A curious itch settled in Elias’s mind, a subtle poison he knew he should expel. It was the question of Acolyte Theron and Brother Malachi, their interactions after the morning bell, after the solemn hours in the Scriptorium, after the shared silence of the Refectory. He watched them, from the shadowed archways, from behind the stacks of ancient scrolls, a creeping obsession that felt utterly unholy.
He had seen them enough to know Malachi didn’t walk beside Theron, not truly. The younger Brother always lagged, a step behind, a shadow in Theron’s wake. Yet, the image gnawed at Elias: Malachi, a man of quiet strength, trailing Theron like a moth to a distant, flickering flame.
A cold dread bloomed in Elias’s chest. It was the chilling grasp of forbidden insight, like prying open a reliquary best left sealed. Not despair, perhaps, but a cruel, perverse hope that promised only to wound. He knew this truth, deep in his bones, yet his gaze lingered.
“May the Light forgive my trespass,” Elias whispered, the words thin and sharp.
His mind was a labyrinth of unholy thoughts. Still, the next day, after the final chant of Vespers, Elias found himself following them, a phantom among the fading light.
He kept to the cloistered shadows, his worn sandals making no sound on the ancient flagstones. Ahead, Theron strode with his usual assured gait. Malachi, as ever, followed, his eyes fixed on Theron’s broad shoulders, a silent vigil.
The peeling plaster on the walls, the rusted hinges of the gate leading to the Outer Garden, the dust motes dancing in the last sliver of sunlight – everything seemed worn, impoverished. Two figures moved through this stark tableau: Theron leading, Malachi trailing. And Elias, a hushed observer from a distance.
It felt wretched. It felt contemptible. Elias turned away, his heart a raw, throbbing pulse.
---
Later, in the stark quiet of his cell, a single oil lamp casting long, wavering shadows, Elias found a grim satisfaction in his retreat. His curiosity, though potent, had been halted. What depravities might he have witnessed had he pressed further? Better this way. Better not to know the full extent of the rot.
He was no fool, not so easily swayed to tear open the sacred seals of Veritas’s peace for a flicker of unholy insight.
Malachi’s quiet devotion to Theron seemed to intensify with each passing day. Theron, in turn, continued to treat Malachi with a chilling detachment, perhaps even a simmering disdain. Elias watched, his jaw tight. How could Theron feel anything but scorn for someone whose vulnerabilities he’d so coldly exploited?
A bitter taste filled Elias’s mouth. He found a flicker of grim satisfaction in the knowledge that he hadn’t fully interfered when Theron first sought to undermine Malachi. Perhaps it was for the best. Malachi’s dependency, now so clear, only served Theron’s ambition.
Elias laced his fingers behind his head, staring up at the rough-hewn ceiling. The starkness of his cell, devoid of ornament, was a stark contrast to the whispered tales of Theron’s family lineage – ancient and influential, a family that had offered vast endowments to the Order, ensuring their scions a swift ascent through its ranks. Theron had been born into a world of privilege, revered from birth, his path smooth and unblemished.
Elias, a foundling brought to the Sanctuary City’s gates, had nothing but his meticulous intellect and his ardent, if flawed, devotion. He had once believed diligence alone could conquer all. Until Theron. That arrogant Acolyte had unveiled the brutal truth: some desires, some obstacles, simply would not yield.
He watched Theron, and he knew Theron was learning that bitter lesson too. The Sanctuary City, for all its holy pronouncements, could be a merciless place.
At least Elias had learned the discipline of suppression, the art of cloaking his true feelings beneath a mask of piety. Theron, however, was so consumed by his twisted sense of ownership over Malachi that he remained oblivious to the chilling intensity of his own gaze. That sudden, abnormal possessiveness must have been an unsettling revelation for Malachi.
Elias recognized it. He had felt it too, that pull of the forbidden, that yearning for acceptance. But where Elias had endured, Theron, in his crude ambition, could not. He hadn’t sought to earn Malachi’s trust but to break him, to bend him to his will. Elias’s lips thinned. For his own purposes, Theron’s bluntness was a useful tool.
“Remain clueless,” Elias murmured, the words feeling like a prayer and a curse.
Or better yet, let Malachi eventually crumble under the weight of Theron’s expectations and vanish from the city. Elias did not wish for Theron to turn his gaze upon him with genuine interest. That kind of entanglement, that kind of ruthless ambition, terrified him.
He yearned for one thing above all: a day when Theron’s presence no longer stirred this unholy tumult within him. And for Theron to find some other, less destructive, fixation. But the gears of Veritas rarely turned as one wished.
---
Another shift rippled through the Acolyte ranks. Theron, who had once openly cultivated a circle of influence through strategic favors and calculated generosity, now adopted a quiet, almost austere demeanor. He repositioned his studies, electing a corner near the ancient water clock in the Scriptorium, a space that happened to overlook Malachi’s preferred work station. His presence, once ostentatious, was now a constant, subtle pressure.
Elias overheard snippets of conversation from Acolyte Silas’s group, confirming the change. Theron hadn’t abandoned his ambitions, but his methods had refined. No longer did he openly flaunt his connections or his clever maneuvers. The air of self-satisfied triumph that used to cling to him like a heady perfume had faded.
For Elias, it was a small reprieve. He no longer had to endure Theron’s overt, suffocating displays of power.
“Theron, old friend, what’s become of your spirited debates? Your nightly petitions to the Superior?” Acolyte Gareth, once a close confidante of Theron’s, approached him, a mocking glint in his eyes. He leaned in, mimicking a stage whisper, “Have you lost your zeal, or merely found a new avenue for… persuasion?”
Theron’s face tightened. He shot a swift, almost imperceptible glance towards Malachi, who was diligently copying scripture nearby. “Silence, Gareth. Such frivolity has no place in the sacred halls.”
“Frivolity?” Gareth pressed, his voice rising, “But you were once the patron saint of clever argument. Has the austere air of Veritas finally claimed your wit?”
“If you breathe another word of such nonsense,” Theron snarled, his voice low and menacing, “you will regret it.”
“Theron—”
“I said, hold your tongue!”
“...As you wish.” Gareth retreated, a shadow of disappointment crossing his face. Others in the vicinity, who had often sought Theron’s sharp intellect and decisive counsel, exchanged knowing glances.
With Theron’s public displays curtailed, the attention of some younger Acolytes drifted towards Silas. Silas, however, met their fumbling inquiries with a weary, almost disgusted look.
“You foolish, worldly souls.”
“Ah, there he goes again, Silas the Stoic!”
“He’s just a zealous fanatic, isn’t he? Such a waste of a sharp mind.”
Laughter, light and fleeting, echoed through the chamber.
Most of the Acolytes, even those devout, had known moments of earthly temptation. But Silas, for reasons unknown, had always held himself apart, a solitary figure dedicated solely to his studies. While they teased him as a joke, calling him a “cloistered ascetic,” no one genuinely disrespected Silas. He was Acolyte Silas, after all. At the same time, Silas possessed a quiet, almost indifferent air, which made his rare interjections seem disarmingly direct. People found him either charmingly detached or refreshingly honest, often noting how his placid expression belied a keen, observant mind.
“Stop glowering, you’ll curdle the sacred ink,” one Acolyte quipped.
“Indeed, that one’s gaze could wither a saint.”
“Do you wish to spend your nights scrubbing latrines, then?” Silas responded, his voice even.
The group burst into laughter, though the retort was not particularly humorous. Some Acolytes clustered near the back, perhaps Silas’s acquaintances or something less, joined in with their forced mirth and idle chatter, adding to the clamor. Amidst them, Elias sat, his gaze vacant, lost in the intricate patterns of the polished wooden floor.
---
He had never, to his recollection, felt the stirring of carnal desire for a woman. By the strictures of the Order, and the quiet inclinations of his own soul, he supposed that made him marked, different. He had, in unguarded moments, felt a strange, detached curiosity watching Acolytes and Brothers interact with the worldly supplicants, but never had he envisioned a woman’s form in his deepest, most secret imaginings. The former was an intellectual fascination, the latter simply a void.
He had once ventured outside the Sanctuary walls, drawn by an urgent mission for the Superior. He never made it past the bustling market square, overwhelmed by the cacophony. Brothels? The very thought curdled his stomach. He couldn’t fathom why any soul would willingly seek out such degradation.
Because of all this, the others in his age group sometimes called him “Elias the Unblemished,” a title meant as a jape, though in truth, his “unblemished” state felt more like a cage, a forced abstinence from an experience he felt ill-equipped to understand.
Elias let out a small, shuddering sigh.
The others were too busy dissecting Silas’s dry wit to notice. Seizing the moment, Elias glanced at Theron, who sat quietly. Theron’s eyes were fixed on the back of Malachi’s head, as Malachi painstakingly copied sacred texts across the room.
And, as always, Elias regretted it. Why did he look? Why did he seek this torment? To distract himself, he posed a question to Silas, his voice barely audible.
“Silas, do you truly intend to remain a solitary soul until your final anointing?”
Silas, who was lounging against a pillar like he owned the very foundations of Veritas, shifted his gaze directly to Elias. His stare was so unnervingly direct that Elias instinctively tightened his grip on his worn scripture. What in the Light was that about?
“You are not my confessor, Elias. What business is it of yours? Are you offering to stand vigil with me?”
“...”
Of course. Silas always had a barb ready. The others chuckled, and Elias kicked Silas’s shin beneath the table, a brief, sharp impact. That was the rhythm of his days – a relentless, numbing repetition.
---
When alone in his cell, the quiet often became a crucible for his thoughts, leading his mind down circuitous paths, sometimes into strange, forbidden fantasies.
Today, he found himself wondering what it would have been like if his soul had been drawn to Acolyte Silas instead of Theron. It seemed it would have been a less agonizing struggle than this. If he had yearned for Silas, he wouldn’t have had to endure the searing ache caused by Theron’s ruthless maneuvers and his cold disdain.
Even so, he would still be heartbroken.
Neither Theron nor Silas would ever look upon him with anything more than professional respect, after all. But at least his heart wouldn’t clench with such icy dread because of Brother Malachi.
That train of thought inevitably spiraled into feelings of inadequacy and a quiet, burning anger. In the end, he simply yearned to complete his novitiate, to disappear into a remote corner of the Order, to become a stranger to Acolyte Theron.
---
At some point, Elias started unconsciously placing his hands beneath his worn robe whenever he sat down for study or prayer. This habit had truly begun in his early youth, and the cause was always the same – the forbidden stirrings of his own flesh. As he fiddled with the coarse fabric of his sash, his mind drifted. Should he? Or shouldn’t he? The faint rustle of the linen against his fingers filled the quiet cell. Just as he applied a slight pressure with his thumb, a soft rap echoed on the heavy wooden door.
“Acolyte Elias? Are you deep in meditation?”
“...Ah, no! I mean, yes! I am!”
Elias’s heart leaped into his throat. Clearly, the Light deemed this not the moment. Mortified, he buried his face in his trembling hands. Damn his own weakness.
---
Lately, Theron had been particularly grating on Elias’s nerves.
Sometimes, when Malachi would glance towards Elias, a fleeting moment of recognition or shared exhaustion, Theron would deliberately initiate a conversation with the younger Brother. Malachi, caught between them, would flick his eyes towards Elias, his lips parting as if to speak, only to press them into a thin line. Then, as if wary of Theron’s intense scrutiny, he’d lower his head and respond in the faintest whisper.
“Y-yes, Acolyte…”
Just like that.
Malachi subtly sought out Elias more often now, sometimes even calling him “Eli.” Aside from the Superior, almost no one addressed Elias with such a familiarity, so the change was stark. Malachi seemed to believe he was being discreet, but he wasn’t. The worst part was how Theron couldn’t conceal his discomfort whenever Malachi ventured even this small act of familiarity.
“Brother Malachi, do not distract Acolyte Elias from his sacred texts.”
“What?”
“Do not distract him. Do you not comprehend?”
“Oh… uh, y-yes, Acolyte…”
When Malachi stammered and avoided his gaze, Theron immaturely slammed his open palm against the armrest of his wooden chair. Elias pretended not to notice, his own hand tightening on the scroll he was holding. Annoyingly, Malachi, in his naive gratitude, seemed to think no one truly cared about him using the shortened name. He grew bolder, casually using “Eli” as if it were a common address.
“Uh, Eli… forgive my interruption of your study.”
Elias stiffened, staring at the scripture with wide eyes. Was Malachi truly so oblivious? Theron was sitting right there, his posture rigid.
Sure enough, Theron’s palm slammed against his chair again, a sharp, echoing sound. Damn it all.
“Brother Malachi!”
“…Huh?”
The air around them instantly grew heavy, thick with unspoken tension.
“I told you.” Theron’s anger was palpable, vibrating in the silence. “I told you not to address him as ‘Eli,’ did I not?”
“...W-well…”
“Call him Acolyte Elias. That is his proper address – Acolyte Elias.”
Theron’s gaze, sharp and almost predatory, swung to Elias, pinning him. Elias hated that look, a violation of his deepest privacy, and instinctively lowered his head, his cheeks burning. At that moment, Silas, seated beside Elias, casually draped an arm over his shoulders. His low, distinctive voice murmured near Elias’s ear.
“Theron, if you continue this display, you will truly unravel your own ambitions.”
“What are you speaking of?” Theron spat, his eyes still fixed on Elias.
“I am saying you will regret it.” Silas’s lips curved into a faint, knowing smirk, and Elias felt a flicker of irritation. For one reason only. He wished Silas’s casual touch hadn’t drawn Theron’s gaze even more intensely towards him.
“Theron,