Day 5
Today, Mylova did not write.
Not from forgetfulness. Not from choice.
But because everything in her bled, screamed, collapsed.
And when the soul bleeds, sometimes even words dare not come out.
That morning, they came for her. Two abbots in dark robes, their eyes void of light. They said nothing. They didn't need to. Their silence was heavier than a shout.
Mylova rose slowly, painfully, following their steps without question.
But inside her, a deep tremor thudded against her ribs: she knew.
They were taking her to the interrogation room.
This place… It wasn't a room. It was a wound in the heart of the convent.
A pit where souls had vanished — crushed, consumed.
As you neared it, the air changed. Heavier, as if each breath thickened. Even the walls seemed to close in. You heard no screams… yet you felt them. You sensed them between the stones.
The screams of past inmates, forgotten by the world and by God.
It was said that those who entered never left the same.
The door opened with a sinister groan. Inside was a strange half-darkness, as if light itself refused to enter.
The air smelled of burnt wax, dried blood, and smothered fear.
At the center: a wooden chair, chained to the floor.
The chains… worn, rusted by time and by tears.
The abbots sat her down.
They did not shout. They did not move fast.
Calm had become their weapon.
Before her, the head abbot stepped forward. One hand behind his back, the other resting on an open book. His voice was soft, almost tender. But his eyes… his eyes were ice.
— Mylova, he said. You again. Every day you refuse. Every day you defy. Do you think this will last forever?
She did not answer.
He came closer, slowly. The other abbots circled the room like vultures around a living body.
— Recite. Once more, I give you a chance.
Mylova lifted her head. Her cheeks were hollow, her lips cracked.
But her eyes… still burned. Faintly, but fiercely.
She did not say their prayer.
She spoke her own.
Her own faith.
Her own words.
Each sentence was an act of resistance. Each syllable a victory — even if her voice trembled, even if her breath failed.
They did not interrupt her. They did not strike her.
They waited.
And when she finished, silence fell like a slab of stone.
Then, they stepped forward.
One of them held something in a black cloth — glowing red.
A cross. Not wood.
Volcanic stone, hand-carved, heated white-hot in the forge.
There was nothing sacred about it.
It was made to hurt, to brand, to condemn.
— This seal, the abbot said, is for heretics.
Those who bear it are traitors to God.
They are children of the Devil.
You refuse to submit? Then you will wear this cross for the rest of your days.
They did not ask her opinion.
They did not seek her consent.
Two abbots grabbed her, pinning her against the chair.
Another approached with a strip of linen — which they tied hard across her mouth.
To stifle her screams.
Her eyes went wide, her body thrashed.
She understood. She knew what was coming.
The fourth abbot came forward, the burning cross clamped between iron tongs.
Without a word, they pressed it hard against her right shoulder.
A scream.
A scream you cannot describe.
A scream that doesn't come from the lips — but from the belly. From the soul.
Mylova writhed, her feet pounding the floor, her fingers clawing the wood.
She choked behind the cloth, her muffled cries echoing like voices from Hell.
Her flesh burned. Hollowed. Consumed.
The smell was unbearable.
Tears slid down her face without her noticing.
When they finally lifted the cross, her skin still smoked.
A mark — red, black, cruel — was seared forever into her flesh.
They let her go.
She fell to her knees, arms limp, eyes vacant.
— Let her be an example, the head abbot said. Let her pain speak louder than her words.
They left.
She remained.
And silence returned — ripped, scarred by invisible pain.
She did not cry.
She barely breathed.
But she was there. Alive. Burning. Trembling.
And still standing… somewhere inside.
---
Elsewhere…
Louis found no rest. His nights were haunted, his gut tight. He could feel it.
Something was wrong.
He felt it like a constant shiver under his skin.
He went to the Dumas home, hoping to find Monsieur Dumas.
He crossed paths with him just as the man returned from work — tired, his step heavy, his features drawn with worry and silence.
Louis didn't waste a second.
— Monsieur Dumas… we need to talk.
The man stared at him wordlessly. Waiting.
— I… I feel like Mylova isn't okay. I know she's in danger.
A silence. A sigh. A shared pain.
— Why won't you speak to her? See her? We're her family. We can't just sit here and wait.
The father looked away, his heart heavy with guilt and fears he'd never named.
— I thought Céleste knew what she was doing, he murmured. By leaving her there… I thought maybe she would cooperate eventually, but… the more days pass, the more I feel I've made a mistake. A terrible mistake.
— She's my soulmate, Mr. Dumas! She's the love of my life! What was your wife thinking, trying to separate two bound souls?! She's all I have, she's my reason to live, the only person I want to protect. Every day I feel her suffering more… And this morning, I felt a sharp pain in my right shoulder. Like a burn!! It was unbearable and… I don't want to believe it, but… I think they branded her…
Monsieur Dumas stepped back, stunned.
His breath hitched.
Eyes wide.
Jaw tight with shock, shame, disbelief.
He ran a trembling hand over his face, as if to wipe away a waking nightmare.
— A burn… in your right shoulder…?
His voice cracked. He shook his head slowly, as if swaying.
— No… No… Not my daughter… Not my child… not my Mylova…
He stepped toward Louis, gripping his shoulders almost roughly.
— Tell me it's not what I think. Tell me they didn't do that to her!
His eyes filled with tears, but he held them back like a man too long forbidden to weep.
— Céleste… Céleste promised it was only a place of retreat! A place to help her find her faith and accept her soulmate! How could she… How could we… leave her there?
— I'm her soulmate!
He turned away, crushed under the weight of his choices.
His hands clenched into fists.
His voice rose, darker, rougher.
— If what she's living there is worse than what you're feeling… if she's been branded… if those dogs dared press iron to her flesh… then I swear to you, Louis…
He turned back, his eyes now blazing with fierce resolve.
— I swear: they will pay.
He straightened his back, regaining the dignity of a broken father who had decided to fight.
Then, in a low, steady voice:
— We're not waiting another night. We act. We bring her back. She's ours. And this time… no one will take her from us again.
And in the shadow of a quiet street, the two men began to whisper a plan.
They would save her.
No matter the cost.