The moon, a fugitive silver disc, was swallowed by encroaching storm clouds. Before the cliff face, only the runes pulsed with a faint, residual crimson light.
No. 6 knelt before the rock wall, her fingers flying as she desperately copied the glyphs. She squinted, straining to decipher them, the wind lashing up from the riverbank stinging her eyes until tears streamed.
Yet, she dared not pause. The runes themselves felt sentient, twisting and warping in her memory at the slightest lapse in concentration.
"Not done yet? Faster! The guards are closing in—see those lights?" No. 7, pressed flat against the rock, had spotted the distant, bobbing dance of kerosene lamps.
At least a dozen guards, advancing in tight, three-man formations, were sweeping the riverbank.
"We have to go."
No. 6's head snapped up, raw frustration in her eyes. "But No. 3…"
"There's no way in now." No. 7's voice was icily calm. He snatched the cloth from No. 6's grasp, thrust it into his tunic, and seized her wrist, dragging her bodily into the dense undergrowth.
No. 5, half-carrying a barely recovered No. 4, scrambled after them. No. 8 spat a curse, clenched his dinner knife between his teeth, and clawed his way into the deeper shadows.
They hugged the damp earth of the riverbank, phantom shapes swallowed by the darkness. No. 7's sharp ears caught snatches of the guards' conversation:
"...looked like two of 'em were injured... no idea how..."
The night deepened, a suffocating blanket. Only the guards' lamps, like will-o'-the-wisps, flitted through the woods. They navigated by the miserly moonlight, their unfamiliarity with the terrain—a consequence of their rare ventures outside—stretching their return to the dormitory area to three times the duration of their outward journey.
The moment their feet touched the familiar wooden floorboards, No. 4's legs buckled, and he collapsed, unconscious. His lips were the purple of overripe eggplants.
No. 5 gently eased him onto a cot, fished out a few precious sugar lumps from beneath it, and pressed them into No. 4's mouth.
No. 8, seething with frustration, slammed his knife onto the table. "Is that all the bloody courage you lot have? No. 3 is still trapped in there!"
No. 7 remained impassive, refusing to be swayed by the outburst. "And how exactly do you propose we rescue him? Gouge through solid rock with that dinner knife of yours?"
"Both of you, shut up!" No. 6 hissed, her ear pressed tight against the door panel, straining for any sound from outside. "Someone's coming."
A jumble of approaching footsteps echoed down the corridor. No. 7 gestured frantically for the others to feign sleep, then slid to the door, peering through a sliver of a gap. What he saw was profoundly unsettling:
The instructors were returning to their dorms in small groups, each looking freshly bathed, their hair still slick with moisture.
A morbid, hectic flush colored their faces, their smiles unnervingly content, as if they'd just emerged from some exhilarating, clandestine revelry.
Sensing her chance, No. 6 pushed the door ajar and slipped out.
"Instructor Marina! Will No. 3 be coming back? We… we wanted to say goodbye."
Marina turned slowly, an eyebrow arching in surprise at finding them still awake. Her voice, when she spoke, was astonishingly soft, the usual rasp of her chronic headaches seemingly soothed away.
"My dear, No. 3 is still communing with his family. Once their farewells are complete, he will depart for the Most Holy Sanctuary."
"Departing so late? In the dead of night?" No. 6 blinked, her feigned innocence a carefully crafted mask.
A flicker of impatience crossed Marina's eyes. "These are the Church's ordained arrangements. Why are you still loitering here? Return to your beds. Immediately!"
No. 7 stepped forward, smoothly drawing No. 6 behind him. "Of course, Ma'am. We're going right now," he said, ushering No. 6 back through the door.
Only when the last instructor had retreated into their room did No. 5 dare to speak, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "A midnight bathing party for the whole staff? And what's so damn exciting about watching someone else talk to their 'family'?"
No. 6 sank onto the edge of her cot, the words a desolate murmur. "What have they done to No. 3?"
No. 7 offered no answer. He reached out, a aborted gesture of comfort—a hug, perhaps—but the words that finally emerged were stark.
"Sleep now. We can only try to figure this out tomorrow."
...........
Dawn had yet to crack the horizon when they convened in a shadowed corner.
No. 7 carefully spread the cloth bearing the copied runes onto a bed board, his gaze sweeping over the small, grim-faced group.
"Today's a rest day. A good number of instructors will head into the local town for supplies. It's our best chance to gather intel. Any thoughts?"
"I… I think I've seen these runes before," No. 4 muttered, head bowed as he scrutinized the symbols. "If I'm not mistaken, in the restricted collection of the library."
No. 7's eyes lifted to meet his. "Are you certain?"
No. 4 shook his head, already shouldering his worn satchel. "Not entirely. I'll need to search properly."
"Right. Then you and I will go to the library and confirm it." No. 7 folded the precious cloth, ready to depart.
"And us? We can't just twiddle our thumbs," No. 6 said, yanking No. 7 back by the sleeve, her voice a fierce whisper.
No. 8 let out a derisive snort. "Obviously, we pay a visit to that sanctimonious hypocrite, No. 1. Isn't he the Bishop's favorite little informant?"
A predatory gleam lit No. 6's eyes. "I have an idea. Remember what No. 3 mentioned? How No. 1 helped him cheat, even slipped him a crib sheet?"
"You're suggesting…" No. 7 stroked his chin, a thoughtful expression dawning.
"No. 1 is a walking contradiction. So devout, yet he helps No. 3 cheat while simultaneously ratting people out to the Bishop. I figure, if we casually ask him for 'shortcuts' to nabbing first place, he might just let something slip—show a crack in that pious facade."
He mulled it over, then nodded slowly. "It's worth a shot. But be subtle. If he truly is the Bishop's eyes and ears, you'll walk right into a trap."
"Don't you worry." No. 6 grinned, revealing a row of startlingly white teeth, and stuck her tongue out playfully. "I'll handle it."
A silent understanding passed between them, and the group swiftly dispersed. As planned, No. 7 and No. 4 slipped away towards the library, while No. 6, with No. 8 in tow, headed for the dining hall. No. 1, a creature of rigid habit, always took his morning meal there alone, shunning company and any disruption to his spartan routine.
Sure enough, No. 1 sat in his customary corner, a bowl of plain oatmeal before him. He ate with an unnerving, meticulous precision, his pale grey eyes as placid and empty as a stagnant pool, methodically consuming the bland fare.
No. 6 drew a deep breath, plastered a saccharine smile onto her face, and approached him.
"Good morning, No. 1!" Her voice was breezy, deliberately casual.
No. 1 didn't respond, merely ceasing his mechanical eating, waiting for No. 6 to speak.
No. 6's smile faltered slightly before she pressed on, a hint of forced wistfulness in her tone. "No. 3 left for the Most Holy Sanctuary last night. Oh, how I envy him! Sigh… If only I could go too. But alas, securing first place is just so terribly difficult."
No. 1's fingers, poised over his spoon, stilled for a fraction of a second before he resumed stirring the gruel. "God's designs are not for us to question. Envy is an indulgence."
No. 6 slid into the seat opposite him, propping her chin on her hands, her expression a study in wide-eyed innocence. "I do wonder when he'll be back to visit? I'm ever so eager to hear his tales of the Most Holy Sanctuary."
At last, No. 1 looked up. His cold eyes, like chips of ice, bored into hers. A slow, deliberate curve—a chilling crescent moon—formed on his lips.
"Your devotion to your friend is truly touching. Do not fret. You will all, undoubtedly, be reunited in the end."