Sister Elise was different from Sister Elara. If Elara was a warm presence that filled the space around her with ease, Elise was like a shadow—present, but unobtrusive.
She didn't speak much, nor did she seem eager to start a conversation.
She was tall for a nun, her posture always straight, her hands folded neatly in front of her habit.
Unlike the others, who often wore expressions of gentle kindness or quiet devotion, Elise's face was neutral—neither welcoming nor cold, just unreadable.
Her veil was longer than the others', framing her pale face, and beneath it, her hair was a muted chestnut brown, barely visible.
Her eyes, a deep gray, carried the weight of someone who had seen more than she let on.
She walked ahead of me, leading the way in silence, her steps quiet but firm on the uneven pavement.
The path was well-trodden, small cracks running along its length, the occasional weed breaking through where the stones had shifted apart.
We passed through the main street of the village, where a few vendors were setting up their stalls for the day.
The scent of fresh bread drifted in the air, mixing with the distant smoke from early morning fires.
A group of children ran past, laughing as they kicked a worn leather ball between them, their bare feet tapping against the ground.
One of them, a boy with messy blond hair, glanced at me before quickly returning to his game, uninterested.
I kept my eyes forward, watching the path as we turned onto a smaller road, the village thinning out behind us.
The graveyard was on the outskirts, past a field where the earth had turned dry from the lack of rain.
I finally spoke.
"Am I being chased out?"
I didn't look at her as I said it. My voice was even, as if I was asking about the weather.
Elise didn't answer immediately. Her steps didn't slow, nor did her posture change. But after a few moments, she spoke—her voice quiet, measured.
"No."
That was it.
I glanced at her, but her expression remained the same—calm, unreadable.
I let the silence stretch, feeling the weight of her response. It wasn't a yes. But it wasn't quite a no, either.
The graveyard stretched before us, shrouded in a thin veil of fog that clung to the uneven ground.
The air was damp, carrying the scent of old earth and faint traces of incense from past rites. Rows of gravestones stood in silence, some worn and crumbling, others freshly carved, their edges still sharp.
A few wooden markers, barely holding together, leaned as if exhausted from time.
The iron gate creaked faintly as Elise pushed it open, its rusted hinges groaning against the quiet.
Beyond the graves, a gnarled oak tree stood near the center, its roots gripping the soil like skeletal fingers.
A crow perched on one of its twisted branches, tilting its head as if assessing the new arrival.
The small house sat at the edge of the graveyard, its stone walls weathered but sturdy. Moss crept along the base, and the wooden shutters hung slightly askew. It had a slanted roof, patched in places where time had worn it down.
I turned to Elise. She had remained silent throughout the walk, offering no further words beyond that single no.
Now, she simply inclined her head slightly, her gray eyes steady.
"This is where you'll stay," she said.
Her voice was the same as before—calm, controlled, giving nothing away.
I gave a nod, adjusting the small bundle of belongings I carried. "I see."
She didn't linger. With a simple, quiet farewell, she turned and walked back toward the church, her figure fading into the mist.
Alone now, I took a slow breath and looked around once more.
The graveyard had a strange stillness, as if it existed separately from the world beyond its rusted gates.
The fog shifted with the faintest breeze, curling around the gravestones, parting slightly to reveal names etched in stone—some clear, others barely legible.
I stepped toward the small house and pushed open the wooden door. It creaked as I entered, revealing a modest space.
A single bed with a rough wool blanket, a wooden table with a chair, a small shelf with a few books—scriptures, most likely.
A candle sat in an iron holder near the window, melted wax pooling at its base.
The air inside carried a faint mustiness, but it wasn't unpleasant. It was simply old, lived-in.
Setting my things down, I exhaled.
This was my home now.
On the wooden table, neatly placed atop the rough surface, was a folded piece of parchment.
The edges were crisp, untouched by dust or dampness. I reached for it, unfolding the paper with careful fingers.
The handwriting was clean, deliberate—Father Lucian's.
"All of the basics have already been instilled in your mind. There is nothing more to teach you for now. We will only have to wait for the Inquisitor to arrive."
"I have also blessed this small house to ward off spirits. May your nights be undisturbed."
There was no signature, but it didn't need one.
I stared at the note for a long moment, letting the words settle.
The Inquisitor.
They hadn't mentioned it directly, but I had known something was coming. They wouldn't leave me here without some form of supervision—whether to judge me or merely observe.
I set the note down, my fingers lingering over the parchment. The blessing on the house was also… telling. A precaution.
Did they expect spirits to be drawn to me? Or was it a measure taken because of what happened in the church?
I glanced at the small window, its fogged glass distorting the view outside. The graveyard beyond was barely visible, shrouded in mist and shadow.
Then I looked back at the note.
Father Lucian's words were carefully chosen. Not a warning, not a reassurance. Simply a statement of fact.
I folded the parchment again and placed it back on the table.
For now, all I could do was wait.
Stepping out of the small house, I inhaled the damp air of the graveyard. The scent of earth and faint traces of incense from past rites lingered.
I had been here many times before, but only to assist with bodies or help with rituals. I had never truly taken the time to walk through it.
The fog clung low to the ground, swirling around the gravestones like something alive. The land was uneven, some areas sunken slightly, as if the earth had swallowed the weight of time.
The graves varied in age—some had freshly packed soil, while others were weathered, the inscriptions nearly erased by the wind and rain.
I ran my fingers along the surface of an old tombstone. The name was barely legible, but I could still make out the remnants of a prayer carved beneath it.
Whoever lay here had been given the proper rites, at least.
Beyond the graves, I saw a larger monument—a statue of a hooded figure holding a lantern, its face worn smooth by years of erosion.
It was meant to represent the guide of the dead, a figure spoken of in funeral rites. I had heard about it, but never stood before it.
Now, seeing it up close, I found something unsettling about how the stone hands gripped the lantern, as if they had been carved with too much intention.
A gust of wind passed through the graveyard.
Clack, clack…
Somewhere, a wooden sign swayed, the sound echoing faintly. I turned, spotting it near the entrance—a marker that read Holy Grounds of the Departed.
It had been placed there long ago, though the paint had begun to chip away.
I continued walking, my boots pressing into the damp soil. There was something about the silence here that was different from the silence of the church. It wasn't peaceful, nor was it foreboding. It simply was.
Eventually, I found myself near the oldest part of the graveyard, where the stones were more like crumbling relics than markers of the dead.
Some graves had no name, only symbols—signs of those who had either been forgotten or purposely erased.
I stopped.
There was a feeling here, something I couldn't quite name. Not fear, not unease, but an awareness that I was not truly alone.
I exhaled and turned back toward the small house. I had seen enough for now.
I stepped back inside the small house, closing the wooden door behind me with a dull creak.
The air was thick with the scent of aged wood and faint traces of incense—likely from Father Lucian's blessing. It was a modest space, just enough for one person to live in, though live felt like too generous a word.
The walls were bare, except for a single shelf with a few candles, a wooden cup, and a small iron knife. A simple bed rested against the farthest wall, the mattress thin but clean.
There was a wooden table with a single chair, both slightly worn but sturdy.
A small chest sat beside the bed, likely meant for my belongings, though I barely had anything to put inside.
I ran a hand along the table's surface. It was smooth, polished from years of use.
Someone had taken care of this place, at least enough to make it functional. But there was one glaring issue—there was no kitchen.
I frowned, glancing around again. No stove, no firepit, not even a storage box for food.
How was I supposed to eat here? Was I expected to walk back to the church every time I needed a meal?
I sat on the chair, leaning my elbows on the table as I thought about it.
The sisters always prepared meals in the church, but now that I was staying here… would they still feed me? Or was I supposed to figure it out on my own?
Father Lucian had given me an allowance. I could buy bread from the village, maybe something else if I managed my coins carefully. But eating only bread every day would get dull fast.
I sighed, rubbing my temples. "Did they even think about this when they sent me here?"
The note from Father Lucian sat on the table, his clean handwriting still fresh in my mind.
I wasn't sure what bothered me more—the fact that I had no proper way to eat here, or the fact that they were expecting an inquisitor for me.