The abbots' hall was shrouded in a heavy, almost suffocating gloom. Thick crimson drapes smothered the flickering light of the chandeliers, letting only faint golden glimmers fall across their stern faces. The air was thick with the acrid scent of incense that had been burning for far too long, as if the room itself breathed both prayer and menace in equal measure. Around the long oak table, the figures in cassocks stood tall and motionless, hands clasped, their eyes fixed on the man standing in the center.
The superior, seated at the far end, finally broke the silence with a slow, cutting voice:
— "So, Brother Calixte… or should I say Pierre…?"
The man inclined his head slightly. His face held a humble, almost submissive expression, but in his eyes shone a spark of barely contained satisfaction.
— "The village is ready," he said calmly. "They suspect nothing. The gates are poorly guarded, their weapons are scarce and ill-kept. I have earned their trust… especially that of the young woman they call Mylova."
A murmur rippled through the room, like a cold breath weaving between the walls. The superior allowed himself a thin, almost imperceptible smile.
— "Perfect. This Mylova will be the key to their destruction."
An abbot with a gaunt, hollow face leaned forward slightly.
— "And the man called Louis?" he asked, his tone wary.
— "Kept away from the inside," Pierre replied. "He is strong, but isolated. He will be neutralized before he even understands."
The superior straightened.
— "Then so be it—
"Then so be it," the superior continued in a firm voice. "Tomorrow at dawn, we will send our men. But not as soldiers… No. They will enter as merchants, as pilgrims, as women and children seeking refuge. They will pass through their gates without raising the slightest alarm. And when night falls… we will strike."
A heavy silence settled, followed by a deep, resonant chant. It was not a prayer for peace, but a sentence wrapped in holy words. The low, slow voices seemed to seal an invisible pact in the incense-saturated air.
Pierre bowed deeply.
"I will remain inside, ready to open the gates for you at the appointed time."
The superior fixed him with a long stare, his eyes glinting like two sharp blades.
"May the Lord bless our righteous cause… and condemn these heretics."
The meeting ended in a rustle of cassocks. The abbots left the room one by one, their silhouettes fading into the dark corridors. Pierre discreetly followed the superior through a narrow passage lit by flickering candles. The cold stones echoed with the sound of their footsteps, as if every noise amplified the weight of what they were preparing.
They stopped before a heavy iron door. The superior pushed it open
Pierre stored the bag, then left the abbey, his mind already fixed on his mission. The cold night wind slapped his face, but he did not slow down. Each step brought him closer to the sleeping village, to those smiling faces who did not yet know they would see the dawn for the last time in freedom.
In the darkness, the abbey's bells rang three discreet chimes. It was the internal signal: Operation Light of the Lord had officially begun.
Pierre returned to the village as if nothing had happened. The moon faintly lit the rooftops and narrow lanes. He crossed paths with Mylova, who was returning with a basket of vegetables.
"Oh, Pierre, you're back quite late," she remarked with a smile.
"Yes… I just wanted to walk a little. The sky is so clear tonight," he replied in a calm tone.
She returned his smile before continuing on her way. Pierre watched her walk away, his heart strangely heavy, but he quickly shook off the feeling. This was only a mission.
Passing near the north gate, he discreetly slipped the knotted rope around one of the posts, just as planned. The knot was simple, yet recognizable to those who knew how to read it. In the shadow of the woods, two silhouettes appeared for a moment before vanishing. The signal had been seen.
The rest of the night, Pierre slept lightly, ready to play his role to the end. In the distance, he thought he could hear a steady sound… like the slow march of men in formation. But in the village, everything remained calm. The people had no idea that a storm was approaching, and that at dawn, their freedom would be nothing more than a memory.