Chapter 1

The morning bells tolled with a solemn cry, spilling through the high stone walls of Saint Meridia. They pulled every sister out of slumber, their echoes threading through the halls like reminders of obedience.

Sister Seraphine rose quietly from her narrow bed, the sheets cold against her skin. She wrapped her veil with steady hands, fingers brushing over her collarbone where the habit pressed—a reminder of the vow she wore like armor. Her reflection in the small, cracked mirror looked fragile: pale skin, lashes still damp with sleep, lips bitten from restless dreams. Yet her eyes—hazel and tired—were the only thing that betrayed her.

She whispered to herself, as she always did.

"Today, no weakness."

The convent demanded silence until after morning prayers, but silence had never been her refuge. It was her torment. Every quiet moment was a space where memory clawed back.

She carried her rosary close as she walked toward the chapel, her sandals soft against the stone. The corridor smelled of wax and wood, the faint smoke of extinguished candles still lingering.

Inside, light spilled from stained glass windows, painting the pews in shades of crimson and sapphire. The sisters knelt in unison, their murmurs rising together like incense. Seraphine slipped into her place, knees against the cushion, beads sliding between her fingers.

"Deus, miserére mei," she prayed softly, the words dissolving into the hollow of her chest.

For a moment, she almost believed her own devotion.

Then—

The heavy groan of the chapel doors split the silence.

Every sister stilled. Heads bowed lower.

Footsteps entered, slow and assured, echoing against marble. They weren't the footsteps of a pilgrim seeking confession. No—they carried weight. Authority. And something darker that pressed against the air itself.

Seraphine's gaze flicked up instinctively before she forced it down to the crucifix above the altar. Her grip on the rosary tightened until the beads bit into her palm.

Mother Superior rose from the first pew, her back straight, veil trailing as she turned. "You arrive without notice," she said, voice calm but edged.

A murmur answered. A man's voice—deep, low, smooth. Too smooth. His words were lost in the vaulted ceiling, but the tone carried. Commanding.

Seraphine's lashes trembled.

Beside her, Sister Agnes dared to lean closer, whispering with a grin she couldn't suppress, "A man in God's house... with boots louder than bells."

Seraphine shushed her quickly, her whisper sharp. "Silence, Agnes."

But curiosity rippled among the sisters like wildfire. Sister Miriam, kneeling a row ahead, glanced back, her face pale. She mouthed only one word: A man.

Mother Superior's voice cut through the murmurs. "We will speak in private. This is a place of worship."

The footsteps shifted, receding toward the side corridor.

When the doors closed again, the chapel exhaled all at once. The hymn resumed, though the voices wavered, thinner than before. Seraphine pressed her forehead against the beads, whispering faster, desperate to drown the phantom sound of his voice in prayer.

Yet something lingered. A shadow pressed against her skin, as though the stranger had left part of himself behind.

By the time they gathered in the refectory for breakfast, the convent was no longer still. Whispers crawled across the tables, sharper than the clatter of spoons against clay bowls.

Sister Miriam leaned forward, lowering her voice though her eyes burned with curiosity. "Did you see his shoes? Polished. Not a pilgrim's shoes."

Agnes nearly choked on her bread, her grin wicked. "Forget the shoes. Did you hear his voice? He spoke like a man who isn't used to being told no."

"Agnes," Miriam gasped, scandalized. "We shouldn't—"

"Don't act like you weren't listening," Agnes cut in, smirking.

Across from them, Sister Cecily—older, weary-eyed—slammed her spoon down. "Enough. You speak like gossiping schoolgirls. This is a convent. Not a marketplace."

The table stilled. Even Agnes bit her lip, though her smile lingered.

Seraphine said nothing. She kept her gaze on her bowl, stirring the thin broth though she had no appetite. Every word about the stranger only tightened something inside her chest.

"Why would he come here?" Miriam asked timidly after a pause. "We are not open to—"

"Donations," Agnes interrupted. "A man like that doesn't come for prayer. He comes because he owns half the world and wants to own God, too."

A few sisters gasped.

Mother Cecily's glare cut sharper. "One more word, Sister Agnes, and I will have you scrubbing the cloister steps until Advent."

The conversation ended. But the whispers didn't die. They only shifted, buried under the surface, waiting to bloom again when Mother Cecily's watchful eyes turned away.

Seraphine lowered her spoon and folded her hands in her lap. She couldn't shake it—the way the stranger's voice had curled inside her bones, uninvited, refusing to leave.

Seraphine lowered her spoon and folded her hands in her lap. She couldn't shake it—the way the stranger's voice had curled inside her bones, uninvited, refusing to leave.

Sister Miriam's whisper broke the silence again. "Do you think he's... dangerous?" Her gaze flicked nervously to the doors, as though the man might storm into their breakfast hall uninvited.

Agnes chuckled, leaning back, her spoon dangling from her fingers. "Dangerous? He didn't need a sword to be dangerous. Did you hear how even Mother Superior's tone shifted? She never bends. Never."

Miriam shivered, rubbing her arms. "But why here? Of all places? We're just—"

"Just nuns?" Agnes interrupted with a grin. "Oh, Miriam. Even men with crowns and coins need absolution, don't they? Maybe he came to confess his sins."

At that, some of the younger sisters laughed softly, scandalized but unable to stop themselves.