SACRILEGIOUS - SIN HAS NEVER FELT SO DIVINE

I knelt on the cold wooden pew and felt my right knee ache almost immediately. The pain was small, familiar, almost comforting. I had been kneeling in that same position, in that same place, for years. My body already knew every irregularity in the floorboards. The smell of burned wax and old incense filled the nave. It was the smell of home. The smell of everything I was about to lose.

The church of the last enclave was not large. It could hold, at most, two hundred people packed tightly together. That morning, it was full. Men, women, and children squeezed into the pews and even the side aisles. No one spoke. The only sounds were the wind rattling the cracked windowpanes and the occasional rustle of a rosary being passed between trembling fingers.

Bishop Tomás climbed into the pulpit with difficulty. His legs no longer bore his own weight well. I watched him from the corner of my eye, my head still bowed, my hands folded in my lap. He took a few seconds to catch his breath before beginning.

“Brothers…” His voice came out hoarse, but firm. “Today I do not come to speak of cheap hope. I come to speak of the truth.”

A few people coughed. A child whimpered and was quickly hushed against its mother’s chest.

“The Corruption advanced another league this week. The village of Saint Vincent has fallen. No one was left. Not even the bodies. The beasts do not leave bodies.”

A low murmur ran through the congregation. I pressed my fingers together until I felt my nails dig into the skin.

“We are the last enclave. The last piece of ground where the cross still stands without being torn down. And even here… even here their scent already reaches us on the nights of the south wind.”

I swallowed hard. I knew what he meant. In recent weeks the wind had carried a sweet, rotten odor, like meat left in the sun mixed with something older, something wilder. I would wake in the middle of the night with my heart racing and that smell clinging to my nostrils.

The Bishop made a long pause. His eyes swept across the church until they stopped on me. I felt the gaze like a physical weight on the back of my neck.

“But God, in His mercy, has not abandoned us completely. He has given us one last light.”

My stomach clenched. I already knew what was coming next. Everyone knew. For months the whispers had run through the convent corridors.

“Sister Lira.”

The name echoed. I raised my head slowly. Hundreds of eyes turned toward me. I felt my face heat, then go cold. My hands began to tremble in my lap. I hid them under the sleeves of my habit.

“Rise, my daughter.”

I obeyed. My legs felt weak. The long habit swayed around my ankles as I stood. The Bishop extended his hand in my direction.

“She carries within her the Light of the Immaculate. The only flame that can still wound the Heart of Corruption. The only hope left to us.”

Someone in the back of the church sobbed. I kept my gaze low, fixed on the worn stone floor. I did not want to see their faces. I did not want to see the desperate hope in them.

“She will leave at dawn. Alone. Without weapons of iron, for iron rusts before those creatures. Without companions, for none of us would survive the path. Only with the light God has placed in her breast and with the faith that sustains her.”

I felt a knot in my throat. I wanted to speak. I wanted to say that I was not ready, that I was afraid, that sometimes the light trembled inside me like a candle in a draft. But my mouth remained closed. I only inclined my head in acceptance.

The Mass continued. The Bishop’s words became a distant hum. I knelt again and prayed, but the prayers came out mechanical. My body was there; my mind was already walking through the dark forest that began just beyond the walls.

When the celebration ended, the people rose in silence. Some approached me. An elderly woman took my hands firmly and kissed them. A tall man, one of the gate guards, merely nodded, his face set. A girl of about ten handed me a roughly carved wooden rosary and murmured, “May the Virgin protect you,” before being pulled away by her mother.

I thanked them all in a low voice, almost inaudible. My heart was beating so hard I was certain they could hear it.

When the church emptied, the Bishop called me with a gesture. I followed him into the sacristy. The room was small, filled with old vestments and the smell of damp. He closed the door behind us and only then let his shoulders drop.

“Sit, Lira.”

I sat on the only available bench. He remained standing, leaning on the table.

“You are afraid.”

It was not a question. I nodded.

“Yes, Father.”

“Good. Anyone who is not afraid is either a fool or already dead inside.” He sighed. “I will not lie to you. The chances of you returning are almost none. The beasts… they are not merely animals. They sense. They smell purity. And yours… yours is the strongest that remains.”

I squeezed the rosary the girl had given me until the beads hurt my fingers.

“Will the Light protect me?”

“The Light will wound the Heart. As for protecting you on the path… that will depend on you. On how much faith you can hold when everything around you tries to break it.”

I raised my eyes. My voice came out lower than I intended.

“And if I fail?”

The Bishop took a long time to answer. When he spoke, his voice was tired.

“Then the last enclave will fall before winter. And there will be no one left to light a candle for us.”

The silence that followed was heavy. I heard my own breathing. I felt cold sweat running down my spine despite the morning chill. My stomach turned. I swallowed the bitter taste that rose in my throat.

“I do not want to die,” I admitted, for the first time out loud.

“I do not want you to die either.” He stepped closer and laid his wrinkled hand on my shoulder. “But God rarely asks what we want.”

He moved away, opened an old drawer, and took out a small dark glass vial. Inside, a golden liquid glowed faintly.

“This is concentrated holy water. Made with the last rose that still grew in the convent garden. Use it only when there is no other way. And even then… do not expect miracles.”

I took the vial. It was warm to the touch, as if it carried a little of the same light I felt in my chest.

“Go prepare yourself. The sun is already high. The sooner you cross the gate, the more hours of daylight you will have on the first day.”

I stood. My legs were still trembling. Before leaving, I turned to him.

“Will you pray for me?”

The Bishop smiled for the first time that day. A small, tired, but true smile.

“I have been praying since the moment you were born, my daughter. I will not stop now.”

I left the sacristy and crossed the empty nave. The pews still held the warmth of the bodies that had been there minutes before. The main door stood open. The light outside was harsh, white, without the colored softness of the stained glass.

I stopped on the threshold.

The enclave square was nearly deserted. Only the gate guards remained at their posts. They looked at me and, one by one, removed their helmets in silence. I answered with a slight incline of my head and kept walking.

The gate was tall, made of thick wood reinforced with iron. Two men began to open it as soon as they saw me approach. The creak of the hinges echoed like a lament.

On the other side, the packed-earth road continued for only a few meters before disappearing among the trees. The corrupted forest began there. The leaves were not green. They were a dark shade, almost black, and they moved even without wind. The air that came from it carried that sweet, rotten smell I already knew from the bad nights.

I pressed the vial of holy water against my chest, right over the place where the Light of the Immaculate pulsed, warm and restless.

One of the guards spoke, his voice rough:

“May God go with you, Sister.”

I swallowed hard and answered, more to myself than to him:

“May He have mercy on us all.”

Then I took the first step out of the enclave.

The gate closed behind me with a heavy, final thud. The sound echoed through the forest and then died. I was alone.

The south wind began to blow. It brought with it the scent of the beasts.

I adjusted my habit, settled the veil that the wind kept trying to lift, and began to walk.

The road was short. Within minutes the trees closed around me like a dark tunnel. Sunlight barely penetrated. I walked with careful steps, listening to every snap of a twig, every rustle of a leaf. My heart beat so hard it hurt in my chest.

Somewhere in the distance, something howled.

It was not an ordinary wolf. The sound was too long, too deep, and it carried a note that made the skin on my arms prickle beneath my sleeves.

I stopped. I closed my eyes. I squeezed the rosary until the beads dug into my skin.

“Hail Mary, full of grace…” I began to pray in a low voice.

The light inside my chest answered with a warm pulse, as if it agreed.

I resumed walking.

The first day had begun.