With a final tired hiss that sounded like a sigh, the bus came to a stop. As if it too knew it would've been better not to let her off here. The door swung open, and rain came pouring down in thick, cold drops as if the sky had decided that cleansing didn't have to be gentle.

  Lia got off. Not slowly, not hesitantly, but the way you step off when you don't want anyone to think you regret it. The backpack on her shoulders was heavy, but it felt lighter than it had in the past few months. Her boots sank slightly into the softened ground.

  The bus drove off without a sound. No wave. No glance back. Just the red taillights disappearing between the trees, like the last traces of a time that no longer mattered.

  And suddenly, it was just her.

  She stood on a narrow road in the middle of nowhere, framed by trees too old to seem friendly. Their shadows stretched across the moss-covered asphalt-like fingers. Branches rustled above her, and in the distance – barely audible – a bell rang. Slowly. Heavily.

  Lia took a deep breath. The air tasted like wet stone and old iron.

  She pulled her hood tighter over her head and walked because there was no other direction. Every step echoed dully on the narrow path leading through the woods. The silence wasn't empty – it was filled with noises that shouldn't be there. Rustling too even. Drops that never fully fell. The feeling of being watched, but only from the corners of her eyes.

  She knew that feeling.

  Since she was eleven. Since that damn letter, her father had tried to hide. Since the first vision, when she couldn't tell if she was awake or dreaming. Her father had tried to pray it away. Drink it away. And in the end, he just sent her away.

  "For your own safety," he had said. But in his eyes, there had only been relief.

  "You scare me, Lia."

  She didn't hate him. Not really. But she wasn't going to think about him anymore. Not today. Not here.

  The forest grew denser, the fog thicker. And then she saw it – not as a whole, but first just a line. A wall of stone, moss-covered, old. Then: towers, reaching up like broken fingers into the gray sky.

  A fa?ade of dark stone, entwined with vines, like something drawn. Windows – tall and narrow – like watchful eyes.

  The monastery.

  And suddenly, she didn't know if she was shaking because of the cold – or because this was more than she'd expected.

  It wasn't just a place. It was a boundary. Between what she was. And what she could become.

  The gate stood open. Not inviting – but still. Heavy and old. Made of dark iron, with fine scrollwork that up close looked like scratch marks. No welcome sign. No indication. Just the sound of her footsteps, echoing dully on the stones as she passed through.

  The fog had gathered on the ground like a flowing skin. Above it, the air was clear, but cold, like the sky was watching her. In front of her lay a narrow paved path, lined with tall, gnarled trees. Lia stopped.

  The building was bigger than she'd expected. Not a monastery in the classic sense. It had towers, yes, and windows with pointed arches, looking like they could tell stories if you stared long enough. But it had been modernized, at least partially. Like they tried to reconcile the sacred with the present, and then gave up halfway.

  The right wing was bright, and plastered, with smooth glass facades, while the main structure seemed to grow dark and weathered out of the rock. The back dropped off into a jagged cliff leading to nothing.

  The sea wasn't visible, but she could hear its roar – deep, steady, like a massive, comforting breath.

  "Lia Glover?"

  The voice came from the left. She turned around.

  The woman had been nearly invisible – dressed in gray, with too-smooth hair in a bun and a gaze that registered everything but gave nothing away. Sister Mireille. That's what it said in the one official letter they'd sent her after she'd accepted. Coordinator. Supervisor. Or whatever that was.

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  Lia nodded. "That's me."

  Mireille studied her. Not unfriendly – but not interested either. More like a doctor inspecting a wound without yet saying whether it could heal.

  "You're late."

  "The bus was on time. I wasn't."

  A quick flick of Mireille's left eyebrow. At least something.

  She motioned for her to follow.

  They crossed the courtyard in silence. A few other people rushed past – in black, in white, in gray. No words. No eye contact. They all seemed busy. Or busy pretending to be.

  Lia felt the weight of the building. Not physically – but differently. Like something lived here, keeping itself just below the surface. It wasn't evil. But it wasn't good either. It was old. And old things had their own rules.

  They passed a small courtyard where a statue stood – an angel without a mouth, broken wings, gaze downcast. From afar, voices could be heard singing. Latin. Polyphonic. Crystal clear.

  "The morning mass," Mireille said flatly. "You'll be shown to your quarters soon."

  "I'm looking forward to it." But she got no reaction.

  They entered the main hall. High ceilings. Stained glass windows cast colorful shadows. Wall niches with candles flickering, even though there was no breeze. Mireille stopped before a door, knocked once, and then opened it without waiting.

  "Come in."

  Lia stepped inside – and stopped again. The room was small but bright. A kind of reception room, bare, sterile. Two men stood there. One was old, with white hair, a thin face, and glasses. He looked like a professor from another time, but his eyes were sharper than the entire village Lia grew up in. This must be Benedict.

  The other man – no, the other guy – was leaning against a pillar, as though he were doing the room a favor by even being there. Dark curls fell onto his face. A leather jacket, though this place was clearly about robes and chastity. And a smile that made her either want to smile back or punch him.

  "Is this her?" He grinned. "The greenhorn?"

  Lia immediately scrunched her nose. Benedict gave her a brief nod. "Welcome to the Monastery of Astoria. I'm Father Benedict. You'll soon understand how things work around here."

  "I thought nothing worked here," Lia replied.

  The guy on the pillar laughed quietly. "I like you already."

  "Doesn't go both ways," Lia shot back without hesitation. She was tired and frozen, and that was the last thing she needed. If he thought he could intimidate her, he'd be in for a surprise.

  "Ezra," Benedict said sternly, not looking up. "Enough."

  Ezra raised his hands in mock surrender but kept grinning. The movement came into the room. A third figure emerged from the opposite wall, one Lia hadn't noticed before.

  He was tall, with smooth, thick, dark blonde hair that fell easily to his neck. His cheekbones were sharp, lips full but serious. His skin was so pale it almost looked like ivory.

  He wore black – no uniform, but something like it. The fabric was too plain to be flashy, but too expensive to be a coincidence. He didn't speak. But his eyes – a deep, dark blue with a light in them that wasn't human – stayed on her too long.

  Lia held his gaze. It was a mistake. It was like staring into a memory that wasn't hers.

  Then he turned away. She felt her heart suddenly racing uncontrollably. "This is Maliel," Benedict said calmly. "One of our Elders."

  "He doesn't talk much, huh?"

  "If you knew what he is thinking," Ezra murmured. Benedict moved to the window and pulled back the curtain. The view opened up to the whole grounds, the terraces clinging to the rocks, the individual towers, the old cloister cutting like a scar through the heart of the monastery.

  "You need to understand, Lia," he said, "that this is no ordinary place. We call it a convent, yes. But in reality, it's a transition."

  "A transition to where?"

  "Back," he said pointing upward. And his voice changed, becoming deeper, carried by something older than he was. "This is the only convent where fallen angels can repent." He continued, "Those who fell in the war against God. For love, for anger, for jealousy. Some are lost. Others want to return. But the way is blocked." He turned toward her. "Unless they purify themselves. Earn it. Conquer what they once let loose."

  "So you guys catch the bad little angels?"

  Ezra snorted. "Bad is relative. But yeah, we hunt our brothers."

  ?And for... what? Do they get to go back to heaven?"

  "Maybe," Benedict said. "If they show remorse for their sins. But hope is better fuel than despair." Lia frowned. "And what am I doing here? I'm not an angel."

  "No," Benedict said. "You're something else." Mireille stepped closer. "She needs to be examined."

  "Of course." Benedict nodded. "Take her to Sister Ambra. Then we'll show her to her quarters." Ezra stepped forward. "I'll handle it."

  Mireille gave him a sharp look. "You're not assigned."

  "I'm always down to help out."

  "You're annoying."

  "Excuse me? I'm charming."

  Benedict raised his hand. "Enough. Go with her. But behave for gods sake." Ezra winked. Lia sighed. This could get interesting.

  As they walked through the halls, Lia let her eyes wander. The floor was dark stone, worn and uneven, with fine engravings in some spots – runes, Latin verses, symbols she didn't recognize. Between the heavy, iron-bound doors hung tapestries: angels with swords, women with wings of flame, demons with golden eyes. It wasn't a museum – but it felt like a temple that had forgotten itself.

  "Like it?" Ezra asked after a while as they climbed a spiral staircase. "It smells like incense and guilt." He grinned. "Come on."

  "What are you, anyway? Another penitent?"

  "Maybe." He looked at her like he wanted to know how much she could see. "I, uh... kinda got caught with my hand in the cookie jar."

  She didn't say anything. But she could feel the abyss hidden beneath his laid-back attitude, one she didn't even want to name.

  At the end of the hallway, he held open a door "Welcome to your new home, puck."

  She stepped inside, surprised.

  The loft was small but modern. Light wood. A narrow desk, a window with a view of the sea. The sky was gray, the water churned below. The silence was thick, but not empty.

  She stepped onto the balcony. Leaned against the cold railing. Somewhere far below, seagulls sang "Wasn't there supposed to be an exam?" she said without turning.

  Ezra was suddenly beside her, handing her a cigarette, already lit. "Let's skip it today. Hope you're not contagious."

  She looked down; Maliel stood frozen in the courtyard, staring at her.

  "This could get interesting," she murmured, taking a deep drag from the cigarette.