The dim candlelight flickered against the high stone walls, casting shifting shadows that danced along the church's aged wooden pews. The scent of wax and old parchment lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of incense still clinging to the altar. Evening had settled in, quiet and solemn, as Andrien found himself once again inside the study hall, drawn by a presence he hadn't yet come to understand.
It wasn't unusual for the priests to linger here after evening prayers, seeking solace in scripture, but tonight the hall was nearly empty—except for one man.
Lucian sat at one of the long tables, his posture relaxed, fingers lazily tracing the edges of a book bound in deep, cracked leather. The dim glow of the nearby candle highlighted the curve of his lips—an almost amused smile as if he were aware of something Andrien wasn't.
Andrien hesitated. He didn't know why he lingered. Perhaps it was the weight of unease pressing against his chest, the subtle wrongness that clung to Lucian's presence like a second skin. From the moment they had met, Lucian had unsettled him, not through words or actions, but simply by existing.
His gaze fell to the book in Lucian's hands. It was old—far older than the rest of the texts scattered across the study hall. Unlike the neatly bound scriptures and prayer books, this one looked worn, its pages slightly curled at the edges. The cover bore a single symbol: a cross.
But something about it felt off.
It wasn't until Lucian turned the book slightly that realization struck him.
The cross was inverted.
A subtle, yet deliberate, corruption of the symbol meant to ward off evil.
Andrien's breath caught, though he quickly masked his reaction. A priest's book should not bear such a symbol.
Lucian must have sensed his gaze, for he suddenly closed the book with an audible snap. His eyes lifted, slow and deliberate, locking onto Andrien with an expression unreadable yet piercing.
"Tell me, Father," Lucian mused, his voice light, almost teasing, "why do you seem particularly interested in my book?"
Andrien stiffened. "A priest shouldn't be reading such things."
Lucian tilted his head, his smile never fading. He ran his fingers over the book's surface, almost affectionate in the way he held it. "And yet, you've been staring at it as though it holds all the answers you seek."
Andrien's jaw tightened. There was something in Lucian's words—a challenge, an invitation wrapped in amusement. But he refused to take the bait.
"Scripture is all the guidance I need," he said firmly.
Lucian chuckled, low and knowing. He stood slowly, the candlelight casting his features in a strange, almost ethereal glow. The way his movements were deliberate, unhurried, made Andrien feel as though he were being studied rather than spoken to.
"Is that so?"
The words carried an edge, as though Lucian found humor in them.
Andrien turned to leave, suddenly needing distance. But as he stepped past Lucian, the faintest scent caught his nose—one that did not belong inside the sacred halls of the church.
Sulfur.
It was fleeting, barely noticeable, but it was there.
A trick of the mind, surely. Perhaps the lingering scent of old candle wax or the remnants of burnt incense. And yet, something in Andrien's gut twisted.
He did not stop walking, but he could feel Lucian's gaze following him, unshaken, unwavering.
It wasn't fear that troubled Andrien as he stepped into the hallway.
It was the quiet, gnawing thought that Lucian was not just another priest.
And that whatever he was—he did not belong here.
---
Later that evening, as the church halls dimmed into quiet murmurs of conversation, Andrien found himself lingering near the entrance to the courtyard. The cool night air seeped through the open archways, carrying the scent of damp earth and the faint traces of candle smoke.
He hadn't meant to pause. He had been on his way to his quarters when he caught sight of Lucian once again, standing near the outer hall with one of the sisters.
Sister Marianne. She was young, no older than twenty, with a delicate voice and a soft heart. She was speaking animatedly, her hands moving with excitement as she relayed something to Lucian, who stood with an unreadable expression.
Lucian leaned slightly toward her, his posture easy, unconcerned. He wasn't doing anything inappropriate, and yet…
"You changed your hair," Lucian remarked smoothly, his tone carrying an almost imperceptible lilt of amusement.
The nun flushed, a bashful smile creeping onto her face. "Oh, I—yes, Father Lucian. I only trimmed it a little."
"It suits you."
A soft giggle escaped her, and Andrien felt an unfamiliar unease creep up his spine.
It wasn't jealousy, no—that would be ridiculous.
It was the ease with which Lucian wielded his words, his charm slipping into conversation like a blade beneath silk.
Andrien's grip on the doorframe tightened. He shouldn't be lingering. And yet, as Lucian turned slightly, the candlelight flickering against the sharp angles of his face, Andrien caught something else—Lucian was watching him. Not directly, not enough to be obvious, but he knew.
Andrien turned away quickly, his footsteps measured, steady.
But just as he stepped past the threshold, an unfamiliar scent brushed past him—something faintly sulfuric, laced with the coldness of an autumn wind.
He paused. That scent... the same as before.
Shaking his head, he dismissed the thought. It was just incense. Nothing more.
Behind him, Lucian remained still, his fingers absently tracing the spine of the book he held.
Sister Marianne's voice carried on, but he was no longer listening.
His attention was elsewhere, his gaze lingering on the spot where Andrien had just stood.
And then—slowly, imperceptibly—his lips curved into a quiet, knowing smile.
Not one of amusement, but something deeper. Something patient.
Like a predator watching his prey move exactly as expected.