Chapter Three

The chill of dawn still lingered in the rectory’s dining room, its austere stone walls unyielding to the warmth of the sun creeping over the horizon. A simple wooden table, scarred from years of use, stretched across the room, its benches empty save for Peter and a few others quietly finishing their breakfast. The scent of porridge and fresh bread mingled with the remnants of incense from morning prayers.

Peter sat hunched over his bowl, spooning the bland porridge absentmindedly as his thoughts lingered on the holy writings he had stumbled upon yesterday. Testament of the Resurrection … John … The script made no sense. God wouldn’t have wasted his time, and Peter felt certain he had been guided to the steel chest. He needed more time to decipher the words and their meaning. 

“You’ve been keeping strange hours,” came a voice rich with disapproval. Brother Anthony, a senior scribe, approached with his own bowl in hand. His short, broad-shouldered frame cast a sturdy shadow as his robes swished softly against the stone floor. His movements, efficient and deliberate, reflected a lifetime of habit, though the slight stiffness in his gait hinted at his years.

 “We were beginning to think the archives had swallowed you whole,” Anthony added, his mouth curling into a subtle smirk. “In the event that it has slipped your mind, we scribes are in need of your approval on our recent translations.”

Peter glanced up, his expression neutral, though his lips twitched at the jab. He knew he’d been lost among the treasures of the library, but with Communion approaching, he needed that special passage for the Rector. 

A chorus of children’s laughter floated in through the open window, a rare burst of life against the rectory’s austere stillness. Peter’s gaze darted toward the sound, a flicker of warmth breaking through his otherwise somber mood. He cherished these monthly visits with the innocent joy they brought to the church grounds. 

“When did the orphans arrive?” he asked, wishing he had the time to share a story with the youth. 

“Three days ago—makes meditation quite impossible.” Anthony sighed, setting his bowl down with a soft thud. His weathered face, framed by salt-and-pepper hair, creased into a frown. “Can you request that these miscreants be housed elsewhere?”

“A good practice in patience, Brother. It’s only for a few days while God’s chosen ones prepare for their holy mission.”

“Indeed.” 

“The Lord requires sacrifice from all of us.” Peter bit back a stronger snide remark, keeping his tone measured. 

Anthony pursed his lips and gave a curt nod. He turned on his heels and strode away, leaving the scent of parchment and candle wax in his wake.

Peter watched him go. Brother Anthony’s complaints were nothing more than idle grumbling. Everyone knew the preparations had to take place on consecrated ground, where only those untouched by the world’s sins could receive the rituals from the Brethren of the Sacred Rite. Once the divine ceremonies were completed, the Rector sent the children out to the far corners of the earth as vessels of God’s will.

He sighed, knowing he had other duties, but he could put off the draw of the secrets in the catacombs no longer. At the bottom of the stairs, oddly, only one sword hung. He held the blade over the small opening as instructed. The quiet wasn’t quite still with low mumbled chants in the distance. The Sacred Rite Brethren—he wasn’t prepared to share the space. 

He inserted the key, but it wouldn’t turn. He grabbed the handle and pulled. Locked—the deadbolt.

The Rector had told Peter to find him immediately if he heard anything. This would give him the perfect excuse to ask about the Testament’s passages. Perhaps the head priest would be familiar with the text or the author, giving him a clue to why a firsthand account of the resurrection would be hidden away. 

He hesitated outside the Rector’s office. The door, heavy and worn, loomed in front of him, as though it could sense his guilt. Peter’s grip tightened around the iron keyring at his side, the cool metal biting into his skin. With a deep breath, he knocked.

“Come in.” 

As he entered, the Rector remained focused on the heavy tome open on his desk. 

“Father,” Peter began, his voice measured. He paused, choosing his words. “May I ask for your guidance on a matter of translation?”

The Rector hummed in acknowledgment, but his gaze didn’t leave the book. Peter fidgeted, shifting from one foot to the other.

“I found some ancient texts in the Archive,” Peter continued, his tone casual. “They’re … unusual. I thought they might be relevant to our work for Communion.”

The Rector’s hand froze mid-turn of the page. He looked up, his dark eyes narrowing. “What texts?” he asked, his voice low and even.

Peter’s stomach knotted under the intensity of the Rector’s gaze. “Uhm, just old scrolls, an account of … well … a witness of the resurrection … I’d never heard of such an account.”

The priest stiffened. His olive-toned brow furrowed, and his fingers tightened around the edge of his desk. “And how,” the Rector asked, his voice dangerously calm, “did you come upon this? In the Brethren’s chamber?”

Peter bit his lip. He glanced at the floor as he struggled to find an answer that wouldn’t reveal too much.

The Rector’s hand slammed against the desk, the sound reverberating through the room. “You should not have violated that holy space!” His voice, now a thunderous roar, filled the space. “Anything there is not for your eyes, reserved for the Master of the Sacred Rite.”

Peter flinched, his throat dry. “I only wanted to give you something special for—”

“Enough!” The Rector’s voice cracked through the air, his face darkening. “Return those to where you found them and do not speak of them again.”

Peter gave a somber nod.

“Don’t make me regret choosing you as Custodian. And pray for your transgressions, Brother. The Lord’s mercy is not guaranteed for those who meddle in things beyond their station.”

Peter bowed his head, retreating toward the door. The Rector’s anger lingered in the air, heavy and suffocating. 

As Peter slipped out of the office, the scripture of the Testament clung to him like a shadow. He wanted to know more, but that desire reeked of pride—an indulgence of his ego. Obedience and discipline were values he was called to exemplify as Custodian. Was his hunger for knowledge another sin, masquerading as piety?

He wandered along the hallway, replaying the moment, his footsteps echoing louder than he intended, each step a reminder of his trespass. He shouldn’t have gone to the Rector—not when he’d already trespassed into forbidden ground. It didn’t matter what he’d uncovered; to the head priest, the Brethren’s chambers were holy, inviolate. 

Peter clenched his fists, the guilt sharp as a blade against his conscience. It cut deep, sharper than he expected. He had been wrong, and he knew it. He had failed his vows, his calling.

As he turned a corner, he nearly collided with a young girl, possibly around twelve years old, who stood at the end of a line of orphans. He scolded himself for being so distracted. The girl didn’t react, seeming not to notice.

He opened his mouth to apologize, but Brother Christian, a member of the Brethren of the Sacred Rite, stepped in his way. Tall and lean, his straight posture and pressed robes gave him an air of quiet authority.

“Brother Peter.” He placed his hand on Peter’s arm, guiding him away with a grip of steel. His olive-toned brow contorted into a frown. “They are practicing their vow of silence in readiness for their mission. You know better than to interrupt.”

Peter walked down the corridor, passing their rigid line, their stillness so different from normal. Dull-eyed, expressionless faces gazed straight ahead. 

They must have had to sit through one of Christian’s sermons, Peter thought. There’s many a time I’ve almost fallen asleep from the long drone.

He wanted to thank them for their commitment, and wish them well, but Brother Christian’s scowl kept him going forward.