Every word No. 1 uttered dripped with sincerity, each phrase seemingly torn from the very fabric of his soul.
Yet, gazing into his eyes, even bathed in the innocuous morning light, No. 6 felt an insidious chill snake down her spine.
She fought down a wave of revulsion, letting out a soft sigh, as if a dam of unspoken frustrations was about to burst.
"I yearn to speak with my parents again," she confessed, her voice a carefully constructed blend of longing and despair. "And to reach the Most Holy Sanctuary, to touch a faith untainted… but… I'm adrift. I don't know which way to turn."
No. 1's smile broadened, a disturbing hint of gratification glinting within its depths.
He leaned forward, his voice a conspiratorial caress, the very model of an empathetic elder. His finger tapped the table with sharp emphasis. "To see such an awakening in you, No. 6, brings me great joy. Loyalty, naturally, is paramount. But eagerness to learn? That is the truer virtue."
No. 6 sculpted her expression into one of rapt anticipation, awaiting his next words. She could feel his gaze raking over her, an almost palpable assessment, as if he were appraising a priceless, undiscovered gem.
"A future course, you see… will impart the sacred tongue of 'Resonance'." His tongue flicked against his palate, producing a peculiar, wet trill, a sound that seemed to catch in his throat. It was utterly alien to normal human speech, more akin to the rasping, phlegmy cough of a dying old man.
"It is the very language of communion with God."
"The language to speak with God?" she breathed, widening her eyes, her voice a symphony of awe reserved for a revered scholar.
Truthfully, she had no clue what use this 'Resonance' might serve, only a prickling unease at its sudden, ominous introduction.
No. 1's smile tightened, retracting slightly. He produced a slim, leather-bound booklet from the folds of his tunic. "Fortuitous, indeed. I happen to have my notes."
The moment her eyes fell upon the densely packed, writhing symbols, No. 6 had to physically suppress a bark of laughter. The contorted, alien lines were sickeningly similar to the runes they'd painstakingly copied from the cliff face.
"This… uh… *this* is Resonance?"
"Mere rudimentary characters," he demurred. "The true depth is far greater. Of course, should you wish to learn, I could instruct you in some basic vocalisations now. My dormitory offers more… seclusion. If your heart is truly set on this path, you have but to follow me."
No. 6's gaze darted to the dining hall's far corner. No. 5 and No. 8 were still studiously absorbed in their meal. She drew a deep, steadying breath, then flashed a smile that could have outshone the sun. "That would be wonderful!"
The corridor beyond was unusually dim, steeped in shadow. No. 1 moved with a swift, unnervingly light tread; No. 6 found herself almost jogging to keep pace. No. 5 and No. 8 shot her bewildered, questioning glances. A quick, urgent gesture from No. 6, and they scrambled to follow.
...........
No. 7 mechanically turned page after ancient page. The exams were a blessedly distant memory; he'd hoped for a long reprieve from this hallowed, dusty prison. Alas, man proposes, and the universe, it seemed, had other, crueler plans.
The library was a cavern of silence, populated only by him and No. 4. The frantic rustle of their turning pages was the loudest, most discordant note in the vast emptiness.
"What in the blazes *is* this stuff?" No. 4 grumbled, raking a hand through his hair, his brow a knot of frustration. "These symbols… they crawl like maggots. And not a single damned hint on pronunciation!" For all his aversion to outdoor escapades, the library seemed to invigorate him.
No. 7 idly plucked at a few loose strands of his own hair. The "Origin of Ancient Tongues," lying open before him, presented characters almost identical to their rubbings, yet the accompanying explanations were maddeningly opaque.
"'Resonance cannot be birthed by the human throat; one must resonate the cavities with Qi, guiding the form with spirit'." He attempted to mimic the described technique, focusing his Tidal Force into his larynx, only to erupt in a fit of harsh coughs.
"Look! I found this!" No. 4 slid "Secret Records of Sanctuary Architecture" across the scarred wooden desk.
A crude diagram adorned the yellowed page: a circular, hidden chamber, its perimeter marked with numerous runic nodes. Tiny script beside it elaborated: "Requires infusion of Tidal Force into specific nodes, augmented by the correct pass-phrase, to unseal."
A jolt of electricity shot through No. 7. The description was a near-perfect match for the runic array they'd discovered on the cliff!
No. 4 leaned in, his voice a conspiratorial whisper. No. 7, straining to hear, inclined his head. "So, you're saying… those runes aren't a lock at all, but… keyholes? We just need to find the right…"
"Shh." No. 7's hand shot up, cutting No. 4 off mid-sentence. His gaze was fixed on the shadowed depths at the end of the towering bookshelf.
There, a tall figure stood, a silent sentinel. How long had he been watching?
It was Silas. In the dim, filtered light, his blue eyes were chips of glacial ice. A rough, untamed stubble shadowed his jaw, his uniform creased and rumpled, as if slept in.
No. 4 yelped, startled so badly he nearly toppled from his chair.
Silas remained motionless, save for a languid lift of his hand, a single finger crooking to beckon No. 4. No. 4 shot a panicked glance at No. 7, who offered the barest, almost imperceptible nod.
"I… I'll just… head back then," No. 4 stammered, clutching his books, and bolted, vanishing in a blur.
Silas waited a beat before advancing, his steps heavy, a distinct lurch in his gait. The acrid reek of alcohol preceded him—not the palatable wine of the refectory, but the raw, caustic spirit from the church cellars, reserved for sterilization. The fumes alone were enough to make one's throat clench.
"What are you searching for?" Silas's voice was thick, the words slurring at the edges.
No. 7 didn't respond immediately. He'd noticed the unnatural tremor in Silas's hands, the knuckles raw and bloodied, as if he'd recently vented his fury on something unyielding.
"I'm… learning Resonance," No. 7 finally said, his voice carefully neutral. "I believe I heard it mentioned once… a sacred language. It piqued my interest."
A harsh, dry laugh ripped from Silas's chest. "Sacred?" he echoed, his gaze momentarily losing focus, drifting. "Oh, yes. Sacred indeed… God's long dead, yet they cobble together this… this *gibberish* and claim it's the divine tongue."
No. 7's entire body went rigid. This was a Silas he didn't recognize—this eternally composed, unshakeable man, now so terrifyingly unmoored.
"Silas… do you know what these symbols mean?" No. 7 ventured, testing the treacherous waters.
Silas didn't answer. His gaze fell upon the "Origin of Ancient Tongues" spread open before No. 7. With a sudden, violent movement, he slammed the book shut. *Thwack*.
"Don't learn it," he snarled. "Not one accursed word. It's garbage, spewed by arrogant fools who fancy themselves gods among men. No one else can decipher it, let alone speak it. *Hiccup*."
A ragged hiccup escaped him. His eyes, though unfocused, held a new, sharp glint of derision.
"And then… then *they* dictate what the doctrine is. *They* decide when God issues a command. Utter. Bullshit."
No. 7 stared, aghast. Never had he heard Silas utter such profound blasphemy against the Church. His eyes darted around the empty library, a wild thought of dragging Silas off to sober him up flashing through his mind.
Silas collapsed into No. 4's vacated seat with a resounding thud—a force so potent, No. 7 mused grimly, the chair itself must have been divinely blessed to withstand it. He slumped back, his gaze boring into No. 7.
"I don't believe I ever told you," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rasp. "I used to be No. 7 too."