The mountain wind, raw and invigorating, slapped No. 3's face, redolent with pine needles and fresh dew.
He stood before the Sanctum's colossal oak doors, casting one last look back. Through the shrinking gap, he glimpsed the tell-tale glint of tears in No. 6's eyes, No. 7's white-knuckled fist, and No. 5, precariously balanced on tiptoe, waving with frantic energy. The massive door hinges groaned a mournful dirge, then swallowed those cherished faces whole.
*THUMP—*
The great doors sealed shut. No. 3 lingered for a beat, then drew a shuddering breath. The air, crisp and untainted, flooded his lungs—a taste of freedom so sharp it almost hurt his cheeks.
He tilted his head back, face to the sun. Unfiltered sunlight, a blinding torrent, made his eyes burn. The Sanctum's stained-glass windows perpetually leached the light, painting the world in bruised, ambiguous hues. He hadn't basked in such pure, unadulterated radiance in what felt like an eternity.
"Keep moving," an instructor's curt voice prodded from ahead.
The gold-embroidered hem of the Bishop's robe billowed before him, a gaudy banner leading the way.
No. 3 finally set his feet in motion, descending the long, moss-slicked granite steps. He trod the mountain path, each footfall sending pebbles skittering with a sharp crunch. The distant trill of a blue-winged mountain tit reached his ears. He craned his neck, searching, but saw only the thorny vines clawing at the Sanctum's outer walls, their barbed tendrils aglow with a sinister, blood-red light in the sun.
From this vantage, he realized with a jolt, their dwelling was nothing more than a monstrous cage, armored in thorns.
He quickened his pace. The rush of wind past his ears conjured the phantom rustle of turning pages – No. 7, patiently teaching him to read. He glanced down at his shadow, an elongated, distorted figure stretched out on the rugged terrain.
Rounding a jutting precipice, No. 3 stumbled. His palm scraped against the unforgiving rock, shearing off a layer of skin. A hot, stinging pain flared.
Yet, this visceral pain was an odd comfort, a brutal confirmation that this was no dream. Blood welled, beading on his wrist before dripping onto the stone, leaving dark crimson Rorschach blots that the sun quickly baked dry.
He couldn't resist one final, backward glance. The Sanctum, perched atop Penitent's Peak, loomed like the fossilized ribcage of some colossal beast, its grey-white walls stark and forbidding.
The bronze bell in the spire swayed almost imperceptibly in the wind, yet remained eerily silent. Twelve statues of saints flanked the archway, their features weathered by time into blank, accusing masks, only hollow eye sockets a_ix_ing the newcomers. Above the main portal, the statue of Jupiter brandished a thunderbolt, its tip long since snapped off, leaving a jagged, rusted iron stump—a broken sword against a hostile sky.
The Cardinal Sin Bishop, a lumbering mountain of gold brocade, led the procession. His triple chin wobbled with each surprisingly nimble step, a faint, unreadable smile playing on his lips. He remained silent, save for occasional, benign glances back at No. 3.
No. 3 planted each step with deliberate care. His shoes, still damp within, would leave deeper, more legible prints—his final service to his friends. He had to ensure his trail was unmistakable. Each footfall was a seal pressed into the earth, heavy and resonant, echoing through the silent forest.
Far below the cliff, the river, a coiling python of rust-colored water, snaked through the landscape. No. 3 paused abruptly, the glinting surface momentarily disorienting him. The instructor nudged him none too gently. "Don't lag. His Eminence awaits."
They skirted the river, arriving at a sheer cliff face at the Sanctum's rear. No. 3 kept his distance from the water, terrified his precious trail would be erased. Here, the ground was barren, grey-white rock etched with a dense network of runes—some ancient, malevolent curse.
As if materializing from the very stones, the Cardinal Sin Bishop was suddenly at his side. No. 3 hadn't even registered his approach. An enormous palm descended upon No. 3's head. The Bishop's voice was a monotone, devoid of all human warmth.
"Child, we have arrived."
A leaden weight settled in No. 3's skull. His vision warped and swam. The runes on the rocks writhed like phosphorescent maggots, intent on burrowing into his brain. He felt himself sinking, as if into the muddy, lightless depths of a river. The last thing he heard, as consciousness fragmented, was a distant, grotesquely farcical chanting of scriptures.
....
No. 7's fingers remained pressed against the unyielding wood of the door.
Only when No. 6's hand gently brushed his cheek did he realize his own face was wet, his eyes raw and swollen from weeping.
"Don't cry."
"Maybe..." No. 6 forced a watery smile, tears still shimmering in her eyes. "Maybe No. 3 will even pop back for a proper goodbye. And once we all get to the capital, we'll be together again."
"No. 7. My office needs cleaning. I'm heading out shortly." Silas's voice, abrupt and detached, sliced through the corridor's gloom. His towering form was a stark silhouette against the light, his features lost in shadow, as if No. 7's palpable grief was of no consequence.
No. 7 ducked his head and hurried away, desperate to hide his tear-ravaged face from Silas. Their relationship, once a source of comfort, now felt strained. Today, of all days, he couldn't bear to expose his vulnerability.
Pushing open the office door, he was met by a familiar scent. The aroma, usually so reassuring, now twisted like a knife in his gut. He grabbed a rag, his movements mechanical, and began to wipe down the desk.
*So… tired.*
His best friend was gone. When—or if—they'd meet again was a terrifying unknown. Everything felt alien, hostile, its edges sharpened to a razor's keenness. No. 7 sank to the floor, a deflated heap. He didn't want to leave; this small, enclosed space offered a fragile illusion of safety.
*I should have helped them. God, maybe it's not too late, even now…*
He sat, lost in a daze, for an immeasurable time before the thought of Silas's return jolted him back to a semblance of duty.
Reluctantly, he heaved himself up, massaging his numb legs, and turned to the nearby cabinet.
Suddenly, his gaze snagged, then sharpened. Atop a bookshelf, a towering stack of exam papers. A strange premonition, a sense of… rightness… uncoiled within him, that suffocating pressure in his chest easing slightly. He found himself compelled, flipping through page after page, until…
A child's scrawl crawled across the paper. Entire paragraphs were jumbled, hopelessly out of order. "Angel" had become "Heavenly Convenience." "Piety" morphed into "Money Success." And, most ludicrously, No. 3 had somehow transcribed "the glory of the god Jupiter" as "the warhorse of the god Pig Butt," even circling his masterpiece with a flourish of misplaced pride.
A strangled, hiccuping sob tore from No. 7's throat. He crushed the exam paper in his fist, the parchment a mangled wreck.
Outside, the sun bled towards the western horizon, stretching his shadow long, so very long, across the floor.
...
Back in the dormitory, No. 8 flung the door open. As he turned, his eyes held the feral gleam of a wolf.
"Most of the instructors are gone. Even that old crone Marina's not around," he hissed, his fingers tracing the raised lines of a scar on his arm.
No. 6, quick as thought, retrieved a hand-drawn map from beneath her bed slats. A relic from an accidental glimpse into Marina's office, she'd committed its salient features to memory, later sketching this rough approximation.
No. 5 dragged a ragged cloth bundle from under his bed—a pathetic stash of hoarded, dried rations.
No. 8, from his boot, produced a dinner knife, its edge honed to a wicked sharpness. The blade gleamed dully in the encroaching twilight.
"We move. Now."
No. 6 shot him an exasperated look. "A dinner knife? What are you planning to do with that? This isn't a suicide mission." No. 8 ignored her, already striding towards the exit.
The setting sun cast long, distorted shadows of the Sanctum over them. Suddenly, the bell in the church tower tolled, a sonorous, mournful sound that sent a flock of crows scattering into the air like a flung black shroud, momentarily obscuring their figures.
They waited a few more tense minutes. To their astonishment, even the patrolling instructors seemed to have vanished. No. 8 forced open a window. The night wind, thick with the reek of the river, slapped their faces.
"Remember this," No. 6's voice, suddenly hard as flint, cut through the gloom. "Whatever happens, we find No. 3. We find that Holy Covenant Platform."
Their eyes met, a silent, shared resolve. No. 8 was first out the window, a shadow melting into deeper shadows. No. 5 followed, his movements ungainly but resolute.
No. 6 cast one final, lingering look at the stark, empty dormitory. Then, drawing a deep breath, she launched herself into the waiting darkness.