The monastery had gone silent hours ago.

Only the distant toll of the bell tower marked the time—far past midnight, deep in the hour where even the most devout had surrendered to dreams. But not Father Abel.

His heavy footfalls echoed softly in the stone corridor, deliberate, but slower than usual. Fatigue clung to him like incense smoke—thick, cloying, and impossible to shake. He reached the door to his chamber, one hand resting on the worn wood, the other unconsciously brushing against the crucifix beneath his robes.

He hesitated.

The air beyond the door felt different tonight. Not colder... warmer. Heavy. Like the room had been waiting.

He opened it anyway.

The soft creak of the hinges gave way to a hush that wrapped around him the moment he stepped inside. Candlelight flickered low in the corner, casting a golden glow across the small chamber. The shadows moved differently—like they knew they were being watched.

Abel closed the door behind him, the click of the lock sounding far too loud in the quiet.

His cassock clung to his back, damp with sweat from the weight of discipline. His breath caught in his throat—not from fear, but something far more dangerous. A pulse. A warmth. The ghost of heat along the back of his neck, as though invisible lips had brushed too close.

He didn’t speak.

Instead, he moved slowly to the basin, pouring water over his hands, letting it run down his wrists, over the veins that pulsed with something he refused to name. His jaw was tight. His gaze stayed fixed on the reflection in the water—watching, waiting.

"Not tonight," he told himself silently.

But his heart already betrayed him, thudding a little too fast beneath the linen. And in that stillness, in that warmth... he knew.

He wasn’t alone.