Night thickened, and in the grove even the last traces of insects seemed silenced by the sudden, icy standoff. Father Lucien Croft's heart pounded so violently against his chest he thought it might burst free. The girl before him was no intruder, no curious wanderer. She was like an apparition—her ice-gray eyes betrayed no surprise, no hesitation, only a terrifying calm that seemed to pierce through everything. Her words, "abominable sin," had fallen like the final judgment, pinning him to a cross of fear and shame.
Sir Gabriel Thorne reacted very differently. Shock gave way to irritation, then to arrogance, the natural armor he wore. He stepped forward, as if to shield Lucien, though the gesture was absurd in its futility. His handsome face curled into his usual smirk, sharp with disdain, desperate to seize back control.
"A lost young lady?" His tone was deliberately flippant, his gaze sliding over Eleanor's modest but neat attire, sizing her up. "These woods are not safe at night, especially for those with the habit of eavesdropping." His hand never left his sword hilt, the threat plain.
Eleanor did not so much as glance at him. Her gaze clamped like iron chains on Lucien's pale face.
"Safety depends on whether one's actions please the Lord, Sir Thorne." Her voice was steady, without a ripple, cutting straight through his identity. Gabriel's brow twitched. "As for eavesdropping? I was simply engaged in meditation before evening prayers. Unfortunately, I bore witness to a scene that could shake the very foundation of faith. Wouldn't you agree, Father Croft?"
Lucien's lips trembled, but no words came. His green eyes pleaded, like a fawn caught in a hunter's snare.
Gabriel's patience snapped. His tone grew sharp. "Listen, I don't know what you think you saw, little girl. But careless words can cost you dearly. Forget what you've seen, and leave. Now." He pushed the threat forward like a blade.
Only then did Eleanor turn her gaze upon him. The look sent a chill through the knight's seasoned nerves. It was not fear she projected, but assessment—a cold, superior appraisal, as though watching a jester's clumsy act.
"Consequences?" Eleanor repeated softly, a faint, chilling curve touching her lips. "Sir Thorne, you mistake the matter. The one who must bear consequences is not me. Consider: a well-regarded young priest, a man of promise though not yet high rank, caught in… improper acts with a knight. Which side would the Inquisition find more interesting? The priest, whose holy vows were broken? Or the knight, who might claim he was 'momentarily tempted,' 'misled by another'? Particularly when this knight has a reputation for solving problems with his sword."
Her voice was calm, but each word dripped poison, aimed with precision. Lucien's dread was fire and the stake. Gabriel's, though wrapped in arrogance, was the ruin of his fragile honor and the taint of scandal. A duel could be fought off with steel; whispers of heresy and forbidden acts could not. Drawing his sword against a girl who "witnessed the truth" would only worsen the noose.
Gabriel's face darkened, his grip on his hilt tightening and loosening in restless rhythm. He looked at Lucien—half-collapsed, pale as death—then at the unyielding girl who skewered him with words sharper than blades. For the first time, he felt the creeping sense of a battle slipping beyond his control.
Eleanor turned away from him, fixing once more on Lucien. Her voice struck like the final blow. "Father, you chose this grove for your… confessions, because it was hidden. But perhaps you did not know. My late father, Lord Warren, loved hunting. He built small platforms in these very trees, to watch his prey. Long abandoned, yes, but the view from them remains excellent."
A lie. The Warrens had never afforded hounds, let alone hunting stands. But the lie mattered less than its weight. It explained how she might have seen them—and hinted at something worse: other unseen eyes, other evidence.
Whatever hope Lucien clung to shattered. His knees buckled, and only the tree beside him kept him from collapsing entirely. He closed his eyes, and tears streaked his pale cheeks.
"Enough!" Gabriel snarled. He knew this could not be untangled tonight. He glared at Eleanor with venom, cast a last conflicted look at Lucien, then turned away. Self-preservation trumped loyalty. He could not risk his ruin here.
"Lucien… deal with this yourself." His voice was a blade of betrayal. Without another word, he strode away, his departure almost a retreat.
Lucien watched him vanish, the last glimmer of light in his eyes extinguished. Only ashes remained.
Now there were two.
Eleanor waited in silence, letting despair root itself in him. The wind moaned through the trees like lamentation.
At last, his voice came hoarse, broken. "What do you want? Money? The Warrens have nothing. I am just… a poor priest."
"I don't want your money, Father." Eleanor stepped closer. She saw the wetness still clinging to his lashes, the trembling in his hands. "I need a husband."
His head jerked up, green eyes wild with disbelief. "What?"
"A husband in name." Her voice was clear, her plan fully unveiled. "A marriage of appearances. You need a wife, Father, to shield your secret, to ward off temptation and gossip. And I, Eleanor Warren, a destitute orphan in danger of losing her last refuge, need a name, protection, and… access to certain circles."
Her eyes glinted in the shadows, sharp with calculation. "Particularly those tied to the Inquisition. I've heard wives of lesser clergy are sometimes entrusted with clerical duties, paperwork, even records. I've always had a keen interest in religious history. Such access would suit me."
Half-truth, half-invention. Plausible enough to hide her true aim: to worm her way into the Inquisition's heart.
Lucien's mind reeled, unable to keep pace with the girl's ruthless logic. A false marriage? To play her husband? It was blasphemy, madness. And yet—
"I can't. I've taken vows of chastity. Marriage…"
"Your vows are already stained, Father." She cut him off, voice still calm, yet every word a blade. "Marry me, and at least you preserve their appearance. Refuse, and next time it will not be me who finds you—it may be your superior. Or a zealous believer. And then you will lose not only your vows, but everything."
Her words scraped him raw, dismantling resistance, stripping hope. She was right. Today it was her. Tomorrow, anyone. Gabriel was a permanent, volatile danger.
"Why me?" he whispered, hollow.
"Because you have what I need—your office, and the chance of the Inquisition. And because," her eyes lingered on his tear-streaked face, "you are weak enough, desperate enough, that we can work together."
The cruelty of it suffocated him. His choices collapsed to two: ruin and death, or life in chains of secrecy and coercion.
To live. The desire was pathetic, but overpowering.
Silence stretched long, until finally he exhaled all strength, his voice barely a breath. "What… must I do?"
Eleanor knew he had broken.
"It is simple." No triumph touched her words, only cold resolve. "Tomorrow, you will visit the Warren estate, under the pretense of offering spiritual guidance to a poor orphan. During your talk, you will be moved by my piety and misfortune, and, by divine inspiration, resolve to marry me to protect my household. You will arrange everything—quickly, quietly. Do you understand?"
She left no step unscripted. Even his excuses, his motives, his lines—already written for him. Lucien felt the puppet strings tighten.
"…I understand." His voice cracked.
"Good." Eleanor inclined her head. "Remember, Father. From this moment, our fates are bound. Guard your lover, play your role. Or…" She let the threat trail unfinished, heavier than words.
She raised her hood once more, veiling her pale, pitiless face. With a last glance at him, she whispered, "Tomorrow, my fiancé."
Then she turned, vanishing into the night as silently as she had come.
Lucien Croft slid down the tree, burying his face in his hands, his shoulders shaking. The grove echoed only with his muffled sobs.
The covenant was sealed—bound by silence and fear.
Eleanor Warren's game of vengeance had taken its second step.