Two winters slipped by, giving way to early spring. The bitter cold had retreated, though the air still carried the last remnants of the season.
Saint Viel—ever stubborn in its age—looked only marginally changed.
The village was a touch more populated now; a few new families had settled on the outskirts.
The streets were cleaner, though scarcely polished—more swept than maintained. Some buildings wore fresh boards along their frames, cheaper wood cut hastily to replace rotted sections. Others sagged beneath years of neglect, their repairs forgotten or postponed another season.
Roof tiles mismatched in color, window frames darkened from winter damp, and the old merchant's post by the road had been patched with a plank of entirely different grain. Yet life moved—slow, modest, persistent.
Near the church, several sisters swept the front steps, while others wiped the tall arched windows with cloth dipped in warm water. The stone façade remained the same—ancient, stoic, resolute against the passing of seasons.
Inside, Adriel sat alone in his room.
The small space had not grown, but he had.
He sat on his stool before the narrow desk, a towel wrapped around his waist, droplets still drying along his back. His hair was cropped short now.
He had grown tall—far too tall for someone of only seven winters. Nearly one hundred and sixty-seven centimeters already. Had it not been for the lack of fat or proper bulk, he might have passed for a youth near twice his age.
His body was lean, defined in angles—shoulders sharp, torso toned, arms slender but formed by relentless drills.
Bruises marked his ribs and shoulders, some fading yellow, others fresh in darker hues. Scars thin as thread traced across his forearms and upper back. Marks no child should bear.
But the boy wrote as though none of it troubled him.
The journal lay open, its spine already softened from use. He dipped an old quill into ink, its feather slightly frayed at the edges.
Lanternlight flickered over the page as he leaned forward, posture stiff from ache but expression strangely content.
His hand moved steadily as he wrote:
"It is the 7th day of the third month.
Today is the final day of the physical regimen Father Titus has set for me.
He says my body is far too small to lift weights as grown men do… but I feel I can manage."
Adriel paused, stretching his fingers. A faint wince crossed his features when a bruise along his rib tugged.
He continued:
"It is well. I only find the running tiresome.
Still, I prefer it to the body tempering.
Father Titus continues to put me through it.
I do not mind.
The pain fades. It is temporary.
But the Lord's grace is eternal.
So I will endure."
A droplet of water slid from his hair onto the page. He wiped it carefully.
"I shall make both Father Titus and Sister Anne proud.
Surely I shall."
He set the quill down with a soft tap, exhaled slowly, and looked at the page with a quiet satisfaction.
The lantern crackled above him—steady, warm.
Outside, the sisters continued sweeping, unaware of the child who already lived like a soldier behind the church walls.
———
——
—
Another winter passed—quietly, stubbornly, as winters always did in Saint Viel. Whatever change the village had hoped for froze beneath the same old frost.
The streets looked only slightly cleaner from the sisters' diligence, the patched roofs sagged a little more under their age, and new families blended into the old grey of the town without altering its spirit.
But Adriel had changed.
His room was lit by the same worn lantern, its flame giving off a soft flick—flick as it fought the morning chill.
Yet the room itself had transformed again. More drawings now covered the stone walls and cluttered the desk—ink sketches of distorted beasts, corrupted shapes with too many limbs or too few eyes.
Some were childish scribbles; others detailed, disturbingly precise.
Scripture sheets lay stacked beside them, corners bent, ink smudged from repeated reading.
Adriel sat in the center of this small world—on the same stool, legs drawn neatly under him.
His height had increased again; he was nearly eye-level with the lower edge of the lantern hook when he stood. His build had refined—leaner, stronger,.
Yet his face remained a child's.
He wore simple black trousers and a loose white shirt with lacing at the chest, tied hastily. His hair was still trimmed short, leaving his features stark, almost severe for his age.
He bent over his journal, expression locked in quiet sorrow. The quill glided more smoothly now—clean strokes, steady lines, careful ink control.
He wrote:
"It has been several days since I last trained.
I believe Sister Anne confronted Father Titus about the severity of my regimen—especially the hunt in Gravemount Hollow.
I performed miserably."
His hand paused, knuckles tensing. He dipped the quill again, slower this time.
"I vomited as the tiny corrupted creature writhed beneath the dagger we used.
Had Father Titus not held my hand in place… I surely would have failed."
A faint sound escaped him—a breath, shaky, nearly guilty.
"Some days I feel like giving up.
But Father says all things worth having require time and consistency…
So I shall persist."
His quill scratched faintly across the page, continuing with smaller entries—passing mentions of chores, evening prayer, failed attempts at copied scripture, small arguments between villagers he overheard. His handwriting wavered only when recounting the Hollow.
His final passage was more solemn.
"Today I read further on the duties, rites, and conduct of inquisitors.
It all seems so harsh… so merciless."
He swallowed once, jaw tightening.
"I asked Father: if all things come from the Origin, why may we—its children—not find harmony with one another?"
"He told me: even children may stray from their parents.
To be corrupted is to be lost, without light.
Thus, when an inquisitor purges the corrupted, they pray for them…
So that their soul may yet be spared."
The quill slowed, then settled into its final line:
"Blessed is this day — benedictus sit hic dies."
He blew gently across the ink to dry it, closing his eyes for a brief, weary moment. The lantern's glow washed over him—the child who trained like a soldier, prayed like a monk, and wrote like a boy trying to tether himself to something warm.
Outside, the sound of sisters sweeping drifted faintly through the corridor.
But Adriel remained still—alone with his drawings, his scripture, and the ache of becoming something he did not yet understand.