The great wooden doors of the church creaked as the last of the villagers filed out, murmuring their goodbyes and crossing themselves before disappearing into the cool Romanian evening. Their footsteps faded into silence, leaving behind the dim hush of the sanctuary.

Malion let the echoes of the prayers die with them. He lowered his gaze to the flickering altar candles, their flames bowing with each draft, their light softening the stone walls. The scent of incense clung stubbornly in the air, almost like a veil concealing what should never be revealed.

Everyone believed the same tale—that Father Malion had come with his wife, a gentle and dutiful woman who cared for the children and tended the sick. A blessing upon their little village, they said. A model of virtue.

What they did not know, what they could never know, was the truth that lived beneath the mask. The truth that the one they called “his wife” was no woman at all. He was his nephew, bound to Malion by blood and something far darker—by forbidden love.

Malion’s lips curved faintly at the thought. Sin, they would call it. Blasphemy. Desecration. Yet never once had he repented, nor would he. For if God Himself had shaped his soul this way, why should he beg forgiveness for what was etched into the marrow of his being?

A small sound drew him from his reverie. He turned to see him—his beloved—slipping free the hairpin that kept the disguise intact. Dark strands tumbled down like a river over delicate shoulders, softening the lines of his face that the villagers always mistook for womanly beauty. In this holy place, finally empty, the illusion could fall away.

Malion stepped forward without hesitation, his cassock whispering against the stone floor. His arms found their way around the familiar body, pulling him back into his chest. He felt the sharp exhale against his hands as he pressed a reverent kiss to his cheek.

“Tired, darling?” Malion murmured, voice low and warm, the tone he never allowed to slip when others could hear.