The church was silent when Ezekiel pushed open the heavy oak doors.
The hinges groaned like a warning, echoing through the hollow sanctuary. Candles still burned along the altar — strange, considering no one had lit them in years. Their flames swayed, as if stirred by a breath unseen.
He stepped inside, boots whispering against the marble floor. Dust floated in the air, silver in the moonlight spilling through cracked stained glass.
The faces of painted saints watched him from above — eyes chipped, smiles faded — guardians of a faith that had long since turned to ash.
Ezekiel's steps carried him down the central aisle, past the pews where he once knelt as a boy.
He remembered Father Gregory's voice booming from the pulpit, the congregation murmuring "Amen" as though their tongues could erase their guilt.
But tonight, the church didn't sound like salvation.
It sounded like judgment.
He reached the altar and knelt, tracing his fingers along the wooden carvings. Beneath it, just barely visible, was the outline of a trapdoor — sealed shut by a chain etched with holy symbols.
A lock shaped like a cross.
He hesitated only a moment before pulling the iron key from his coat pocket — the same key he had stolen from the old chapel archives weeks ago. He slid it into the cross, turned it slowly, and heard the faint click of release.
The chain fell away.
The air that rushed out was cold — too cold — and thick with the scent of stone and damp earth.
Ezekiel lifted the trapdoor and peered into the darkness.
Steps led down, carved into the bedrock.
He lit a candle and descended.
The deeper he went, the quieter the world became, until even his heartbeat sounded muffled. The walls were lined with bones — not neatly arranged, but thrown carelessly, as though the dead had been buried in haste. Names were carved above them: Saint Benedict. Saint Elara. Saint Ruth.
But these weren't saints.
They were the condemned.
When he reached the bottom, the narrow tunnel opened into a chamber.
At its center stood a stone table, covered in ancient symbols. Chains hung from the ceiling.
And in the corner…
a figure sat bound by silver cords, her hair tangled, her eyes glowing faintly in the dark.
Ezekiel's breath caught.
"Seraphina…" he whispered.
Her head lifted weakly. "You shouldn't have come."
He dropped to his knees beside her, trembling. "I thought you were gone. I thought they—"
"They tried," she murmured, voice dry as dust. "But faith can't kill what was never born of man."
Her gaze drifted past him to the walls — to the names carved in blood. "They called us saints," she said bitterly, "but saints are just martyrs they kill twice — once for their truth, and once in the telling."
Ezekiel touched her bindings. The silver hissed against his skin, burning his fingers. "What have they done to you?"
She smiled faintly — a broken, beautiful thing. "They trapped the truth… in holiness."
And as he looked around the chamber, he realized what she meant.
The saints' bones… the prayers… the blessings… it wasn't protection.
It was containment.
A lie built of holy things.
He met her eyes again. "Then tonight," he said softly, "we set the truth free."