The Idol (Sacrilegious Love #1)

Chapter 1

Elior

“And the Lord spoke, saying: Out of shadow I will bring forth a Light.

He shall be flesh of man, but Spirit of Heaven.

He shall not speak as the many speak, but his silence shall strike the earth.

Through his wounds, the faithful shall be made whole.

And through his suffering, the Kingdom shall dawn.”

Father’s voice filled the chapel like a river, washing over the rows of bowed heads with certainty and strength.

The air was thick with candle smoke and breath; forty souls knelt in white, their faces tipped toward the floorboards.

I sat where I always did, on the platform behind him, in the place they called the Seat of Light.

It was nearing the end of our Sunday evening worship, which marked the beginning of a new week.

The words Father preached were older than I was. I’d heard them every week of my life, yet each time I listened to them, they sounded newly born, as if Heaven itself were speaking through Father’s mouth—and I suppose it was.

The congregation trembled with each pause, eager for Father’s blessed knowledge. I could feel their awe rising like heat, curling against my skin.

Father turned, eyes bright as firelight. “The prophecy was fulfilled in this place,” he said. “The Light was born among us. Flesh of man, Spirit of Heaven.”

He gestured to me. Every head lifted. I felt the weight of forty gazes press against me—loving, fearful, desperate. I folded my hands and lowered my eyes. It was not my place to meet their stares. The Vessel must not invite pride.

“The Light endures,” Father said.

“The Light endures,” they answered.

Their voices rolled together into a single sound, like wind through stone corridors. I tried to let it pass through me, although this part always made my skin prickle. I suppressed my shiver, as I needed to remain as still as possible until the service had concluded.

Father’s sermon went on, speaking of obedience and cleansing and the coming dawn. I listened carefully, though my thoughts began to wander as they always did. Father said it was proof of the shadows trying to snuff out the Light, and that I must never succumb to wayward daydreams.

I caught myself and quickly prayed for forgiveness under my breath.

When the chanting ended, the members of our congregation pressed forward one by one to kneel before me, whispering prayers I could barely hear. I offered them the same small, practiced smile—the one Father said would remind them of the grace my presence gifted them. My cheeks ached from holding it.

A woman near the end of the line began to cry, making my heart wrench. I wanted to lift her face, to tell her she needn’t be afraid, but the Vessel does not speak to followers, especially not during service.

I wished I could’ve at least offered her a hug or pressed her hands into mine to comfort her, but that was not what the Heavenly Father wanted for me, and I would not disobey Him.

So I stayed still, smiling gently at the last few members who knelt before me, until Father’s hand brushed my shoulder, a light pressure that drew me out of the trance I sometimes slipped into.

The chapel emptied slowly, one of our older members—Kenneth, who the Light had so enraptured that he’d renounced his sons and daughters, even leaving behind a few grandchildren, for the opportunity to live amongst us—being the last to amble slowly out of the building, heading towards the men’s dormitory.

Father watched as the older man left before turning to me. “You did well,” he said, the words heavy with approval. “They saw the Light in you today.”

I bowed my head, biting the inside of my cheek to contain my smile at Father’s praise. “Thank you, Father.”

His smile was distant but satisfied. “You will be ready at dawn for confession. I will have Dahlia prepare your breakfast after. We just got a shipment of fresh strawberries in. If you’d like, I can tell her to bring you a bowl.

I know how much you like them.” Father was so thoughtful—I loved him so, so much.

Father extended his hand, taking mine to help me down from the Seat.

As my feet touched the ground, I couldn’t help smacking my lips at the thought of biting into a juicy strawberry—it wasn’t often that the Covenant received shipments, especially those from out-of-state.

We had a garden at the center of the compound, managed year-round by a few of the wives and some of the younger children, but they had to focus on what grew best in our soil and climate, which, very sadly, was not strawberries.

We never went hungry, as God never failed to provide us with enough food. We enjoyed many plentiful harvests, which left us enough to sell to folks outside of the community for a small profit.

It was just that eating corn for almost every meal—God forgive me—was sometimes not the most enjoyable experience. There were only so many corn-centered dishes.

Father’s fingers tightened briefly around mine before he released me. “Go and rest, Elior. Tomorrow will be long, and the faithful will need your strength.”

“Yes, Father.”

He nodded once, already turning toward the chapel doors.

His golden hair, just a bit darker than my own, caught the candlelight as he passed, a bright flicker against the dim wooden walls.

Through the open doorway, I could see the path that led to his house—the largest building on the grounds, standing at the edge of the compound like a beacon.

Light glowed in its windows, warm and welcoming.

“Goodnight, Father,” I said softly.

He paused, glancing over his shoulder. “And to you, my son.”

When the door closed behind him, the chapel felt suddenly enormous.

The air was still, the candles snapping softly as they burned down.

I stood for a moment, letting my eyes wander over the empty pews, the patterns of shadow and flame sliding over the walls.

I tried to picture the people sleeping now in the dormitories, forty hearts at rest, their faith carrying them safely through the night.

It comforted me to think of them that way.

My heart ached whenever I thought of the unfaithful, that they would never know the love of our God, never ascend with us on the Day of the Burning.

My own chambers were attached to the chapel, a small set of rooms built into the side of the older building, made of pale wood and joined by a narrow hall.

I liked the creak of the floorboards there—the sound reminded me that the chapel was alive, breathing, shifting as the wind moved through its eaves.

I had a bathroom with my own shower and toilet, unlike the communal ones in the dormitories.

Besides that was a simple kitchen and dining space, with a table and a lone chair, a stove, and a refrigerator.

Lastly, there was my favorite room—my private sanctuary that not even Father was allowed to enter—my bedroom.

Inside, everything was simple and white—a single bed on a wooden frame, a desk, a chair, and a small closet containing my robes and undergarments.

As I walked in, I lit the small lamp by the bed. Its glow was softer than the candles in the chapel, steady and warm.

Then I knelt at the bedside. My knees found their usual places on the worn rug.

“Thank you for this day, Lord,” I whispered. “Thank you for letting me serve the Light, and for giving Father the wisdom to guide us. Forgive me for my thoughts that wander, for my heart that sometimes forgets its purpose. Keep me pure. Keep me still. Let me be a window for your Light. Amen.”

The silence that followed felt deep and clean.

When I lay down, I turned toward the wall that joined my chambers to the chapel. Beyond it, the candles would be burning low, their last smoke curling toward the ceiling. I liked to imagine that the glow from them seeped through the wood and touched my skin as I slept.

Outside, the wind brushed against the siding, carrying the faint sound of the bell that hung at the garden gate.

Sometimes, when the chapel was this still, I could almost imagine the sound of Father’s footsteps coming to tuck me in.

He used to visit my room every night before bed, when I still lived in his house. He would knock once, softly, and wait until I said “come in.” Then the door would creak open, and he’d step inside carrying a lamp that smelled faintly of oil and cedar.

He would sit beside me and read from the Scriptures, his voice calm and low, pausing now and again to explain the meanings of words I didn’t yet understand.

When I grew tired, he would set the book aside and rest a hand on my forehead, murmuring a blessing before blowing out the light.

I used to think the darkness itself was holy, because it arrived only after Father’s prayer.

That stopped when I turned thirteen.

He had said it was time for me to take my place inside the chapel—that as the Vessel, I needed to learn solitude to hear the Word better. I had nodded, eager to please him, though I didn’t fully understand.

The first night in my new room, I had waited for the sound of his footsteps, but none ever came—only the wind, and the slow settling of the building around me.

I told myself it was a good thing. That it meant I was growing stronger in the Light, learning the silence He required of me.

But sometimes, like tonight, I found myself wondering what it would be like to have Father sit beside me again.

To feel his hand on my hair, heavy and reassuring.

It was wrong to wish for that—Father said affection was for those still bound by earthly desires.

Yet the thought lingered like the warmth of the lamp that used to burn bright in his hands.

I turned my face into the pillow and whispered a small apology to God for remembering.

Still, before sleep claimed me, a strange, childish wish stirred in my chest, that maybe, just once, Father would treat me as he used to.

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