The sun rose pale and sickly over the abbey, casting long, gaunt shadows through the cloister arches. Magdalena stood in the courtyard, her hands clasped so tightly her knuckles blanched. The cold stones beneath her feet did nothing to ground the fever rising in her skin.
She had kissed the Devil.
She had tasted the mouth of sin and found it sweet.
The memory clung to her like the smoke of an extinguished candle—its presence invisible, yet thick in the lungs. She prayed with shaking lips, prayed until her knees ached and her voice broke, but no balm came. Only silence.
"God," she whispered, "if You still watch me, show me something. Show me he's lying. Show me I'm still Yours."
But the sky remained gray, indifferent. And within her, a terrible truth burned brighter than faith.
She didn't want to forget the kiss.
She wanted more.
A soft rustling behind her made her turn sharply. It was Sister Isolde, her long-time confidante and the only other woman in the abbey besides herself. Isolde was older, her face lined by time and candlelight, her eyes always sharp beneath her wimple.
"You didn't come to morning mass," Isolde said, her tone carefully neutral.
"I wasn't well."
"You look flushed, not fevered."
Magdalena turned away. "It was a restless night."
Isolde stepped closer. "Does it have something to do with the man? Lucien?"
Magdalena's stomach dropped. "Why would you say that?"
Isolde looked toward the bell tower. "Because I heard you, Sister. I heard your footsteps outside his chamber. And I saw you return. Your veil was crooked."
Shame flared hot in Magdalena's cheeks. "It was nothing. A mistake."
Isolde's eyes softened. "You think you're the first woman to hunger behind these walls? Desire isn't a sin. What you do with it… that's another matter."
"But he's not who he says he is," Magdalena whispered. "He's… something else."
Isolde's brow furrowed. "You believe he's dangerous?"
"I don't know what I believe."
Isolde reached out and pressed something into Magdalena's palm. It was a small silver talisman—a circle engraved with ancient script.
"This was my mother's. She claimed it was older than the Church. Wear it under your robes. It won't protect your body," she said grimly, "but it may protect your soul."
Magdalena clutched it tightly. "Thank you."
That night, sleep evaded her once more. She lit a candle in her chamber and sat at her desk, staring at the flickering flame. Her Bible lay open, but its words seemed distant, as though the ink had faded with her faith.
Then she heard it—a low hum, almost musical, vibrating through the stones of the abbey.
She followed it.
Barefoot, silent as a ghost, she moved through the hallways, the flame of her candle bobbing like a will-o'-the-wisp. The hum grew louder as she descended the back stairwell, a place rarely used. At the bottom was a heavy iron door, one she'd never dared open before.
Now, it was ajar.
She pushed it open and stepped into the hidden crypt beneath the abbey.
The chamber was vast and circular, its stone walls inscribed with sigils and faded scripture. At the center stood Lucien, shirtless, eyes closed, arms raised. Around him floated candles, suspended in air by no earthly force.
He didn't flinch when she entered.
"I thought you'd come," he said.
"This place is forbidden."
"Many things are. That doesn't make them untrue."
She stepped closer. "What is this room?"
"A sanctuary. Older than your Church. Built on bones and blood and belief. The monks who founded this abbey weren't fleeing sin. They were hiding something sacred."
He turned to her then, eyes glowing faintly red in the candlelight.
"Magdalena, you feel it, don't you? That the world is more than angels and devils. That beneath the surface, there's something raw. Something divine and monstrous. And you… you are a key."
Her voice shook. "A key to what?"
"To power," he said. "To choice."
He stepped toward her, and she didn't move. He raised a hand and touched the silver talisman against her chest. It pulsed with warmth.
"You're wearing a charm. Clever of Isolde."
"She says it guards my soul."
Lucien's smile was sad. "It guards the idea of your soul. But it cannot protect you from yourself."
She swallowed hard. "Why are you really here?"
"I'm not just fleeing Heaven, Magdalena. I'm trying to undo it."
He circled her slowly, like a wolf tasting the air.
"I was cast out for defiance. For questioning a plan written in fire before time began. But I have no interest in destroying mankind. I want to free it. I want to give your kind the right to choose who they become."
"You speak like a savior."
"I speak like someone who's seen the truth—and still dares to love what is broken."
Their eyes locked. Her breath caught in her throat.
He stepped so close she felt the heat of him.
"Let me show you," he whispered. "Let me show you the power buried beneath your skin. The Church made you kneel. I want you to rise."
His hand brushed her cheek, and light exploded behind her eyes.
Visions poured through her mind—burning wings, shattered thrones, the Garden before it fell. She saw herself, bathed in starlight, unbound by habit or robe. Glorious. Fearless.
She gasped and stumbled back, heart pounding.
"What… what did you do to me?"
"I opened your eyes."
She ran.
Again.
But the truth chased her like shadow on her heels.
And this time, it followed her into her dreams.