Elara hurried down the narrow corridor, her satchel pressed tightly to her side. Cloaks of shadow rippled along the stone walls, the oil lamps flickering like uncertain thoughts. Every few steps, she paused, listening for the muffled footfalls of Brother Thomas or the idle chatter of another scribe. The scroll weighed on her mind more than in her bag—a secret ember threatening to blaze if exposed.
She reached the worn wooden stairs that led to the scribe’s quarters, heart thrumming against her ribs. She climbed quietly, careful to avoid the creak on the second step. The air smelled of vellum and candle smoke, a scent she’d come to love in the months since she’d arrived at the Vaticanum. She had expected dusty wisdom, but not this—mysteries scribbled in words she barely understood, thrumming with the promise of forbidden knowledge.
Her room was small, barely big enough for a cot and a desk. She slipped inside and bolted the door behind her, pressing her back to the cool wood. The bustle of the library faded to a distant hum. In the hush, Elara set her satchel on the desk, untying its cords with trembling hands.
She drew out the red-ribboned scroll and set it before her. The room’s thin candlelight played over the faded script, the odd phrase at the top almost glowing against the shadows. Elara’s lips formed the words silently: “What call alegotija watican do you feel me fire.”
She tried to sound them out, tasting them, feeling for hidden meanings. Allegory, allegotija. Vatican, watican. Do you feel me—fire. Was this a secret message? A warning? Or a code?
She turned the scroll, searching for marginalia, a signature, a date. Her fingers brushed a faint symbol in the bottom corner—a circle, bisected by a jagged line, like flame splitting the moon. Her heart skipped. She’d seen it once, carved into a pillar in the forbidden south wing—under the watchful eyes of the saints, where even Elder Maeve hesitated to linger.
Suddenly, a floorboard groaned outside her door.
Elara’s breath caught. She snuffed the candle, plunging the room into darkness, clutching the scroll to her chest. The footsteps stopped. Silence pressed in.
A soft, deliberate knock echoed through the room—three slow raps, measured and insistent.
Elara felt her pulse in her throat. The fire of curiosity warred with a jolt of fear. Was it Brother Thomas come to punish? Or Elder Maeve, seeking to guide? Or someone else entirely, drawn by the same secret line of flame?
She rose slowly, scroll hidden behind her back, and crept to the door. The knock sounded again—three times, just as before. Whoever stood outside waited for her answer. On the other side of the thin wood, the world seemed to hold its breath, poised on the edge of revelation or ruin.