Chapter Two: A Fire in the Chapel
The morning broke with a hushed reverence, fog rolling across the abbey grounds like the breath of ghosts. The storm had passed, but in its wake lingered an eerie silence, as if the heavens themselves waited to see what would unfold next.
Sister Magdalena had not slept. She had knelt beside her cot, prayer beads clutched so tightly her palms bore the imprint of every carved rosary bead. Yet no solace had come. Her mind had wandered to the stranger—Lucien—his eyes like smoldering coals, his words weaving through her thoughts like a serpent through long grass.
She lit candles in the chapel, her hands still trembling. She told herself it was the cold, the exhaustion. But deep inside, she knew it was something more primitive. Something older than her vows.
The chapel stood hollow and ancient. Stone pillars loomed like sentinels, and stained glass cast fractured rainbows onto the worn floor. Magdalena moved like a shadow through the sacred space, setting flame to the wicks before the altar. She had recited this ritual every morning for years, but today it felt different—as though unseen eyes watched her from the shadows.
A noise cracked through the stillness.
She turned. The west doors creaked open slowly, revealing a silhouette framed by mist.
Lucien.
He stepped into the chapel as though drawn by a force older than time. The abbot's robes she had given him clung to his tall form, now dry but disheveled, the belt hanging loose at his hips. In one hand, he held something silver—the relic of Saint Elara, normally secured atop the altar.
"That is sacred," Magdalena said sharply, her voice thin in the vast stillness.
Lucien examined it, eyes glinting. "So many things are called sacred. But what does that really mean? That they are untouchable? Or merely feared?"
"Put it back," she said.
He did, delicately, placing the relic as though it might burn him. Then he turned to face her.
"You are afraid," he said simply.
"Yes," she admitted. "You are a stranger. You came in a storm. You speak in riddles. And you look at me as though you know my sins."
"I don't know them," he said softly. "But I can feel them. You carry them like chains."
She stiffened. "You have no right—"
"I have every right. I was born of sin. Molded by it. I know what it looks like, Magdalena. And I know what it feels like to deny it."
She took a step back. "Who are you?"
"You already know."
"No. I don't."
He smiled, but it was sorrowful. "Then tell me why you tremble when I say your name."
She didn't answer.
The wind howled suddenly, slamming the chapel doors shut. Candles guttered. Somewhere above them, the bell in the tower rang without touch. The very stones of the abbey seemed to groan under the weight of his presence.
Lucien stepped closer. "You feel it, don't you? The calling. The hunger. It's not evil. It's truth. The world has lied to you, Magdalena. You are not meek. You are fire buried under ash."
Her breath hitched. Her heart pounded.
Before she could speak, heavy footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Lucien vanished into shadow, as though the gloom had swallowed him.
The chapel doors creaked open again. Brother Alaric entered, tall and severe, his dark brows drawn together like storm clouds.
"Sister Magdalena," he said, his voice gruff. "A messenger came. From Rome."
She blinked. "From Rome?"
He handed her a scroll, the wax seal bearing the insignia of the Vatican. Her hands shook as she broke it.
The letter was brief, the ink dark as dried blood:
Beware the man called Lucien. He is not who he claims to be. Keep him contained until we arrive.
Her eyes widened.
Brother Alaric frowned. "What does it say?"
She faltered. "They… wish to confirm his identity."
Alaric narrowed his gaze. "Something is wrong with him. I feel it in my bones."
She nodded, folding the letter. "Yes. Perhaps."
He left without further question, but she could feel his suspicion hanging like incense in the air.
When she turned back to the altar, the relic glowed faintly. Only for a moment—but she saw it. A pulse of red light, like a heartbeat, then nothing.
She exhaled, chest tight.
Lucien was no ordinary man.
The Devil had stepped into the house of God.
And she had let him in.
She didn't know if it was faith or madness that made her want to see him again. But she did. She needed answers. She needed to know why her body reacted to him like flame to oil.
That night, she returned to her cell, but sleep evaded her. Instead, she walked the silent corridors, her bare feet brushing the cold stone. She made her way to the west wing where his room lay.
The door was ajar.
Inside, the room was empty. The bed untouched. The window open.
But on the desk, beside a melted candle, lay a note in elegant,