Chapter 15 Elior
Elior
Ever since the whipping, a strangeness had settled over the compound.
Father was changing.
His sermons had grown angrier, and his smile had become tighter.
The congregation saw the change just as I did. I could see it in the way they all followed him with frightened eyes, like they were all holding their breath for something to happen—for Father to do something.
For the past few days, Father’s gaze had lingered on me too long. He’d called more meetings with the Inner Circle, made them pray longer, kneel until their bodies trembled with exhaustion. He’d spoken about purity—my purity—with a brittle intensity that made my stomach twist.
He’d even changed the daily rituals.
Yesterday, he’d woken the entire congregation before dawn for an unscheduled gathering in the courtyard. The ground had been cold with dew, and the sky still bruised with night. People had stumbled out bleary-eyed, clutching robes around themselves for warmth.
Father had stood at the center, hands raised, voice booming through the hush like thunder cracking.
“We have grown complacent,” he’d said. “We have let rot seep in. Our faith must sharpen. Our devotion must strengthen.”
He never said what the rot was, but the crowd had bowed low, trembling, afraid to breathe wrong. I’d stood beside him, barefoot on the stone, trying to keep my expression serene, but it was hard.
He just kept glancing at me with something unfamiliar in his eyes. I got the feeling he was waiting for something too.
I think he was waiting for me to fail.
I’d grown up learning to read his moods. I knew when he was impatient, when he was pleased, when he was disappointed. But this… this was something else.
Today had only been worse.
He’d shortened the congregation’s breakfast to a five-minute prayer circle. He’d forbidden any conversation outside of assigned tasks.
They had all murmured in confusion, but Father only raised his hand, and silence fell again. His eyes had found mine across the room, pinning me in place.
I didn’t understand why.
Or, I thought—pressing my hands together so tightly my knuckles whitened—maybe I did understand, but didn’t want to.
Ever since he’d struck me, something in him had changed. Something in me, too.
I hadn’t crumbled the way he expected. I hadn’t begged for his forgiveness. I hadn’t clung to him, desperate for my Father’s love.
No, instead, I’d stayed in my room, shaking and bleeding, and cried quietly into my sheets.
And then Jace had come to me.
And ever since the night we’d talked about our families, I felt that little sunbeam in my chest—my mother’s sunbeam, the one I kept tucked beneath my ribs—glow a little warmer.
I tried not to think about it too much—tried not to think about him too much. I tried to push down all the thoughts of Jace showering with me, touching me, taking care of me.
But Father must have sensed it.
Father sensed everything.
Father wanted something from me.
He wanted something he hadn’t yet named.
And Jace…
Jace wanted something too, though I didn’t know exactly what.
All I knew was that Father was changing. The compound was changing. Something was approaching—something heavy, inevitable.
A storm I wasn’t ready for.
A knock rattled the door separating my rooms and the chapel—three short taps, urgent.
Before I could answer, Brother Paul called out, “Father Malachi requests your presence. There’s been another… meeting… called in the courtyard.”
My pulse jumped. The last one had been enough to leave the entire congregation raw and restless. More than that, it’d left me shaken, though I tried to hide it.
I slipped on my shoes and made my way out into the chapel. Brother Paul had already hurried off, as if even being near me for too long might draw Father’s attention. Everyone had been so skittish lately.
I rushed toward the courtyard, the silence of the compound broken only by the swell of distressed voices.
The entire congregation stood in a loose circle—their expressions were tight with fear, and some were even openly crying. In the center of the courtyard stood Father, his robe catching the weak afternoon light so he appeared almost backlit.
And kneeling at his feet, trembling, was a woman.
My breath caught.
Marin.
She was our school teacher. She was soft-spoken, gentle, and patient, even when the little ones tugged at her robes or interrupted lessons.
She braided the girls’ hair during her free time.
She carried the toddlers on her hip. I’d seen her make paper birds with them last spring, bright colors fluttering everywhere like a flock taking flight.
Now she knelt with her hands folded behind her back, shaking. Her long blonde hair—always brushed smooth, always tied back with a ribbon the children made for her—hung down her back like a golden curtain.
Father was staring at it.
“God sees all,” he said, voice smooth but wrong—sickly sweet. “Even the sins we think we can hide.”
Several people in the crowd sobbed quietly. Marin’s shoulders hitched, but she didn’t raise her head. She didn’t speak.
Father looked out across the congregation. “Temptation comes in many forms,” he said. “But it is always the same poison.”
A few people nodded frantically.
“Marin has sinned,” Father continued. “She has used her beauty to cloud the minds of men. To draw eyes. To stir lust.”
My chest tightened. Marin? She barely spoke above a whisper. She never even stood near men. Her life revolved around the children of the Covenant.
Father stepped behind her.
“I—Father—please,” she choked out, voice breaking as she dared to look up at him. “I promise, I didn’t—”
“Silence,” he snapped, and she flinched like he’d slapped her. He smiled then. “This is mercy, my Sister.”
He reached into the sleeves of his robe and pulled out a long ceremonial knife.
A wave of panic rolled through the crowd.
“Father,” someone whispered, “please—”
He ignored them, stepping closer to Marin and gathering a thick handful of her hair. She whimpered, her knees wobbling beneath her, but didn’t pull away.
I felt my stomach twist so hard I nearly doubled over.
“Sin begins with vanity,” Father said softly, raising the blade.
And before Marin could speak again—before anyone could—he cut.
The knife sliced through her hair with a sickening scrape, strands floating down in waves. Marin sobbed openly, shoulders shaking so violently her whole body rocked with each breath. Someone in the crowd cried out, a strangled noise.
Father grabbed another handful.
“This is for your salvation,” he murmured.
Cut.
Another fall of golden hair hit the stone.
Cut.
The crowd was silent except for a few members who were quietly weeping. No one dared move. No one dared breathe wrong.
I stood frozen, my hands trembling at my sides.
This had never happened before, not like this. This was just so cruel, so different from the normal.
Punishments were always given in the chapel, during a service. Most were from what people had said to me during confession, or sometimes, there were other offenses that either Father or the Inner Circle caught wind of. Penance never happened so erratically.
Father paused, his breathing too calm for what he was doing. The knife glinted as he lifted the last thick section, then sliced it clean off.
Marin made a sound like her soul had cracked.
When it was done, her hair lay scattered around her like a sacrificed offering, and she knelt there with her shorn head bowed, trembling so hard the ground beneath her seemed to vibrate.
Father sheathed the blade.
“A new beginning,” he said, voice smooth again. “Sister Marin has been purified. Blessed be the Light.”
No one answered. No one dared.
His gaze swept through the congregation, and when it landed on me, I shivered.
He watched me for a long, suffocating moment.
Assessing.
Waiting.
Then he smiled.
It wasn’t a comforting smile.
It… it didn’t even look human.
“Come,” he said to Marin. “You will spend the next week in prayer.”
She didn’t move.
Two acolytes rushed forward and gently lifted her to her feet. She let herself be led away, tears still dripping down her face.
The congregation continued to stand frozen.
Father turned back to our people with a soft, sighing voice.
“This was necessary,” he said. “And more may be necessary soon.”
Another ripple of terror ran through the crowd as Father stalked off towards his house.
I felt that storm gathering strength overhead—pressing tighter, swallowing the air.
Another set of eyes—Jace’s—caught my attention from across the crowd. He dipped his chin—barely a nod, barely a motion at all—toward the chapel doors behind me.
Meet me there, it said.
It was bold. Too bold.
The sun was still high, the courtyard still full of rattled people, the congregation still huddled together like a flock waiting for a predator to strike again.
We only met at night. We only spoke in shadows.
And Father’s gaze had been unforgiving today.
A nervous tremor curled down my spine, but Jace’s eyes offered a silent promise that I wasn’t alone in whatever was happening—whatever was coming.
And right now, after what I had just seen, after the way Father had stared at me like he was trying to peel away my skin to check if I was still pure underneath…
I needed him.
I swallowed, then gave a short nod back—small and quick, hoping no one else would notice. I turned slowly, carefully, trying not to draw any attention as I slipped away from the crowd. No one stopped me. Everyone was too shocked, too enthralled by fear to care.
But with every step I took away from the courtyard, my anxiety grew.
I walked faster. By the time I reached the chapel doors, my hands were shaking so badly I had to hide them in my sleeves. I pushed inside and let the heavy wooden door fall shut behind me with a muffled thud.
I practically ran back to my rooms, stepping inside and closing the door behind me. I walked to my bedroom and sank down onto the edge of my bed, heart pounding in my chest.