"You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden," Sebastian read aloud, his soft voice filling the silence of the small, cozy room tucked into a cramped corner of the Parish Hall in the Undercroft.
"Nor do people light a lamp and put it under a basket, but on a stand, and it gives light to all in the house," he continued. "In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father who is in heaven."
He placed a bookmark in his small pocket Bible and set it in his lap, eyes scanning the faces in the room.
A small group of six children sat cross-legged on the floor before him; two girls, four boys. None of them could've been older than ten.
It was plain to see that two of the boys, Matthew and Deshaun, were wholly bored, more interested in poking at each other and playing a dangerous game of "who can get the other to cause a scene first."
One of the girls, Julia, was struggling to keep her eyes open. But Sebastian knew she didn't get much sleep at home, so he chose to see it as a sign she felt safe enough to doze. That was good enough for him.
What else is a church meant to be, if not a place of sanctuary?
The other three ; Hunter, Willa, and Mikey ; were curious enough to make up for the rest. They stared up at him with wide, round eyes, full of innocence and wonder. Not quite understanding, but nearing the first step of it.
Sebastian smiled down at his little group. "So, what do you think it means?"
Suddenly, their shoes became very interesting. His smile widened just a little more.
He let the silence hang, watching them fidget. Fiddling with shoelaces. Picking at the carpet. Sipping juice boxes long since emptied. Crinkling granola bar wrappers already eaten. Deshaun gave Matthew a few particularly troublesome pokes. They were all praying he'd just give them the answer.
But he didn't.
After a few more moments ; just before the silence turned painful; Willa raised her hand. He nodded toward her.
"Uhm..." Willa smoothed the skirt of her dress, eyes wide. "That we're all... special?"
"You're on the right track!" Sebastian encouraged. "Anyone else?"
Suddenly, no one was looking at the carpet.
"Maybe... that we shouldn't hide who we are?" Jonny offered, sheepish.
"Very good," Sebastian said with a nod. "Matthew, what do you think it means?"
The boy's cheeks reddened. "Oh, uh... I... I dunno."
Deshaun snickered but looked away when Sebastian met his eyes. Sebastian chose to be merciful today, though the boys were rarely merciful to each other.
"You're right, both of you," he said. "We're all out of gold stars for this week, but I'll owe each of you one next time. Make sure to remind me!"
They giggled happily, and that made his heart full.
"We're all special, in our own way ; and good, too. We all have goodness in our hearts, even those who seem to have a short supply of it. We shouldn't hide that goodness from the world. In fact, we need to spread it. To be the light in the dark that your friends and family turn to when times are hard. To be that guiding light."
He spoke slowly, deliberately. As he did, his eyes locked with Julia's. Hollow. Tired. Staring up at him. A tiny thing, thin as a rail.
Starving.
"...So that they too can find God."
Julia's eyes dropped back to the floor, shoulders slumped.
Sebastian's throat tightened. He took in a slow breath.
Five of the children smelled like meat ; blood and sweet sweat that made his mouth water and his stomach growl to no end. But Julia... Julia smelled of incense and fear.
Not us, I'm afraid, little one... He glanced down at the Bible in his lap and nodded once, quietly, before slipping it back into his coat.
Not us.
"That's all for today," he said, rising to his feet, smiling gently. "Your parents should be done upstairs. I hope I'll see you all again next Sunday."
He gestured to the side. "There's still some snacks left, kiddos; don't be shy."
They filed out one by one toward the rickety old wooden stairs leading up to the north transept of the church.
Hunter, Mikey, and Willa gave him cheerful farewells as they passed. Deshaun stuffed his pockets with a couple of granola bars, snagged a juice box, and left without a glance. Matthew was the first one out; trying, paradoxically, not to be noticed.
Julia didn't move. She sat motionless on the carpet, her head low, tiny hands wrapped around her unopened snacks.
It's important that we still take them.
He remembered telling her that the first time she came to the Undercroft ; the same way Father Isaac had told him, years ago.
And when you're ready, it's important to try and eat them too. Humans get nervous when you don't eat what they offer. They notice more than you'd think.
He remembered the first time he'd tried to eat the communion wafers. They'd tasted like ashen rot. It had taken every bone in his body not to spit them out. The taste lingered for days. The sickness did too.
But eventually, it faded. As all things do.
He closed the door gently behind the last child ; a long creak, then a soft thud. Then he spoke.
"Are you okay, Julia?"
She didn't answer.
"Do you want to talk about it?"
Julia shook her head no.
"So something is wrong, huh?" Sebastian sighed and sat beside her on the carpet. "It's okay. You're safe here, you know."
Julia leaned against him, clutching the candy bar to her chest.
"It hurts, Seba..." she whispered, eyes welling.
"I know. It's hard." He looked down at her withered frame, and his heart ached. "We'll feed you. We just have to wait a little longer ; after service, okay?"
She shook her head again, then looked up at him, tears running down her face.
"Why...?" she whispered. "Why can't I be normal?"
Sebastian swallowed hard and looked away.
I don't know. God, I wish I did.
He'd asked himself that question more times than he could count. In truth, he still did ; every night, when everything got quiet and there was nothing left to distract him. When the ghosts of all the lives bore down on his soul and the weight came crashing down.
He rubbed her shoulder. "It is our calling, sweetheart. We are all called to serve, and easy service is not how our souls are tested." Sebastian smiled gently. "There is goodness in your heart still, no matter what they say about our kind. No matter what we are forced to do. It's still in there." He pointed softly at her chest. "And one day, we'll show them who we are without fear, and let them see the light of our spirits. But for now, we do what we can, the way that we can."
"Our... gift?" she echoed the words of Father Isaac, wiping her tears with the back of her hand.
"That's right. Our gift," Sebastian agreed. And our curse. "Are your parents here to pick you up, or do you need to stay the night again?"
"They're out looking for Sis..." Julia sniffled. "She didn't come home..."
Oh. His blood went cold.
He forced a smile and stood, offering his hand to the little girl. "Let's get your room made up then. And something to eat."
Her small hand slipped into his as she stood. Cold, far too light for her age. He gave it a gentle squeeze.
"Thank you, Seba," she whispered between sniffles.
"You don't need to thank me," he said, guiding her through the narrow hallway toward the old dormitory rooms that once housed the brothers of a dying order. "This is your home too."
For all our Kindred souls, until the seventh seal is broken.
They passed beneath the last flickering bulb before the corridor bent into darkness. He could still hear the children's laughter echoing faintly from above. For a moment, it sounded like something normal. Something warm.
Julia's room had seen many strays come and go. It sat next to Sebastian's, which had once served the same function before he chose to stay. It was small, just enough room for a twin bed and a dresser, with barely enough space to leave your shoes at the door. But when these rooms were first built, having one at all was a blessing. Most Fiends seeking asylum after the Uprising made do with the cold stone floor, or the crypts beneath even the Undercroft.
A place to go when there was nowhere else. When the Seats of the High Table wanted you vanished, or the Bureau wanted you dead. Or when you couldn't carry the cost anymore. The guilt. The face you had to wear. The Church was always there to lend a hand to fellow Kindred.
Though these days, asylum seekers were fewer, and the Parish seemed to dwindle year by year.
Julia helped him make the room up. It was a well-practiced routine by now. Once the task was done, he slipped away to the Parish hall kitchen and quietly stole a parcel of meat from cold storage. When he returned, Julia was huddled on her cot, knees tucked close to her chest.
Sebastian knocked gently on the doorframe, and Julia lifted her head as he entered.
"I couldn't cook it. We aren't supposed to eat before communion," he warned, holding out the parcel. "But here."
Julia smiled and accepted it gratefully, peeling back the wax paper to reveal a raw, red chunk of thigh meat.
"Thank you..." she murmured, staring at it for a moment before digging in.
Her eyes darkened, sclera flooding with black, iris glowing a deep crimson. The room filled with the heavy scent of incense and blood.
Sebastian's stomach roared. A sharp pang curled up through his gut. "You're always welcome to come for our service," he said, fighting the hunger in his voice. "Just don't mention that I snuck you something extra to Father Isaac, 'kay?"
"M'kay," she replied, muffled by a mouthful of flesh.
He shot her a playful wink, and her bloodied lips curved into a smile.
"If there's anything else you need, I'm right next door, okay?" he added, turning to leave.
She swallowed with a satisfied squelch. "Wait..."
"Hm?" Sebastian turned.
"Could you... stay a little while?" Her voice was small, hesitant.
Sebastian paused. I can't, he thought. I need to get ready for service.
"Of course," he said instead. The words changed as they left his mouth.
"You're worried about your sister?"
She nodded faintly. "Yeah..."
"How long has she been missing?"
"A few days."
"Did your parents say where they were going to look?"
"No..." Her voice cracked. "I'm scared. Scared they won't come back either..."
He offered a soft smile. "Your parents are strong. I'm sure they'll find her." He paused. "She's a teenager now, isn't she?"
Julia nodded again.
"Teenagers run off sometimes. It's... a phase. She'll come back when she's ready, I'm sure of it."
"You really think so?"
No. "Of course," he said gently. "I just hope your parents aren't too cross with her when she does."
"Me too... They're always fighting these days."
He chuckled. "One day you're going to grow up and be just like them."
"Nuh-uh!" she shot back, indignant. "She's being stupid. I'm not stupid."
"You're right," Sebastian said with a nod. "But I think your sister's probably saying the same thing. Rules feel like a prison when you're young and full of passion, full of ideas. But walls are often built for good reasons. She'll understand that one day. Maybe after this, she'll grow up a little."
"Yeah... maybe." She looked down, voice softening. "I hope so. I hate it when they fight."
A sharp knock at the doorframe interrupted them. Sebastian turned to see Sister Rowan standing there, arms crossed, looking unimpressed.
"Ah, Rowan, I;" Sebastian began.
She stepped through the doorway, short and thin in her white robes trimmed with red. A dark headscarf framed her sharp, pale face and wary eyes.
"You're late, Seba," she said, looking him over. "And not even ready. Do I need to dress you too?"
"I, uh..." he stammered.
"Hi Rowan!" Julia beamed.
Rowan's face softened a little. "Hey Jules. How are you feeling?"
"Better, thanks to Seba." She smiled up at her.
"That so?" Rowan smirked. "I guess I won't drag him out of here by his ear then."
Sebastian gave a nervous laugh, which only drew Rowan's attention more sharply.
"Well? What are you waiting for?" she snapped. "Get ready."
"S-sorry! Yes, right away." He stood and walked briskly toward the door.
"Sorry, Seba..." Julia called after him.
"Oh, so you're behind it then?" he heard Rowan tease the girl as he stepped into the hallway. "You're the culprit, huh?"
"Noooo!" Julia giggled, squealing between bursts of laughter. "Sorry, sorry!"
Sebastian closed the door behind him with a quiet click and leaned his back against it for a breath. The small room was no larger than Julia's ; just enough space for a twin bed, a narrow dresser, and the sliver of floor between. Spartan, but clean. A small lamp hummed faintly atop the dresser, casting a soft glow over its carefully arranged contents.
His seminary texts were stacked with precision, handwritten notes tucked neatly beneath a cracked leather-bound journal. Beside it stood a small mirror with a photo booth strip wedged into the frame ; him and Rowan, from two years ago, at some long-shuttered arcade. He wore a sheepish smile, holding up a plastic prize sword. She was mid-laugh, grinning ear to ear, a rubber snake coiled around her neck. The sword now sat beside the frame, faded and dusty, untouched since she had won it for him.
He glanced at the bed. His robes were laid out just so ; white linen with subtle red trim, ironed and folded. He pulled off his undershirt and began dressing slowly, movements careful, methodical.
When he finished, he checked himself in the mirror on the dresser.
The boy who stared back at him hardly looked the part of a monster.
Tall, pale, too thin for his own good. His white hair was combed neatly back, though a stubborn streak always curled at his temple. Round glasses perched on a narrow nose, slightly too large for his face, slipping down every time he frowned. Which was often, these days.
He adjusted the collar of his robe, then the cuffs. Straightened the sash at his waist. Stared. The robes fit. But some days, they still felt like a costume.
He turned away before the thought could settle in and stepped through the door.
Rowan was waiting for him, leaning casually against the doorframe. He should have expected it, but he nearly ran into her all the same.
"Finally," she huffed. "Come on."
"I..." Sebastian started as she turned sharply and walked ahead, forcing him to scamper after her like a lost puppy, robes billowing with each stride. "You didn't have to wait. It's not like I'm going to get lost down here."
She scoffed. "Really? Fooled me. If you knew your way, you'd be there by now, no?" Rowan smiled back at him. He knew that look. "I swear, you'd drag this whole damn church to the ground if I wasn't pulling your weight half the time."
She's looking to get a rise out of me.
Sebastian stared back and smiled warmly. "You're right, Rowan. Thank you for all your help."
The glimmer in her eyes dimmed, and she turned away. "Y-yeah... whatever," she muttered. "You're welcome..."
When someone's looking for a fight, a hug is often the cruelest gift to give.
He smiled.
They walked in silence for a time, shoes tapping gently against stone. The corridor stretched long and narrow, the modern dormitory wing giving way to older architecture the deeper they went. Drywall faded into exposed brick, and tile gave way to uneven cobblestones.
New fixtures clung awkwardly to old bones. Metal air vents ran overhead like scars, and the hum of fluorescent bulbs thinned to a hush as they passed the last working light.
The hallway curved, and then they saw it: the wide iron-ringed doors of the Kindred Chapel, framed by a high arch etched with sinister-looking script. The carving was both jagged and flowing, as though the stone had been cut with a calligraphy pen. A phrase in Old High Pyric that Sebastian had never dared translate. Candlelight seeped through the threshold, flickering at their feet like ghostly tongues.
Set along the walls were stained-glass mosaics. Not windows, but lighted facades, glowing softly from hidden fixtures buried in the stone. The saints stared down in broken color, their crimson eyes and gilded blades shimmering in the flicker of flame.
Sebastian slowed his steps. His breath quieted.
The air smelled of wax, ash, and incense.
A procession waited for them just outside the threshold. Six young Fiends ; three boys, three girls ; stood ready.
Rowan shot him a glance and gave an overly formal curtsy that made him roll his eyes before parting from him to take her place at the head of the girls. Sebastian made his way to the front of the boys, nodding to Dominic, the youngest and last in line, who nodded back. He passed Eric, then met Paul's eyes. The boy stood, rather presumptively, in Sebastian's place at the front of the line.
"You're late," Paul whispered.
"Sorry, got caught up," Sebastian replied as he held out his hands expectantly.
Paul surrendered his spot reluctantly, shifting behind him. "You're lucky, Father Isaac is;"
A door opened behind them. The two lines turned with smooth, practiced discipline.
Speak of the devil.
Father Isaac appeared at the far end of the hall, carrying a thin metal cross trimmed in bronze and silver. Intricate floral patterns wove across its face. The old man wore his age poorly, hunched and walking with a pained limp. But his eyes were full of light and life. His face was marred with wrinkles and laugh lines in equal measure. A tuft of thinning, unkempt white hair clung to the top of his head and the sides, his ears barely poking through.
He smiled kindly to both lines as he passed. The boys bowed their heads respectfully. The girls curtsied politely. As he passed Rowan and Sebastian, the procession turned again and began following him silently through the doors.
The organ began to churn out a rendition of Holy God, We Praise Thy Name. An old beast of an instrument, low, haunting, and beautiful, echoing through the stone halls of the Kindred Chapel and the Undercroft alike.
The Kindred Chapel was small now, most of its grandeur slowly stolen over the generations. First the Parish Hall, then storage space, then rows of dormitories. Where once it was as large as the church above, now it existed as a shadow of even itself.
All that remained were two rows of mahogany pews, no more than six deep on either side, and most sat sorrowfully empty.
They walked through the center aisle toward the altar, sitting at the base of the vaulted dome. Overhead, the Twelve Profane Apostles stared down in fractured color from the stained-glass mosaics.
At the foot of the altar, Father Isaac stopped. He raised the cross high above his head, hands trembling with the effort, murmured a quiet prayer, and handed the cross to Sebastian. Then he turned, and began the slow climb up the carpeted stone steps.
Sebastian's procession broke off to the left. Rowan's did the same on the right. They all turned to face the crucifix hanging above the altar. Their God was cast in dark, shimmering brass, hanging limp upon the cross. The crown of thorns rested on His head. His face was turned to the side.
The procession bowed their heads and made the sign of the cross in unison.
No more than nineteen souls filled the pews. Sebastian recognized most of them. Two families formed the bulk of the group ; the Grieves and the Monteiros. Julia sat on her own near the middle, and she gave him a small wave and a tired smile when their eyes met. The rest he had seen before, but didn't know by name. They clumped in quiet groups of two or three. One sat alone, leg shaking in the aisle.
The organ died down.
Father Isaac let the silence linger as he flipped through the pages of the worn, leather-bound Bible on the altar.
"As above, we read from the holy Gospel according to Luke," Father Isaac's soft, warm voice spread into the cold reaches of the Chapel. "So too, below."
Silence.
"Then they seized Him and led Him away, bringing Him into the house of the high priest.
And Peter followed at a distance.
A fire was kindled in the courtyard, and they sat down together. Peter sat among them.
Then a servant girl, seeing him in the firelight, looked closely and said, 'This man was with Him.' But Peter denied it. 'Woman, I do not know Him.'
A little later, someone else saw him and said, 'You also are one of them.' But Peter replied, 'Man, I am not.'
Then another insisted, 'Certainly this man was with Him, for he too is a Galilean.' But Peter said, 'Man, I do not know what you are talking about.'
And at that moment, while he was still speaking, the rooster crowed. The Lord turned and looked at Peter. And Peter remembered the word the Lord had spoken to him: 'Before the rooster crows today, you will deny Me three times.'
And Peter went out, and wept bitterly."
"The Gospel of the Lord."
"Praise to you, Lord Jesus Christ," the Mass answered in unison.
Father Isaac bowed his head, staring down at the Bible for a long moment. "As it is the month of January, we are guided by our forefathers to look to the Martyrdom of our Lady Anais of the Twin Saints. To follow in her example during the trials and tribulations of the new year."
"By God we live, by God we die," the Mass replied.
Father Isaac continued, "Then came the Saint to the table of her sundering, and with her walked her sister, Magdalena of the Twin Saints, and her adopted daughter, the Halfblood Theodelinde.
And Anais knelt upon the stone, unclothed and unafraid.
Magdalena wept, for she had crafted the tools by her own hand. Theodelinde wept louder, for she was raised of her mother's sin and loved her all the same.
And when Magdalena raised the blade to sever the right arm, Theodelinde cried out, 'Mother, no. Let them find another way.'
But Anais soothed her doubt. 'This flesh has hungered. This hand has taken. Let it be sundered, that others may strike with righteousness.'
And her arm was taken, and from it was forged the Thorn.
Magdalena raised the blade again, and Theodelinde fell to her knees, crying once more, 'Mother, please. This is too cruel, even for grace.'
And once more Anais answered, 'This form was bought with stolen breath. Better that it be broken than remain unrepentant.'
And her leg was taken, and from it was fashioned the Psalter-Blade.
Magdalena trembled, and Theodelinde could not watch. She cried a third time, 'Mother, I am alone. If you give all of yourself, what will be left for me?'
And Anais, near fainting, still answered, 'If anything of me remains, let it be in service. If any soul is to be spared, let mine burn away.'
And her body was opened. Her veins unraveled. And from her ruin was wrought the Vein-Crucible.
And so it was that the Saint was no more. But the weapons remained. And those who carried them did not forget the price."
"On the blood of our curse," Father Isaac said.
"By God we live, by God we die," the Mass affirmed.
Sebastian stepped forward, turned, and faced Paul. He bowed his head and offered him the heavy cross. Paul accepted it solemnly. Sebastian continued his march to the foot of the altar, met Rowan at the steps, and exchanged the sign of peace before kneeling beside her.
Father Isaac looked down at them both, the same satisfied, kindly smile affixed to his lips. Then he spoke.
"At the Savior's command and formed by divine teaching, we dare to say."
They spoke with one voice.
"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us; and lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil."
"Deliver us, Lord, we pray, from every evil. Graciously grant peace in our days, that, by the help of your mercy, we may be always free from sin and safe from all distress, as we await the blessed hope and the coming of our Savior, Jesus Christ."
"For the kingdom, the power, and the glory are yours, now and forever," they echoed.
Father Isaac lifted a platter toward the heavens, then a goblet, muttering a prayer over each.
"Behold the Lamb of God. Behold Him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb."
"Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed."
From the platter, he took a scrap of flesh. He closed his eyes. When they opened again, they glowed red. Veins pulsed beneath the skin, pumping the white sclera full of ink. He made the sign of the cross, then sipped from the goblet.
Sebastian and Rowan stood, stepped up to the altar, and took a platter each as the Mass rose and formed two lines in the aisle.
The congregation moved slowly, silent as the stone around them, forming two solemn rows. Each step was measured, reverent. The candlelight danced across faces made sharp by hunger. Eyes sunken. Lips pale. None among them had eaten in days. Not truly.
Sebastian walked with care, cradling the platter of flesh as though it were something holy. The scent hit him like a hammer;copper, salt, and meat. His stomach twisted with longing.
The first to reach him was an older woman, Mrs. Grieve. Her eyes were downcast, hands outstretched. He offered her a scrap of thigh meat from the edge of the pile, speaking softly.
"Blood of the Lamb. Sustenance of the Risen. Partake, and hunger no more."
She accepted it with trembling fingers, whispered the refrain, "That I may endure," and consumed it whole.
The line moved forward.
Rowan's voice mirrored his on the other side. Firmer, but no less reverent. "Blood of the Lamb."
Each recipient answered in kind. "That I may endure."
Young Dominic's turn came. He fidgeted in place, then knelt before Sebastian with eyes closed.
"Rise," Sebastian whispered gently. "We kneel only to God."
Dominic nodded, took his portion, and returned to the pew.
The procession continued until only Julia remained. She approached the altar shyly, lips stained still from her earlier meal. Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment.
Sebastian hesitated, then offered her the largest piece, pressing it into her hand without a word.
She whispered, "That I may endure."
He smiled and nodded once. "You already are."
Once the Mass had been served, Father Isaac returned to the center of the altar. The congregation sat again, quiet, fed in flesh but not in spirit.
He lifted the goblet one last time, drained its contents, then bowed low.
"Let us pray," he intoned.
And they did.
The candles burned low. Ash curled at their rims, and wax dripped like old tears. The Kindred Chapel settled into silence once more, the congregation seated, fed, and faintly glowing with the hollow calm that only ritual could bring.
Father Isaac stood with care, his movements slow and deliberate, his bones clearly aching beneath the white of his robes. He placed the empty goblet upon the altar, then turned his weathered gaze across the pews.
"Go now," he said, "in peace, and in hunger."
The Mass answered in unison, "We await the breaking of the seals."
The parishioners began to rise, quietly making their way back toward the chapel doors. Some lingered, sharing hushed words, nods, or brief embraces. Even those joys were muted. They lived in a state of fast. Even warmth was rationed.
Rowan took up her place by the chapel doors, offering brief farewells and a half-hearted smile. Julia leaned against her hip, looking up at her with sleepy eyes. Small hands clutched at Rowan's robes.
Sebastian moved to follow them, but a voice;soft and close behind;made him stop.
"Sebastian."
He turned. Father Isaac stood just beyond the altar, already halfway down the steps, leaning heavily on a simple cane carved from blackwood.
"Come," Isaac said, not unkindly. "Walk with me, if you would."
Sebastian blinked, then gave a short bow. "Of course, Father."
They passed through a side door behind the altar, one not often used by others. The corridor beyond was narrow and choked with dust. No candlelight adorned it. No mosaics. Just stone, bare and cold.
Isaac's quarters were tucked into the wall like a wound stitched shut. The door creaked as he pushed it open.
The room was little more than a cell. A cot. A wooden desk. A single chair. No decorations. No comforts. No vanity. Only a worn leather-bound Bible on the desk and a cracked clay cup beside it.
Sebastian stepped inside slowly. The air was dry, still, and smelled faintly of ink, old paper, and something faintly metallic beneath.
"Please," Isaac said, gesturing to the lone chair. "Sit."
Sebastian did. The old man lowered himself onto the cot with a groan and clasped his hands together.
For a moment, neither spoke.
Then Isaac exhaled through his nose and said with gentle gravity, "The world turns, my son. And I am no longer fast enough to keep pace with it."
He smiled as he said it. Warm, even amused. But there was no light behind it.
"I've seen many winters," he continued. "Too many, some might say. And yet, I would see one more, if the Lord permits it. For there is much yet to do."
Sebastian straightened, brow slightly furrowed. "Father?"
Isaac leaned forward, cane braced between his knees.
"A meeting is to be called. A Diet. The first in many years," he said. "Frieden stirs in the south. Prudence fortifies in the north. And the Bureau?" He shook his head. "The Bureau watches and waits for us all to bleed."
Sebastian swallowed. "You want me to attend?"
"I want you to learn," Isaac said in that same soft tone. "To listen. To see how the shepherds of this world speak when the flock is not meant to hear."
He let the words settle between them.
"I am not eternal," he said, voice lowering. "Nor am I irreplaceable. One day, sooner than I would like, someone must guide this Church after I am gone. And I would rather that someone understand both the hunger and the fire."
Sebastian stared at him, stunned. "You... want me to be your successor?"
Isaac chuckled quietly, raspy and dry. "I want you to understand what it means to carry the burden. Whether you accept it is between you and the Lord."
The Undercroft was silent now.
No echoes of the organ. No low murmurs of departing voices. Only the soft flicker of dying candles and the occasional creak of settling stone. Sebastian walked the darkened hallway alone, robes brushing the floor, hands tucked behind his back.
The cold didn't bother him here. It helped him think.
He slowed at the familiar door. The same chipped edge. The same scuff where it always caught. He pushed it open with care. Inside, the low hum of the dresser lamp greeted him, steady and warm.
He closed the door behind him. Slid the bolt.
For a long moment, he stood still.
Then, quietly, he removed his glasses. Folded his robes. Piece by piece, the vestments of service returned to their proper places. The collar. The sash. The weight of expectation.
He sat at the edge of the bed.
Tonight had gone well, hadn't it? No stumbles in the procession. No fractures in the Mass. Isaac had trusted him. Had confided in him. Had seen something in him worth guiding.
And Julia had eaten. Had smiled.
A small victory.
Sebastian allowed the warmth of that thought to rise inside him, just for a moment. Let himself believe he had done something good. Something right.
Then he rose. Slowly.
Knelt beside the bed, hands steady, and reached for the wooden box beneath. The grain was dark and smooth, worn by time and use. The iron latch clicked open with a soft snap.
He opened the lid.
Inside, wrapped in linen stiff with old rust, lay the scourge. Leather cords braided tight. The grip pale with wear.
He lifted it with care, almost reverently.
There was no need for ceremony. Only memory.
He bowed his head.
"For the sin of pride," he whispered, eyes closed. "For believing today was enough."
He unbuttoned his undershirt, pulled it over his head, and let it fall. The cold air bit against his spine. He gripped the scourge in both hands. Raised it.
Struck.
A dull crack echoed through the stone. Pain bloomed, sharp and precise. He breathed in through his teeth, held it, exhaled.
"For stealing from the kitchens," he muttered. "And for gluttony... even by proxy."
Another strike. Leather on skin. His shoulders twitched beneath the impact.
"For giving more than she needed." Crack.
"For being late." Crack.
"For thinking ill of Rowan." Crack.
"For wanting."
Crack.
His hands trembled now. The muscles in his back flared with each blow, fine lines of blood rising across pale skin. But still he lifted the scourge. Again. And again.
The rhythm became automatic. The thoughts looser. More frayed.
He didn't know what words he was muttering by the end. His throat was raw. His knees bruised. His breath short and quick.
When his hand finally faltered, the scourge slipped from his grip and landed on the stone with a quiet thud.
Sebastian lowered himself to the floor, chest to knees, forehead pressed against the cool flagstone. The pain was vivid. Alive. But it did not cleanse. It did not empty.
He lay still. and waited. Waited for the blood to dry. For the ache to settle. For the feeling of righteousness to come.
It didn't.
Silence would have to do.