Sacred truths proclaimed that divine favor blossomed between souls perfectly aligned. That was the bedrock of blessedness. Elias, from his earliest understanding, had embraced this precept with unwavering devotion. Similar zeal, similar dedication to scripture, similar purity of spirit – these were the pathways to grace. Purity attracted purity, ensuring a life of ordered serenity within Veritas.
Then, the year he turned eighteen, Elias felt the tremor of an extraordinary discord. A profound, unsettling fascination for Brother Kael. It was not the chaste reverence he held for his superiors, nor the dutiful respect for his peers. This was a deviation, an almost idolatrous pull. He wrestled with it, dismissively categorizing it as a youthful trial, a fleeting imperfection of the spirit, and buried it beneath layers of fervent prayer.
Yet, the feelings, coiled tight and venomous, lodged in his throat. They choked his breath, tainted his meticulously copied psalms.
“To the Whispering Cloister.”
Now, the pre-dawn stillness of the Sanctuary held him captive. A message, abrupt and intrusive like a sacrilegious thought, had ripped through his early morning peace.
He sat on his cot, linen still cool, for a long, silent moment. His stomach churned. A muttered prayer for absolution escaped him before he moved. He slid from his cell, a wraith in the dim light. No acolyte stirred in the sleeping quarters. No Elder would notice his absence, deep in their own meditations.
So, he went.
Outside his cell-block, a small, clay *censer* lay overturned beside a hidden door. It was an old piece, chipped at the rim, usually kept polished and ready for morning incense. Its neglect struck Elias. He thought of himself: meticulously kept on the surface, but with a growing fracture, a hollowness, within. He averted his gaze, pressing on.
He moved through the labyrinthine passages. His eyes remained fixed on the worn stones beneath his feet. He could not bring himself to look at the murals depicting the Saints, their serene faces accusing him of his transgression. His stomach roiled with a familiar nausea.
“...”
Digestion had been a stranger to him for a year. A quiet sigh escaped his lips. He pressed a hand to his breastbone, a futile attempt to ease the suffocating tightness. He had perfected the art of burying unsettling emotions, cultivating a façade of devout composure. He maintained it now, stepping into the deeper gloom of the rarely used corridors leading to the Whispering Cloister.
Inside the forgotten alcove, he bit his lip. His right hand clenched into a tight fist, then slowly, deliberately, released. He focused on the tiny, folded parchment in his palm. He found the familiar, scrawled symbol upon its surface, then moved to the Cloister's ancient, unadorned door. He rapped three times, softly.
“Kael? Elias is here. Open.”
Silence answered him from the other side. Irritation, a forbidden emotion within these hallowed walls, pricked him. He stared at the void, exhaling sharply. He rapped again, a little louder, more insistent.
“Kael! I said, open the damn door!”
This situation—it felt utterly profane. Imagining what clandestine deviance Kael might have been engaged in, even now, sent a shiver of revulsion through Elias. But he could not stop himself. Kael had sent for him. Kael was the one who had awakened this profound, spiritual sickness within him.
“Why call for me when you’re wrapped up in some useless sacrilege, you wayward fool?”
By the Most High, this is unbearable.
The life of an eighteen-year-old. So tainted, so undone.