The abbots' hall was shrouded in a heavy, almost suffocating gloom. Thick crimson drapes smothered the flickering light of the chandeliers, letting only faint golden glimmers fall across their stern faces. The air was thick with the acrid scent of incense that had been burning for far too long, as if the room itself breathed both prayer and menace in equal measure. Around the long oak table, the figures in cassocks stood tall and motionless, hands clasped, their eyes fixed on the man standing in the center.
The superior, seated at the far end, finally broke the silence with a slow, cutting voice:
— "So, Brother Calixte… or should I say Pierre…?"
The man inclined his head slightly. His face held a humble, almost submissive expression, but in his eyes shone a spark of barely contained satisfaction.
— "The village is ready," he said calmly. "They suspect nothing. The gates are poorly guarded, their weapons are scarce and ill-kept. I have earned their trust… especially that of the young woman they call Mylova."
A murmur rippled through the room, like a cold breath weaving between the walls. The superior allowed himself a thin, almost imperceptible smile.
— "Perfect. This Mylova will be the key to their destruction."
An abbot with a gaunt, hollow face leaned forward slightly.
— "And the man called Louis?" he asked, his tone wary.
— "Kept away from the inside," Pierre replied. "He is strong, but isolated. He will be neutralized before he even understands."
The superior straightened.
— "Then so be it—"
…revealing a small room where a large map of the territory covered the central table. Red pins marked the known villages, green ones the trade routes, and three black pins formed a triangle around a wooded area.
The superior pointed to a precise spot, slightly away from the main roads.
— Here… the village. Our men will come through three paths: the river to the south, the northern gate trail, and the old bridge to the east.
He opened a small cloth bag and handed it to Pierre.
— This signal… you will hang it on the northern gate when you are ready. A simple rope tied like those of the pilgrims. Those who know how to read it will understand.
Pierre nodded.
— And the prisoners?
— The men will be separated from the women and children. Three locations… three prisons. But the young Mylova… she will have a special treatment.
A sinister smile stretched across the superior's lips.
— She will bear the weight of the rebellion on her shoulders. In front of everyone, she will be our example.
Pierre slipped the bag under his coat and left the abbey. The cold wind slapped his face, but he did not slow down. Each step brought him closer to the sleeping village, to those smiling faces that did not yet know they might be seeing their last night of freedom.
Pierre stored the bag, then left the abbey, his mind already fixed on his mission. The cold night wind slapped his face, but he did not slow down. Each step brought him closer to the sleeping village, to those smiling faces who did not yet know they would see the dawn for the last time in freedom.
In the darkness, the abbey's bells rang three discreet chimes. It was the internal signal: Operation Light of the Lord had officially begun.
Pierre returned to the village as if nothing had happened. The moon faintly lit the rooftops and narrow lanes. He crossed paths with Mylova, who was returning with a basket of vegetables.
"Oh, Pierre, you're back quite late," she remarked with a smile.
"Yes… I just wanted to walk a little. The sky is so clear tonight," he replied in a calm tone.
She returned his smile before continuing on her way. Pierre watched her walk away, his heart strangely heavy, but he quickly shook off the feeling. This was only a mission.
Passing near the north gate, he discreetly slipped the knotted rope around one of the posts, just as planned. The knot was simple, yet recognizable to those who knew how to read it. In the shadow of the woods, two silhouettes appeared for a moment before vanishing. The signal had been seen.
The rest of the night, Pierre slept lightly, ready to play his role to the end. In the distance, he thought he could hear a steady sound… like the slow march of men in formation. But in the village, everything remained calm. The people had no idea that a storm was approaching, and that at dawn, their freedom would be nothing more than a memory.
The next morning, the village awoke to an unusually lively atmosphere. On the main road, several carts loaded with fabrics, spices, and various goods had entered through the north gate.
"Merchants!" an excited child shouted as he ran.
The villagers gathered with curiosity. The newcomers smiled, offering their wares, and looked perfectly harmless. Some carried baskets of exotic fruits, others sold finely decorated pottery.
Mylova, drawn to the colorful fabrics, stopped near a female vendor.
"These are beautiful… Where do you come from?"
"Oh, from very far away," the woman replied with a soft laugh. "You have such a lovely village…"
Louis, passing by, greeted them politely. Nothing seemed suspicious. The voices, the laughter, the scent of spices masked the invisible tension.
But in the shadows, the "merchants" exchanged quick glances. Positions were being taken. Some settled near the water points, others near the main exits. Village children ran everywhere, unaware of the trap closing around them.
By sunset, when the golden light covered the village, Pierre slipped discreetly toward the north gate. A man was waiting there, dressed as a simple pilgrim, but his gaze was that of a soldier.
"Everything in place?" he asked in a low voice.
"Yes. They suspect nothing. Tonight, at the second bell, we strike."
Pierre walked away, his heart pounding. It was now only a matter of hours before the village's silence would be shattered by the crash of weapons and the cries of those who would not understand why everything was being taken from them.
The evening advanced with a deceptive gentleness. The merchants even proposed to organize a small improvised meal in the central square. Benches and tables were set up, women brought warm bread, roasted vegetables, and even dried fish to grill.
Laughter filled the night, accompanied by the distant beat of a drum that one of the merchants tapped softly, as if to set the mood. Yet with each beat, some villagers noticed the other merchants moving subtly, as if positioning themselves.
Louis stood near Mylova, a cup of water in hand.
"It's strange…" he murmured. "I don't recognize any of these merchants. Usually, we see the same faces."
"Maybe they came from far away," she replied with a shrug.
Pierre, sitting nearby, overheard their conversation.
"You're right, Mylova. But I can assure you these people are good. They're only looking for a peaceful place to sell their goods."
Louis nodded, though his gaze remained cautious.
At the far end of the square, a man in a dark coat, hidden among the guests, discreetly raised two fingers toward the sky. A nearly imperceptible sign. In the surrounding alleys, shadows began to move.
The first bell rang from the village's small tower. Conversations quieted, and many began to pack their things to go home.
The second bell… would mark the beginning of the end.