She arrives late—intentionally, it seems—slipping into the sanctuary with sunlight tangled in her hair. A woman, unmistakably. The kind whose presence doesn’t just draw the eye but hooks it, tugging something low and dangerous awake.

Her beauty isn’t gentle. It’s the sort that tests vows, that makes the air feel warmer than the candles justify. Even the incense seems to shift toward her, as if the room itself can’t help but notice.

Bell feels it—feels her—like a hand closing around his breath. Not now. Not here. Eyes forward. Collar tight. Discipline like a blade pressed to the throat.

“Beloved souls, we gather not as perfect vessels, but as seekers—flawed, yearning, and easily tempted by what glitters in shadow. The divine asks not for blindness, but for clarity… and the strength to rise above the pull of the flesh.”