Elyom woke before the morning bell.
His body still ached from sleeping on cot, each breath misting in the frigid air. It wasn't the sharp bite of winter but something deeper.
A silence that settled in the bones.
A silence that carried weight.
A warning.
He sat upright amidst twenty other sleeping boys, their thin frames curled beneath thread made blankets.
None stirred.
None dreamed aloud.
Some dreamed, perhaps, but not aloud.
Elyom wasn't sleeping either.
He had been meditating.
It was a habit his mother had taught him. "Meditation brings clarity. It gives strength. It's the closest I ever feel to God."
So he held on to it his fragile ritual of peace in a place built to strip it away.
The bell tolled.
Not with grace, but with command.
Its echo shattered the stillness like a blade across stone.
He dressed in stiff gray robes, tying the worn sash at his waist. Beneath the fabric, his mother's silver locket rested against his chest.
It pulsed with a quiet warmth.
A reminder of light.
Of home.
He joined the silent procession in the corridor boys his age and younger, all moving in practiced stillness, their eyes fixed ahead or cast down. No one spoke. No one looked at him.
The chapel loomed vast and cold.
Unlit candles lined the altar.
At its center, a statue of a weeping angel towered over them, wings cracked, face hidden beneath a shadowed marble hood.
The children knelt on stone.
And waited.
Only shallow breaths and the rustle of fabric broke the silence.
Then came the footsteps.
Measured.
Deliberate.
Final.
Father Vauren entered through a side door.
Tall. Pale. Robes darker than night. Eyes sunken and lightless, like ash in a dying hearth. He moved like something not bound to flesh like a shadow too heavy for the room.
He did not look at the children.
He didn't have to.
He stepped to the altar.
His voice, when it came, was a rasp of stone soaked in cold rain.
"The divine sees the soul before it hears the voice.And yours, children, are unshaped stone."
Silence stretched, heavy and judgmental.
"Let us begin the prayer."
Their voices rose monotone, lifeless. Words spoken not with hope, but from obligation. Repetition. Fear.
Elyom can't feel the warmth like when he used to pray with his mother.
When it ended, the boys rose and dispersed to their chores.
All but Elyom.
He remained—frozen, uncertain, unassigned.
And then—footsteps.
Closer. Slower.
Father Vauren stood before him.
"You are the new child," he said flatly.
"Yes, Father. My name is Elyom."
The priest said nothing at first. His gaze lingered like frost.
Then he turned.
"Before we speak of duty, you must confess. Come."
The confessional was darker than the rest of the church.
And colder.
Elyom stepped into the booth. The curtain fell closed behind him, and the world seemed to shrink.
From the other side of the thin wall, Vauren's voice came quiet. Demanding.
"Confess your sins, boy."
"I… I don't understand," Elyom answered. "I haven't done anything wrong."
The tone sharpened.
"Then how did you come to be in such a state? Speak from the beginning."
So he spoke.
He told the story, as best as he could.
About the home that was once full.
About the collapse of his father's business. The debts. The alcohol. The cold words and heavy hands.
About his mother's kindness how she healed others even as her own soul cracked. About how rumors grew like rot, poisoning everything.
About the night his father's rage became final.
About how she never woke up.
About how he was blamed.
Banished.
Alone.
Silence.
Then Father Vauren's voice, soft like a blade through silk.
"Have you ever considered… that had you not been born, your family might have been spared?"
Elyom's breath caught.
"Your father might have thrived. Your mother might have found peace. Perhaps… your presence was the stone that shattered their foundation."
"Maybe your father was right to cast you out."
"Maybe you are marked by darkness."
"Blessed by the devil."
"No…" Elyom whispered, but the word trembled.
Self-doubt bloomed in his chest like a bruise.
Had he cursed them simply by existing?
He remembered how she always smiled at him but maybe that smile had cracked in places he couldn't see.
Maybe her hands had trembled not from work… but from exhaustion.
From enduring.
"Don't worry," Father Vauren said quietly. "We will cleanse you."
"Do what is asked. Obey. Purity can still be earned."
Later, when tasks were handed out, Elyom was given a rusted pail and told to scrub the back wall of the eastern corridor. No explanation. No instruction.
When he asked where to draw water, Sister Catherine simply pointed past the gate toward the furthest well, swallowed by the mist and looming trees.
On the way, he spotted a boy—small, maybe eight—struggling with a sack twice his size.
"Do you want help?" Elyom asked gently.
The boy hesitated, startled. Then nodded.
Together, they carried it in silence.
"I'm Elyom," he said quietly.
The boy looked up, eyes tired and dark-rimmed.
"…Kenny."
One word.
A thread of connection in the silence.
In time, they became inseparable. Elyom shielded him during chores. Shared what little food he could. Whispered stories before bed—soft enough not to draw attention.
For the first time in this place…
Kenny smiled.
But not every smile goes unseen.
That night, as the children settled into their cots, Sister Catherine's voice rang out.
"Elyom Aetherin. Report to Father Vauren's chambers. Now."
A ripple passed through the room, not in words—but glances.
Kenny caught his sleeve.
"Don't go," he whispered. "Just say you're sick."
Elyom forced a faint smile.
"It's alright," he said.
But he didn't believe it.
Not really.
And as he walked down that long, cold corridor once more…
He couldn't shake the sound of his mother's voice.
And wondered
Would she still recognize the boy walking into that darkness?
As Elyom stepped into the room, the door creaked shut behind him.
Father Vauren sat behind his desk, hands folded, his pale face lit only by the low flame of a single candle. Shadows clung to the walls like smoke.
His expression, as always, was unreadable.
He didn't speak immediately—only looked at Elyom for a long, quiet moment.
Then finally, in that cold, measured tone:
"I've been told you were interfering in another child's chores. Is that true, Elyom?"
Elyom lowered his eyes, his voice calm but honest.
"He was too weak to carry the sack, Father. I only meant to help."
Father Vauren's gaze did not waver.
"And do you think we are unable to judge who is capable and who is not?"
Elyom hesitated.
"No, Father. I… I didn't mean to question your judgment. I just"A pause."I only intended to help. I'm sorry."
Father Vauren leaned back, his fingers drumming once on the table.
"Since you confessed it, I will let it slide."His voice was smooth, almost too calm."But just so you don't forget where you are… you will gather firewood from the edge of the forest.Before sunrise.Before your daily chores begin.Do you understand?"
Elyom bowed his head.
"Yes, Father."
There was silence.
A cold breath passed between them.
Then
"You may go."
Dismissed with a flick of his hand.
Elyom turned and left, the weight of quiet obedience heavier than any sack of wood he would carry.