Daniel awoke with a start, his eyes snapping to the glowing red digits of the bedside clock.
3:26 a.m.
His stomach dropped.
"Oh, no…"
He threw the blanket aside, yanked on his jeans, and shoved his feet into his shoes without socks. He barely had his shirt halfway over his head before he wrenched open the door and bolted into the dimly lit hall.
Halfway to the stairs, a shadow stepped into his path.
"Daniel," Sister Beatrice's calm voice halted him mid-stride.
"I'm late! The Father—"
"There is no need to rush," she interrupted, folding her hands. "While the Father may be strict on time, he is far more concerned with… hygiene."
Daniel blinked at her, thrown off by the statement.
"Go brush your teeth, wash your face, and present yourself properly," she said with a gentle but firm smile. "Don't take too long. If he wanted you there at the stroke of three, we would have woken you. But he told us to let you rest. Who knows how long it has been since you've had a good night's sleep?"
Daniel hesitated, then nodded slowly. "Right… okay."
"Good. The bathroom is down the hall. Don't make me come find you."
Five minutes later, Daniel emerged with damp hair, a clean shirt, and a clearer mind. He made his way down the back steps, through the side corridor, and out into the crisp pre-dawn air.
The churchyard was larger than it looked from the street—a wide open space bordered by a low stone wall, with patches of grass and a few old oaks swaying gently in the wind. The sky was deep blue, stars fading as the horizon hinted at morning.
From the far corner came a sound—steady, rhythmic.
Clank. Clank. Clank.
Daniel followed it, curiosity leading him around the side of the shed—and stopped dead.
Father Gabriel Moretti, bare-chested and glistening with sweat, lay on a bench press beneath a bar so heavily loaded it looked like it belonged in a strongman competition. The plates were massive, some iron, some old stone discs that looked hand-forged. Each rep rose and fell with perfect rhythm, the kind of control that came only from decades of discipline.
And the weight—Daniel knew enough to understand—wasn't just heavy. It was inhuman.
Without breaking rhythm, Gabriel spoke between steady breaths.
"How do you feel?"
Daniel swallowed. "Refreshed."
"Good," Gabriel said, lowering the bar to his chest with deliberate control before pressing it upward again. "Sit. And listen."
Daniel sat cross-legged on the cool grass, his breath misting in the cold air.
Gabriel racked the bar, sat up, and reached for a towel draped over the bench. Draping it over his shoulders, he turned his gaze toward the faint light on the horizon.
"All religions across the globe," he began, "have a group of warriors. Guardians. Enforcers. Protectors. Sometimes they are called by holy names, sometimes they move in shadow. In Christendom… we are the Templars."
His voice deepened, carrying the weight of centuries.
"We were founded in the aftermath of the First Crusade—at least, that's what the world believes. Nine knights who swore vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience. But those were only the public vows. In truth, there was a fourth vow—one never written in the Vatican's records: the vow to safeguard humanity itself, not merely the Church."
Gabriel stood, pacing slowly before Daniel.
"Our name—Poor Fellow-Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon—was a mask. We guarded pilgrims, yes. We built fortresses, yes. But behind those walls, we trained not only in the sword and lance, but in disciplines forgotten by ordinary men. We learned the languages of enemies before they became enemies. We charted the stars for navigation long before the explorers of the Renaissance. We brokered peace between warring tribes when it served the greater good, and we shattered kingdoms when they threatened it."
He stopped and looked down at Daniel.
"They call us rich. They call us secretive. They call us heretics. But the truth?" His eyes hardened. "We were effective. So effective that kings feared us. So effective that the Pope himself—pressured by debt and politics—allowed the Order to be hunted, burned, and dissolved."
Gabriel's lips curved into a grim smile.
"That was seven hundred years ago. And yet…" He spread his arms. "Here I stand. Here we stand. Because the Templar Order was never truly destroyed. We went to ground. We shed the armor for the suit, the sword for the pen, the warhorse for the automobile. And when the age demanded it, we shed those as well. We adapted, we endured, and we waited for the moment when the world would need us again."
Daniel leaned forward, caught up in the cadence of the words.
Gabriel's voice lowered, almost a growl. "That moment is now. The world is not the same as it was in the time of Jerusalem's walls. The threats are greater—monsters both human and otherwise, forces moving beyond the sight of governments, beyond the understanding of your so-called heroes. The Templars were born to fight in the shadows where others cannot."
He stepped closer, his shadow falling over Daniel.
"You asked to be molded. You asked to be of service. Then understand this: you are not being offered a place in a church choir or a food pantry. You are being offered entry into the oldest continuous warrior brotherhood in existence. We do not serve crowns or parliaments. We do not serve wealth. We serve the mission: the defense of mankind from all who would see it fall."
Daniel felt something shift in his chest—a pull, a spark.
Gabriel straightened. "If you accept, you will be tested. The training will break you down. You will be shaped into something stronger than you have ever been. And when the time comes, you will stand in the breach where no one else dares. That is what it means to wear the cross."
The first light of dawn spilled into the yard, gilding the edges of Gabriel's scarred shoulders.
He looked down at Daniel, eyes locked. "Do you understand?"
Daniel nodded. "Yes, Father."
"Good." Gabriel reached for the barbell again, hands closing around the cold steel. "Then your trial begins at sundown."
And without another word, he lay back, the weight rising and falling in perfect, unstoppable rhythm.