Chapter 1 – Island of Saints α

The dark clouds never disperse.

Along the dark and rugged corridor, he walked forward. The black stone walls were slick with dampness, covered in a thin layer of frost. Patches of dark green moss grew between the cracks, glistening under the faint firelight from the lamp troughs, dripping tiny beads of dew.

From every wall, from every crack in the stone, came the undulating sound of hymns and the continuous Mass: He that is wounded in the stones, or hath his privy member cut off, shall not enter into the congregation of the LORD…

He walked forward, carrying a bag of silverware, clad in a dark brown monk’s robe, the coarse hemp scratching his skin. He tugged at the collar, surprised by the lifelike sensation. He lifted his hand before his eyes, clenched it tightly, then turned right at the fourth narrow fork in the path.

An old wooden door, oak, freshly oiled, slid open smoothly. Inside was a stone chamber, unlit except for an oval window in the eastern wall and a half-burned candle beneath a crucifix.

A man knelt there. Hearing him enter, the man wrapped his rosary and stood up. “Brother.”

He nodded, set down the bag of silverware, and walked toward the small booth made of old planks in the center of the room—the confessional. He was The Listener.

“Praise the Lord…” The Penitent seemed somewhat uneasy, dressed in the same monk’s robe, a young man with sparse hair, dull eyes, but thick, dark eyebrows.

“I don’t have much time. The High Priest entrusted the Tabernacle¹Tabernacle: Sacrament house. A locked container used to store consecrated communion bread. to me,” The Listener gestured to the bag by the door, “I still have to arrange the ritual vessels later.”

The Penitent pulled open the low, narrow door of the confessional and bent down to enter. “It won’t take long, just the time to copy a page of scripture.”

The Listener rubbed his hands together, opened the door, and slipped in from the other side.

Between them was a carved wooden panel, its patterns more intricate than anything else in the room—likely salvaged from some antique piece. The meager light was filtered into a dazzling array of colors.

“What is your sin?” The Listener pulled a red sash from the slanted beam above and draped it casually over his shoulders. “Confess.”

“I…” On the other side of the panel, The Penitent slowly clenched his fists. “I am unforgivable.”

The Listener, as if sitting in this booth for the first time, looked around curiously at the decaying wooden walls, distracted. “Greed? Or envy?”

“I had impure thoughts.”

“About what?”

The Penitent fell silent. The pale yellow light seeped through the gaps in the wood, illuminating his withered silhouette. “About… a man’s flesh.”

The Listener seemed not to have heard clearly, tilting his head. “Huh…?” He mulled over the word. “Flesh… you mean…”

The Penitent suddenly struck the wooden wall, causing the entire confessional to sway. “Let me be blunt,” he hunched his neck, “it’s that infidel!”

The Listener frowned. “He converted with his family. He’s already one of us.”

“I know,” The Penitent covered his face, “but his black hair, those soft waves… the way he smiles, always so disdainful, those hateful cat-like eyes!”

The Convert did indeed have Eastern eyes, amber-colored, with thick, dark lashes like a woman wearing eyeliner. When he looked at you, the mole on the bridge of his nose seemed to come alive, dancing with that arrogant smile, making it all the more irritating.

“People like him shouldn’t be in the Monastery,” The Penitent struck his own thigh in frustration. “What decent man pierces his nipples?”

“Pierced?” The Listener leaned in. Mutilating or adorning the body was a serious violation of the Monastery’s rules.

The Penitent was silent for a moment, then whispered, “There is a gold ring on his left nipple, the size of a fingernail, with an Arabesque pattern. I…” He hesitated, fingers scraping against the wood, making a dry sound. “I peeked…”

A man’s flesh.

The Listener feigned nonchalance. “Loving beautiful things isn’t a sin, brother.” He probed further, “Did you do anything because of it? I mean… those sacrilegious acts, like…” He mumbled awkwardly, “Touching yourself?”

“No,” The Penitent laughed, as if it were ridiculous. “I didn’t do anything to myself—but to him.”

The Listener tensed on the other side of the screen.

“I invited him to my room… but he’s strong, you know, with that infidel’s scimitar,” The Penitent sighed wistfully. “Then somehow, I hurt his hand.”

This was a true sin.

The Listener said nothing. The Penitent was silent too. After a few breaths, The Penitent stood up. “You’re busy, brother.” He slipped out, the small cross on his rosary swaying at his wrist. “I feel better having said it.”

The Listener didn’t move. He remained until the footsteps faded, thinking hard. Then, in a moment of resolve, he went to the door to pick up the bag of silverware—silver spoons, silver candlesticks, silver chalices. Amidst the scattered old silverware was a heavy pouch of coins. He fished it out and hastily tucked it into his robe.

Morning Prayer had ended. The monks left their seats, gathering in small groups.

The Island of Saints was an ancient Monastery, where seven Saints had been buried over three centuries. It was remote, nearly falling off the Edge of the World on the map. Riding west from here, chasing the setting sun for half a month on horseback, would bring you to the legendary Boundary of Creation—the end of the universe as decreed by God. It might be a cliff, or perhaps an abrupt cessation. No one had seen it; no one could say for sure.

The Listener stood by the Tabernacle, feigning indifference, his gray-blue eyes slowly surveying his peers. They had come here for various reasons—some to devote themselves to God, some to escape the chaos of the world, and others by mere happenstance. Like-minded people always clustered together. The Penitent, for instance, was whispering with a few fellow monks, but his sinful gaze drifted across the chapel to where a dark-curled youth stood—cat-eyed, with a small mole on the bridge of his nose. The Convert.

The Listener parted the crowd and slowly walked toward him.

Halfway there, The Convert noticed him. Those arrogant, infidel eyes glanced over, wary and suspicious. For some reason, The Listener lowered his gaze and stopped before him, head bowed. “We’ve never spoken before,” he muttered. His silver hair was cropped short, appearing gray in the dim light. “You might not know me…”

“You’re The Listener.”

The Listener jerked his head up, seeing The Convert looking at him with disdain. “Why are you acting shy?”

“I-I’m not shy…” The Listener was just flustered. He stepped closer, took The Convert’s hand, and pressed something hard into his palm.

The Convert’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes flicked down—a gold coin.

“One hundred,” The Listener emphasized. “Half upfront.”

The Convert laughed, tilting his head with that characteristic scorn. “No need for all that.” Unexpectedly, he ruffled The Listener’s thin, short hair. “I like gray eyes. Especially on big men.”

The Listener impatiently swatted his hand away, glancing around like a thief. When he spoke again, his tone was derisive: “More than your body, your blade interests me.”

The Convert’s expression shifted, his beautiful brows knitting together.

“I have a deal for you.”

The Convert wanted to refuse.

“You don’t have a choice,” The Listener slowly let his gaze drift to the broad monk’s robe covering The Convert’s chest. “You adorned your nipple with an infidel’s sorcery.”

The Convert’s eyes widened—shock, anger, and a lethal, dazzling fury.

“I just need to find something,” The Listener lowered his voice. “I need your strength.”

He wore that nervous, uneasy expression again, like a tenant farmer long accustomed to abuse. The Convert could tell he wasn’t skilled at threats. So he extended his empty hand toward this gentle giant, curling his lip in annoyance.

“Deal,” he said.

The Listener looked at this hand, calloused from years of wielding a blade. Just as The Penitent had said, there was a faint, scabbed wound across the palm.

They were partners now.

On a pale yellow afternoon, The Convert lounged lazily against the bare western wall of The Listener’s room, a small parchment map in his hand.

“So you don’t even know what we’re looking for?” he asked, one foot propped on the bedframe, the other swinging recklessly off the edge. The parted robe revealed a suggestive rose-hued shadow.

The Listener sat opposite him on an old chair bound with straw rope, his eyes darting uncomfortably.

The Convert deliberately spread his legs wider, exposing the pearl-like softness of his youthful knees. The Listener hastily averted his gaze. “He only gave me the deposit, a map… and a whistle.”

The “he” in question was a filthy Elder, wrapped in a beggar’s cloak, face hidden beneath a tattered hood, who had intercepted The Listener on his usual path to fetch water and proposed the deal. The Elder’s offer was two thousand gold coins, a tenth upfront. As for what they were to find, he gave three clues—

“Underground, in an iron cage, silver,” The Listener said.

“That’s it?” The Convert leaned toward him.

“That’s it.” He leaned back slightly.

“I’ve heard…” The Convert, kitten-like, braced himself on The Listener’s thigh, “men with gray eyes,” he murmured in Latin, “are especially lustful…”

“Not me,” The Listener admitted, blushing.

“You don’t touch yourself at night?”

The Listener laughed. “Of course not!”

“They all do,” The Convert’s hand suddenly pressed against him, gripping his indifferent groin. The parchment map slipped from the bed, unfolding on the floor—somewhere between the Island of Saints and the Edge of the World, a whistle was drawn on a sunlit hillside. That was the delivery point. “Sometimes they touch each other. I’m good at this…”

The Listener didn’t take the bait. “Are you the type who lets men sodomize you?”

Sodomize. The Convert’s flirtatious demeanor vanished, revealing his true nature—fierce and ruthless. “I just want to know,” he jabbed a finger at his left breast, “which bastard ratted me out!”

“I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

“Done?” The Convert gnashed his teeth in disgust. “You don’t even know what the thing is or where it is! How can you talk about it being done?”

“The Elder said it’s on the Island of Saints.”

The Convert sprang up from the bed. “The Island of Saints is a three-hundred-year-old graveyard! Am I supposed to stay with you until you dig your own grave?”

The Listener’s tone rose to match his. “He said it’s ‘underground’!”

The Island of Saints did indeed have an “underground”—a marble cellar behind the Cathedral’s small garden. Though called a garden, it had been abandoned a century ago. Below it lay a vault storing the vestments of all the abbots over the past three centuries.

“The Vestment Vault…” The Convert hesitated. “There’s a dedicated Keeper there.”

“That’s why I came to you,” The Listener’s gray eyes gleamed with a bewitching light. “Two thousand gold coins—we can leave this place, go to the Center of the World.” He patted the crude wooden bed beneath The Convert’s feet. “There are beds woven with feathers, chairs gilded with gold, endless wine and meat…” He sighed, painting the picture for him. “Women, men… and the distant East—your home, your Allah, your dreams.”

Ripples stirred in The Convert’s amber eyes. “Split fifty-fifty?”

The Listener said, “Deal.”

The Convert was about to agree but hesitated again. “Have you thought about what could be worth two thousand gold coins?”

“Silver…” The Listener pondered. “Jewelry, maybe armor. Who cares?”

The Convert shook his head. “Two people aren’t enough.” He crouched down, locking eyes with The Listener like a mountain eagle soaring over the minarets of Khorasan. “Get The Keeper in on it. Once we’re off the Island of Saints, I’ll deal with him.”

The Listener leaned back in his chair, smiling lazily.

“What’s so funny?” The Convert lifted a pale foot and roughly pressed it against The Listener’s thigh. “The deposit—give me half first.”

Languidly, The Listener picked up the money pouch from the floor and tugged it open. “Take it all.” With that, he poured out one hundred and ninety-nine gold coins onto The Convert’s lap, the golden glow finally bringing some color to the dreary room.

By the time Evening Prayer ended, the sky had darkened. The Listener and The Convert walked one after the other through the overgrown ruins of the old garden behind the Cathedral. On the north side stood a slate-roofed hut, its door slightly ajar, revealing a sliver of lamplight.

“Brother.” The Listener knocked, signaling for The Convert to stay back. The door creaked open, revealing a gaunt-faced man with deep-set eyes and a hooked nose, dressed in a distinctive white monk’s robe that glowed faintly in the dark.

“What do you want?” he asked.

“To discuss a deal.” The Listener tried to step inside but was blocked by The Keeper, whose sharp eyes spoke volumes despite his few words.

“Down there,” The Listener repeated his earlier tactic, producing a gold coin, “there’s something we’re looking for. Want in?”

After a pause, The Keeper stepped aside.

Inside, the hut held only a bed and a niche with a saint’s icon—not even a desk for copying scriptures. In the center of the floor was a trapdoor with a brass lock, said to be sealed with seven unmelting white candles, according to the Grimoire.

“Open this door,” The Listener stepped on it, tapping lightly, “fifty gold coins.”

The Keeper’s eyes held mockery. “There’s nothing down there.”

The Convert thought he was testing them. “That’s not your concern.”

The Keeper laid it bare. “Aren’t you going to say what you’re looking for?”

“We’re just hired hands,” The Listener nudged aside the white candles with his foot. “We’ll know when we find it.”

After some deliberation, The Keeper unhooked a large keyring from his belt, its lone key swaying. “You’re wasting your time.”

The moment the brass door opened, a wave of musty, bone-chilling dampness rushed out. The entrance yawned into pure blackness, and as The Keeper descended with his lamp, the darkness seemed to come alive, swallowing him bite by bite.

“Come on, brothers.” His voice, filtered through layers of cold air, was eerie.

The Listener went first, with The Convert following. Feeling uneasy, The Convert leaned in and whispered, “Let me go ahead.”

“No,” The Listener gripped his hand briefly, “stay behind me.”

The Keeper lit the torches along the walls, flooding the cramped space with light. The ancient stone walls, the untreated, damp earthen floor—The Convert’s eyes widened abruptly. The vault was empty! Not a single broken needle or scrap of cloth remained.

“I told you,” The Keeper’s tone shifted from mocking to outright scorn, “there’s nothing here.”

“Impossible!” The Convert drew his crescent-moon scimitar, its curved tip as sharp and provocative as his nature. “If there’s nothing, what have you been guarding all this time?”

“My role is to guard. Whether the vestments are here or not, I remain.”

The Convert clearly didn’t believe him. He weighed his blade cautiously, glancing at The Listener, who didn’t seem surprised at all. Instead, he was crouched on the ground, kneading a handful of soil.

“Gray-haired boy,” The Keeper spoke up, “this isn’t your first time here, is it?”

The Listener stood without answering, stomping hard on the ground. “Maybe it’s beneath this.”

The Convert loosened his grip on the blade, puzzled. The Keeper added, “I’ve opened the door. Dig if you want. But whatever you do, fill the holes before this Sunday.”

The Convert demanded, “Why?”

“Every Sunday at dawn, the Abbot comes down to pray in the Vestment Vault.”

“That only leaves four days…” The Listener sighed heavily, turning to The Keeper. “Do you know anyone reliable?”

“Wait!” The Convert grabbed The Listener by the collar, yanking him close to glare into his eyes. No more partners—the more there were, the harder it would be to deal with them later.

“You can’t dig,” The Listener seemed to read his thoughts, gently patting the hand gripping his robe.

The Convert frowned in confusion.

“Your hand’s injured. It’ll get torn up.”

The Convert scoffed. “What does it matter if my hand—”

“No,” The Listener cut him off firmly. “That’s a swordfighter’s hand. Treasure it.”

The Convert, a rough man by nature, inexplicably flushed. To mask his embarrassment, he jerked his hand back with feigned disgust, glaring at The Listener.

This gray-eyed bastard, he thought. Acts like a virgin in bed, yet throws around kindness when it’s least needed. This kind of do-gooder’s attentiveness is the worst!

“As agreed,” The Keeper extended his hand, “fifty gold coins.”

“I didn’t bring the money,” The Listener turned away. “Once we retrieve the item and deliver it—”

“Whether you deliver or not isn’t my concern,” The Keeper’s mocking smile returned. “I only opened the door. Payment is due now.”

This wasn’t part of the plan. The Listener grew agitated. “Come with us, and I’ll double it.”

The Keeper shook his head. “I won’t set foot off the Island of Saints,” he clutched the ox-bone crucifix at his chest, staring straight at The Convert, “especially not with him.”

The Convert’s cat-like amber eyes narrowed, something inscrutable and dangerous flickering within them—like the iridescent sheen of a peacock feather atop a sultan’s turban, liable to transform into a terrifying demon’s eye at any moment.

“The Convert’s white hands were washed in red Christian blood,” The Keeper said bluntly. “Everyone on the Island of Saints knows to steer clear of that scimitar.”

He’d seen through their scheme.

Humiliated and enraged, The Convert lunged forward, but The Listener yanked him back. “Fine,” he smiled at The Keeper, “have it your way.”

The next night, The Keeper’s man arrived—a gloomy figure with a scarred lip. The Listener recognized him as The Mute, who couldn’t chant or pray. The Monastic Steward had assigned him to distribute bread in the Refectory.

The two of them dug separate pits on either side of the Vestment Vault. The Mute had coarse, strong hands, and his digging came in heavy, echoing gasps, as if trying to breathe life back into the dead cellar.

“Hey,” The Convert leaned against the wall, examining the insignificant wound on his hand as he asked The Listener, “what that guy said earlier… was it true?”

The Listener, bare-armed and glistening with sweat, looked up at him with unusually gentle gray eyes. “What?”

The Convert hesitated, scratching his itching wound before clenching his fist. “Yesterday… what would’ve happened if I’d gone in front of you?”

“Why do you care?” The Listener sounded like an old friend. “You hate meddling in others’ business.”

So they did have a “past”! The Convert’s lashes fluttered slightly. No—not with him, but with some previous “Convert.”

“If you’d gone first,” The Listener didn’t notice his pursed lips, “you’d have tripped on the seventh step.” He drove his shovel into the earth. “Then The Keeper would’ve laughed at you, and you’d have drawn your blade.”

“Hot-tempered, huh.” The Convert mocked himself.

“Yeah,” The Listener paused, pointing at the wall torches. “That Keeper has a temper too. He’d have thrown one of those at us, and we’d have gone up in flames together.”

“Together… in flames?” The Convert instinctively straightened from the wall. “What’s it like?”

“Pain,” The Listener grimaced. “Excruciating. Flesh sizzling, smoke searing your lungs, burning you hollow…”

“Enough!” The Convert kicked dirt at him irritably, turning away to see The Mute watching them sullenly. When their eyes met, The Mute grinned lewdly, making obscene gestures with guttural noises.

He seemed to be mocking the relationship between him and The Listener. The Convert just shrugged. “What about him?”

The Listener glanced at The Mute, then lowered his head to continue digging through the damp soil. “In the last story, he wasn’t there.”

Only two days left, and still nothing.

The pits on either side had been dug deep, almost connecting in the middle. Then The Keeper descended the steps, clad in his distinctive white robe, skirting the high mounds of dirt to reach a torch and pull it from its bracket.

“Hey, what are you doing?” The Convert tensed, glaring at him.

The Keeper didn’t stop. “Refilling the oil.”

The Convert approached him, arms crossed over his scimitar, taunting. “Where did all the things down here go?”

“Don’t know.”

“Did you fail to guard them,” The Convert sneered maliciously, “or did you steal them yourself?”

The Keeper turned away. “The day I arrived, this place was already empty.”

“Oh,” The Convert scoffed. “Maybe.”

The Keeper started back up the steps. “You know, three hundred years of vestments,” he said slowly, “three hundred years is practically a legend. How can you take legends seriously?”

The Convert followed him up. Outside, the sky was lightening—Morning Prayer would soon begin. He hesitated. “You… this isn’t the first time you’ve opened the door for us, is it?”

The Keeper busied himself with his tasks. “What do you think?”

The Convert felt his guess was right—surprising, yet somehow expected. “So that’s why you won’t leave the Island of Saints with us, isn’t it?”

The Keeper laughed—not mockingly, but with unexpected candor. “Getting your throat slit isn’t a pleasant feeling!”

The Convert was stunned. Their plan had been carried out before—and succeeded. “You took the thing with you?” He flexed his hand slightly, the wound aching faintly. “What was it?”

The Keeper noticed the movement. “Don’t underestimate that wound,” he said slowly, with a hint of dread. “It’ll fester.”

The Listener had said the same thing—it’ll fester. The Convert found it unbelievable.

“First time?” The Keeper studied him. Just then, the brass door was pushed open from below, and The Listener’s dust-covered head emerged. “Dawn’s coming,” he climbed up. “If we don’t find it tomorrow, we’ll have to fill the holes.”

The Mute followed him up, carefully brushing off his robe before asking The Keeper for a sip of water. They slipped back to the dormitory under the last remnants of night. As they left, The Keeper muttered, as if to himself, “There wasn’t.”

Wasn’t… what? The three of them paused, but no one asked.

As they turned out of the garden, The Convert glanced back and saw the mute still following them. He picked up a pebble and hurled it, snarling, “Get lost!”

The Listener yanked him away impatiently, as if dragging a misbehaving pet.

The Convert ignored him, continuing to gesture curses at the mute until he finally turned down another path.

“That last thing The Keeper said,” The Listener casually slung an arm over The Convert’s shoulder, “what did it mean?”

The Convert wanted to say I don’t know, but the words caught in his throat. Somehow, he felt he did know. The Keeper must have been referring to that thing—in the previous story, the “silver” thing in the iron cage hadn’t been found either.

“Who… who knows,” he mumbled, leaning into The Listener’s arm like a brother.

Morning Prayer was held in the Refectory. Once it ended, the monks lined up to receive a small portion of dry bread and soup—a sticky beetroot broth—from The Mute. The Listener and The Convert deliberately sat a row apart, facing each other but never making eye contact, pretending to have no connection.

Clang! The sharp sound of a wooden bowl hitting the floor.

Many monks stood to look. The Listener was among them. A commotion had broken out near the bread station, and a crowd quickly gathered around The Mute, who was being grabbed by the fingers by a young acolyte—a boy of eleven or twelve, the leader of the scripture recitation group, known to all as The Pious One.

“The Mute has dirt under his nails!” The Pious One shouted in his childish voice. “The hand he uses to serve us bread is filthy with black mud from who-knows-where!”

The Listener and The Convert exchanged a glance. This is bad.

The Tabernacle was housed in a small annex behind the Refectory, an old wooden structure hanging from the wall by a few rusted nails. Today wasn’t a day for opening it, yet The Listener went anyway, carrying a tattered rag as if to clean.

Pushing open the door, he feigned surprise—inside sat The High Priest and several senior monks, facing The Mute, who knelt with his head bowed.

The High Priest glanced at the door, saw The Listener, and turned back. “If you can’t speak, take us there.”

The Mute didn’t move, head still lowered, giving no response.

The Listener began wiping the Tabernacle, listening as the monks debated:

“What should we do? Flog him?”

“It’s a minor issue, surely not worth that.”

“The Ascetic scraped the dirt from his nails—it was wet, black soil. No one’s seen it before.”

“Did he sneak out?”

“Impossible. All exits from the Island of Saints are sealed except the small service gate for fetching water and firewood. He’s not on the access list.”

“Then… it’s soil from the island?”

“Enough!” The High Priest stood, displeased. “Flog him. Fetch water and the old birch rods.”

A monk eagerly rushed out to retrieve them, brushing past The Listener with a malicious gust of wind.

These men had been on the island too long. With nothing to do but praise God, they turned to sodomy, treasure-hunting, and torture. The Listener set down the rag, hunched his shoulders, and approached The High Priest. “My elder,” he knelt at his feet, obediently kissing the hem of his pristine robe, “may I see the dirt from his nails?”

“Rise, child,” The High Priest feigned benevolence. “Why look at the hands of a sinner? You’re not needed here. Leave.”

The Listener couldn’t give up. If The Mute cracked, they’d all be exposed. He remained kneeling, about to speak, but The High Priest’s expression darkened. The old man leaned down, his wrinkled face stern. “I said leave.”

The Listener opened his mouth awkwardly. The old bastard didn’t trust him.

“Yes…” He stood, grabbed the rag, and left with his head bowed.

This happened before lunch. By afternoon, as the monks gathered to discuss 2 Kings: Manasseh, King of Judah, The Mute reappeared, back twisted from the beating, faint scars on his ears, limping as he passed through the crowd.

Whispers spread. The Listener frowned, watching him go. Did he hold out? Or did he talk, and The High Priest is already interrogating The Keeper?

A sudden warmth on his left hand—The Convert brushed past him in the crowd, gripping it briefly.

Yet nothing happened. That night, when they sneaked into the garden, The Keeper was the same as ever, coldly holding a lamp as he opened the brass door beneath their feet.

The Keeper could never leave the Vestment Vault. Maybe he didn’t know about the morning’s events. The Listener hesitated, wondering whether to ask, when a knock came at the door.

It was The Mute, back despite his wounds, ready to dig. The Listener had no choice but to stop him. “Brother, you can’t come back.”

The Mute stared at him, confused. He’d held out. He’d suffered for them.

“They won’t let this go,” The Listener said. “They might have followed you. You have to leave, now!”

“Ugh! Ugh!” The Mute refused, shoving The Listener with his broad frame. The Convert immediately stepped in, helping to push him back. “Get lost, you damn mute! You’ll get us killed!”

The Keeper stood dumbly between them, watching as The Mute formed a small circle with his fingers, gesturing frantically.

“We can’t pay you either,” The Listener grew agitated in the struggle. “They might search your cell. We can’t take the risk—not when we haven’t found the thing yet!”

They were cutting him loose—like a wounded man abandoned on a migration route, or a plague victim buried alive by his own village.

Tough luck. He worked for nothing.

The Mute went still, shoulders slumping. The Listener moved to comfort him, but the silent giant suddenly swung a hand and slapped him hard across the left ear, the force nearly knocking him into The Convert.

Dazed, The Listener clutched his ear as The Mute stomped furiously and stormed out.

No one spoke. The Convert glanced at The Listener, reaching to check his ear, but The Listener roughly swatted him away. “Work!” he barked, yanking open the brass door and descending.

Digging alone in the Vestment Vault felt desolate. The pits were deep now, the earth turned over from east to west, north to south—not a single leaf or stone found. The ground was unnaturally clean.

“Take a break,” The Convert handed down water from above. “It’s almost midnight.”

The Listener set down the shovel, grabbed The Convert’s slender hand, and hauled himself up. “We can’t dig anymore,” he rubbed his face, tight from exhaustion. “Time to fill the holes.”

Just like that, they were giving up.

Side by side, The Convert eyed the swelling on The Listener’s ear. “You’re okay with this?”

“No,” The Listener turned to him, offering a faint, encouraging smile. “Once the Abbot finishes his prayers, we’ll start over.”

He was resolute—it showed in his cropped hair, his gray-blue eyes. The Convert had never met someone like him. He was impressed, he was curious. Recklessly, he reached out and brushed a finger over the reddened ear.

The Listener jerked away, flustered. “W-what are you doing?”

His reaction delighted The Convert. “Checking your injury.”

“Use your eyes, not your hands,” The Listener retorted awkwardly, roughly rubbing his ear until the sensitive skin turned redder. “Go up. You don’t need to stay.”

“Hands?” The Convert grinned savagely, kicking him hard from behind. “How about feet?”

It was a joke, and The Listener knew it, but he wasn’t in the mood. As he went to clean the dirt from his ear, a loud bang echoed above—like a door slamming against a wall—followed by the chaotic sound of scuffling feet.

The Convert drew his blade in a flash, the steel reflecting torchlight. The Listener blinked slowly, looking up at the brass door.

“Two men below!” A shout came from the slightly ajar door.

Then, robed monks poured down one after another, ropes and knives in hand, stumbling over the mounds of dirt to surround them.

“Listener! Convert!” The High Priest’s voice rang out. Beside him, The Mute peered down. They stood high above the brass door like gods gazing down from the cathedral dome. “Explain yourselves! What are you searching for?”

The Convert knew The Listener wouldn’t talk. With a flick of his eyes, he targeted the two nearest monks, kicked dirt into their faces, and as they recoiled, lunged—first shoving one into the pit, then using the man’s scrambling momentum to swing his blade.

Before the other could react, the scimitar—elegant as a palm frond—slashed across his throat. Blood sprayed freely, foaming on the damp earth, steaming.

The monks shouted. The Convert threw himself into their midst, a whirlwind of steel and flesh—a feast of blades. They could leave the Vestment Vault, leave the Island of Saints, wander to the Center of the World like mountain eagles soaring on clouds…

But The Listener had other plans.

Blood stung The Convert’s eyes. He was used to the burn, but through the pain, he saw The Listener wrest a sword from a wounded monk—not to fight, but to press against his own throat.

“Wha—” Before he could shout, the man collapsed, a black pool spreading at his shoulder. Stunned, The Convert stared as monks piled onto him from behind, pinning the black-haired devil to the ground.

In that moment, he understood.

He was just a weapon. The Listener could discard him whenever he pleased.

The shyness. The smiles.

All lies.

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  Tabernacle: Sacrament house. A locked container used to store consecrated communion bread.