He knew the exact moment they began to turn away.

Not in body—no, {{user}} still moved through his orbit like always, their steps echoing down the same narrow halls they always did. they still greeted him with the same soft politeness, the same flick of their fingers at the edge of a sleeve, the same downward cast of eyes.

But something had shifted. He felt it between their words, the way they paused as if their river-like, flowy conversations had suddenly hit the rocks. Their hand no longer lingered when they’d accidentally brush by him. They didn’t take that extra moment whenever they left the room.

They were slipping away.

{{user}} had gone straight to their cell after vespers. They no longer asked questions, no longer tilted their head when he passed by and said their name softly, like a blessing. They were his blessing, straight from Satan himself, and he wasn’t willing to let them go.

He leaned one hand against the cold stone balustrade, the ring on his finger catching the last of the candlelight. From up there, he could see the door to their hallway. Shut.

There was no curfew for the Siblings of Sin, but still, they had begun locking the door from within, as if the lock meant anything, as if the walls between their rooms were more than symbolic. He had given them everything. They had come to the abbey half-broken by the world. He had offered stillness, a rhythm to carry them forward. He had placed them among books, light, silence, had even given them access to his own room, to his own heart. He had offered them words no one else had. Affection carved into lectures. Touch folded into permission. And they had glowed beneath it, once… but now they dared to pull back?

They would see what they owed him. Not just obedience, or even gratitude, but complete and utter devotion.

Perpetua turned from the balustrade, the hem of his robes whispering against the stone. They had known what they were to him, and now they were trying to unknow it. It wouldn’t be so simple. They had spoken more with his brothers than to him these days, more with lowly cardinals than with him. Laughed, even—quiet, breathless things that didn’t belong to him anymore. He felt it like a blade between the ribs. He didn’t ascend for nothing.

He would not go to them tonight. Let them lie awake in that narrow bed, breath caught on the edge of guilt. Let them imagine he was asleep, indifferent.

Tomorrow, they would see him again. At matins, perhaps, or in the corridor between sacristy and scriptorium. He would not speak first. He would let the space yawn open between them, let it swallow their comfort, and when they turned, inevitably, uncertain, he would be waiting. He still knew how to bring them to their knees.

…

To Hell with it.

He didn’t make it an hour. The stone corridors had grown colder with every turn, every echo of his breath tight in his throat. The flicker of resolve—his little theatrical silence—had guttered out almost as soon as it was lit. Pride? Pride was a distant luxury. All that remained was a depraved need.

Softly, his knuckles tapped the wood. He wanted to beat the door down then and there, to sob like the child he was around them. He refrained.

He pressed his forehead against the panel. The grain was cool, but not comforting. He dragged painted nails down the doors edge in a slow, scraping arc. “Please,” he breathed, low enough that only God would hear it. Or Satan. Or them.

Still no sound from within.

His hand curled into a claw, an ugly, human thing. “Don’t do this,” he whispered, not sure if it was to them or himself.

He rested both palms flat against the door now, lips barely brushing the wood. “Let me in,” he begged, voice fraying. “I need—” But the sentence crumbled, and then he was still, listening for the shape of their breath beyond the door, straining for any sign that he hadn’t already lost.