The great hall of the abbey was shrouded in dimness. Only a few candles, placed along the walls, cast a wavering light. The air was thick with the scent of warm wax and burning incense.
Around the long oak table, four abbots sat together. Their austere faces were marked by fatigue and frustration.
"It has been months since we began the search," one of them began, his voice low and grave. "Not a single body found in the forest, no trace along the nearby roads."
Another nodded.
"They survived. And if they survived, it means they are hiding… somewhere our men never go."
A heavy silence followed. The eldest abbot, seated at the head of the table, finally spoke.
"Then we will go about this differently. We will not hunt them down like beasts. We will make them come out on their own."
All eyes turned to him.
"How?" asked a young priest.
"By sending men disguised as merchants," the elder replied. "Scouts who will mingle with the trade routes. They will ask questions… discreetly. They will earn the trust of those who know."
A murmur of approval spread through the hall.
"And if we discover this village?" asked another abbot.
The elder's lips curved into a cold smile.
"Then we will prepare our judgment… and it will be exemplary."
A few days later, on a road lined with tall cypress trees, a man rode on horseback. A sturdy canvas sack, heavy with goods, was strapped to the saddle. His simple clothes, a scarf tied loosely around his neck, and the dust on his boots made him look like an ordinary traveling merchant.
But hidden beneath the fabric of his jacket, well concealed, was a slender dagger… and a small leather-bound notebook.
This man, known to the abbots as Brother Calixte but now introducing himself as "Pierre, seller of fine cloth," scanned every face he passed. His mission was clear: to watch, to ask the right questions—never enough to arouse suspicion—and to listen more than he spoke.
By late afternoon, he came upon a cart pulled by an old mule. The driver, a robust man with a salt-and-pepper beard, wore a wide straw hat. His cart overflowed with sacks of grain, baskets of fruit, and jars of golden honey.
"Taking all that to the city to sell?" Pierre asked in a friendly tone.
"Not exactly," the man replied. "I sell a little in the city… but mostly elsewhere."
Pierre tilted his head, feigning casual curiosity.
"Elsewhere?"
"Yes… a quiet place, far from laws and sermons. People there live as they please, without answering to anyone."
Pierre narrowed his eyes slightly, as though not fully understanding.
"You mean… another village?"
"Not just a village, boy," the old man said, lowering his voice. "A refuge."
The merchant's tone carried a mixture of pride and caution. After a moment, he leaned closer.
"Out there, no one judges you for how you live. You work, you eat, you sleep—and no one tells you it's a sin."
Pierre let admiration creep into his voice.
"And… can someone just go there?"
"Not really. You need to be known… but if you want, I could take you."
Pierre nodded, his smile warm and grateful.
"That would be… an honor."
Inside, he knew he had just found the first crack. And through that crack, the abbots would soon be able to bring the entire village down.
The path they followed wound deeper and deeper into a dense forest. Sunlight filtered through the thick canopy, breaking into shifting patterns on the ground. The air grew cooler, scented with damp earth and wild herbs.
The old man led his mule with steady steps, knowing every twist and turn. Pierre kept a careful count of every fork in the trail, every stream they crossed, every slope that could serve as a vantage point. His mind worked as much as his eyes.
After nearly an hour of walking, they reached a wooden barrier. Two men stood guard, each holding a long spear. One stepped forward, scanning Pierre from head to toe.
"Who's this?" the guard asked.
"A friend," the old man replied with quiet assurance. "A man who wishes to know freedom."
The guard's gaze lingered on Pierre for a moment longer before stepping aside and lifting the latch.
As the barrier creaked open, the hidden village revealed itself. Small wooden houses with thatched roofs dotted the clearing, each with its own garden of vegetables or flowers. Smoke curled lazily from chimneys, and children's laughter rang out from near a fresh-water spring. The whole place seemed untouched by the outside world.
"Welcome," the old man said, his voice soft but proud. "Here, no one will ask where you've come from, as long as you respect the peace."
Pierre gave a warm, grateful smile.
"It's… beautiful."
A few villagers approached, curious about the newcomer. A woman offered him a piece of warm bread. A child handed him a freshly picked wildflower. Pierre accepted each gesture with apparent humility, hiding the cold calculation beneath.
Then he saw her.
Mylova was passing nearby, a basket of freshly washed linen in her arms. She greeted the newcomers with her gentle smile before continuing toward the drying lines. She didn't know—she couldn't know—that one of the men she'd just welcomed into her home was here to destroy everything she loved.
Pierre stood still for a brief moment, watching her disappear behind the houses.
His mission had officially begun.
Pierre did not waste a single moment. From the very first day, he moved through the village like a shadow that somehow felt familiar. He offered to carry baskets for the women returning from the gardens, repaired a loose hinge on a door, and fetched water for an elderly man whose knees had grown too weak for walking long distances.
His smile was warm, his voice gentle, and his manner patient. People began to nod at him in passing, calling him by his name as if he had been there for months rather than hours.
At the communal table that evening, he listened more than he spoke. He let the others talk—about the harvest, about the upcoming lantern festival, about who had just had a new baby—and stored each detail carefully in his mind. Every fragment of information was a thread he could pull later.
When Louis passed him a bowl of steaming stew, Pierre thanked him with sincere eyes.
"You work at the forge, right?" he asked casually.
Louis nodded. "Most days, yes. I also help with repairs around the village."
Pierre tilted his head, as though merely curious. "And… are there many tools, or just enough for daily work?"
The question seemed innocent, but behind it, his mind measured potential.
Later that night, when the fires burned low and most of the village had gone to sleep, Pierre sat in the quiet corner they had given him as a place to rest. He opened a small leather-bound notebook and began to write by the dim glow of a candle:
North gate: two guards, easily distracted.
Forge: well-stocked, weapons possible.
Water source: central, unguarded.
Key figures: Louis (trusted), Mylova (well-connected, respected).
He closed the notebook, blew out the candle, and lay back on the simple straw bed.
The village had welcomed him with open arms.
And that would make it so much easier to slip the knife in when the time came.