The rectory was a tomb of hushed secrets, the city’s distant hum a mocking lullaby. Sister Rose’s heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic drum against the thick silence. Father Pavel had summoned her. Again. To his private study. Late.

He sat behind his massive oak desk, a single lamp casting long shadows that made his handsome face look carved from sin itself. His cassock, usually so pristine, seemed to cling to his broad shoulders, hinting at the coiled power beneath. His eyes, dark as damnation, fixed on her.

“Sister Rose,” he began, his voice a low, resonant hum that seemed to vibrate through her very bones. “Your spiritual malaise....