A whole week passed in a fragile routine that felt like walking a tightrope over an abyss.
Every morning I had to remind myself to answer to Wren. To let the name settle on my tongue like a foreign word I was still learning to pronounce, while the shelter's rhythms became my camouflage.
Wake at dawn. Help Sister Agnes prepare breakfast for the other women. Attend morning Mass where I mouthed prayers that meant nothing to me.
No magic. No complications. No deadly hunting sisters. Perfect, right?
"Good morning, dear," Sister Agnes say, her weathered hands gentle as she handed me another task. "How are you feeling today?"
"Better, thank you," I'd reply, the same words in the same tone.
The other women in the shelter were easy enough to navigate. Most were too wrapped up in their own trauma to pay me much attention. Sarah, who'd fled with her two young children. Maria, whose husband had put her in the hospital five times. Janet, who spoke in whispers and jumped at sudden sounds.
They saw what they expected to see—another broken woman seeking sanctuary from violence. But Mikael was a problem I hadn't anticipated.
He was everywhere—overseeing the shelter's operations, leading services, counseling the frightened women who'd fled violent homes. Every day he found excuses to check on me, appearing at my elbow with that gentle concern.
"How's your side healing?" he asked on Tuesday, catching me as I folded linens in the supply closet. "Any signs of infection? Fever?"
"It's much better," I assured him, hyperaware of how the small space made him seem larger, more imposing. Gentle giant, really. "The bandages you gave me have helped tremendously."
"Good. That's good." He studied my face with those earnest brown eyes. "And you're sleeping well? Eating enough? Sister Agnes mentioned you barely touched dinner last night."
The fact that he'd noticed, that he'd asked about me, sent an uncomfortable flutter through my stomach. "I'm fine, Father Mikael. Really. You don't need to worry about me."
"It's what I'm here for, Wren. Worry comes with the territory." His smile was warm and genuine, and for a dangerous moment I almost believed he actually cared. "If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."
These pleasant conversations happened daily, sometimes twice daily, or more often.
He remembered everything I told him, paid attention to details no one else bothered with. The way I favored my left side when tired, or how I tensed when doors slammed, or which prayers I stumbled over during Mass.
I wanted to ask what made him this way—what taught a priest to watch the world like a predator or hunter, because there was definitely something sharp and watchful behind his gentle eyes. Something that didn't match the soft-spoken minister who bandaged wounds and offered comfort to broken women.
But asking would invite questions in return, and I had far too many secrets to risk that conversation.
"You know," Sarah said to me on Friday as we prepared vegetables for the evening meal, "Father Mikael asks about you a lot. I think he's sweet on you."
My knife stilled against the onion I was chopping. "He's a priest, Sarah. He's concerned about all of us."
"Maybe." She gave me a knowing look with a mischievous smile. "But he doesn't check on the rest of us several times a day. And he doesn't get that look in his eyes when Maria or Janet walk into the room."
"What look?"
"Like he's seeing something beautiful and dangerous at the same time. Like he's not sure whether to protect you or run from you." Sarah's laugh was soft but knowing. "Trust me, honey. I've been married twice, I know that look."
I changed the subject quickly, but her words followed me through the day like a persistent shadow.
The last thing I needed was complications.
The last thing I could afford was anyone paying too much attention to the woman who claimed to be Wren but sometimes forgot to answer to the name.
***
That night, sleep was impossible.
The nightmares were worse here, more vivid—my mother's voice echoing through my dreams with clinical coldness. Morgana's fire licking at my skin with phantom heat that felt terrifyingly real. Lilith’s illusions messing up with my head.
I woke up gasping, sweat-soaked and shaking, my witch-mark burning against my hip bone like a brand. The small room felt like a cage and I needed air, space, silence—something other than these four walls that seemed to be closing in.
I slipped out of my room and padded barefoot through the cathedral's vast corridors, telling myself I just needed to walk, to clear my head. The stone floors were cold against my feet, but the cathedral felt different at night.
Peaceful. Sacred, even.
I was crossing the courtyard when I heard voices—male voices speaking Latin, coming from somewhere beneath the church.
The words were muffled but distinct, and сuriosity mixed with caution warred in my chest as I followed the sound, moving silently. It led me to a door I'd never noticed before—half-hidden behind a heavy tapestry depicting Saint Michael trampling a demon.
The door was ancient, iron-bound, with hinges that looked like they'd been forged centuries ago.
Through the gap, I could see Father Atticus—the elderly Cardinal who oversaw the cathedral—leading a group of men dressed in black. They moved with military precision, carrying silver weapons that gleamed with deadly purpose in the dim light.
And one of the figures was unmistakably Mikael.
I pressed myself against the wall, barely breathing, as I watched them descend into whatever lay beneath the church. Their conversation drifted up in fragments, Latin mixed with English.
"The witch was spotted near the river three days ago," Father Atticus' grandfatherly voice carried an edge I'd never heard before. "Brother Dominic has been tracking her movements, but she's clever. More clever than we anticipated."
"What about the concealment spell?" That was Mikael's voice, and hearing him discuss magic with such casual expertise made my blood freeze. "Can we break through it?"
"Given time, yes. But we need to move quickly. The longer she remains hidden, the more dangerous she becomes. We move at dawn."
The words crystallized in my mind with terrible clarity.
Witch-hunters.
This cathedral wasn't just a church—it was a headquarters. A base of operations for the very Order my mother planned to destroy. And I'd been hiding among witch-hunters, sleeping in their shelter, accepting kindness from a man who would kill me if he knew what I was.
I should have been horrified, should have been paralyzed with terror. Yet, I found myself cataloging everything I could see and hear, filing away details with the automatic efficiency.
The Order of the Silver Cross. I'd heard references in the coven, contemptuous remarks from my mother about "the hunters who think they can challenge us." They'd existed for centuries, dedicated to exterminating witchkind…
And Mikael was one of them.
Kind, gentle Mikael, who bandaged my wounds and asked about my appetite and looked at me like I mattered.
At the bottom of the stairs, Mikael paused and looked up. For one heart-stopping moment, I thought he'd seen me. Our eyes met through the gap in the door, and I swear I saw a suspicion flicker in his expression.
Then Father Atticus said something sharp and urgent, and Mikael turned away, vanishing into the darkness below with the rest of the hunters.
I fled back to my room on silent feet, my heart hammering so hard I was certain it would wake the entire shelter. I locked the door and sat on the narrow bed with my knees drawn to my chest.
My mind raced through everything I knew, fitting pieces together with horrible clarity.
The way Mikael moved with predatory grace. The watchfulness behind his gentle eyes. His skill with medical supplies, the practiced efficiency with which he'd treated my wounds.
He wasn't just a priest who happened to know basic first aid.
He was a warrior trained to hunt and kill creatures like me.
As dawn crept through the small window and painted the room in shades of gold and gray, I felt something unexpected unfurl in my chest: opportunity.
My mother was coming for me, my sisters were hunting me—I had nowhere to run and no one to trust. But if I could embed myself here, in a way the coven would never suspect… I might survive.
What better hiding place than the last place any witch would look?
What better protection than the very hunters sworn to destroy her?
A plan began to form in my mind, dangerous and desperate but beautifully, ironically perfect.
I'd need to get closer to them. I'd need to earn their trust. I'd need to make myself indispensable to someone powerful enough to shield me when the truth finally came out.
The weapon my family wanted to use for genocide might just find salvation among their intended victims.