The bakery near the edge of the cathedral quarter was modest—weather-worn shutters, a faded awning, and a crooked wooden sign that read "Thera's Loaves." Most priests never walked this far. Too much snow. Too many commoners. But Lucien wasn't most priests.
He entered quietly, the warm scent of bread rushing to meet him. For a brief moment, the cold knots inside him loosened.
"Lucien!" Thera called from behind the counter, flour dusting her cheeks like snowflakes. She was well into her forties, back bent from years of kneading dough, but her eyes still smiled like they used to.
"I saved the last sweet roll for you," she added, sliding a warm parcel across the wood.
Lucien offered a soft smile. "You always do."
"You've been looking thinner," she said, frowning as she wiped her hands on her apron. "They're not feeding you well at the church, are they?"
"It's not hunger that thins me," he said with a quiet chuckle, accepting the roll.
She didn't press. Just patted his hand gently. "You've always carried more weight in your eyes than your shoulders."
He paused, that same warmth turning heavy in his chest. Kindness. It was rare. Dangerous.
He couldn't let it anchor him.
"I won't forget this," he said, more to himself than to her.
---
Later, at the Cathedral Grounds
The courtyards were busy with preparation. Winter sermons drew more pilgrims, and the Church made sure the square looked divine—banners stitched in gold, frozen fountains thawed with firestones, acolytes scrubbing the marble steps until their fingers went raw.
Lucien passed them like a shadow, unseen. He watched, studied. Not the servants. Not the saints.
The structures.
Stone walls. Hidden gates. Which paths were too open, which doors never locked.
He paused by a statue of Saint Rael, the 'Shield of Heaven.' The inscription read "He stood tall even when angels wept."
Lucien stared at it for a moment, then whispered, "Let's see if they weep again."
---
Back in the Dormitory
Sera approached him after evening prayer.
"You didn't eat dinner," she said.
"I had something better," he replied, pulling a sweet roll from his satchel.
Her eyes lit up. "Thera's?"
He nodded, tore it in half, and handed her a piece.
She hesitated. "You're in a good mood today."
"Am I?"
"You're humming."
Lucien blinked. He hadn't noticed.
"Well," he said, "someone reminded me what kindness tastes like."
She smiled faintly, watching him. "You're hard to figure out, you know."
"That's the idea."
---
The Confessional Hall, Midnight
Most confessions were lies.
People confessed what they were willing to admit—not what haunted them. But tonight, Lucien wasn't here for honesty. He was here for access.
He crouched behind the old pulpit, lifted the rug, and pried open a hidden panel in the floor.
Inside was a crawlspace—one he'd discovered weeks ago, used by the original architects for maintenance. It led beneath the main chapel, right up to the altar.
Lucien dropped into it silently, heart calm, mind racing.
He'd need it soon.
Not for escape.
For arrival.
---
End of chapter 11