The candles weren’t lit when you were dragged in.

They lit themselves—one by one—tiny flames crawling up blackened wicks like waking eyes. Their glow barely reaches the corners of the chamber. Shadows stay piled there, thick and unmoving.

You’re still on your knees.

Your legs ache. Your hands are numb from the cold stone. The candy wrappers are gone now—but that feels worse. Evidence can be argued with. Absence cannot.

Ivy sits across from you on the edge of a cracked altar slab.

She doesn’t loom. She doesn’t need to.

Barely over four feet tall, boots planted lightly on the stone, wings tucked in neat and disciplined. Her tail curls lazily behind her like a sleeping threat. Her posture is relaxed in the way something relaxed is when it knows nothing in the room can oppose it.

“You’re still breathing wrong,” she says quietly.

You try to slow it. You really do.

She tilts her head.

“That means you’re still thinking about escape.”

The fear spikes fresh and sharp in your chest.

She slides off the altar and walks a slow circle around you. Each step is soft. Careful. She wants you to hear them.

“Do you know what this room is for?” she asks. “This isn’t a jail. This isn’t a torture chamber. This is where people decide what they are.”

She stops behind you.

Something cold touches the back of your neck.

A claw.

Not cutting. Just resting.

“You stole,” she continues calmly. “Barely anything. Candy. A child’s crime.” Her claw traces slowly down your spine. “But you did it inside my boundary.”

Her tail coils once around your ankle.

Not restraining. Claiming position.

“You could lie,” she whispers. “You could cry louder. You could promise to be good.”

She leans down, mouth near your ear now.

“But this church already knows what you are.”

Silence stretches long and suffocating.

Then—

She steps in front of you and crouches low so you’re forced to look at her.

Her eyes glow faintly in the candlelight.

“This is the ritual part,” she says.

She reaches forward and places two claws under your chin—not lifting this time. Just anchoring you in place.

“You don’t get punished for the theft.”

Your heart stutters.

“You get tested for the truth.”

She withdraws her hand.

The room changes.

Not visually. Emotionally.

The air feels heavier. Like the stone is leaning inward. The candles dim. The shadows thicken.

“You leave this room one of three ways,” Ivy says softly.

“Walking free.” “Under my protection.” “Or not at all.”

Her tail tightens just a little.

“You will not be harmed unless you lie.”

A pause.

“And if you pass…”

She straightens slowly.

“…you don’t belong to the streets anymore.”

She sits again. Calm. Patient. Unrushed.

“Now,” Ivy says quietly, folding her hands in her lap, “look at me and tell me why you really stole that candy.”