A few months passed in Saint Veil with little to mark their passing.
The seasons turned by habit rather than celebration. Small festivals came and went unobserved; no ribbons were hung, no tables dragged into the square.
The village endured as it always had—heads lowered, routines kept, eyes turned inward.
On this morning, however, the church grounds stirred.
Two carriages stood idle along the packed earth road just beyond the churchyard—dark-stained wood reinforced with iron bands dulled by age.
Each was drawn by a pair of brown horses, sturdy and patient, their reins looped neatly over the hitching posts. One stamped a hoof and snorted softly, breath fogging the cool air.
Brothers and sisters of the order gathered nearby in small clusters. Their robes were clean but worn, hems brushed and re-brushed by familiar hands.
Conversation remained muted—low whispers exchanged behind cupped palms, glances drifting toward the church doors and back again.
Three sisters stood apart near the carriages. Two lingered beside the nearer coach, hands folded, posture proper. The third stood alone near the second carriage, gaze forward, expression unreadable.
The great doors of the church opened.
Father Titus stepped out into the morning light.
He wore his usual robes—deep black, trimmed with broad red borders stitched in old ecclesiastical patterns. The fabric had been brushed to near perfection, though the sleeves bore the same faint creases earned through years of use.
A simple chain rested at his collar, the medallion tucked beneath the cloth. His spectacles caught the light briefly as he adjusted them, and his calm smile settled into place as naturally as breath.
The murmurs ceased.
Before he could speak, a voice rose from the gathering.
"Father Titus," Sister Margaret called out.
Heads turned.
She stood near the front of the crowd, hands clasped tight at her waist. Time had left its mark on her—more silver threaded through her hair, finer lines set around her eyes—but her posture remained rigid, her tone unyielding.
"Today is a very important day for us," she said, then hesitated, lips thinning. "And Sister Anne is yet to arrive."
Father Titus turned toward her without hurry. His smile did not waver.
"Today is just as important for her as it is for everyone gathered here, Sister Margaret," he replied evenly. "Is there truly reason to concern ourselves with a late arrival?"
Titus folded his hands loosely. "I had hoped to say a few parting words before she arrived," he continued, voice warm, "but if you believe there are more pressing matters—"
Sister Margaret caught the weight of the looks cast her way. Faces blank, eyes steady. Whatever judgment lay there, it was enough.
She lowered her head at once. Her voice followed.
"No, Father… I apologize."
Titus inclined his head slightly, then turned from her. He stepped forward, arms opening as though to gather the morning itself.
"Brothers and sisters of our congregation," he said, voice firm, carrying across the yard without strain, "we are blessed this morning, for we—"
His words carried on outside.
Inside the church, the world fell still.
The halls lay empty, lanterns dimmed, prayers concluded and dismissed. Footsteps no longer crossed the stone floors.
Beneath it all—below the sanctified stone and timber—another sound endured.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Wood struck wood at a measured pace, echoing faintly through the foundations.
At the door leading down into the lower chambers stood Sister Anne.
She wore a heavy overcoat that reached to her ankles, dark wool fastened with simple clasps. Black boots, polished but scuffed at the toe, rested squarely on the stone.
A lantern hung from her left hand. Her posture was calm, shoulders set, breath even.
She reached forward and pulled the door open.
The hinges complained softly as the gap widened to reveal a spiraling set of aged stone stairs, their edges worn smooth by centuries of passage. Cool air drifted upward, carrying the scent of dust and old timber.
Anne stepped inside and began her descent without pause.
The lantern light slid along the walls as she moved, revealing cracks in the stone, old moisture stains, the faint chalk marks of long-forgotten inventory tallies. Her boots touched each step with care, coat brushing the wall as the stair curved downward.
The tapping grew clearer.
Below, the lower chambers opened into a wide arrangement of abandoned rooms once used for storage and lesser rites.
The ceilings were high, supported by thick stone arches darkened with age. Shelving units leaned beneath the weight of disused objects—broken lecterns, cracked reliquaries, crates of moth-eaten vestments wrapped in linen long yellowed by time.
Rust had claimed much of the ironwork. Chains lay coiled in corners, their purpose unclear now. Candlesticks of varying heights crowded one shelf, wax fused into distorted shapes.
Dust lay thick across the floor, disturbed only by a single set of footprints leading deeper within.
Anne passed the first chambers, the sound guiding her onward.
Tap—thud—tap~.
She reached the last room at the end of the passage.
The doorway stood open.
Inside, Adriel trained.
He stood bare from the waist up, feet planted on the stone floor in a simple high guard stance—wooden sword lifted above his shoulder, elbows set, weight balanced evenly.
The blade was scarred and splintered from use. Before him stood a wooden practice dummy, its frame patched and bound with old leather straps, one arm replaced with a crude beam bolted into place.
He struck.
The sword came down in a controlled arc—wood biting into wood. The dummy rocked slightly, its base scraping across the stone.
Adriel adjusted at once, stepping back, breath drawn through his nose. He struck again. And again.
His frame, though still that of a boy, showed the marks of effort. Bruises bloomed along his ribs and shoulders in muted shades. Thin cuts traced his forearms, already scabbed. Sweat dampened his dark hair, strands clinging to his brow.
He did not rush.
Each strike was followed by correction—hands repositioned, stance tightened, breath measured. When the dummy swayed too far, he waited for it to settle before continuing.
Sister Anne stopped at the threshold.
She did not speak.
Her gaze moved over him slowly, taking in the bruises, the careful discipline in his posture, the tension held in his jaw as he raised the sword once more.
'He should have rested,' she thought. 'He never does.'
The wooden blade fell again—and the dummy shuddered, a fine line splitting further along its worn torso.
Adriel exhaled and drew the sword back, shoulders lifting slightly before settling again.
He did not yet know she was there.
But then lantern's light stretched into the room.
Adriel's final strike landed against the dummy with a dull crack—and he stopped. The wooden sword lowered slowly, his grip loosening until his arms hung at his sides. His head dipped forward, dark hair falling into his eyes as he stared at the floor.
His shoulders rose once. Fell.
He spoke without turning.
"So it's true…" His voice carried more force than before, though it remained unmistakably that of a child. "You're leaving too, Sister Anne."
She stepped fully into the chamber, lantern swinging gently at her side. Her boots crossed the dust-marked stone with care until she stood beside him. She reached out and rested her hand atop his head, fingers threading lightly through his damp hair.
"I understand that training is important, Adriel," she said, tone even, fond despite herself, "but that is no excuse to avoid saying goodbye."
He did not lift his gaze.
"I know, Sister… I'm sorry." His mouth tightened, then he raised his head and finally looked at her. "I just… I don't want to see you leave." The words came softer now. "Do you really need to go?"
She leaned down until they were level, knees bending slightly beneath her coat. For a moment, her stern composure eased.
"Silly child," she said gently. "Had I the option to remain, I would have." Her hand slid from his hair to his cheek, thumb pressing there in a brief, reassuring squeeze. "At least until you departed with Father Titus."
She straightened a little, though her hand lingered.
"Alas, I am needed by my family back home. It is necessary that I travel." Her gaze softened further. "But I will write to you. Often. Letters enough to trouble the postman, if need be. Is that acceptable?"
Adriel hesitated.
His eyes flicked aside, jaw working as though weighing an answer he already knew would not change anything. At last, he nodded—small and reluctant.
She smiled faintly and ruffled his hair again, firmer this time. "Come along, then. I require your big, strong little body to assist me with my luggage."
His expression did not brighten, but neither did he refuse.
He let the wooden sword slip from his hand. It struck the stone floor with a hollow clack~ and rolled to rest against the base of the dummy. Adriel turned and fell into step beside her.
As they walked, Sister Anne placed a hand on his shoulder, giving it a gentle rub through the thin sheen of sweat.
"I hear you shall be permitted to hunt on your own soon," she said, casual by design. "Are you pleased?"
The attempt at diversion worked better than she likely expected.
Adriel's steps steadied. His eyes lifted as they moved through the chamber and into the corridor beyond, Father Titus's voice drifting faintly through layers of stone—strong, impassioned, almost theatrical.
'He truly does sound emotional today,' Adriel thought—and the notion drew a quiet chuckle from him.
Sister Anne heard it.
She glanced down at him, brow arching, but instead of a reprimand she asked, "Well? Are you?"
He straightened a little more as they walked, the weight in his chest shifting into something else—unease, anticipation, and a thin thread of resolve winding between them.
"I'll make you both proud," he said.
The words surprised him with how easily they came.
Sister Anne's lips curved upward at once.
Then she stopped.
They had reached the foot of the stairs leading upward.