Sister Anne's footsteps arrived before she did—present, poised, it looked ready to reprimand long before her shadow stretched across the hall.
Father Titus remained where he stood, hands slipping behind his back in a composed fold. His gaze followed her approach without flinching, as though he'd expected this confrontation the moment she stepped through the church doors that morning.
She stopped before him.
"Father…" Her voice strained at the edges, pulled tight like cloth forced onto a loom. She bowed her head a fraction, more out of discipline than calm. "I shall speak plainly."
Titus inhaled as if to answer, lifting one hand slightly. "I understand you are upset, Sister, but you must understa—"
"No."
Her interruption cracked through the hall like a dropped hymnal.
She caught herself, drew a breath, and forced her tone gentler—though no less firm. "Forgive my boldness, Father, but I must disagree. There is no reason for that child to be placed upon the path of a killer. It will strip any chance he has at a normal life. If he studies under a welcoming church in a larger city, he could—"
Titus's voice cut in, heavier than usual.
"Do not deceive yourself, Sister Anne."
His eyes became fiercer, and though his expression stayed calm, the air around him took on a heavier stillness. He stepped forward once, boots pressing against the stone.
"If that child pursues the ecclesiastical ladder, he is as good as dead," Titus said. "A mind like his cannot remain hidden. He would land squarely in the middle of family factions, feuds older than nations, and the petty warfare that defines the upper church. Do you truly believe he is crafted for the politics those halls demand?"
Anne's lips parted, ready to retort—but nothing came.
Titus continued, stepping closer until only a breath separated them.
"Would you rather he be preyed upon by others… or that others fall prey to him?" His voice lowered, not in volume but in weight. "There is no third path for him, Sister. Either he becomes a predator, or he is consumed. That is the only way he may live long enough to serve the faith to its fullest."
Anne's fingers fidgeted at her side—subtle, but restless. Her gaze broke away from his for a moment, drifting toward the wall's faint script before returning.
Titus didn't relent.
"Once that boy's physique matures, few humans—blessed or not—will match him. The blood in him grants strength whether he desires it or not. And if he were only able to obtain…"
He stopped.
His hands had begun to move as he spoke—gesturing in a rare show of intensity. Now those hands froze. He exhaled through his nose, forcing his shoulders to lower.
"No," he murmured. "Let us not rush ahead of ourselves."
Anne swallowed, visibly uneasy—not out of fear, but conflict. She clasped her hands together to steady them.
Titus straightened again. "But I trust you understand my meaning. The High Pontifex approaches his end. A domestic conclave draws near." His eyes flicked toward the church ceiling, as though he could see distant politics unfolding far from their quiet village. "I need not explain the implications such an event carries."
His words lingered in the cold air—quiet, heavy, and unmistakably final.
Sister Anne's eyes trembled faintly. The frown shaping her mouth wasn't born of rebellion but of reluctant understanding. Titus's words settled in her like cold rain—unpleasant, unavoidable.
"I understand," she said softly. "I simply… that child is so bright. To have him shaped into a killer…"
Titus lifted a hand, gently halting her. "I know your objections regarding the inquisitorial methods. But if we wish for that boy to claim any future at all, we must accept that this path—however unsavory—is his best chance."
Her gaze lowered, shoulders tightening under the fabric of her habit. She wanted to argue—he could see that—but nothing reached her tongue. No alternative survived scrutiny.
At length, she turned. "Very well, Father. I shall ensure he learns what is required of inquisitorial duties."
Titus nodded, hands returning behind his back. "See to it that you do."
She took a few steps toward the corridor, boots brushing lightly over the stone.
"Hold a moment."
Anne paused mid-step and looked back.
Titus approached, reaching into the inner fold of his robe. From it, he withdrew a small journal—bound in dark leather, corners reinforced with brass.
The cover bore the faint embossing of a stylized saint's crest, as if it were crafted in modest monasteries. Its edges were slightly worn, as though handled by a careful artisan.
Anne accepted it with a puzzled raise of her brow. "What is this?"
"A gift," Titus replied. "For the boy."
He folded his hands again, gaze softening. "I thought that if he began keeping a journal, it might help him express himself. That child—young as he is—keeps far too much locked inside. This may… loosen the weight."
Anne's expression warmed. Her thumb brushed the journal's spine. "I am certain he will love it. He has been wanting one ever since he learned that you keep a journal yourself… stubborn child." A small smile pulled at her lips. "Thank you, Father. I know our finances have been strained—"
Titus raised a hand at once, silencing her. "Think nothing of it, Sister. Go on now."
She bowed her head in acknowledgment and turned toward the hall, clutching the journal carefully against her chest as she walked away.
Titus watched her depart, standing alone beneath the dim lantern glow—hands behind his back, expression unreadable as the footsteps faded into the corridors beyond.
———
A short time later, the small bedroom assigned to Adriel sat in its usual hush.
The space barely fit a bed, a narrow table, and a stool—just large enough for a child, and still too modest for comfort.
The walls, old stone weathered by years of damp, bore faint cracks that spidered toward the ceiling.
A lone lantern hung from an iron hook, its dim flame casting uneven rings of amber across the room.
Despite the age of the walls, the room had been kept with meticulous care.
A strip of parchment displaying scripture hung above the bed, corners pinned flat.
Small jars lined the upper shelf—herbs dried and sorted by Sister Anne, their muted greens and browns catching the glow.
On the table lay a sheet of paper with insects pinned in place, wings spread neatly; Adriel's own attempts at study, guided by Titus's lessons in natural order.
Adriel stood in the center of the room, a towel wrapped loosely around his waist, another draped over his head.
He worked the cloth through his damp black hair with small, earnest motions. His frame—still very much a child's—carried the beginnings of tone from chores, not training.
Shoulders straight, arms lean, spine firm. Not muscular, but built with an early, natural strength that hinted at the future.
A knock sounded—short and authoritative.
tok… tok.
He turned halfway. "I—"
The door opened anyway.
Sister Anne stepped inside with the ease of someone who had done so a hundred times. Her gaze swept the room once before settling on him.
Adriel's eyes widened. He clutched the towel against his torso at once, face tightening with embarrassment. "W-wait—Sister, I am still getting dressed—"
Anne rolled her eyes and turned her back to him, arms folding. "Until not too long ago, I was the one bathing you each morning. There is nothing you possess that I have not already scrubbed clean."
"That was then," he protested quickly. "I am a man now and—and it is sin to gaze upon the unclothed form of another—"
"—with lust," she finished for him, tone flat as a millstone. She glanced over her shoulder—just a sliver—and added in a dry voice, "Did my gaze strike you as lustful?"
Adriel's spine went rigid. "Uhm… no? I mean—wait, that is not—"
Before he tangled himself further, she crossed the small space and set something down on his table with a soft thmp.
"I am only jesting, Adriel," she said. Though her tone held no real humor—merely calm practicality, the strictness that never left her no matter the subject. "I came only to leave something for you."
He kept his eyes pointed firmly at the floor, towel still clutched, cheeks red from the bath and embarrassment alike.
She tapped the item once. "This is for you. Now hurry and dress. We have much to accomplish this morning."
He nodded, flustered. "Yes—yes, Sister Anne. I will not be long..."
She gave a curt nod, turned, and stepped out, closing the door neatly behind her click.
Only then did Adriel lower the towel from his chest and turn toward the table.
The journal sat there, small and dark, brass corners catching the lantern light. His eyes widened in slow realization—recognition dawning like dawn behind clouds.
He crossed the room, nudging the stool aside with a scrape skrrt, and lifted the book with both hands.
Confusion flickered across his features at first—almost disbelief.
Then it softened.
Then it warmed.
A smile—quiet, genuine—broke across his face.
Outside his door, Sister Anne lingered in the hall. She had not moved far, hands folded before her, listening without meaning to.
After a few seconds of silence, she heard a low, earnest whisper:
"Thank you, Lord…"
Followed by a small, careful prayer.
Anne closed her eyes and let herself smile.
'Perhaps he will be just fine, she thought.'