Silence and Tension
The silence of the Abbey was not true silence.
It was thick, heavy… almost suffocating.
Far off, the creak of old wood and the faint buzz of a dying candle could be heard. The air smelled of wax, dust, and damp — as if the walls themselves were holding their breath.
Louis fidgeted with the hem of his jacket, the fabric squeaking under his damp fingers.
Monsieur Dumas stared down the corridor leading to the great hall, his jaw clenched.
— Are you sure about this? he whispered, his voice thin as a thread.
— I've seen worse… Louis replied, the corner of his mouth twitching. Once, I made an entire class believe I was possessed by Joan of Arc.
— …
— Well… I got out of a test that day.
Dumas drew a deep breath. Anxiety gnawed at his gut, but deep inside, he felt a strange certainty: she's here.
Louis stepped back, almost dancing.
— This is your moment, Monsieur Dumas. I'll handle the grand circus.
---
The Diversion
The great hall was bathed in pale light filtering through stained glass.
A dozen abbots and a few elders recited monotonous prayers, their voices echoing off the cold stone.
The door creaked.
Louis entered… staggering like a drunken sailor. One hand on his chest, the other on his forehead, he panted loudly.
— He… he's here… I SAW HIM!
The prayers stopped.
— Who? an abbot demanded.
— THE DEVIL! Louis roared. With goat horns… and chicken feet! He wanted to drag me into a barrel of blood!
Heads turned toward the empty corner he pointed at. One guest even stepped back.
— Stay back, poor souls! Louis cried. Damnation is rising… into my calves!!
He spun in place, letting out the bleating cries of a possessed goat. His jacket flapped, his hair clung to his sweat-soaked forehead.
— He wants to steal your rosaries! he yelled, before collapsing to the ground.
— He's afflicted! an abbot exclaimed. Pray!
— Don't pray… GIVE ME CHOCOLATE! Louis bellowed, his eyes rolling back.
The abbots scrambled, some raising crucifixes, others searching for holy water… or a very large shoe.
---
Monsieur Dumas's Mission
Using the chaos, Dumas slipped into a narrow corridor. His footsteps echoed sharply on the cold stone tiles. Every heartbeat pounded in his temples.
He followed his instinct.
Left… then left again… He knew the way without ever having seen it before.
The door gave way with a sharp crack.
An odor of cold wax, damp linen, and… suffering.
She was there.
Lying on a bed too small, wrists marked, skin pale. Her half-closed eyes seemed to float far from here. Her lips barely moved.
— No more screams… no more fear… I will leave properly…
— Mylova…
She opened her eyes. Slowly.
— No… not you…
He stepped closer, kneeling. His hand trembled as he touched her cheek.
— I'm here… Your real father… not the one who let you down.
She looked away.
— You promised me…
— I know. And I can't erase what they did to you… but I can take you far from here. And it's Louis who led me to you.
A flicker of disbelief crossed her gaze.
— Louis… is here?
— Yes. And he's waiting for us. So let me steal your life, just this once.
She froze… then collapsed against him.
---
The Escape
In the hall, Louis was struggling, caught between two abbots.
— I am Lucifer's stamp! he howled.
— He's delirious, one muttered. Exorcise his liver!
When Dumas reappeared with Mylova in his arms, the room froze.
Louis saw them and shouted:
— LEFT SIDE!
A Bible flew. Louis ducked just in time and bolted again.
The three of them sprinted for the exit, the wind rushing in behind them as if to push them forward.
Half-conscious, Mylova whispered against Louis's shoulder:
— Thank you… for being the fool.
He smiled, breathless.
— Anything for you, princess…