I remain silent, letting her choose how much to offer.
She draws in a measured breath. “We were raised to obey, above all things. The Good Book was law. We devoted every minute of every day of our lives to prayer, scripture study, understanding doctrine, and worship.” Her jaw tightens. “And then like this”—she snaps her fingers softly—“it all changed.”
Her gaze drifts briefly to the stone wall, as though she’s seeing something beyond it. “I need to know if what I originally believed was the lie, or if this is.” She points at the second page. “Have I strayed from the path by design, or was I never set upon the right one to begin with?”
Her shoulders square subtly, as though bracing against old memories. “We were trained young. Discipline. Ritual. Silence. Every woman in the Order learned to endure discomfort without complaint. You don’t survive in a monastery by being soft.”
I study her more carefully now.
The way she holds herself. The economy of her movements. The readiness beneath her stillness. It all makes sense.
“And the hidden texts?” I ask. “How many were permitted to see them?”
“Very few,” she answers. “Those deemed… spiritually resilient. Only the ones who excelled in their studies.”
Her lips press together.
“Or useful.”
That sends a flicker of unease through my chest. There’s more there. As if to prove my point, her aura darkens at the edges, emotion bleeding through despite her effort to contain it. I’m afraid to press her for details.
“Many of those spiritually resilient souls, or the useful women inside my Order, died so that I could be here today. So that I could find a way to ensure humanity endures. Whether that’s wrong or right according to some long-dead man, I no longer care, because it feels right to me. I know it’s what I must do. And not just humanity, but this place, the life inside of it, the small miracles he created ages ago and forgot about. The beauty found in everything that breathes life.”
She rises from the bed and takes a slow step toward me, stopping just outside arm’s reach. The space between us tightens, charged with something neither of us names.
“You talk about probability,” she says quietly. “About outcomes and trajectories.”
Her eyes lift to mine.
“But you don’t talk about cost. About the value of a human life. Or any life, be it the life inside a single flower, a rose bush, a small fish inside the vast ocean, or one tree within a mountain region filled with them.”
I don’t answer immediately. Instead, I study her beauty. The value of this life, this woman standing before me, and how, more than anything else, I feel the cost at this moment of what it would mean to lose even a moment with her.
“Those are vastly different things.”
“But each is a life,” she counters. “Each is a connected thread in the world He created. They exist because of Him. And whether that power is needed or not, He can’t simply siphon it away through you to do as He pleases.”
“He can.”
“No.” She shakes her head adamantly, countering my statement. “I won’t let Him. I refuse to watch the beauty of this world be erased.” Her voice steadies as she continues. “God’s love for His creations should be unending. It should not be conditional. Just as a mother’s love is not conditional—His shouldn’t be either.”
Then, more quietly, as if the words are for herself as much as for me, she says, “Mercy is possible. We can go on with or without Him. He has enough power to create other worlds. He does not get to take what’s here.”
“Eridessa,” I begin. “That’s not?—”
Her voice drops.
“I’ll find a way.”
Something shifts inside me.
Not hope.
Recognition.
Resolve tempered by compassion.
Danger sharpened by belief.
