The monastery swallowed them.
Past the great stone arches, the air grew cooler, calmer. Gone was the chaos of the market square; here, only the soft echo of their footsteps carried through the long hallways. Sunlight fell through stained-glass windows in angled shafts of green and amber, painting the polished floors with shards of colored light. The scent of incense hung faint but firm, threading into the very stones.
Priest-apprentice Vhoiad walked ahead with quiet dignity. Every movement of his robes whispered against the floor, his golden eyes glancing back now and again to ensure they followed. His smile remained constant, warm and fatherly, yet his tone was always precise, every word pronounced as though measured on a balance.
"Please, keep close. The monastery is larger within than it appears without," he said softly. His voice carried a natural authority, calm but commanding. Waelz almost shivered at the way it seemed to smooth out the rough edges of his own thoughts.
They passed corridors lined with carvings — towering images of men chiseling stone, building arches, hauling beams of timber. Each figure was frozen in perpetual labor, yet their faces bore expressions of divine pride. Beneath every carving ran etched words in Old Jephean, prayers of work and reward.
"Architecture is the bone of civilization," Vhoiad spoke as they walked, "and labor its flesh. The Father teaches that to build is to worship, and to profit from honest work is to honor his blessing."
Jenniel nodded in solemn agreement, while Waelz muttered something halfway respectful, his eyes instead drawn to the ceiling: high vaults threaded with steel and marble, work so precise it seemed to breathe.
They reached a vast chamber where the light dimmed. At its heart stood a grand statue of Jephearsuin, the god of architecture and labor — tall, broad-shouldered, his stone beard flowing down like carved waterfalls. In one hand he held the hammer, in the other the scroll of plans, both raised as though mid-command.
Vhoiad halted and turned, folding his hands together. "This," he said reverently, "is where oaths are spoken and blessings sealed. But today, you are not here for worship. You are here for your own reasons."
Somewhere else...
Shadows cloaked the city's edge, where even in afternoon the streets remained cool. Hence its name: Cool Shadow District.
Few passed here during these hours; silence lingered like a settled fog.
A coarse carriage rattled to a halt at a corner. From it stepped a young man in plain civilian clothing. After a brief exchange, the driver was paid and dismissed. The youth adjusted the workbag on his back, gripping its handle tightly in his right hand.
Ahead, he saw an old three-story building with fading paint.
He sighed, shaking his head. Then, with sudden decision, he turned away, walking down another path.
As he moved, straps of hidden bandages loosened and slipped to the ground, trailing in his wake.
"Time to make a living," he murmured. Midway through the words, his voice distorted — deepening, twisting, becoming something unrecognizable.
He vanished into a nearby alley. The shadows swallowed him whole.
What was unnerving was not his disappearance, but the silence: not a single footstep echoed. He moved like a restless ghost sent to hunt the living.
Back in the monastery
Tap-tik. Tap-tik. The sound of polished shoes striking marble echoed through a massive passage as Vhoiad led Jenniel and Waelz forward.
They conversed quietly as they walked.
"...But if the gospel of Saintess V. Jericho preaches that a wife must sacrifice herself for her husband and family, then why does Apostle Skavar teach in verse thirty-one: *'This I say to you — a man should never allow thy wife to fall in thy stead, but must stand strong in faith, and use thyself as a wall for thy family'? Did they not contradict each other?" Jenniel asked, confusion plain on his face.
Chuckling softly, Vhoiad replied in a gentle, instructive tone: "That is exactly how it seems, isn't it? But I tell you, they did not contradict each other at all. Few know this, but the Saintess Jericho and Apostle Skavar were married — blessed by our Father himself at the Constructive Altar of the Ashdaver Temples, during the Red Flower period of the Ashen Era."
"So in truth, each spoke from their own divine calling. Together, their teachings complete each other. Rare indeed is such a bond."
Jenniel's brows lifted with awe, but Waelz's curiosity turned sharp. "Ashen Era... every time I hear of it, it feels like legend. But I'm studying history, and I've never found a single mention of this temple you speak of."
"Studying history? Then of course not," Vhoiad said, winking as he laughed lightly. "It is considered Class D Confidential within the church. Few outside our order know of it."
Jenniel frowned. "Wouldn't you get in trouble for telling outsiders something like that?"
"You are not outsiders," Vhoiad replied warmly. "We are all children of Jephearsuin, brothers under his stone hand."
Then, suddenly, his smile tightened. His eyes narrowed just slightly as he added in a slower, heavier tone: "And even if you were to repeat it... well, then we'd have no choice but to—"
His voice dipped into something colder, almost threatening. Both brothers stiffened, Jenniel subtly shifting his weight as though to shield Waelz.
Vhoiad's tone then snapped bright and cheerful: "—spread the full version of the tale to your historians, so that young scholars like yourself might finally learn the truth!"
Waelz exhaled, Jenniel eased his posture — though uneasily.
Vhoiad, smiling once more, ended the subject there.
They walked on, their footsteps filling the silence.
Not long after, the corridor opened into a modest hall. Unlike the grand chambers before, this place was plain: a wood bench, two chairs, a simple portrait of a ginger-haired man clad in hybrid priestly robes and battle armor. He bore both staff and hammer, caught mid-blessing.
Two side tables held a jug of water, three stacked cups, the Bible of Archit, and a quill with ink.
Slumped in one of the chairs was an elderly man in crimson priestly robes. His breathing was heavy, eyes closed in sleep. Unlike the dusky browns of apprentices or the greens of common priests, the red signified a rare post: Honorary Bishop, overseers of matters too minor for full bishops, yet too important for dismissal.
The siblings bowed quietly and passed on.
At the second door on the left, Vhoiad knocked twice. Silence.
"Sometimes, you must knock harder," he said apologetically, and rapped three more times.
Still no answer.
"Apprentice Vhoiad, are you sure everything is well? Perhaps we should return later?" Jenniel asked, unease tugging at his voice. Waelz silently agreed.
Vhoiad waved the concern away. "This old man acts like this sometimes. He's no danger."
Movement stirred within. Footsteps shuffled hurriedly. Suddenly, the door swung wide.
Framed in the doorway stood not an old man — but a young one.
"Who are you calling old, dimwit?" he snapped at Vhoiad.
His square face was shadowed by bushy brows, his green eyes sharp behind glasses dangling on a cord at his neck. His sleeves were rolled up, his arms dusty as though from work, his long, grizzled hair streaked with silver at the edges.
Vhoiad, unruffled, introduced him calmly. "Children of Jephearsuin, this is Priest Devornor — the one assigned to hear your confession, purify, and bless you."
Only then did Devornor turn his gaze upon the brothers. His green eyes seemed to pierce through them, reading not just their faces but the very marrow of their souls.
The siblings straightened unconsciously.
"Blessed be upon you, who have remembered your God and come to honor His name," Devornor intoned.
"Blessed be His guide upon this realm," they answered together.
With a professional nod, Devornor dismissed Vhoiad. The apprentice bowed lightly, whispered farewell, and left.
"Give me a minute..." Devornor said, shutting the door.
The brothers waited outside. Jenniel sighed; Waelz smirked quietly.
Five minutes later, the priest reappeared — now clad in full green robes. His voice was steady, his stride unhurried. "Come with me."
They followed him into a private wing of the monastery, to a chamber built of ancient wood.
Inside, shadows rested heavy, lit only by two candle-stands and a narrow window. The air was neither warm nor cold — simply balanced, as though time itself had settled.
The room was sparse: two wooden chairs, a single table of strange stone-like metal, unadorned yet emanating quiet gravity.
"Which of you is Jenniel?" the priest asked, drawing a Bible, a jotter, and a quill from his robes.
"That would be me, sir," Jenniel answered.
"Step forward."
From the Bible, Devornor withdrew a folded contract and a small square device. With a zzztatzzzz it activated, spitting a brief spark of electric whip before quieting into static hum.
"Contract of agreement," Devornor intoned, "to confess, encourage, purify, and bless your younger brother Waelz Ez Benedict, of whom you are guardian. Do you accept this responsibility?"
Jenniel's jaw tightened. "I agree."
The priest gestured Waelz forward. "Waelz Ez Benedict, do you agree to the terms of confession, encouragement, purification, and blessing, as established by the Republican and Church accord of free will?"
"I agree," Waelz replied firmly.
Devornor nodded. "Managing confessor and blesser, Junior Priest Devornor of St. J. Kart Monastery of the Church of Archit, swearing to uphold this sacred rite by the Holy Bible of my Church." He clicked the device off.
Turning to Jenniel, he spoke evenly. "Please give us privacy. We shall see you again once the Blessed Rites are complete."
Jenniel hesitated, then gave his brother one last look — silent instructions in his eyes — before leaving.
The door shut behind him.
Inside, only Waelz and Devornor remained, the flickering candles their witness.
"Then..." the priest said, settling into one chair and gesturing to the other. "Please sit. And tell me about these dreams."