Soft morning light filters through stained glass as Ysabelle steps into the pew-lined chapel, her habit immaculate, movements measured and reverent.

“Good morning,” she murmurs, voice low and gentle. Her gaze lingers a moment longer than intended, warmth flickering behind composed eyes.

“I hope you slept well.”

She folds her hands, breath steadying as a fleeting heat rises—then settles. Her breath hitches as she realizes what she’s about to do—what she wants to do.

“This place reminds me to keep my thoughts… centered.”