he rubbed absently as though stirring old memories from the vault of his past.
Across from him, Bela leaned forward. Her shawl slipped just slightly from her shoulder, revealing a fragile frame tensed with expectation. Her eyes—once dulled by travel and grime—now sparked with cautious hope.
“Athanasius…” he murmured, his eyes narrowing with reflection. “Aye, I’ve known many a man by that name. It is a name much favoured by the pious—strong, devout, and old as the mountains.”
Bela’s heart beat like a sparrow’s wings.
“There are several from the Order of the Morning Star who bear it,” Petru went on. “But whether your Athanasius still dwells among them—or walks with the Lord now—I cannot say.”
Her lips pressed into a thin, pale line, and her brows furrowed with sorrow. That familiar ache began to settle again behind her ribs.
Petru saw the shift in her expression and, with gentle intent, offered a softer tone.
“Let me speak of the ones I recall,” he said. “Perhaps their likeness may stir something within you.”
She gave the faintest nod.
“The first is a younger man. Barely reaching thirty winters, I’d wager. Pale-haired. Quiet as a mouse in a stone chapel. I know little of him myself—only his name through friends in the capital. We never spoke. He came and went like mist.”
He paused, watching Bela closely. No sign. No flicker of recognition.
“Then there is another,” he continued, “Father Athanasius of greater years. Sixty, maybe more. White beard. Hands that tremble only slightly from age. He was once quite high in the hierarchy of their order—perhaps even close to the archimandrite. I have not met him personally, but I’ve heard his name sung in noble halls. The kind of man the gentry trusted. Or feared. There are many stories. But none that say where he is now.”
He leaned back, letting the thought settle like dust on the table.
Bela said nothing, but her mind raced.
The older one.
It had to be him.
Her mother had never spoken his name, not aloud. Only ever in shrouded whispers and half-glances. But she had mentioned the Order of the Morning Star once, long ago—on a night when the wind howled so fiercely that even their candles had bowed.
Many missionaries had come and gone from Văduva’s Hollow. Some stayed long enough to bless a child or bury a widow. Others merely passed through, their feet never muddy, their hands always folded. But none had known of an Athanasius—not the way she sought. They all hailed from far-flung parishes, tucked between woods and ruins where men went only to die or repent.
This, now, was something. A sliver of light through rotted shutters.
She parted her lips to ask more, to inquire about the old priest’s movements, his manner, his eyes—but just then, the sound of bootsteps interrupted them.
Nicolae finally approached, smelling of ale and firewood. His apron was damp, his beard matted with the sheen of sweat.
“Father Petru,” he said, nodding with stiff formality. “The escort from the monastery is ready. They’ll take ye to speak with Father Dimitrie.”
Petru rose, adjusting the weight of his cloak. “My thanks, Nicolae. You’ve shown us much kindness.”
He turned back to Bela. “Forgive me, Bela. We may continue our talk another time.”
But Nicolae’s eyes had landed sharply upon the woman in the shawl.
“Bela?” he said slowly, as though tasting a foul bitterness.
She flinched, instinctively pulling the shawl further over her face, shrinking into herself like a creature expecting a blow.
But it was too late.
“You,” he snarled, voice suddenly sharp as a blade drawn across flint. “You dare step into my tavern? To speak with a man of God?”
“Nicolae, please—” she began, voice small, barely audible.
“You think your presence does not foul the very air?” he spat, stepping forward. “You think he would be glad to speak with you —you who walks these streets in shame and sin?”
With a grunt, he shoved her—hard.
The blow landed squarely in her chest. She staggered and fell backward, her thin frame hitting the floor with a thud that silenced the room for a breathless moment.
Father Petru gasped. “By the saints! Nicolae—what in God’s name—”
“She means to taint you,” Nicolae growled. “To smear you with her filth. She does it with all who pass through—every missionary, every pilgrim. You don’t know her, Father. But we do. We know what she is.”
Bela, breath caught in her throat, pushed herself to her hands. Her lip bled. Her eyes burned—but not with tears. No, they had dried up years ago.
Petru moved to help her, but was held back by two rough hands from the crowd. Other patrons had risen now, their eyes narrowed with the dull cruelty of men too long starved of virtue.
“She’s not worth it, Father,” one of them muttered. “Not a soul like hers.”
“I don’t understand,” Petru said, baffled. “She only came to greet us. There is no harm in her.”
“No harm?” Nicolae barked a hollow laugh. “She poisons the very ground she walks on. You’ll see it soon enough. They all do.”
Still, Bela said nothing. No defense. No plea. Her silence was not submission—it was resignation. This was not the first time.
She tried to rise again. Another man kicked her shoulder, pushing her back down.
Nicolae’s voice sneered like the edge of a knife, “Tell me, Bela—will you spread your words like honey for him too? Will you wrap yourself in piety and beg for salvation, like you did for the last?”
Petru, scandalized, stepped forward—but others now blocked him. The tavern had become a cage of jeers and judgment.
Bela, trembling, spoke softly. “I’ll leave.”
“No,” Nicolae snapped. “You’ll be thrown .”
Before she could protest, strong arms seized her—one at each side.
“Stop,” she cried. “I can walk. I said—I can do it myself —!”
Her words were swallowed as she was dragged across the room. Her heels scraped against the splintered floor. The crowd opened to let her pass like water parting for filth.
The door was flung wide, and the cold, damp air rushed in.
With a grunt and no ceremony, the patrons flung her into the mud of the street. She landed hard, her shawl half-soaked, her knees stinging from stone and grit.
“Don’t come back,” Nicolae barked. “If you do—we’ll stone you.”
Then the door slammed shut.
Behind her, the light of the tavern vanished. Only muffled laughter and low voices remained.
Bela lay still in the muck. Her palms pressed into the mud. Her blood mixed with the earth.
Above, the stars flickered, unblinking.
She sat up slowly, her body aching, and looked back at the tavern’s locked door.
The words of Father Petru lingered in her mind, like a whisper carried on wind:
“Perhaps one day, we shall find him.”
But that night, the only thing that answered her was silence—cold, unfeeling—and the quiet grief of a soul too weary to weep.
—
Moments later
The rain had not ceased.
It fell in cold silver sheets as Bela climbed the muddy hill toward the church. Mud clung to her dress like guilt to memory. Her lip throbbed, the cut dark with rain, and she dabbed it with her filthy shawl.
Each step was a silent prayer.
No lantern lit her way—only the monastery’s distant glow, veiled in mist. She knew the way by heart. But what was it that led her there tonight? The question lingered like incense in the wind, elusive and fragrant with irony. For this church—this holy house crowned with stone crosses and cloaked in sanctified silence—was her home .
An impossible thing, were it not true. You must be thinking: how could she belong to the same house whose patrons cursed her as a child of sin? How could stone sanctuaries shelter a soul so scorned? Did they believe in her salvation? Did they truly think she could be redeemed?
Oh, if only the old prophets could see, they would tear their scrolls to ribbons and cry before God Himself.
She reached the monastery’s side wall at last, where an old, weather-swollen door hung slightly ajar. Few used it. Fewer remembered it existed. She slipped through like a hunted fox.
Inside, the chapel air was warm, thick with incense and the echo of fading liturgy. From behind a stone column, Bela watched Father Dimitrie—tall, thin, his salt-and-pepper hair catching the candlelight—speak with a group of travel-worn priests.
Among them were Father Petru and an older man whose presence seemed to bend the room around him. After a few murmured words, they followed Dimitrie toward the dining hall. Bela slipped the other way, silent and tight-breathed, heading toward the convent wing.
In her chamber, she peeled off her soaked dress and scrubbed off the dirt and blood from her skin with shaking hands. Her plain convent clothes hung on the door. She dressed quickly, hiding the soiled garments under the bed.
God forbid the Mother Superior found out she’d been out—especially for anything not sanctioned by duty in the coal mines.
When she unbolted the door and stepped into the corridor again, it felt like being born into a different world. She moved down the hall, quiet as fog, toward the kitchens—where she’d been told to scrub the floors before morning.
She fell to her knees, rag in hand, and began her work. The repetitive motion steadied her, but her thoughts wandered.
Father Petru’s words echoed.
Athanasius.
Not just a name now—but a path. She clung to the thought like a relic. Once the war ended, she wagered that the Order of Saint Iacob would return to the city. If they did, perhaps she could follow. And in the city… perhaps, just perhaps… the Order of the Morning Star could be found.
Even if she never found Athanasius, even if he was dead and buried beneath stone, the journey might mean something. She had no future here, only bloodied memories and closed doors. Perhaps Father Petru and his kind would be different.
She scrubbed harder, her fingers red with effort and soaked in soapy water, when suddenly she heard the soft but purposeful tread of footsteps behind her.
She didn’t turn.
She didn’t need to.
"Bela," came the voice, smooth as silk and twice as sharp.
She stood, turning slowly, clutching the rag like a child clutches a ribbon. "Sister Veritas," she said, bowing her head just enough.
Sister Veritas stood like a statue carved of storm clouds—her face calm, her lips gently parted in a ghost of a smile, but her eyes… oh, her eyes. They gleamed like daggers hidden beneath velvet.
"My dear child," she began, tone pleasant, clipped, almost warm. "You work with such… devotion."
Bela nodded. "Yes, Sister. The floor must be cleaned before dawn. I was behind in my duties."
Veritas tilted her head. "Mm. And how was your day, sweet one?"
A pause.
"Coal mine work," Bela replied, eyes fixed on the floor. "As assigned."
"Of course." Veritas clasped her hands together as though in prayer. Her fingers, pale and narrow, clenched a little tighter. "And did the coal treat you kindly today?"
"It did not bite me, Sister."
"How fortunate." A thin smile. "One does wonder sometimes… how soot can leave such curious marks on a girl’s lips."
Bela’s fingers tightened around the rag. She still did not look up.
"I… fell," she offered quietly.
"Mm." Another small pause, and the room felt colder.
"We are all bound to fall, are we not?" Veritas murmured. "But some…" she stepped closer, her voice just above a whisper now, "seem ever so practiced at it."
The silence between them thickened.
"I will work harder," Bela said.
They returned to silence. The cold stone of the convent floor pressed against Bela’s knees as she scrubbed, her fingers red and raw against the soapy rag. She tried not to think about the sting in her lip where blood had dried, instead focusing on her task, her movements methodical and subdued.
The nun stood just a few paces away, cloaked in her usual cold serenity. Her face was calm, almost pleasant, but there was a glint behind her pale eyes—a glint that said the pleasantness was skin-thin and ready to tear.
“I see you are busy,” Veritas said lightly, taking a single step closer. “You work so diligently. Tell me, how was the coal mine today?”
Bela nodded, her eyes trained on the stone tiles. “It was fine, Sister. I... I did my duties as assigned. Gathered coal. Hauled it. Nothing out of the ordinary.”
“Truly?” Sister Veritas tilted her head slightly, as though she were examining a peculiar insect. “And what about after work? Did you come straight back to the convent, my dear?”
“Yes, Sister,” Bela replied quickly, swallowing hard. “I tried to come back early, but the road was thick with mud... and the rain, it made the path hard to walk. Took longer than usual.”
Veritas seemed to accept that, at least on the surface. But then, with the same calculated grace as a prowling cat, she began to circle Bela.
“I see,” she murmured. “Well then, perhaps you haven’t heard. A new missionary order has arrived in the village. The Order of Saint Iacob. They’re dining with Father Dimitrie as we speak.”
Bela’s breath caught, but she kept her head low.
“You should know better than to show yourself to such guests,” Veritas continued smoothly. “It would be... unsettling for them. To find that the likes of you is being housed here, in this holy place. We wouldn’t want to disturb their sense of righteousness, would we?”
“No, Sister,” Bela whispered. Her fingers clenched slightly around the rag.
“There are things that must be kept away from the world,” Veritas said, voice almost wistful. “Not because we hate them. But because we must protect others from their... harm. That is the duty of the Church. To contain such threats.”
“Yes, Sister.”
Veritas leaned closer. “Tell me, child... It wouldn’t be that you knew of their arrival before we even did?”
Bela shook her head, trembling. “I did not, Sister. I swear it. I was only at the coal mine. I didn’t speak to anyone.”
“Mm,” Veritas hummed. “Strange. You seem quite aware of their presence. More so than others.”
“I heard it from you just now,” Bela insisted softly.
Veritas’s circling stopped. She folded her hands before her. “So you’re telling me you didn’t pass through town? Didn’t linger near the square? Didn’t peek into the tavern like you used to?”
“I didn’t,” Bela replied, firmer this time. “There wasn’t time. I worked. I came back.”
“No friendly faces along the path? No conversations?”
“No, Sister.”
Veritas stared at her for a long while, her face unreadable.
“Are you sure?” she asked, her voice still calm, but the air around her grew heavier.
“Yes, Sister,” Bela said, bowing her head. “I am done scrubbing the floor tiles now. I’d like to return to my room, if I may.”
“Very well.”
Bela bent to gather her things, her heart pounding against her ribs like a frantic prisoner. She stood slowly, careful not to make sudden movements. She turned toward the hallway.
Then, without warning, a sharp hand gripped her by the hair and yanked her backward. She cried out, the rag dropping from her fingers as she fell hard to the ground.
“You filthy little liar,” Sister Veritas hissed above her, her voice still low but now edged like a blade. “You think you can deceive the house of God with your breathless fables? Do you take me for a fool?”
Bela sat still upon the cold stone floor, her body aching from the sting of Sister Veritas’s blow, but not nearly as much as from the slow, blooming shame that wrapped itself around her bones like frost. She dared not weep—not here, not now. Her eyes burned, but the tears remained damned behind clenched lids. It did not matter anymore.
Veritas paced in slow, measured steps, her hands folded over each other like a statue of justice long since stripped of mercy. Her voice, calm as ever, was a steady knife pressed into soft flesh.
"Did you truly believe, Bela, that I would not learn of your little... encounter?" she said softly, the mockery in her tone barely concealed beneath the lilt of pious decorum.
Bela did not speak. Her eyes stayed trained on the floor, on her pale, trembling hands still smeared with ash and soap.
"He mentioned you, you know," Veritas continued, taking a slow step closer. "Father Petru. He is not foolish. Nor is he blind. He spoke of the commotion at the tavern. The crowd. The bruises on your lip. Imagine our surprise at hearing your name from his lips while we supped with him at Father Dimitrie’s table."
Bela’s breath stilled in her throat.
Veritas leaned down ever so slightly, her shadow stretching long across the stone. "You stood there like a lamb before slaughter and painted yourself the victim. Have you no shame, child? The villagers were not chasing you—they were shielding a holy man from the likes of you."
Bela blinked, lips slightly parted, but said nothing. She wanted to speak. To deny. To explain. But what would be the point?
The moment Sister Veritas mentioned the Order of Saint Iacob, Bela knew—she knew —the old nun had somehow discovered she’d spoken to one of its missionaries. It always played out this way. Whether Bela confessed or stayed silent, the outcome never changed.
Guilt wasn’t a matter of proof here; it was stitched into her name like a curse.
Even when she did nothing at all—even when she barely breathed— they still found a reason to punish her. A glance held too long. A voice raised in defense. It never took much. Their fury wasn’t born from her actions—it was born from her existence.
This had been their rhythm since the beginning.
Since she was a child pacing those stone halls in hand-me-down shoes.
Since the day her mother died in the very convent that now housed her like an unwanted relic.
Veritas straightened and circled her slowly. "And then you had the gall to inquire about other orders from the city. Do you think you can simply climb your way out of this pit you were born in? That you can run from what you are?"
Bela's voice, when it came, was small. A whisper. "I only asked him about the Orders. That’s all."
Veritas stopped walking. Her gaze settled on her like a noose. "Is that truly all?"
"Yes, Sister," Bela said, her hands tightening around the rag she still held.
"You lie so sweetly… just like your mother," Sister Veritas said, almost wistful, almost fond—like cruelty dressed in velvet. "What else did you ask him, child? Speak plainly."
"Only about the city… if he knew anyone named Athanasius."
The name slipped into the air and clung there, heavy and damning, like a sin uttered during mass. Veritas stilled. Her head tilted. One brow arched with slow precision.
"Father Athanasius?"
A thin, humorless smile pulled at her lips. Then came the scoff—sharp as broken glass.
"Demented. That’s what you are." Her eyes narrowed, voice softening into something far crueler than rage: pity. "Still chasing ghosts and fantasies. How many times now? Every time a new priest steps foot in this godforsaken village, there you are, skulking in corners, whispering that name like it’s a magic spell. As if saying it often enough will summon him back from the dead."
Bela opened her mouth, but Veritas was not done.
"You think you can really find someone who does not wish to be found? And for what? Do you honestly think a man— a priest —would return to embrace the product of his greatest disgrace?"
Bela’s hands trembled. The tears she’d held back now threatened again, but she bit her lip until it bled anew.
"He never wanted you. No more than he wanted your mother. You were not born beneath angel’s wings, child—you were born in gutter water, dragged screaming into a world that didn’t want you. A reminder of lust, of weakness. Of failure."
She stepped closer, her voice dropping to a harsh whisper. "And you—you bring rot wherever you tread. That tavern, that priest… you don’t seduce people, Bela. You contaminate them."
Bela’s throat tightened. Her breath came shallow. Still, she would not cry. Not now. Not here.
Veritas narrowed her eyes. "Tell me, what else did you ask him?"
"Nothing," Bela whispered.
"Nothing?"
"I swear, Sister. Nothing else."
Veritas took another step. "Are you certain?"
"Yes."
" Are you certain? "
Bela just nodded her head, but Veritas stared at her with a disappointment carved deep into the lines of her face. The silence that followed was almost reverent, like a prayer about to turn bitter.
"Is that so?" she finally said, voice low and smooth, like oil on fire.
Then, after a pause so long it felt like judgment:
"Goodness, what shall we do with you?" Her eyes swept over Bela in quiet revulsion. "You wear that shawl like it hides your shame. But it reeks of her. Her perfume. Her sin. And you—like her—will never be anything more than a scar this church must hide."
Yes.
It was true.
Bela was indeed the daughter of a priest and an unmarried woman—a disgrace burned into the very bones of the village. They whispered that a demon, not a divine hand, had ushered her into this world. That she was a curse made flesh.
She was one of the few people in their village that serve as a living reminder that even holy places rot from within. That’s why the tavern doors slammed shut when she approached. Why patrons spat at her feet. Why they tore her from the priest’s side like her presence alone might drag him into damnation.
Now she works in the coal mines. Filthy, stifling tunnels far beneath the earth. She shared the darkness with the condemned—thieves, murderers, liars—all deemed unworthy by the village’s brittle, sacred rules. The church called it penance. A labor of repentance. A way to sweat sin out through blood and pain.
But Bela knew better. It wasn’t penance. It was banishment with a halo.
They believed those who worked down there were already cursed—just waiting for the sickness in their souls to fester and bloom. Like devil’s seeds planted in human skin.
Bela’s mother had died when she was a child. Her father— the Father Athanasius—she had never met. They said he fled, disgraced and terrified, leaving them both behind.
A priest.
A coward.
A ghost.
But her mother told a different story.
She said he hadn’t left by choice. He’d wanted to run away with her—run far, far away before the child was born. But the village found out. They chased him out like a rabid dog, and fear did what it does best: it kept him gone.
After her mother’s death, Bela was taken in by nuns. With their cold hands and even colder hearts, they called her mother a liar, said the priest never meant to keep any promise. That she was just another woman dreaming of love where there was none.
Now, all Bela had left of him was a name.
Bela lay on the cold stone floor, gasping, her face streaked with sweat, tears, and tangled hair. Grief shook her, but it was the silence—heavy and merciless—that truly crushed her. The stillness before judgment. The edge before the fall. Sister Veritas stepped back, her shadow cutting the light. When she spoke, her voice was quiet—but final, like nails sealing a coffin.
“You must learn, child. And you will.”
She turned, her robes whispering against the floor, but paused at the doorway. Just long enough for Bela’s heart to stop.
“The wine vault, then.”
The words pierced the air like a blade through silk.
Bela’s eyes flew open, wild with disbelief. The name alone stole the breath from her lungs, like a hand closing around her throat.
“No…” she whispered, the word brittle and dry, more air than sound.
“Yes.”
Her world narrowed. The room, the walls, even the cold—all of it disappeared beneath the weight of that single word.
“No, Sister—please—please not the vault.”
Her voice cracked as she lunged forward, hands trembling violently, clutching at the hem of Veritas’s habit like a drowning girl grasping a rope.
“I’ll kneel in the gravel courtyard until my knees break. I’ll clean the latrines with my bare hands. I’ll fast for a month, two—but don’t put me there. Don’t make me go there again.”
Veritas didn’t flinch. Her eyes were cold steel, unmoved by tears.
“It is not your tongue I mistrust, child,” she said, voice cool and even. “It is your nature.”
“I won’t speak of him again. I swear it! I’ll never ask, never question—just—please.” Bela’s voice fell to a desperate whisper as she clung tighter. “Not the vault. Not the dark.”
The vault.
Not the wine cellar used during feast days, where one could at least turn around or breathe. No. This was the old vault, buried beneath the east wing, beside the disused root cellar. Only a handful of sisters knew the path to it anymore.
It was no longer a place for wine.
It was a place for punishment .
Small. Claustrophobic. So low-roofed that even a child had to bend. The smell of mildew hung in the air, and the damp stone walls sweated as though weeping. There were no windows. No candles. Just stale air and pitch darkness. Bela remembered.
She had been twelve the last time.
She had clawed at the door until her fingernails split.
She had screamed until her throat bled.
She had fainted from the panic, and awoken hours later in her own vomit, her limbs cramped from being curled like a corpse in a coffin.
“Please,” she whispered now, tears sliding down her cheeks as she clutched Veritas’s skirt. “Please, don’t do this to me again. I’m not lying, I’m not wicked—I’ll never ask about him again.”
Veritas’s mouth thinned. “Stand up.”
Bela’s head shook violently. “I can’t.”
“You will.”
“I can’t!” she shrieked. “Please—I’ll be good. I’ll be good.”
“Your tears are wasted here,” Veritas said flatly, yanking her habit free of the girl’s grip.
“I’m sorry!” Bela cried, her voice rising into hysteria. “I’m sorry, Mama, please—”
The name slipped out like a wound splitting open, and for a moment, the entire world stopped.
Veritas froze.
Her lips curled back, no longer calm. Her voice came sharp and venomous.
“Your tantrums,” she hissed, “will wake the fucking Order of Saint Iacob!”
The profanity cracked through the room like thunder. Down the corridor, voices rose. Footsteps pounded. Doors flew open.
Three nuns burst in, pale with alarm—Sister Clemence, Sister Sanda, and Sister Irina.
“What is this racket?” Clemence demanded, eyes sweeping over Bela’s collapsed form.
“She’s hysterical again,” Veritas snapped. “Lock her in the vault.”
“No!” Bela screamed, lurching backward, heels skidding. Her nails scraped against the stone as she tried to crawl away. “I’ll go mad! Please, please, I’m sorry! I won’t speak his name again! I swear it on my soul!”
“She’s resisting,” Veritas growled. “Get the whips.”
Sanda hesitated. “But she’s—”
“She’s dangerous! She’ll poison the others with her delusions. Do it now, or would you prefer she starts shrieking her blasphemies during morning mass?”
Reluctantly, Sanda turned. The old cabinet groaned as it opened. The scent of oiled leather filled the room like a storm rolling in.
Snap.
The first lash landed across Bela’s back. Her scream tore the silence like paper.
Then another. And another. Her shawl shredded. Blood welled in fine red ribbons, soaking the cloth. Her body convulsed with each blow, mouth open in soundless agony.
“MOVE, you filth!” Irina roared, her voice cracking.
“I’M SORRY! I’M SORRY!” Bela howled. “MAMA, PLEASE DON’T LET THEM—”
No one came.
No one ever came.
Rough hands gripped her arms. Her fingernails left red trails on the stone as they dragged her through the hallway. Her legs flailed, feet scraping raw, leaving bloody streaks behind her like the trail of a dying animal.
“PLEASE!” she sobbed. “I’LL BE GOOD! PLEASE, NOT THE DARK, NOT AGAIN—”
Whenever she kicked, the whip fell. Whenever she resisted, it burned across her skin. Her cries echoed off the stone walls, raw and shrill, until her voice broke. She coughed, choked, begged—for mercy, for light, for anyone to care.
But the convent never cared.
Down the corridor they dragged her. Stone steps descended into damp cold. The walls closed in like a throat, the air thick with mold and rot.
At the end stood a door—low, iron-bound, silent.
Her grave.
Still she screamed. Still she fought.
But the vault waited.
And the vault did not care.
Her body convulsed, slick with sweat, her voice shredded like cloth through fire. “Someone—please! Help me!” Her scream echoed, swallowed by the silence.
The vault door groaned as Sister Irina pulled it open. It yawned like a coffin, exhaling rot—mold, old wine, damp decay. The stench wrapped around her like memory, dragging up every nightmare buried in her bones.
Bela recoiled. “No—no, I’m begging you!” she sobbed. “Not again! Please, Sister Veritas—I’ll change, I swear—just not the vault!”
Veritas stepped forward, calm as judgment. Her voice was low, every word precise. "You need to learn to kill this hope in you. Hope is not your salvation, Bela. It is your torment. Your obsession with finding this... phantom father will drag you down to hell with it."
She leaned down, her face mere inches from Bela’s. "You cannot be cleansed by prayer anymore. That luxury has long since passed. So we must resort to… alternatives. Hopefully, this one proves effective. If not—well, the next won’t be so kind."
Bela trembled violently, trying to back away on her elbows. "No, please, Sister, just this once—just this once, forgive me—"
"Enough," Veritas snapped, the finality in her voice silencing the chamber. She turned to the others. "Carry her. Bend her over if you must. Make her fit."
Three sisters advanced. Cold hands gripped her—arms, legs, shoulders—tight and merciless.
"No! Don’t touch me! Please, please, I’ll be good! I’ll be good! I swear it upon the Mother’s mercy!"
Red marks bloomed where their fingers dug into her skin. Bela writhed, let herself go limp, dead weight in their arms. Sweat soaked her shawl. Her sobs fractured into gasps, her chest convulsing.
“She’s possessed,” muttered Sister Clemence. “The devil rides her spine.”
“Hold her still!” Veritas snapped, patience fraying.
Bela only screamed louder.
“MAMA! MAMA, SAVE ME! PLEASE! MAMAAA!”
The name cut through the air like a blade—an old wound reopened.
Veritas growled, ripped a handkerchief from her sleeve, and shoved it over Bela’s mouth. “Enough. Cover her. No one should hear this—not with prayer in thirty minutes.”
Bela’s screams turned to muffled sobs. Tears soaked the cloth. Her body shook with each breath, lungs seizing with panic.
“This is wasteful,” Veritas muttered. “All this sin, just to contain a tantrum.”
“Put her in. Now.”
The sisters dragged her toward the open vault. Bela twisted, limbs thrashing, fighting for escape. The vault yawned wide, shadows reaching for her. Claustrophobia clamped around her lungs, stars bursting in her vision.
“No—I can’t—breathe—”
Then—
Heat.
A pulse beneath her skin.
Her hands began to glow.
Red.
It started faint—like candlelight—then blazed, a halo of crimson trembling in the air.
“What in God’s name—?” gasped Sister Irina.
“Step back!” Clemence shrieked.
But it was too late. A sudden, violent burst of energy erupted from Bela’s body. A red wave—pure force and rage and desperation—surged outward like an explosion, slamming against the stone walls.
It struck the three sisters holding her. All were thrown backward with cries of alarm. Their bodies hit the stone walls with heavy thuds, sliding down to the ground in groaning heaps.
Even Veritas stumbled back, her feet skidding, her body slamming into a bench with a grunt. She hit the floor, robes tangled around her legs, a rare crack in her composed armor.
Bela dropped to her knees, panting, trembling. The glow faded from her hands, leaving only the faint shimmer of what had been.
Around her, the sisters lay silent, staring in shock.
Even Veritas looked at Bela not with anger—
—but with fear.
And in the hush that followed, the only sound was Bela’s shaky breath—and the electric hum beneath her skin.
Something had awakened.
Something that had always been there.
Just waiting to be set free.
—
A day later
“You took your time,” she said coldly.
Father Dimitrie huffed and slowed his stride. “Sister, I could scarcely relieve myself this morning without someone requesting a blessing. You forget the monastery is hosting pilgrims and visiting clergy. Eyes are everywhere. I cannot risk alarming anyone with covert meetings and whispers.”
“I’ve been watching you since mass,” Veritas snapped. “I sent three messages before breakfast. I waited at the chapel’s entrance. Still, you delay.”
“I delay because I must,” he retorted, voice curt but measured. “What would they think, Veritas? If I slunk off during midday vespers to visit a convent renowned for... unfortunate events? The villagers talk. The new guests listen. I must protect the image of our parish.”
“Then perhaps you should have shielded it sooner,” she said, stepping back. “Because we have a problem.”
Veritas exhaled slowly. Her eyes flicked to the other sisters, each cloaked in the stillness of dread. When she finally spoke, her voice was low, nearly devout, but layered with something cold and ageless—like a hymn sung in a forgotten tongue.
“It’s about Bela.”
The name dropped like a stone into a pond, silencing the hall.
Dimitrie halted mid-step. He turned, his eyes narrowing with something between annoyance and foreboding.
“What about her this time?”
No one answered at once. Veritas merely looked ahead, the shadows beneath her eyes deeper than the candlelight could explain. Clemence’s mouth drew tight. Irina lowered her gaze, staring hard at the floor as though the flagstones might split open and drag her down.
Dimitrie's tone grew sardonic. “She ran off from the coal pits again? Frighten another poor stable boy half to death? Or is this about that little... performance at the tavern? The one Father Petru witnessed?” He clicked his tongue. “I told you before. The vault usually does the trick.”
But then his voice sharpened, lost its edge of sarcasm. “Did she escape? Did she hurt someone?”
Veritas shook her head. “No. She didn’t escape. And no one is hurt—at least, not in the way you’re thinking.”
Dimitrie’s jaw twitched. “Then what in God’s name is this about?”
She stepped aside, her gesture solemn. “Come inside. This is not a tale to be spoken under an open sky.”
They moved in silence, the cloister’s stone corridor yawning before them like the mouth of something ancient and patient. Candle sconces, long since gone cold, clung to the walls like skeletal fingers. Shutters rattled faintly in the wind, letting in thin slivers of pale morning light. Dust danced in the gloom. Their footsteps echoed in a hollow rhythm.
When they reached the cloister garden, Veritas finally spoke again.
“It happened again. The powers—whatever twisted gift coils in her blood—manifested last night. But this time... it wasn’t like before.”
Dimitrie stopped. “Not like before, how?”
“It wasn’t just her hands glowing. Nor her eyes flickering crimson and sending the dogs barking. This wasn’t the usual spectacle.”
Veritas turned to him fully. Her face was carved from marble, all softness gone.
“This time... it struck us.”
For a heartbeat, there was only wind and the rustle of ivy on stone.
“It what?”
“It threw us,” came Sister Sanda’s voice, hushed and trembling. “Like a storm. A blast. It flung us across the chamber like rag dolls.”
“I hit the wall,” Irina said, her voice tight, her hand unconsciously gripping her wrist. “I blacked out. Woke up coughing blood.”
“She was screaming,” Clemence added. “Screaming so loud it rattled the hinges. We tried to restrain her. Her mouth was covered. Her limbs are bound. We dragged her toward the vault, and then—her hand lit up. Not like a candle. Like a star burning itself to death. And before we knew what was happening, we were on the floor. All of us.”
Dimitrie scanned their faces. No tremble of exaggeration. No furtive glances. Only bruises, quiet fury, and dread.
He exhaled, slowly. “Did you try the whips?”
“We did but before that, we had no time,” Veritas said. “And you forget—she’s grown. Taller. Stronger than she was at twelve.”
“She’s still a girl,” he muttered. “Barely eats. Sleeps like a corpse. That kind of power—it should tear her apart.”
Veritas met his gaze, her voice as flat and sharp as slate. “Apparently... it doesn’t.”
Dimitrie’s lips pressed into a hard line. “Then take me to her.”
They walked again, this time descending. The hallway narrowed into a spiral staircase, carved from rough stone and slick with moss. The scent of mildew clung to the air, mingled with iron and the faint tang of wine long since soured in barrels.
“She’s not in her room, I trust,” Dimitrie said.
“No,” Irina replied. “We took her to the basement. The old iron room. She’s chained—wrist, ankle, and neck. Triple-locked.”
“Good,” he said. “Last thing we need is her ghosting through town again. Folk are already whispering.”
“They’ve stopped whispering,” Clemence murmured. “Now they shout. 'Witch. Demon. Hellspawn.' We hear it even in prayer.”
The final stair creaked beneath their weight. The cold grew teeth.
“We still see it,” Irina added, almost afraid to say it. “The glow. Not bright, but... there. Her hands, like dying coals. Smoldering.”
They descended to the lowest corridor—the place sunlight had long forgotten, where the stone walls wept moisture and every breath felt borrowed. The air tasted of rust and regret. Dimitrie’s jaw tightened like a man bracing for storm winds.
“I need to see it with my own eyes,” he said, voice low and hard. “We cannot act on bruises and bedtime horrors.”
He turned to the sisters, eyes like flint. “But understand this—if what you say is true, then we are no longer harboring a wounded child. We are feeding something else. Something that grows teeth in the dark.”
Veritas didn’t flinch. Her voice was dust and iron. “A monster.”
The word clung to the silence like smoke from a funeral pyre—bitter, sacred, final. No one dared to disagree. So they kept walking, cautious as ghosts, deeper into the shadows—toward the locked iron door, toward Bela, toward the truth that throbbed behind it.
The basement beneath the convent was a mausoleum of forgotten things, carved deep into the bowels of a hill that remembered every scream. The flickering lantern in Sister Veritas' hand threw long, shivering shadows along the corridor walls—ghosts born of trembling fire.
It felt like descending into a wound in the world.
“The breath of God doesn’t reach this far,” Veritas whispered, her voice barely more than a tremor as she clutched her rosary tight. Finally, they reached the iron door. “She is inside.”
Dimitrie gave her a glance—half warning, half command. “Leave us.”
The nuns obeyed, backs straight, eyes averted, retreating as silently as shadows.
Dimitrie pressed a hand to the cold metal—it thrummed faintly, like it had a heartbeat. With a grunt, he unlatched the lock and pushed the door open.
Lantern light spilled in like an intruder.
There she was.
Bela.
A crumpled figure in a room of rot and silence. She lay curled on the filthy floor, chained and bruised, a collar cinched too tightly to be symbolic. Her hair, matted with sweat, dirt, and likely blood, hid her face. The air stank of iron, mildew—and despair.
She didn’t move, only flinched at the sound of boots. Dimitrie knelt beside her, robes trailing like shadow, studying her with that cold, unreadable stillness only priests or predators wore.
“Well,” he said at last, voice light, almost teasing. “You look like a fresco left too long to the weather.”
No reply.
“The sisters have truly outdone themselves this time,” he added, dry amusement threading through his tone. “Those marks could shame the Stations of the Cross.”
Still silence. She turned her face away, but not before he caught the wet shimmer at the corner of her swollen eye.
Then he saw it.
The glow.
Subtle, pulsing. Crimson like blood diluted in oil, flickering beneath the cracked skin of her fingertips. It wasn't merely light. It hummed, a silent thrum that teased the edge of hearing, as though the air itself was vibrating in response. It pulsed with an uncanny rhythm—alive, almost aware.
So the stories weren’t exaggerations after all.
Dimitrie tilted his head, drawn in despite himself. He reached out but stopped short, as though afraid to touch something holy—or cursed.
“I must confess,” he murmured, voice low and reverent, “I’ve seen many curiosities in my years. Men who bleed wine. Children who dream in dead tongues. But this... this is something else entirely.”
Finally, she turned her face toward him. Her eyes locked onto his, and in that gaze he saw no hatred, no fear—only sorrow. Deep, ancient, bone-deep sorrow. The kind that didn’t scream. The kind that endured.
It made him recoil inwardly. So he smiled instead.
“Tell me, Bela,” he said, faux casual, “was it really worth sneaking off again? The mines? The Order of Saint Iacob? Was it for your father?”
A dry, cracked nod.
He sighed as if she’d disappointed him in something minor—forgetting a prayer, spilling wine. “I thought your last lesson might have curbed this rebellious streak.”
Her gaze fell to the stone.
“There, there,” he said softly, crouching further. “You must understand, my dear, that this—” he gestured broadly to her cell, the chains, her wounds “—is not cruelty. It is a correction. The world is built on it. Actions have consequences. Obedience keeps the chaos at bay.”
Still, she said nothing. But her silence was loud.
His eyes flicked to her glowing hands once more.
“This... this blight,” he muttered. “What is it?”
“I don’t know,” she whispered, voice hoarse.
He leaned in. “Louder.”
She swallowed. “I’ve had it since I was six. I didn’t summon it. It comes when I’m hurt. When I’m scared. It burns.”
He frowned. “When did it first appear?”
Her voice was a thread. “When they starved me. Two days. I cried. My hands lit up. Then again, when they made me kneel on seeds. My knees split open. My eyes burned. The sisters screamed.”
Dimitrie was silent.
This was no miracle. No divine grace. No infernal mark. It was something older. Wilder.
He reached out again, stopping just shy of her glowing skin. The warmth coming off it was unnatural—neither fever nor flame. It breathed .
“I believe you,” he said, and for a moment, he meant it.
Her eyes lit with the faintest spark of hope.
Then he rose.
“But you must stay,” he said, turning away.
Panic bloomed. “No. Please—don’t leave me here.”
“You need time,” he replied, pulling the lantern closer. “Time to understand. Time to learn.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt them,” she said quickly. “I never wanted this.”
He paused at the door. “And yet, here you are.”
“Father, please—!”
“This is for your own good.”
The door groaned shut with agonizing slowness and darkness finally closed in like a fist.
Only the faint, crimson light of her hands remained—like bleeding stars in a sky that no longer saw her.
Father Dimitrie emerged from the chill of the basement, breath misting as he climbed into the torchlit corridor. Ahead, the convent hallway stretched cold and drafty, and at its end, the sisters waited—Veritas at the front, arms crossed, gaze sharp; Clemence beside her, lips tight; Sanda and Irina behind, clutching trembling rosaries, whispering prayers.
As Dimitrie stepped into view, the air seemed to hold its breath.
“Well?” Veritas demanded. “What did you see?”
He didn’t answer right away. His hand rose to his chin, fingertips brushing the silver fringe of his beard. When he finally spoke, his voice was low—measured, but heavy with implication.
“You were right,” he said. “The glow persists. Crimson. Unwavering. And it… moves. As though it lives.”
A rustle of unease passed through the group. Sanda reflexively crossed herself, her fingers trembling.
Veritas narrowed her eyes. “Even now? She hasn’t eaten, hasn’t drunk a drop. And still it clings to her?”
Dimitrie nodded. “Not just clings—it pulses. Like a heartbeat. It hasn't faded. If anything, it’s stronger than before. She had no food, no light, no comfort… yet the glow is undiminished. That is not an illusion. That is not madness.”
“She bit Sister Irina,” Clemence cut in, voice taut with indignation. “When we tried to drag her to the vault, she fought like a cornered animal. Scratched, kicked, screamed. No prayer could soothe her.”
Irina paled, tugging her sleeve down over the bandage on her wrist.
“She did fight,” Dimitrie allowed, beginning to pace. His boots echoed with solemn finality on the stone. “But let me ask you this—wouldn’t you fight, if you were dragged into darkness without reason or mercy?”
Veritas shifted uncomfortably. The others exchanged glances, as if daring each other to disagree.
“She did not blaspheme. Did not foam at the mouth. Her limbs did not twist, her eyes were not blackened. She spoke clearly. Her eyes were lucid. Her voice calm. Almost… reasonable .”
“Then what is she?” Sanda asked, voice barely more than breath. “A demon child? A changeling?”
Dimitrie stopped pacing. “I don’t know,” he admitted. “But that glow? It hurled four sisters off their feet— without intent . That power surged out of her like a reflex. Imagine if she learned to wield it deliberately .”
A silence fell, thick as fog.
Veritas was the first to break it. “You think she can control it?”
“I think she’s beginning to,” Dimitrie said. “She told me it comes when she’s hurt. When she’s punished. The first time it flared, she said, was during a starvation beating. Then again, when forced to kneel on husks until her knees bled. Each time, the same—pain. Humiliation. Fear. And then… light.”
He looked to the heavens as if searching for understanding, arms spread in silent question.
“I think it’s a defense. Something ancient. Buried. In her bloodline, perhaps. If it is rage that fuels it, pain that calls it… and she learns to summon it…”
He let the thought hang, unspoken.
“Then we’re not sheltering an orphan,” Clemence said grimly. “We’re housing a weapon.”
“And if she already knows what she is?” Irina asked, voice quaking.
Dimitrie’s expression flickered—faith and fear warring behind his eyes.
“Then we must make her forget.”
Veritas’s brows furrowed. “And how do you propose we do that? How do you hide power from the one who holds it?”
He didn’t hesitate.
“Keep her broken,” he said softly. “Keep her small. Starve her belief in herself. Make her fear it— as much as we do .”
The words struck like ice water.
“I must go,” he added after a beat. “The novices await for evening prayer.”
“But what of the girl?” Veritas stepped after him, her voice hard.
Dimitrie paused at the archway, framed in firelight. The hem of his robe caught the torchlight, black and red like a dying flame.
“She stays where she is,” he said. “The iron will hold. Give her bread. Water. No more.”
The sisters flinched.
“You’d feed that thing?” Clemence spat. “When she glows like a brand and no lash humbles her?”
Sanda’s voice turned cold. “Her mother was a harlot. Her father—a priest . That alone should have damned her soul.”
“They must’ve conceived her during some unholy rite,” Irina muttered, almost to herself. “A blood moon, no doubt…”
Dimitrie turned on his heel. His voice, when it came, was sharp as a blade.
“I don’t care if her mother danced naked through graves,” he snapped. “I don’t care what scandal brought her into the world. What I care about is the truth: the girl lives. The girl glows . And the girl is dangerous .”
He stepped forward, and the sisters recoiled as one.
“But if she’s watched. If she’s chained. If we feed her just enough to keep her breathing… she cannot harm us. Not yet. And if this is a miracle , if God has truly sent us this child… then perhaps we are not cursed, but chosen .”
He softened, barely. His voice took on the quiet conviction of a priest clinging to hope.
“If we endure this trial—if we survive her—then we may yet claim triumph over the Devil himself.”
With that, he turned and disappeared into the corridor, his silhouette swallowed by the gold-lit gloom.
The sisters stood still as gravestones.
“A waste of bread,” Clemence muttered. “She should be buried in salt and ash.”
“She should be exorcised,” Sanda hissed. “Not pitied.”
But Veritas only stared after Dimitrie, her jaw set hard.
“For now…” she murmured. “We obey.”
Their shadows twisted across the stone walls—long, angry, afraid.
And far below, in the bowels of the earth, the girl in chains wept without sound—her hands glowing faintly in the dark, like embers that refused to die.
—
Days later
Days had lost meaning. Whether it was the third or fifth, Bela no longer knew—nor cared. Time had blurred into a stagnant haze of pain. She lay crumpled on the cold floor, chained and starving, her body numb, lips cracked, wrists raw. The red glow that once lit her hands was gone, as if it had never been.
Still, her lips moved. Barely. A breath, a whisper. Sometimes the words made sense. Sometimes they didn’t. If death was escape, let it come quietly. Let it take her where her mother had gone.
Her thoughts were broken by the sudden screech of rusted hinges.
The iron door creaked open.
The cold air shifted.
She blinked against the faint torchlight spilling in, barely able to lift her head. A figure stepped inside.
Sister Irina.
She stood rigid at the threshold, a tray in her hands. Her nose wrinkled in distaste as her eyes landed on the huddled, chained form of Bela. Her expression was more than contempt—it was revulsion.
“Tch,” Irina hissed. “Still alive.”
She strode forward, her boots loud and purposeful. She didn’t kneel, didn’t speak with compassion. She merely dropped the tray with such force that half the porridge sloshed out, pooling into the grime and straw at Bela’s feet.
“Eat,” she muttered. “If you still remember how.”
Bela didn’t move at first. She stared at the tray as if unsure it was real. A lump of grey porridge—cold, congealed—sat in a chipped bowl beside a tin cup of water. Some of the meal had already mixed with the dirt.
Irina stepped back, folding her arms.
“Well? You’re not fasting, are you, demon-child?”
Only then did Bela slowly, shakily crawl toward the tray, her knees scraping the stone. The chains rattled behind her. She reached the bowl with both hands and hungrily brought it to her lips, her trembling fingers clutching at its rim. She didn’t care that it was cold. Didn’t care that it tasted of iron and dust. She was starving.
“You look worse than a gutter rat,” Irina sneered. “Pitiful. You even eat like one.”
Bela ignored her. She kept eating, slow and desperate, licking at what little she could, the porridge sticking to her fingers.
Irina circled her like a vulture. Her eyes narrowed. “Hmm. So the red is gone now. How convenient.”
Bela didn’t look up. She didn’t speak. She had learned, by now, that silence sometimes spared her more than honesty did.
“I suppose the Devil's gone shy,” Irina continued, voice dripping with venom. “Or maybe he left you. Even Hell must be ashamed of what you are.”
Still, no reply. Only the soft sound of hunger.
“That’s it, isn’t it? Born from sin. Spawn of a harlot and a blaspheming priest. What ritual brought you into this world, I wonder? Did they bleed a lamb on the altar? Drink from each other’s palms while the moon bled red?” She leaned closer, her mouth curling. “You are a curse. A blemish. You should have died with your whore of a mother.”
Bela froze.
But only for a second.
She continued eating, eyes low, lips stained with grain and dirt.
The sight seemed to enrage Irina.
“Disgusting,” she spat. “Even your silence is impudent.”
In a sudden burst of rage, Irina kicked the bowl from Bela’s hands. It clattered against the wall, porridge splattering like wet ash. Bela gasped—not in pain, but in quiet loss. The food was gone. She looked up, eyes hollow, face streaked with grime and tears. No defiance—only the dull ache of someone too broken to protest.
“Oh? Now you look at me?” Irina mocked. “Why don’t you glow, little devil? Why don’t you strike me down like you did the others?”
Bela said nothing.
Irina stepped closer, crouching down to face her. “Is it pain you need? Hurt, to call your fire?”
Still nothing.
She raised a hand and slapped Bela hard across the cheek. The sound cracked in the small room. Bela’s head jerked to the side, a fresh bruise already blooming under her skin.
“Come on,” Irina hissed. “Call your magic. Burn me. Show me what you are.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” Bela whispered.
“Liar!”
This time, she grabbed Bela by the hair and yanked her upward. Bela cried out, her cry hoarse, her body too frail to resist. Irina struck her again. And again. Until her knuckles turned red and Bela sobbed against her sleeve.
“Mama...” Bela whispered. “Mama, please. I want to go home...”
Irina stopped.
The silence that followed was thick, cruel.
“Your mother’s dead, filth,” she whispered coldly. “And if you had any kindness in you, you’d have joined her long ago.”
She released Bela with a shove, sending her crumpling against the wall.
Then, with a hiss of disgust, Irina turned, gathered what was left of the tray, and stormed out of the room. The door slammed shut with a thunderous boom.
Darkness returned.
And in the silence, Bela wept.
Not from pain—
But from the certainty no one would come.
Not her mother.
Not anyone.
Not even God.
Only the cold remained.
And prayers that were never answered.
The door had slammed shut—hours, minutes, maybe days ago. Time dissolved in the vault’s blackness. No sun, no moon. Just the stink of rust, piss, and old blood. The air was thick, unmoving. The stones whispered of madness.
Bela curled into the farthest corner, where damp crept like mold. She hugged her knees to her chest, face buried, tears soaking the ragged hem of her shift.
She stank—of sweat, iron, and filth. Her skin clung to bone, ribs sharp, stomach hollow.
She was starving. Exhausted.
Alone.
Why won’t they just let me die…?
The thought came not in anger, but in a deep, marrow-deep weariness.
Her voice, barely a breath, broke the silence.
“Please…”
She lifted her head and stared into the pitch, eyes bloodshot and wide. She wasn’t speaking to anyone she could see. There was no one to see. Only the dark, and her own reflection in the puddle beneath her—eyes like a ghost’s, face smudged with bruises and soot.
“Please,” she whispered again. Her fingers gripped her knees tighter. “If there is something out there… anything… hear me.”
She paused, and then, like a soul reciting the rites of her own funeral, she began to pray. “O Light beyond the firmament. O Flame that hides within the folds of night… angel, demon, star-born wraith—I care not the name you bear. Only that you hear me.”
Her hands trembled as she folded them tight, as though prayer alone might hold her bones together. “They say I am sin-made, that my blood is black with blasphemy, that my very breath is a stain upon the wind. But tell me—what sin is birth? What crime is it to be born unloved?”
She curled in tighter, ribs aching beneath the phantom weight of judgment and silence.
“I do not beg for miracles,” she said, the words barely more than breath, “nor vengeance on the lips of fire. I ask only this: be near me. Stand beside me, if only for a breath. Let me not vanish unheard.”
Her voice grew thinner, more fragile, as if sorrow might hollow her into silence. “Let me feel warmth untouched by iron, a hand that does not bind or bruise. Let me know I am not the last voice still echoing in this endless dark.”
A silence followed, long and cavernous, before her voice rose again—hoarse and breaking.
“I do not ask to be saved,” she confessed, “only seen. Not to be spared the fire, but not to burn unseen. Let my agony be witnessed. Let someone remember that I was here.”
She broke then, utterly, her words dissolving into sobs.
“If this curse is mine to bear, then let me not bear it nameless and alone. If I must fall into flame… let someone hold my hand as I do.”
And then, her final cry tore through the hush like a prayer flung into the void:
“Please… please… whatever you are—wake. Rise. Come to me.”
Her words faded into the quiet. No response came—only the slow, sad drip of water from the ceiling and the rattle of chains when she moved. But even so, her prayer lingered, suspended in the air like breath on a cold morning, waiting to be taken in.
And elsewhere —in a place long buried, beneath the black roots of an ancient forest, beneath crypts forgotten by men and untouched by light— something stirred.
At first, only dust moved. A shiver in the stillness.
Then the stone cracked.
And beneath a veil of silence more profound than death, a figure opened its eyes.
They glowed faintly—pale gold, like flame behind ice.
It inhaled, the sound hollow and ancient. Not air, but essence. Something deeper.
It had heard.
Across land and shadow, it had heard her. The weeping girl in the iron room.
It rose, slow and solemn, wrapped in linen and rot, in power long buried.
Not quite an angel.
Not quite a demon.
But answer.