The rap came again, sharper this time, impatient. Ibai’s hand closed reflexively around the small knife. The bone grip felt cool, almost slick, against his palm. He slid it into the deep pocket of his tunic, the blade nestling against his thigh. The dread solidified, twisting into a coil in his gut. He couldn’t let anyone see the knife, not now, not with Amaia’s name etched into it. Not with Lide’s spectral form shimmering faintly by the loom, damning proof of his disobedience. He took a shallow breath, trying to steady the tremor in his hands, before he moved towards the heavy oak door. He pulled it open, the hinges groaning softly in protest. Framed against the swirling mist of the valley stood Eneko Goiko. Eneko, with his precise, neatly shorn dark hair and the rigid set of his jaw. His vestments, woven from the deep violet threads of purged *txuri-gorri* root, were spotless, his posture impeccably straight. Ibai, by contrast, felt the grime of the garden clinging to his own tunic, the faint scent of damp earth and crushed herbs on his hands. Eneko’s eyes, keen and piercing, swept over Ibai, then past him, into the low stone dwelling. “Ezkerro,” Eneko’s voice was a low, resonant rumble, devoid of warmth. “A surprise to find you still here. The Order expected a full expulsion by midday.” Ibai’s throat felt tight, a muscle clenching there. “Goiko. I… the Rite of Severance is proving more intricate than anticipated.” He tried to keep his voice level, to project a calm competence he didn’t feel. He felt Lide’s gaze on him from the loom, a prickle of ghostly presence just beyond Eneko’s perception. Eneko stepped across the threshold, not waiting for an invitation. He didn’t enter deeply, but his presence alone seemed to drain the room of its faint, lingering warmth. His head tilted, a subtle movement, as his senses, honed by years of zealous devotion, probed the air. Ibai felt a cold sweat break on his brow. The very air around Lide’s loom hummed with a resonance, a spiritual signature that, to an untrained eye, might be dismissed as residual energy from the home's former inhabitant. But Eneko was not untrained. His gaze narrowed, scanning the loom, the threads, the very space where Lide existed. “Intricate?” Eneko scoffed, the sound barely audible. “Or merely past your capabilities, Ezkerro? I detect… a stubborn clinging. Unbecoming of an unburdened soul.” His eyes, the color of wet slate, fixed on Ibai. “Or perhaps,” he continued, a thin smile touching his lips, “unbecoming of a practitioner too slow to banish the shade?” Ibai swallowed. “The spirit… it is particularly resilient. I suspect a deep attachment to this place, to the tools of its craft. I am employing… more prolonged methods of persuasion.” The lie felt like a dry leaf on his tongue. Eneko’s gaze shifted from the loom to the floor, where Ibai’s hastily drawn ritual circle lay. The chalk lines were smudged in places where his boot had scuffed them during his agitated pacing. Some of the protective sigils were slightly off-kilter, a consequence of his hurried, distracted hand. He hadn't bothered to meticulously redraw it after his communion with Lide, assuming he had more time. Eneko’s brows drew together, a frown deepening on his face. “Prolonged methods,” he repeated, his voice laced with disdain. He took a deliberate step, his boot landing just inches from a smeared glyph. “Your circle, Ezkerro, looks like it was drawn by a child with a burnt stick. The *Orduaren* sigil is fractured. The *Bidegabe* barrier is weak. Any lingering spiritual residue would seep through that like water through old lace.” He gestured with a sharp, dismissive wave towards the incomplete line. “This is not prolonged method. This is incompetence.” Ibai felt a blush creep up his neck, hot and mortifying. Eneko’s assessment was brutal, but accurate. He *had* been sloppy, distracted by the mystery of Lide, by the forbidden knowledge he’d sought, by the strange comfort of her presence. His principles, usually so rigid, had bent, then broken under the press of his curiosity. And now, he was exposed. “I… I was planning to reinforce it,” Ibai mumbled, avoiding Eneko’s gaze. He felt small, insignificant, just as he always did under Eneko’s scrutiny. This was the exact reason he avoided confrontation, the way his mind would scramble for excuses, his tongue tying itself in knots. Eneko let out a sharp, humorless chuckle. “Reinforce it, Ezkerro? Before dawn, I expect this place to be utterly devoid of any lingering essence. The Rite of Severance completed. The spirit dispersed. If not…” Eneko’s voice dropped, becoming a low, dangerous growl. “I will personally report your dereliction of duty to the Grand Cordis. You understand what that means for a junior ritualist with a history of… unconventional interests.” Expulsion. The thought flashed through Ibai’s mind, cold and clear. The only home he’d ever known, stripped away. All because he couldn’t bring himself to sever Lide, to condemn her to oblivion. Eneko’s eyes, still sharp, still assessing, flickered back to the loom. He didn’t know *what* he was sensing, Ibai was certain, but a primal ritualist’s instinct screamed at him. He could almost hear the suspicion stirring in Eneko’s mind: *What is truly happening here?* “The blight is spreading in the lowlands,” Eneko said, his voice returning to its normal, clipped tone. “We cannot afford such… indulgences. Purge the site, Ezkerro. Or face the consequences.” With that final pronouncement, Eneko turned, his robes rustling softly, and stepped back out into the mist. The heavy door swung shut with a dull thud, leaving Ibai alone in the oppressive silence. Ibai stood there for a long moment, his shoulders slumping. His entire body felt wrung out, a damp cloth twisted dry. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a few stray leaves. Eneko’s words, his scorn, echoed against the damp hearth. He was trapped. Banishing Lide meant losing her, ending his quest. Failing meant losing everything else. “Ibai…” Lide’s voice, a soft, ethereal whisper, pulled him from his reverie. He looked up, his eyes meeting her shimmering form by the loom. Her expression was troubled, her ghostly features drawn. The encounter with Eneko had evidently unsettled her. “He’s gone, Lide,” Ibai said, trying to reassure her, though his own heart thumped against his ribs. “He won’t be back until morning.” Lide shook her head, her form flickering with a subtle disturbance. “No… not that. Not just him.” Her gaze was distant, unfocused, staring past the plaster walls, past Ibai. “He… his anger… it brought something back.” She lifted a translucent hand, pointing vaguely towards the corner where Ibai had found the knife. “The knife… Amaia’s knife.” Ibai’s breath caught. He remembered the cold knot in his stomach, the dread that had settled before Eneko’s arrival. The bone hilt in his pocket pressed like cold lead against his leg. “What about it, Lide?” he urged, stepping closer, his fingers catching on his sleeve. “What do you remember?” Lide’s eyes, usually so serene, were wide, filled with a fresh terror. Her form pulsed, brighter, then fainter, a raw surge of energy. “Someone was holding it,” she whispered, her voice fractured, thin like old parchment. “Someone was crying. And they said…” Her memory, a fragile wisp, solidified, taking on a terrible clarity. “They said, ‘It’s the only way.’ ”

The Zealot at the Door