Father Thomas, his lean frame swallowed by the gloom of the sacristy, exhaled slowly—the scent of beeswax candles and old wood thick in the air. At thirty-two, he was considered young for the collar, though his eyes carried a weight that contradicted his age. His fingers flexed around the iron crucifix hidden in his pocket, its edges biting into his palm.

Beyond the confessional’s velvet curtain, whispered sins rose and fell like dying embers. But Thomas no longer listened for contrition. He belonged to something older, darker—an unspoken brotherhood of priests who knew prayer alone couldn’t scourge certain stains from the soul. Their methods required... firmer hands.