6.3 miles Northwest, Thursday, April 26th, 6:45 p.m. CET — Village of Temú
Loconda moved through the village, the uneven cobblestone streets whispering beneath her careful steps. The town square opened before her, dominated by the solemn presence of a statue she didn’t recognize. She glanced down at her candle: the flame burned steady and bright yellow, the wax barely melting. A small, satisfied smirk crossed her lips. She was doing well. But as the thought settled, so did an uneasy pang in her chest. Bliss’s candle had been shrinking far too fast. Was she struggling? Had it gone out completely? Loconda pushed the worry aside, but it lingered at the edges of her mind, shadowing her quiet triumph.
Her gaze shifted away from the flickering light, and the world around her resumed its steady motion. She passed by small shops, their windows glinting under the afternoon sun, their displays of cured meats, fresh bread, and delicate trinkets enticing passersby. As she maneuvered through the crowd, she crossed paths with an old woman pushing a cart of fruit. The woman paused and smiled warmly.
“Che bel vestito,” she said, admiring Loconda’s outfit.
“Grazie,” Loconda replied with a smile, unsure of exactly what she was thanking the woman for, but still feeling the warmth of the compliment nonetheless.
With a soft nod, she continued on her way, the faint scent of fresh bread in the air. But as she moved forward, her attention shifted again—something had changed. A thin wisp of blue appeared at the tip of her candle’s flame. She frowned, slowing her steps. The wax, which had barely melted just moments ago, was now dripping faster than before. A spike of unease pricked at her. She quickened her pace, but the flame abruptly leaned in the opposite direction, as if pulled by an unseen force.
She hesitated. Was this a mistake? She watched, waiting, but the flame deepened into a full, unnatural blue and burned faster. Loconda swallowed, turning back the way she had come, heart pounding.
As she reentered the square, a sharp cry broke through the ambient chatter. She turned just in time to see the old woman stumble, her cart tipping over. Apples, oranges, and pears rolled wildly across the cobblestones. The woman winced, struggling to get up.
Without hesitation, Loconda set her candle on a nearby windowsill and rushed to the old woman’s side. “Are you okay?” she asked, gently helping her into a chair outside a café. Behind her, a figure moved quietly through the crowd—a monk cloaked in dark robes. With deliberate steps, he weaved through the people, drawing closer to Loconda’s candle. As he reached the small window, he paused just inches away, his hand rising in a fluid motion. With practiced ease, he waved it over the flame, and in an instant, the light was snuffed out without a sound. His task complete, the monk blended back into the crowd, vanishing seamlessly as if he had never existed.
Loconda gathered the scattered fruit, returning each one to the cart. The old woman smiled gratefully. “Grazie, ragazza mia. My son is coming. I’ll just wait here.”
Loconda nodded, relieved the woman would be okay. But when she turned to retrieve her candle, a chill ran through her. As her gaze fell upon the windowsill, her breath caught in her throat. The flame was gone.
A crushing weight settled in her chest. No. No, no, no. This was the only task she had to complete. Keep the flame alive. That was all.
Loconda slumped into the chair beside the old woman, fingers trembling as she pulled the church’s envelope from her pocket. A single tear escaped down her cheek, landing on the paper. Her stomach churned as she opened it. Inside, there was no reprimand, no note of failure: only a small red flyer.
“La Stufa Rossa,” she read aloud, her eyes lingering on the words above a photo of a restaurant, alone on a hill. She flipped the flyer over, revealing handwritten directions that guided the way.
The old woman peered at the flyer and brightened. “Ah! Il mio preferito.” She patted Loconda’s hand. “Order the Casoncelli alla Bresciana. Trust me, sarà una consolazione.” Her eyes flicked to the directions, and she shook her head, pointing at them “No, no. These won’t do,” she said with a knowing smile. “There’s an easier route. Fewer turns. Trust me, you’ll save time.”
Loconda nodded, absorbing the new instructions, though her thoughts were heavy with the burden of her task. As she rose to leave, the crushing realization of failure loomed over her. Her candle was out. What would that mean for her now? With a heart weighed down by uncertainty, she walked toward La Stufa Rossa, the flyer clenched tightly in her hand, her mind swirling with apprehension.
6.2 miles Southeast, 6:59 p.m. CET — Serenity Hall, First Floor, Northern Wing, Monastery of the Eternal Light, Adamello Mountain
Father Roche and Monsignor Altomare descended to the first floor of the northern wing, stepping into a dimly lit corridor. The hallway was eerily quiet, save for the soft glow of scattered lamps. Prayer rooms, lounges, and study areas lined the walls, their doors shut in solemn stillness. Framed portraits of past and present sisters watched over them, their gazes frozen in time.
As they walked, they spotted a staircase in the center of the hall, but it was the second staircase at the far end that made them pause. Exchanging a glance, Roche subtly gestured toward it. “That’s the one,” he murmured, recalling the sister’s note.
Altomare gave a slight nod of approval and pulled out his notebook. Without another word, they set off toward the far end of the hall.
As they moved through the corridor, Monsignor Altomare began to jot down notes in his journal.
“What are you writing?” Father Roche asked, glancing over.
“I think it would be wise to keep a daily record of major events,” Altomare replied. “It should save us time later when we transcribe our findings into statements for the Vatican.”
Roche smiled and nodded. A practical approach.
The men were mere feet from the staircase when a sharp voice broke the silence.
“Hold it right there!”
Turning, they saw a tall nun, arms crossed and face stern, standing several paces away.
“Do my eyes deceive me, or are there two men in the west wing, headed toward the women’s quarters after hours?” she asked, closing the distance with each step.
Monsignor Altomare stammered something unintelligible, clearly flustered.
Father Roche, however, remained composed. With a respectful nod, he greeted the nun, “Good evening, Sister.” He then calmly retrieved an investigator’s badge from his pocket and explained, “I’m Father Elias Roche, and this is my colleague, Monsignor Vittorio Altomare. We’ve been sent by the Vatican to conduct an investigation regarding matters of great significance to the church.”
The nun drew closer; her sharp gaze fixed on the badge. She was an imposing figure: tall, athletic, and in her late 30s—dressed in a gray habit, a silver cross resting against her chest, and a black veil.
Roche, intrigued by her attire, tilted his head. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that color combination before. What order are you with?”
She studied him for a moment before answering, her tone measured. “The Order of the Visitation of Holy Mary.”
Roche’s face softened slightly. “Ah, yes. I’ve worked with your order before. I was in Annecy last December for the funeral of Mother Superior Mariette Dubois, a well-respected sister of the Visitation.”
The name seemed to resonate with the nun, and she relaxed, her expression softening. “Yes, I tried to attend her funeral,” she said with a hint of regret. “But the weather was too severe for any flights to depart.” She paused for a moment, as though reflecting on her unfulfilled intention, before recrossing her arms.
Father Roche nodded in understanding. “Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you. May I ask your name, if you don’t mind?”
The nun met his gaze. “Sister Geneviève Lemoine.”
Monsignor Altomare scribbled her name in his notebook.
She continued, “I’m a Sub-Prioress here. I wasn’t aware of any investigation taking place.” She paused, her tone shifting to a hint of uncertainty. “But I’m still fairly new here, only about six months in, so I haven’t had time to keep up with everything that goes on around the monastery.”
Father Roche offered a reassuring smile. “Understandable. Well, we’re aware of the time restrictions on male occupants in the women’s hall, but we’re heading to the prayer tower to speak with a witness who has expressed concerns that could prove crucial to our investigation. While I’m unable to divulge the specifics at this time, there will likely be an announcement tomorrow outlining the key details of our mission here.”
Sister Lemoine’s skepticism lingered, her lips parted as if she were about to ask a pointed question. But before she could speak, a piercing scream echoed up from the staircase, followed by a shriek of pure agony. All three of them froze, the air thick with shock and tension.
Sister Lemoine rushed toward the stairs without a word, with Monsignor Altomare close behind her. Father Roche, however, remained rooted in place, a creeping unease crawling up his spine. The air around them had shifted unnaturally—an unmistakable sign of resonance.
“Get away from the stairs!” Father Roche shouted urgently.
But it was too late.
As Lemoine and Altomare reached the foot of the staircase, they looked up to see a wall of flame hurtling down the steps, crashing toward them with terrifying speed. They froze, momentarily paralyzed by the sheer force of the fire. With a swift motion, Father Roche extended his hands, causing the air around them to hum with energy. Then a powerful, unseen force lifted Lemoine and Altomare off their feet and hurled their bodies out of the flames’ deadly path. But there was no time for Father Roche to escape the fire’s deadly reach. The searing heat slammed into him like a physical blow, the force of the flames overwhelming, burning through his resolve as the flames enveloped him.
Lemoine and Altomare watched in horror as Father Roche was thrown back, consumed by the blaze.
“Elias!” Altomare screamed as the flames continued to explode from the staircase, blasting across the hall like a fiery dragon unleashed.
But then, as the flames finally began to subside, a tense, heavy silence fell over the hall. Smoke lingered in the air, curling through the stillness. Slowly, through the haze, Father Roche staggered forward, his clothes charred, his face grim, yet alive. Sweat poured down his brow as he pushed through the pain, his breath ragged but steady. He had taken the brunt of the blast, but the force of his resonance had kept him standing.
Father Roche wiped a hand across his soot-covered face, his breath labored but steady. He looked down at Lemoine and Altomare, his gaze steady despite the burning ache in his limbs. “Are you both alright?” he asked, his voice low, surprisingly calm given the chaos that had just erupted around them.
Sister Lemoine blinked, still stunned. “We’re fine… but why are you asking about us?” Her voice betrayed her disbelief, her eyes flicking to the scorched remnants of Father Roche’s clothing.
Monsignor Altomare, still frozen in shock, suddenly snapped out of his stupor, his mind piecing things together with alarming clarity. His brow furrowed as he eyed Roche, realization creeping into his expression. “Wait a minute…” he muttered, voice rising in disbelief. “You— You’re a resonance user?”
Before Roche could respond, a strange sensation filled the space, an unnatural shift in the air, familiar yet different from before. Father Roche’s posture subtly changed, his body coiling like a spring. Then, without warning, he exploded into motion. His figure blurred as he shot up the staircase with terrifying speed, leaving a gust of wind in his wake that scattered ash and dust down the hall. Lemoine and Altomare stood frozen, eyes wide, mouths agape as they watched the old man vanish around the corner, leaving them in stunned silence on the floor.
6.3 miles Northwest, 7:17 p.m. CET — Village of Temú
Loconda trudged forward, each step feeling heavier than the last. The flyer, now crumpled and stained with tears, was clutched in one hand. In her other hand the candle swayed with its flame extinguished like a useless reminder of her failure. It had once burned brightly, but now it was nothing but a hollow wick, a symbol of her shattered confidence.
She couldn’t stop the cascade of thoughts, each one a bitter reminder of how she had failed. How could I be so stupid? she thought, berating herself over and over. I should have kept the candle with me, always in sight. Why did I leave it on that windowsill? Why did I think it would be okay?
David’s words rang in her mind, echoing like a warning bell she’d ignored. Stay alert, stay on guard. She’d had that brief, arrogant confidence, hadn’t she? She’d watched Bliss’s candle shrink, knowing—knowing—hers was still strong. You’re an idiot, Loconda.
The tears that had been threatening to fall finally spilled over. Her chest tightened as the weight of her failure pressed down on her, suffocating her from the inside out. This wasn’t just about the candle. This was about her future, everything she had been working toward. What now? The thought loomed like an insurmountable mountain.
She had been so sure of herself. Now, with the flicker of her candle extinguished, it felt as though the very foundation of her life had crumbled. Her thoughts spiraled, drifting to the only other person who seemed to care about her—Vivian Gior. Would she still care if her resonance was gone? What if she only cared about her because of it? Or worse… what if she only cared because of her connection to her aunt Acadia? The thought churned in her stomach like bitter acid. The dark pit inside her only seemed to deepen as the sounds of the village faded away.
When she reached the fork in the road that led to La Stufa Rossa, the sign in the distance was like a cruel punch to her gut. She stopped, unable to move for a moment, and then the floodgates opened. Her heart broke with the realization that this was it. This was where her journey ended. She would never study fashion; she wouldn’t even be able to finish the test. She couldn’t even keep a simple candle alive. What was she even doing here?
The laughter and music floating out from the restaurant only deepened her sense of isolation. She wiped her eyes roughly with the back of her hand, trying to force a smile as she straightened her shoulders. She couldn’t show them weakness, not now. Not when everything was slipping away.
Taking a deep breath, she walked through the door, and immediately, the noise of the restaurant enveloped her. The cheerful chatter and clinking glasses created a dizzying contrast to the weight of her own thoughts. The space was old, but with a modern touch: a wood-fired pizza oven stood proudly at one end, the scent of melting cheese and baked dough making her stomach growl against her will. The warm, rustic atmosphere was offset by sleek, contemporary touches: smooth wooden tables with minimalist decor, and a bar area where villagers gathered in clusters, laughing and enjoying themselves.
The moment she entered, the room erupted into applause. Cheers filled the air, and she felt an overwhelming wave of confusion crash over her as she stood frozen in the doorway. People from all corners of the room turned to look at her, some raising their glasses, others clapping enthusiastically. They all seemed to know who she was, but Loconda couldn’t understand why.
Then, through the crowd, she spotted Sister Nachtigall sitting at a table in the back, a large glass of cider held high in one hand, waving her over. A smile tugged at Loconda’s lips despite herself, but the feeling was fleeting. She moved through the crowd, the warmth of people’s hands clapping her back doing little to quell the storm of emotion inside her.
When Loconda reached the table, she was taken aback to find Bliss sitting there, happily munching on a breadstick. Beside her was one of the boys from the church who had also taken part in the challenge. He had an air of quiet resolve about him, mysterious yet oddly charming. Loconda slid into the seat across from Bliss, her gaze drifting to the other participants, who had their candles placed neatly on the table. Still in a daze, she set her own candle carefully in front of her and glanced at Bliss, who was beaming at her with a silly grin.
Confused, Loconda shot her a questioning look. Bliss opened her mouth to speak, but with her mouth full, she instead waved her hand in a “wait a moment” gesture.
Sister Nachtigall noticed Loconda’s red eyes, her face creased with concern. Without a word, she slid a napkin across the table to her. “I hope those are tears of joy,” she said softly, her tone full of understanding.
Loconda, her mind a haze of confusion and defeat, took the napkin without thinking and dabbed at her eyes. “I… I don’t understand,” she murmured, voice barely audible.
Sister Nachtigall grinned. “We have much to celebrate, my dear. The Havocacy Program has gained three new members tonight!” She turned to the rest of the restaurant, her voice rising above the cheers. “Can I get a shout for our newest Havocants?” she called, grinning like a proud mother. The crowd erupted in joyful unison, shouting, “Gloria al Signore!” and clinking their glasses together in a celebratory cheer.
The mood in the room shifted instantly, the heavy weight of Loconda’s thoughts momentarily lifted by the surge of joy and excitement. As the song and dance began, she was swept up in the energy, yet her mind remained tethered to the swirl of unanswered questions, lingering just beneath the surface.
As the crowd’s jubilant energy began to settle into a comfortable hum, Sister Nachtigall leaned toward Loconda, her eyes soft with understanding. “I know you must have a lot of questions,” she said, her voice warm yet laced with a quiet authority. “But before we dive into all that, you need to do one thing.” She handed Loconda a menu, its pages crisp and inviting.
Loconda’s eyes scanned the menu, her fingers absently tracing the edges of the paper. Her gaze caught on an item, a dish the old woman in the village square had recommended. “I’ll have this,” Loconda said, her voice a little less tremulous now.
Sister Nachtigall’s lips curved into a knowing smile. “Good choice. Excellent taste,” she said, waving down a waitress. “Two plates of Casoncelli alla Bresciana, please.”
With a smooth motion, Sister Nachtigall poured each of them a large glass of cider, the golden liquid catching the light as it swirled in the glass. She took a sip, then turned her full attention to Loconda. The noise around them seemed to fade as the moment between them held.
“Alright,” she began, setting her glass down with a soft clink. “As you now know, you’ve passed the entrance test to the Havocacy program. You might be wondering why you passed, especially after your candle went out. The true name of the challenge was ‘The Candle of Compassion,’ and the goal was never about keeping the candle lit. The light we cared about wasn’t the one on the candle. It was the one inside you. The true purpose of this challenge wasn’t about endurance or success in the traditional sense. It was about your response to those in need. It was about compassion. Each of you had a chance to show compassion, and through that, we judged whether or not you belonged in our program. Mrs. Toussaint, for example, stopped to help a woman who had fallen. Mr. Ricci helped a young girl whose cat was stuck in a tree. Mrs. Andrada, though her candle had nearly burned out, stopped to help an old ferryman loosen a knot on his boat. While you were walking around the village following the light of your candle, there was always a monk or nun following you, observing your actions from a distance. The flames were guiding you to specific scenarios where you would be asked to show compassion.”
Loconda’s breath hitched as her heart began to understand the depth of the test she’d just experienced, but still, she remained silent.
“The other participants,” Sister Nachtigall continued, “are still roaming the village, thinking they’ve triumphed. But soon enough, they’ll find themselves boarding a bus back to where they came from. Why? Because when given the chance to show compassion, they chose not to.”
As the murmurs of conversation faded, Sister Nachtigall let a brief silence settle over the room. Then, with a small nod, she clasped her hands together.
“That,” she said, “is the essence of your challenge. If anyone has questions, now is the time to ask.”
Before anyone could speak, the waitress arrived, gracefully setting down plates of food. Sister Nachtigall thanked her with a warm smile, then stretched her hands out to Loconda and Mr. Ricci, gesturing for Mrs. Andrada to do the same. Bowing her head, she spoke in a steady, reverent tone.
“Heavenly Father, we thank You for this meal and for the strength You have given us. May the lessons we learn shape our hearts as much as our minds. Grant us wisdom in our trials, courage in our doubts, and compassion even when it is not returned. Amen.”
When she lifted her head, she wasted no time digging into her meal.
Loconda, however, sat frozen. The weight of passing the challenge pressed down on her, the realization settling deep in her chest. She glanced around the room, watching the others eat, but the question forming in her mind refused to be ignored. Slowly, she raised her hand.
Sister Nachtigall let out a light laugh. “No need for that,” she said. “Just say what’s on your mind.”
Lowering her hand, Loconda hesitated only for a moment before speaking. “The candles,” she said. “Why did some burn faster than others?”
At that, Sister Nachtigall’s expression grew more thoughtful. She set her fork down, her gaze sweeping across the table before landing on Loconda. “The more of your candle that remained, the more control you showed over your resonance. You see, the wind you felt? Well at least most of it wasn’t really wind at all. It was controlled gusts of resonance, designed to test your focus. The more control you displayed, the slower your candle burned.”
Sister Nachtigall studied Bliss’s small nub of a candle for a moment before reaching for her glass. She took a slow sip of cider, letting the warmth settle before setting it back down with a satisfied sigh.
Then, with a knowing look, she continued. “Mrs. Toussaint and Mr. Ricci both displayed remarkable control over their resonance, especially Mrs. Toussaint,” she said, nodding toward Loconda. “As for you, Mrs. Andrada,” she added gently, her gaze shifting to Bliss, “you began to doubt yourself. And when you did, your candle burned faster. It’s only natural. Doubt and fear creep in easily. But what truly matters is how you act despite them. And you, my dear, did not let fear stop you from helping someone in need.”
“How did our candles go out?” Matteo Ricci asked, speaking through a mouthful of pizza. Lean and wiry, with dark, tousled hair that fell just above his brows, Matteo had sharp brown eyes that seemed to take in everything without giving much away. His olive-toned skin carried a faint scar along his jaw, almost hidden beneath the shadow of stubble. Dressed in a simple, well-worn sweater and rolled-up sleeves, he had the look of someone who preferred to stay in the background until he chose otherwise.
She lifted her glass once more, taking a slow sip, as if savoring the moment before unveiling the final piece of the puzzle. Then, setting it down with a soft clink, she met their gazes.
“Well,” she began, “each time a Havocant stopped to show compassion, the monk or nun following behind them was instructed to extinguish their flame. That was the true mark of victory—the moment you proved yourself worthy, your flame was put out.”
She let the words settle before continuing. “That’s why we told you to open your envelope only when your light went out. It was meant to lead you here, to celebrate your entrance into the program.”
Loconda took a deep breath, her thoughts still spinning, yet a newfound clarity settled within her. There was so much more to this program than she had ever anticipated. And as her gaze lingered on her candle, standing taller than those of the other two participants, she couldn’t shake the feeling that there was so much more to herself to learn as well.
Her stomach growled, a quiet reminder of just how long the evening had been. She picked up her fork and took a small bite of the Casoncelli. At first, the flavors barely registered, her mind still lingering on Sister Nachtigall’s words. But then: rich, buttery sage, the salt of pancetta, and the slight crunch of amaretti biscuits; it all came together in an unexpected harmony. She exhaled slowly, letting the taste ground her, anchoring her in this moment.
For the first time since arriving in the village, she allowed herself to simply be present. The challenge was behind her, but the path ahead had never felt more uncertain. And yet, as she took another bite, she realized—perhaps that was the point.
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