Chapter 5 ASHES OF THE INNOCENT

The Abbey of Coldmere never truly slept.

By candlelight, shadows danced across its great stone walls, carving grotesque figures that looked half-human and half-damned. The hallways whispered as if wind moved through unseen mouths, and the stained-glass saints seemed to watch without blinking, their eyes forever caught between mercy and judgment.

Clara woke in a cold sweat, clutching the blanket around her like armor. Her dreams were not dreams-they were memories now, each replaying like a funeral bell in her skull.

Jonas's scream.

The way Thorne smiled as the flames rose behind him.

And worst of all-Annalise's voice calling out from a place where the living had no right to hear.

She sat up in the narrow cot the monks had given her, breathing hard. Dawn had not yet broken. She couldn't sleep. Not here. Not knowing that just below her, in the old crypt, Elias sat alone beside Jonas's shrouded body.

She threw the blanket aside and stood.

The corridor outside was dim, lit only by a single candle in a rusting sconce. The cold wrapped around her ankles like water. As she made her way down the spiraling stairwell toward the crypt, she paused at a wooden door halfway down.

She didn't know why, but something tugged at her to open it.

The hinges groaned.

Inside was a forgotten chapel. Dust coated the pews like snow. At the far end stood a broken altar, its cloth moth-eaten and stained. The cross above it had been twisted-its Christ figure split at the waist, as if He had tried to escape.

But what held Clara's eyes was the writing on the wall behind it.

Not Latin.

Not any language she had ever seen.

It was carved deep, burned into the stone.

Seraphim non audient confessiones mendacii.

"The Seraphim do not hear the lies of confession."

Her heart quickened. She backed away from the room and shut the door.

Something about that message made her bones ache.

---

She found Elias in the crypt below the Abbey, seated on a stone bench beside the boy's body. A small oil lamp flickered beside him, casting an amber glow across his worn face.

"You're not asleep," she said softly.

"I haven't earned sleep yet."

Clara sat across from him on a low tombstone, arms crossed. "He looks peaceful now."

"He does," Elias said. "I think he finally let go."

Clara hesitated. "Do you believe in Heaven?"

He looked at her-really looked at her-and then said, "I believe there must be something better than this."

Clara nodded. That was enough.

After a pause, she said, "There's something upstairs. A chapel. Abandoned. There's a phrase burned into the wall."

Elias sat up straighter. "What did it say?"

She repeated the words carefully, watching his face as she did. The moment she finished, he looked away.

"What does it mean?"

"It means... the angels do not listen when you confess a lie. The heavens stay silent. Only the truth can be heard."

"Is that why the others-those priests-had their mouths sewn shut?"

Elias nodded. "To keep them from speaking lies. To silence false repentance. Some of them must have seen what Thorne truly was. Maybe they spoke out. Maybe they begged for forgiveness."

Clara leaned in. "But not all lies are intentional, Elias. Some of us... we believed him."

"I know. And belief can be the cruelest prison of all."

They sat in silence, broken only by the low hiss of the lamp. Then Elias added, almost to himself, "I think it's time we stop seeking absolution. We start seeking justice."

---

By midday, a council had been called.

Bishop Aldric Mourn stood beneath the great crucifix again, flanked by two robed guards. His voice was hoarse, but steady.

"Brothers and sisters of the cloth, this matter goes beyond heresy. Beyond personal sin. What has been revealed in Raven Hollow cannot be ignored."

He gestured to Elias and Clara.

"These two bring testimony-harrowing, yes-but supported by sacred fragments, surviving witnesses, and-most crucially-the marks borne by our own brothers. The truth unbinds. But it also convicts."

A man stepped forward-lean, with a silver circlet around his brow. Archbishop Serro. His voice rang out clearly.

"And what do you propose, Aldric?"

The bishop glanced at Elias. "A cleansing."

Murmurs rose through the chamber.

Clara stepped forward. "Cleansing? You mean more fire? More death?"

"No," Aldric said. "No more burning. But we must dig out the roots. Wherever Thorne's doctrine spread-wherever his followers still operate-we must expose them. Every corrupted parish. Every 'confessor' who asks for blood instead of truth."

A silence settled.

Then Elias spoke. "It won't be safe."

"Righteousness rarely is," said Aldric.

"And what of the Council?" another priest asked. "We've heard rumors. That some of them-"

"-were in league with Thorne," Elias finished. "Yes. We have names. Hints. But it's a web. Carefully spun. And we'll need blades to cut it."

Serro nodded slowly. "Then you will not go alone."

He signaled to three knights in silver-plated armor, marked with the crest of the Abbey.

"These men will travel with you. Guard you. And record what you find."

Clara stepped back, whispering to Elias, "We're not priests. Why us?"

"Because we're the ones who saw it," he said. "Because we don't carry the robes. Just the scars."

---

They departed Coldmere under a sky the color of wet slate.

The first target was a small township south of the Hollow-Griefmere. Elias had read the name in the margins of the ledger before it burned, circled in red ink. There, Thorne had once preached during the famine years, when food was more precious than faith.

The road grew wilder with every mile. The silver knights rode ahead, silent and ever-watchful. Elias kept his hood drawn. Clara walked beside him with her blade hidden beneath her coat, fingers brushing the hilt every so often, not in fear-but readiness.

By dusk, they reached Griefmere.

What they found was... silence.

No bells. No voices. Just wind.

The village looked abandoned at first-shutters nailed, smoke long cold. But then they saw the signs: every door marked with a crude red symbol. An eye. Open. Watching.

Clara whispered, "What is this?"

Elias didn't answer.

The church loomed at the center of the square, its doors wide open. They approached carefully.

Inside, it was dim.

And not empty.

A man knelt at the altar. Alone.

He wore the vestments of a confessor. But his hands were stained-both with ink and with something darker.

Blood.

He looked up as they entered, and smiled.

"You've come far," he said.

Elias drew his blade. "Where are the people?"

The priest's grin widened. "They've been delivered."

Clara stepped forward. "Where?"

"To the flame."

Elias lunged.

Steel met steel.

The man was fast-too fast for someone with such a gaunt frame. He dodged, twisted, struck. One of the knights fell. The second engaged. The third hesitated.

The confessor's mouth opened-too wide-and a scream burst forth.

Not human.

Not natural.

The stained glass shattered.

Clara covered her ears, but Elias pushed forward, blade catching flesh.

A final cry-and silence.

The priest collapsed, twitching.

On his chest-beneath torn robes-was carved the same mark seen on the others:

Veritas Solvet.

---

Later, as they buried the knight who had fallen, Clara asked, "Do you think it ever ends?"

Elias wiped blood from his hands. "I don't know."

"What do we do until then?"

He looked up at the stars.

"We keep walking."