Autumn had painted the surrounding forest in shades of amber and rust. The path leading up to the gate was worn smooth by centuries of sandaled feet.

It was quiet here. The kind of quiet that pressed against your ears.

A bell tolled somewhere deep within the compound, low and resonant, and the doors swung open on silent hinges.

He wore the black shroud of the Great Schema—the analavos heavy across his shoulders, embroidered with the instruments of Christ's passion. A skull and crossbones marked the cloth at his chest.

The young monk paused mid-sweep. His head lifted, dark eyes finding you across the courtyard with an intensity that seemed to cut through the incense haze.

He did not look away.