The road to the monastery was a road of silence.
Not the gentle silence of peace, but the heavy, listening kind — as if the land itself was waiting for something to happen. No wind stirred the skeletal trees, no bird cried from the dark branches. Even their footsteps on the frozen dirt seemed muted, swallowed by the weight of the night.
Isadora stayed close to Lucien. Every few steps, their shoulders brushed, and each time, she felt the faintest spark of warmth.
Ahead, the mountains rose like the teeth of some ancient beast. Nestled between two jagged peaks, a shape emerged — the Monastery of Hollow Saints.
---
It was not as she imagined.
The walls were black stone, slick with age, rising high and windowless. Above the massive gates, carved saints watched with hollow eyes, their faces worn smooth as if centuries of prayers had been whispered directly against them.
The gate stood ajar, no guards in sight.
Lucien slowed. "Strange."
She glanced at him. "You said this place would be safe."
He nodded once, but his tone was cautious. "Safe from him. But not necessarily safe."
---
They stepped through.
The air inside the monastery grounds was colder. The courtyard stretched wide, its stones cracked and uneven. Patches of black moss clung to the edges, and the smell of damp stone filled her nose.
At the far end, an arched doorway yawned into shadow.
A figure stood there — tall, draped in the heavy folds of a monk's robe. His hood was drawn low, but his voice was clear when he spoke.
"You carry his scent."
Isadora froze. "His… scent?"
The monk stepped forward. His face was gaunt, skin like parchment stretched over sharp bones. His eyes, deep‑set and unreadable, lingered on her.
Lucien moved subtly in front of her. "We seek sanctuary."
"Sanctuary," the monk repeated, tasting the word like something unfamiliar. Then he smiled faintly — and the smile did not reach his eyes. "Yes. You may rest. But you will leave before the sun sets again."
---
Inside, the monastery was a cathedral of shadows. Tall pillars reached into the gloom, and the air hung heavy with the scent of wax and old incense. Along the walls, niches held statues of saints — each one blindfolded.
Candles flickered in front of them, though no one tended the flames.
The monk led them down a long hall to a narrow chamber. Two beds stood against opposite walls, a single candle between them.
"You will be undisturbed here," he said. "Pray if you wish. The Hollow Saints do not speak, but they listen."
And then he left, the sound of his sandals fading into silence.
---
Lucien dropped his pack beside one bed. "We'll take turns sleeping."
She sat on the edge of the other. "Do you trust him?"
"No. But I trust that he fears the Devil enough not to hand us over."
She studied his face in the dim candlelight — the harsh lines softened by exhaustion, the faint stubble along his jaw, the tired heat in his eyes when they met hers.
"Lucien…" she began, but the words tangled. She wanted to tell him how afraid she was, how every night she dreamed of the Devil's hands, how even now she sometimes thought she could feel them. She wanted to tell him she didn't know how much longer she could keep fighting.
Instead, she whispered, "Stay close tonight."
He didn't hesitate. "Always."
---
Later, when the candle had burned lower, she lay on her bed, unable to sleep. She listened to Lucien's steady breathing in the darkness.
A rustle broke the quiet.
She turned her head.
In the corner of the room, one of the blindfolded saints stood.
It had not been there before.
---
Her breath caught. "Lucien…"
He was instantly awake, sitting up. "What is it?"
She pointed. The saint was motionless, its stone hands pressed together in prayer.
Lucien rose, crossing to it. His fingers touched the cold stone. "It's just a statue."
But as he stepped back, the blindfold twitched — a tiny, shivering movement, like something beneath it had just opened its eyes.
---
They did not sleep after that.
Instead, they sat side by side on her bed, the candle between them throwing long, uneasy shadows. His hand found hers in the dark, fingers warm and sure.
"Whatever this place is," he murmured, "we'll get through it. Like everything else."
She leaned her head against his shoulder. "I don't want to survive this only to lose you later."
"You won't."
The certainty in his voice was a fragile, beautiful thing — and she clung to it like breath.
---
Somewhere beyond their chamber, a bell began to toll. Slow. Heavy.
Lucien stiffened. "That's not a prayer bell."
The sound deepened, resonating through the stone until she felt it in her bones. The air grew colder still.
From the hallway came the scrape of feet on stone — dozens of them.
Lucien rose, drawing his sword. "Stay behind me."
The door opened.
The monk from the gate stood there, flanked by others. All wore the same robes. All had the same faint, unreadable smile.
"It is time," the first monk said simply.
"For what?" Lucien demanded.
The monk's gaze slid to Isadora. "For the Hollow Saints to hear her vow."
End of Chapter Twenty-five