Chapter 3
Elior
It had been three days since the stranger came.
Father had said his name was Jace. He might become one of us, Father had told me—one of the faithful, if the Light found him worthy enough.
I had never seen anyone quite like him before.
He had warm, tan skin, black hair that hung tousled just past his shoulders, dark stubble on his jaw, and his eyes didn’t look down when they met mine. He had looked right at me, like he was trying to see what was beneath.
I’d never seen eyes like his before—almond-shaped, dark enough to almost be black. They were so different than mine. Beautiful, with something so intensely masculine about them that I couldn’t put a finger on.
I had thought about those eyes a little too much these last few days, sitting alone in the chapel.
Father said curiosity was the mind’s rebellion, and that I must guard against it. He said that the Vessel should think only of the Light and the souls who need it, but sometimes thoughts just… happen. They slip in like moths through the cracks, even when you try to shoo them away.
I kept thinking about how the candlelight had made his hair seem to shine. There was something different about him—an energy that made it feel like he didn’t quite belong in our quiet little world.
Father had been pleased after that meeting. He said Jace had a receptive spirit. I wasn’t sure what that meant exactly, but Father had smiled when he said it, and when Father smiled, it usually meant the Light was pleased.
“Perhaps,” he’d said that evening as he made a rare dinner visit to my rooms, “perhaps the Lord has sent him to us for a purpose.”
I nodded then, as I always did.
Now, sitting by my bedroom window, I thought about that purpose. What sort of man would the Lord send to us? A sinner to be cleansed? A teacher to test our faith?
The candle beside me had burned low, leaving a waxy pool on the desk. I brushed a fingertip across the edge and watched it cling to my skin before hardening.
Outside, the children’s voices carried from the schoolhouse—soft laughter, the rhythmic drone of a hymn. I liked their voices best when they sang. They didn’t sound afraid then.
Maybe Jace would visit them, too.
Father said he’d begun learning about our ways, that he’d spoken kindly and listened well. Sometimes, new believers spent extra time watching me sit in the chapel, praying near me, asking the Light for blessings. Father said it helped strengthen their faith.
Maybe Jace would come for that.
I didn’t know why the thought made my chest feel strange, fluttery almost.
I clasped my hands and bowed my head quickly, whispering a prayer to still it.
“Light of Heaven, burn away the shadows within me. Let my heart be clean as glass, my thoughts like still water.”
The words steadied me, the same way they always did.
I rose and straightened my robe. Father would expect me soon—there would be evening prayers, and then repentance.
The floorboards creaked softly as I crossed the room.
Father said the Light dwelled in me. Sometimes I tried to feel it—something warm, something pure—but most days it was just… hard to find.
Maybe Jace would see what I couldn’t.
Father said he was observant—that he asked questions. That he seemed hungry for truth.
I wondered what kind of hunger that was.
The chapel bell began to ring, telling me it was time to welcome our congregation in.
I smoothed my robe once more, left my quarters, and went behind the Seat to pick up the little step stool hidden there.
I used it to boost myself up, glad that no one ever saw me actually getting into the Seat, besides Father sometimes.
It was a mess of very ungraceful movements.
Once I was settled, I straightened my robe a third time, needing to be the picture of perfection for our flock.
Father entered the empty sanctuary then—just on time, as always. He smiled up at me as he walked down the aisle to the dais.
When he reached the Seat, he used his foot to push the stool back around the stone base, away from sight.
I waited for him to address me with bated breath.
He didn’t.
I tried to swallow down my disappointment as he started to walk back down the aisle to open the chapel doors for the waiting crowd.
Maybe he’ll talk to me after the service, I hoped.
I took a deep breath and made myself smile as the faithful streamed in, their heads bowed, white robes brushing against the chapel floor and pews as they took their seats.
Father came to stand at the altar. “Children of the Light,” he began, his voice smooth and sure. “We come together tonight not to rest, but to renew. To scrape from our souls the soot of disobedience. For even the faithful stumble. Even the righteous must bleed to be cleansed.”
A murmur of assent swept through the crowd.
Father’s eyes moved across the sea of bowed heads, his gaze settling on a few at the front. “Silas,” he said softly. “Leah. Eleanor. Come forward. It is time for repentance.”
The three rose without a word. Silas’s hands were trembling.
I tried to remind myself that it wasn’t my fault they were to be punished, although it was difficult to truly convince myself of that since I’d been the one to report their names in the confessional notebook for Father.
Leah was a young woman, almost at the age when Father would speak to God about finding her a suitable marriage partner. She’d confessed to me that she’d been having impure thoughts of attraction towards one of our male members.
Eleanor was one of the two wives who’d come to confess together. I was surprised to see Maria, the other woman, sitting calmly in a pew, not called upon for repentance. I wasn’t sure why one of them was being punished while the other was not, but I guess that was why I wasn’t the Voice.
At Father’s nod, Brother Gideon brought a wooden bowl forward, handing it to him. I knew what came next before Father even spoke.
Father lifted his arms, voice rising. “Pain is the chisel of the Light! Through it, the rough stone of the spirit is carved into purity. Through it, the stubborn heart is made soft. Through it, the flesh remembers obedience!”
As the congregation answered, “Blessed be the Light,” Father shook the contents of the bowl onto the floor of the dais, causing hundreds of grains of uncooked rice to scatter.
“Kneel,” he said to the small group huddled together in front of him.
They obeyed. The sound of knees pressing into dry rice filled the air—a dull, crackling sound that made me flinch. Leah let out a small, pained cry before biting her lip and clenching her fists. Silas winced but was able to school his expression quickly. Eleanor softly wept between them.
I folded my hands tightly in my lap.
Father’s voice deepened, rolling through verse and scripture.
“The world beyond these walls is full of sickness. It is full of hunger without cause, joy without truth. Out there, men make fools of themselves, succumbing to lust and greed. They are bathed in shadows. But here—” he struck his chest with a fist, “—here we burn with the Light. Here we submit. And in our submission, we are free.”
The crowd murmured, “Amen.”
“Do you think the world pities you for your suffering?” Father continued, turning toward the kneeling members with disdain written across his face.
“No. They do not understand. They think discipline is cruelty, that obedience is weakness. But only the weak fear pain. Only the faithless cling to comfort.”
He began to pace slowly across the dais, robes whispering against the floor.
“Every lash, every wound, every drop of sweat spilled in service to the Light—it is all counted. It is all holy. The Lord’s gaze does not look kindly on the proud, nor on those who question His chosen order.
But those who kneel before Him and repent… They will be granted forgiveness.”
Father’s sermon stretched on, words sharp as glass, every sentence falling like judgment. The longer he spoke, the more fervent his tone became—his voice rising, then dropping low enough that everyone leaned forward to hear.
I knew that rhythm by heart. It was the same one that had lulled me since childhood.
And yet, as he spoke of sanctity through pain, I couldn’t help looking at the teary eyes and red faces below me.
I wondered if the Light saw those tears, too.
One by one, Father stood over the kneeling members, placing a hand on the crowns of their heads. He told the congregation of their sins—about Leah and Silas’s lustful thoughts, and Eleanor’s jealousy.
When the sermon ended, Father lifted his arms once more. “The Light endures,” he said.
“The Light endures,” the congregation echoed, their voices trembling with exhaustion and reverence alike.
“You may stand,” he told the punished.
Father stepped over to the Seat, his eyes on mine. “My son,” he said softly, “you see now why we must never falter. The Light forgives, but only after the flesh remembers. You are at the age when lust tries to conquer. You must never give in. You are holiness. Purity. Innocence. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Father,” I said, my throat dry.
As the congregation began to disperse and the punished members were helped to their feet, I found myself staring at the small white grains scattered across the floor, tinged faintly red where they’d pressed too deeply.
The Light forgives, Father said.
But sometimes it looked a lot like it had forgotten.
* * *
It was late when I heard the voices. I’d already blown out my candles, the air still faintly warm from their smoke. I’d been brushing out my hair, counting each stroke the way Father liked, when the sound drifted in through the door—soft at first, like the murmur of wind through the cracks.
But then I heard my father’s voice.
He wasn’t leading prayers; I could tell by the tone. It was the voice he used in meetings.
I set down the brush and padded barefoot across the floor. The hall outside was dark except for the faint light leaking under the chapel door.