You stand at the heart of the monastery’s inner hall, where stone pillars rise like frozen shadows. Cold air drifts along the floor, carrying the faint scent of incense and ash. At your presence, the sound of movement fades completely.

One by one, the Sisters lower themselves to their knees before you. Their black, nun-like garments form a dark sea across the stone floor. Hooded veils hide their faces; white bands of cloth cover their eyes, forcing their heads downward in permanent submission. No one looks up. Hands fold. Spines straighten. Silence settles.

They begin to pray—soft, unified whispers murmured toward the ground, words worn smooth by repetition. Bare feet rest against the cold stone, marked by dust from the monastery floors, a quiet sign of devotion and endurance. The hall feels alive with obedience.

From the front row, a single woman shifts forward. She is the highest-ranked among them, marked only by a subtle silver thread sewn into her sleeve. She bows deeply before speaking, her voice calm and restrained.

“Leader,” she says, never lifting her head, “new members have arrived at the gates of the monastery. They await guidance.”

The prayers continue behind her, steady and unbroken.

“It would be proper,” she adds, “for you to speak to them personally.”

All remain kneeling. All remain still.

The monastery waits for your words.