The child's cries carried for only a moment before the heavy wooden doors behind the infant trembled.
rattle—rattle
A faint, frightened voice seeped through the crack between them.
"P-please… g-go away. W-we are not receiving visitors at this hour."
Another voice answered her—this one younger, stronger, and entirely unafraid.
"Sister Margaret! What if someone seeks refuge?"
"Are you deranged, Sister Anne?" the first voice snapped back. "Did you not hear the bell? You may very well be opening the door for a demon!"
"Oh, surely you jest," Sister Anne replied, tone unwavering. "No demon would dare set foot upon consecrated ground. Kindly step aside."
"What do you think you are—stop that! I am your superior, you impudent girl, cease—!"
CLACK—creeeak
The doors parted just enough for the lamplight inside to spill across the stone steps.
Two figures stood framed in the narrow opening, both garbed in nun's attire—though not the ordinary black and white.
Their habits were cut in a deep black cloth trimmed with muted red, giving their silhouettes a solemn, almost archaic elegance. The veils draped neatly over their shoulders, hems dampened by the rain that had crept in.
The older nun stood slightly behind the younger. Her greying hair framed a lined face worn with worry. Small spectacles perched precariously on her nose, fogging faintly as she peered past Sister Anne with clear unease.
Sister Anne, by contrast, held the door with one steady hand. Her features were striking—young but solemn, with long black hair tucked neatly beneath her veil and hazel eyes that scanned the fog with a quiet resolve.
The world beyond the threshold was a sea of mist.
Then both women caught sight of movement in the distance.
A winged shape near the town gate—looming, violent, crashing through structures once more.
CRSHH—THM—!
A roof caved in. Someone screamed.
Both nuns flinched. Sister Margaret clutched Anne's shoulder, tugging hard.
"Heavens preserve us! Close that dreadful door at once—there is no soul here worth risking our necks for!"
Sister Anne opened her mouth to reply—
But a sound met both their ears.
A thin cry.
A child's.
They lowered their gazes.
There, wrapped in the blanket, lay the infant.
"Oh my…" Sister Anne breathed, her expression softening.
Sister Margaret leaned closer, her glasses slipping down her nose. "Is that… a child? Who would abandon an infant in such weather?"
Sister Anne did not answer. She crouched without hesitation and lifted the baby from the cloak. Rain pattered against her habit as she drew the infant close. The child quieted for a moment, blinking up at her.
But as she studied him, her face shifted—concern creeping in, deepening the line of her brow.
"Sister Margaret…" she murmured.
The older woman tore her eyes from the distant destruction and finally faced the child directly. With a shaky hand, she adjusted her glasses and leaned closer.
"What troubles you? Is it unwell—"
She froze.
"Merciful heavens!"
Sister Margaret recoiled one full step, nearly stumbling backward as she pointed a trembling finger.
"Sister Anne… put that child down at once! That thing is—"
Sister Anne finished the thought quietly.
"His eyes… they bear a demon's mark."
The infant gazed up with wide red irises, luminous even in the dim light. One tiny hand reached up and caught a strand of Anne's hair, tugging gently.
Sister Margaret's voice grew stern—almost to a shrill edge. "If you understand, then place it back this instant! For all we know, it belongs to that creature ravaging the town!"
But Sister Anne's eyes softened.
Her breath quivered—though not with fear.
"No."
Sister Margaret's mouth fell open. "No? What do you mean no? You cannot possibly intend to bring—bring that—inside!"
Anne's frown held steady as she stroked the child's cheek with her thumb.
"This child is innocent," she said softly. "I suspect the mother was held hostage by some wicked creature. And the infant… he stands unharmed upon holy ground. Were he an agent of darkness, the threshold itself would reject him."
Sister Margaret bristled. "I refuse to permit this."
"The choice is not yours to make," Anne replied, her tone sharpening only slightly. "We shall seek Father Titus's judgment."
The older nun's protest died on her lips as Sister Anne turned.
Sister Margaret looked prepared to launch into a furious objection, her mouth already parting—
But Sister Anne turned without a word and strode deeper into the church, moving past the older nun with the child held close. Her long black hair swayed beneath her veil, brushing her back as she walked with careful purpose.
Margaret sputtered, "Sister Anne, I will not simply—"
A scream from outside split the night.
AARRGH—!
Margaret flinched, heart jarring in her chest. She spun toward the open doorway just in time to see a cloud of fog swallow the last of the distant lane. Without hesitation, she pushed the doors shut with a firm THUD, sliding the old iron bolt into place.
She swallowed hard, then turned and hurried after Sister Anne.
The interior of the church opened before them—a long hall built of stone and darkened timber, its Gothic arches stretching overhead like the ribs of some ancient, slumbering beast. Candles flickered in narrow sconces, their flames swaying beneath unseen drafts. Oil lamps hung from wrought-iron hooks, casting warm but subdued halos of gold across the chamber.
This was no ordinary parish.
There were no pews. No benches. Only a wide hall laid with woven mats—most of which were occupied.
Nuns knelt upon them with hands pressed together in reverent prayer, veils lowered over their brows. Around them, men in equally modest robes knelt as well, though their arms stretched outward wide, palms upturned.
Their voices filled the hall with layered chant:
"Daemonium cadunt ante veram originem…
Daemonium cadunt ante veram originem…
Sactorum Divinae…"
The men's deep voices built the foundation, steady and low, while the women's higher tones wove above them—an eerie harmony that trembled softly through the stone.
As Sister Anne and Sister Margaret stepped into the hall, both paused and bowed their heads, murmuring with the others:
"…sactorum divinae."
Then they continued forward.
At the front of the church knelt a single man.
He was balding, the remaining hair close-cut and tidy despite the humidity in the hall. Rounded spectacles perched on his nose, catching faint reflections of the shifting candlelight.
His robe differed slightly from the others—not grand, but marked with broader red trim and embroidered lines that symbolized his authority. Even so, the fabric bore visible wear, frayed at the hem and elbows, as though it had weathered years of nightly vigils.
He knelt before an obsidian wall set into the church's frontmost arch. Strange red letters glowed across its surface—not constant, but phasing in and out of sight, pulsing in time with the chanting as though alive.
Anne and Margaret reached him and knelt behind, hands folded in respect. The child nestled in Anne's arms stirred once, then let out a strong cry.
WAAH—WAAH—!
The chant did not waver. Not one voice broke rhythm. Even Sister Anne held firm, though her arm tightened protectively around the infant.
Father Titus inhaled deeply.
Then he smiled.
"My… how extraordinary the Origin is," he murmured. "On a night thick with despair, a new life arrives at our doorstep."
Anne and Margaret responded at once, voices soft.
"Blessed we are, children of the Sactorum Divinae."
Titus rose to his feet, his robe whispering against the stone floor. He turned to face the hall, clapped his hands together, and raised his voice.
"The demon has departed. Your devotion tonight is most valued. You may return to your duties. My thanks to each of you."
The chanting fell away like embers dimming.
Those upon the mats slowly rose—some rubbing their knees, others crossing themselves before moving toward the side corridors.
The oil lamps flickered as drafts stirred the departing robes, and soft footsteps filled the hall while the people withdrew into adjoining rooms and stairwells.