Doom: Beyond the Veil of Shadows

4

FLOCK HOUSE

I arrive at the Cyrican just before dawn, dragging my feet through the snow, each step feeling heavier than the last. Sweeping duty is routine; just another chore I'm usually assigned. I know from experience that this simple task can take hours, and failure will surely disappoint the Matron. Nonetheless, the idea of being bent over, polishing tiles, and sweeping aisles makes my back throb. I can't even feign determination.

Steeling myself, I use my forearm to push open a thin slit of the doorway.

Amel, give me strength.

In the early hours of the morning, the church is barren and bathed in silence. My arrival cuts into the frigid air, the opening door releasing an unwelcoming, flat, and withdrawn groan. As I step inside, my steps seem to echo, reverberating in its darkened corners and resonating off the cold stone walls.

Tentatively, I skirt to the vestry at the back of the building, which hosts a variety of prayer rooms along with a small supply alcove. Grabbing the sweep, I return to the main hall, making quick work of the dusting. Clearing up and down the aisles with fervent efficiency, I watch the twig bristles of the brush scrape the floor in repetitive strokes—it's both monotonous and arduous.

Face flushed; time slowly slips away from me.

Without respite, I find myself returning to the supply alcove to retrieve a polishing cloth and horsetail burnish. Deciding it's best to start at the Heofonweard's altar and then work my way backward to the front entrance.

It isn't until, mid-polish, that I allow myself a second to rest. I think I hear the low groan of the door but can't be certain; nonetheless, my head flicks up instinctively. Empty noise echoes in my ears, straining over the sound of footsteps.

Silence.

The emptiness loosens my apprehension, relaxing me—

"Bah, a lonely scēap."

I scream, the voice mere inches away. My whole body jerks, flailing backward as my back hits the floor with a thud. For the longest moment, my shock is so infallible that even my heartbeat freezes. Then it spurs back to life, throbbing in my chest once again.

I hope someone might hear my shriek but abandon the wish the moment my eyes focus on the unfamiliar black boots muddying the tiles. Strangely, the dirt ends only two steps back, almost as if he appeared out of thin air entirely.

I blink, and blink again, before rasping, forgetting myself entirely, "Y-you've muddied the tiles!"

My gaze flicks upward, enflamed, only to discover a pair of gleaming obsidian eyes looking down at me, nonplussed at my fury. For a brief moment, I can't move. His obvious confidence squashes my own, as he stands over me with a sly smile on his lips.

"Where is your shepherd, little scēap?" His deep voice sends a shiver across my skin. I'm instantly wary; as he's the exact antithesis of celestial, appearing all sorts of dark and roguish. Feeling vulnerable on the floor, I carefully stand, muscles shuddering, as I increase the distance between us.

"Hmm, scēap." He slowly saunters closer, head tilted to one side as he watches me, more creature than man. I don't like it.

"I—my apologies, sir." I swallow, mustering all my efforts to remain temperate, to appear amenable. "You gave me a shock." I laugh. It's a silly and affected sound. "May I enquire a name? Um, Sir!" My pulse thunders in my ears as I back toward the Heofonweard's altar. "Be civil!..." He drifts closer, inhaling through his nose, eyes dilating. His smile widens in response to my terror. "Did you hear me? Don't make a fool of me—wait." My brows furrow, confused at the foreign word. "What is a shaaay-op?"