6.2 miles Southeast, Thursday, April 26th, 7:21 p.m. CET — Tower of Saint Abundantia, Northern Wing, Monastery of the Eternal Light, Adamello Mountain
Father Roche’s breath came in sharp, ragged bursts as he sped up the charred stairwell, his arm wrapped tightly around his mouth to stave off the choking smoke. His body blurred with each step, leaping over burned remnants of the steps as he soared through the air. The walls groaned with heat, crackling as the fire raged below, but Father Roche moved with purpose, unfazed by the storm of ash and flames.
He zipped up the first two flights, smoke trailing behind him like a darkened halo. As he reached the second floor, the faint outline of the third-floor stairs came into view. Without hesitation, he pushed forward, moving faster still. The walls around him seemed to bend and warp as the resonance in his body hummed, resisting the thickening air, his body speeding beyond what seemed humanly possible.
The third floor entrance appeared before him, a dark void at the end of the hallway. His pace never slowed as he surged upward, propelling himself past the landing and onward to the next flight.
But then something stopped him—a grim figure sprawled across the steps ahead.
He came to a halt just a few feet away. A body, unnaturally still, lay on the stairs, mouth frozen in a silent scream. The skin was charred, burnt to a crisp. Father Roche’s heart twisted, a pang of sorrow cutting through the haze of fire and heat. It was Sister Livia. The cross she wore, now indistinguishable from the ashes, was still visible on her body. He recognized it from the dining hall earlier.
He stepped closer, his hands shaking as he extended them toward her. With a flick of his wrists, he summoned his resonance. A wave of unseen force rippled out from his palms, pushing back the thick smoke and ash surrounding her. For a brief moment, the air around her was clearer, allowing him to kneel beside her.
“Signore, accogli la tua figlia nella pace eterna…” He whispered in a soft breath, his voice low but steady as he offered a quick prayer for the sister’s soul. His heart weighed heavy, but he spoke on. “May she find eternal rest, and may her sacrifice not go in vain.” He stood slowly, his gaze lingering on her scorched form for a moment longer. Then, a strange pulse in the air caught his attention. He turned sharply, his instincts kicking in as he felt a subtle shift of energy. Someone else was near… another resonance user.
Father Roche didn’t hesitate. His body coiled, and with a sudden burst of power, he surged up the final flight of stairs. The sharp scent of burning wood and the oppressive weight of the air behind him were nothing compared to the primal need for caution that flooded him as he neared the entrance to the fourth floor.
He arrived in the hallway, and it was eerily quiet, save for the soft hum of distant flames. The portraits of past sisters loomed along the walls, their painted eyes seeming to watch him. The only light came from a tall window on the far end, casting long shadows that crept like the darkness itself. But there, opposite the window, was an energy—a frequency he couldn’t ignore.
Roche closed his eyes. A deep breath. A moment of silence.
When he opened his eyes again, his irises had transformed becoming large, bright orange, and owl-like, stretching his eyelids as they ballooned outward. A second, translucent membrane swept across his eyes in a ghostly blink, enhancing his vision beyond human limitations.
At the far end of the hall, where shadow should have met the soft radiance of starlight, something unnatural stood: a black wall, thick and impenetrable, as if the hallway had been severed from reality itself. It was not simply darkness; it was an absence, a deliberate void.
Father Roche blinked and held it, an extra second, just enough to let his vision reset. When his eyes opened again, they had returned to normal. He stood still, absorbing the silence and the sensation of the unnatural darkness lurking before him.
“I know you’re there,” Roche called out, his voice firm yet laced with an edge of determination. “Take heed: I wield divine-level resonance, sanctioned by the Vatican. If you think you can hide from me, you are mistaken. Show yourself, or I will force you to reveal yourself.”
The silence that followed was thick, suffocating. Not a sound. Not a movement.
Father Roche didn’t wait. He lifted his hand, distorting the frequencies in the air around him, weaving the very fabric of the space. A ball of fire formed in his palm, flickering with unnatural light. With two quiet words, he sent the fireball into the hallway, watching as it drifted forward, illuminating the portraits and casting long shadows against the walls. The ball came to a sudden stop, hanging in the air beside a specific portrait. It hovered there, as if waiting, sensing.
“I understand what you are doing,” Father Roche called out, his voice unwavering. “You’re using some form of stealth resonance to hide yourself. But resonance cannot hide from resonance. You see, I have the unique ability to speak to frequencies, which allows me to hum commands into inanimate objects. The fireball standing next to you is not just there to illuminate the darkness.”
He paused, letting the words linger.
“Before I sent it down the hall, I gave it a command—to stop when it senses resonance and to explode if it senses ill intent. So, if I were you, I’d calmly—”
Before he could finish, the fireball detonated in a violent explosion. The shockwave of heat and energy rocked the hallway. Father Roche barely had time to react as a massive figure emerged from the flames, charging toward him with a wild roar. The man, muscles rippling with strength, swung a massive ax directly at Father Roche’s head.
Father Roche’s reflexes were honed from years of training and use of resonance. He ducked just in time, the ax cutting through the air where his head had been a fraction of a second earlier. With a swift motion, Father Roche spun behind the man, his hands snapping forward. He unleashed a wall of resonance that hit the attacker with the force of a battering ram, sending the massive figure hurtling backward. The man was launched from the window with a resounding crash, his form disappearing into the night air.
7:29 p.m. CET — Courtyard of the Redeemer, East Wing, Monastery of the Eternal Light, Adamello Mountain
The courtyard lay in quiet stillness, the grass swaying gently in the breeze as two monks knelt side by side, their heads bowed in reverence before the statue of The Sacred Heart of Jesus. Within the heart of the statue’s chest, a small flame flickered, casting a gentle, golden glow that danced across the stone and illuminated the snowy ground.
The two monks were silent, their dark brown robes blending with the shadows of the night. Their bodies remained still, hands folded gently in their laps as they whispered soft prayers into the night.
Father Kofi Adom, a tall African man in his early thirties, knelt in stillness, his lean frame poised with quiet intensity. His dark eyes caught the faint glow of the flame, which flickered and dimmed. Rising to his feet, he moved swiftly to adjust the coals inside the statue’s heart. As he did, a violent crash above snapped his attention to a window on the west wing. A body, hurled with unnatural force, flew through the air and crashed onto the lower roof with a sickening thud, the sound of impact reverberating across the silent courtyard.
Kofi’s breath caught in his chest as he watched the figure—unscathed, as if propelled by something otherworldly—roll across the roof. With an almost predatory grace, the man sprang to his feet, shaking off the fall as though it were nothing, and vanished into the distance in a blur of speed.
Before Kofi could process the scene further, he saw another figure: Father Roche burst from the same window. He landed gracefully on the roof, his form briefly illuminated by the setting sun as he sprinted across the rooftop. His eyes instinctively snapped to the flickering flame in the statue’s heart, then to the two monks standing in quiet reverence around it.
The wind howled, and Father Roche’s voice rang through the air. “There has been a murder in the west wing! Please alert Eminence Valci to shut down the monastery!” Without waiting for a response, Roche leapt off the roof, disappearing into the fading light like a shadow, leaving only the echo of his command behind.
Kofi stood frozen for a moment, taking in what he had just witnessed. He turned quickly to the other monk, his voice urgent. ‘Go, alert Prior Altieri—tell him to warn Eminence Valci. We need the monastery locked down now!”
7:33 p.m. CET — Adamello Mountain
Father Roche surged down the ridge, his boots barely grazing the jagged stones as he pursued the dark figure. The wind howled through the cliffs, rattling against his ears, but he paid it no mind. Every muscle in his body was honed for this chase, every step a test of balance and precision.
The man ahead moved with equal speed, leaping from rock to rock with unnatural agility. Shadows stretched long over the mountainside, the dying light casting them in sharp relief. One misstep, one moment of hesitation, and either of them would plummet into the abyss below.
Then, the landscape changed. The craggy ridge gave way to a treacherous field of ice and snow, the whiteness swallowing the fading hues of twilight. Father Roche slowed instinctively, his every step measured. But the fleeing monk did not.
“Stop!” Father Roche called out, his voice cutting through the howling wind. “The ice—”
But his warning came too late.
A snap.
A sudden, violent slip.
The man’s foot skidded over a hidden patch of ice, his balance betrayed. His body lurched forward, and with a sickening thud, he slammed into the unforgiving rock face. A low groan escaped his lips as he clutched his shoulder, pain evident in his movements.
Father Roche came to a cautious stop a few paces away. The fallen monk remained on one knee, his chest rising and falling in heavy breaths. Then—without warning—his hands shot up, and an infernal wave of fire burst forth. The flames roared between them, forcing Roche to shield himself. Heat licked at his skin, but his resonance pushed against the searing force, dispersing the worst of it.
Through the dissipating flames, Roche saw the monk rise. The man’s bald head gleamed with sweat, his thick brown beard framed a face contorted in a deep scowl. His build was powerful, every muscle tense with restrained fury. He exhaled sharply and, with an audible pop, forced his dislocated shoulder back into place.
Father Roche studied him carefully. A brother of the monastery, one of their own. But not anymore.
“There is no distance you can put between us that I will not cross,” Roche declared, his voice steady, his breath still even from the chase. “I am a divine resonator. You cannot outrun me.”
The monk rolled his shoulder, flexing his fingers as if reacquainting himself with his own body. “Then let’s settle this here.” His voice was low, unwavering.
Father Roche tilted his head, unfazed. “If we must, then so be it. But I’d prefer words over battle. We are men of the cloth—men of God. Surely, we can speak of our differences.”
The monk’s expression darkened. “No emissary from the Vatican could ever understand our cause.”
Father Roche’s gaze sharpened. “What cause?”
A small, bitter smirk ghosted across the man’s lips. “You would know us as the Cantors of Enoch.”
A silence settled between them, tense and charged. Roche had heard whispers of them before. Once devout singers of divine resonance, now a fractured sect, lost to something far more dangerous.
“We go by a new name now,” the monk continued, “one I cannot utter to a non-believer.”
Roche studied him for a long moment before nodding. “Then tell me your name.”
The monk straightened, squaring his shoulders. His voice was like distant thunder.
“I am Father Giancarlo Malebranca. I have served this monastery for over a decade.”
Roche exhaled slowly. “Then tell me, Giancarlo—why did you kill Sister Livia?”
Giancarlo’s expression remained unreadable. “Because I was instructed to.”
The moment the words left Giancarlo’s lips, he attacked. A blast of blue fire exploded from his hands, the resonance thrumming with violent intensity. The flames burned with an eerie, unnatural glow, streaking toward Roche like living things, seeking to consume him.
But Roche was already moving. He twisted, narrowly dodging the first wave, the heat searing past his shoulder. Another came—stronger, faster—but before it could reach him, Roche inhaled deeply. Then, he hummed the words, “Harmonic Requiem, sorrowful song, dampen discord, right the wrong.”
The sound was low, melancholic, reverberating through the very air itself. The fire shuddered mid-flight, its form wavering as if caught in the grip of some unseen force. The blue flames dimmed, their edges fraying.
Giancarlo’s eyes narrowed.
Roche stepped forward, his hum growing deeper, the resonance shifting. He was not merely countering the flames—he was speaking to them.
And the fire was listening.
A bitter wind howled through the mountains as Giancarlo pulled a dagger from his robes, the blade glinting in the dying light. His breath was ragged, eyes wide with fury and desperation.
“If resonance won’t kill you,” he growled, rolling his wounded shoulder, “then I’ll strike you down with my bare hands.”
Father Roche did not flinch. He merely exhaled, his breath a faint mist in the cold air. “That is your only option,” he admitted. “But is that the path a man of the cloth should take?” His voice carried neither fear nor anger, only solemnity. “Exodus 20:13—‘Thou shalt not kill.’ And again, in Matthew 26:52—‘For all they that take the sword shall perish with the sword.’”
Giancarlo scoffed, his grip on the dagger tightening. “Ecclesiastes 3:8—‘A time to love and a time to hate, a time for war and a time for peace.’” He crouched low. “This is war, priest.”
Then he moved.
At lightning speed, Giancarlo surged forward, his dagger a silver streak in the frozen air. He struck with precision, his slashes fluid, each one seeking Father Roche’s throat or heart. But Roche’s movements were like wind slipping through cracks in stone—fluid, untouchable. He weaved through the strikes, his steps measured, his breath steady.
As he dodged, he murmured a prayer under his breath. “Dio, guida la sua anima che vaga nell’ombra. For in the darkest night, only You know the way.”
Giancarlo faltered. Something about the priest’s unwavering calm sent a primal fear slithering up his spine. He bared his teeth, rage overtaking reason. With a roar, he lashed out wildly, his blade cutting the air in erratic, desperate arcs.
But then—
A single opening.
Father Roche’s palm slammed into Giancarlo’s wounded shoulder. A shockwave of resonance rippled through the joint, forcing it out of place once more with a sickening pop. Giancarlo gasped, his body twisting in agony.
Roche leaned in, his voice like a whisper from beyond the veil. “Nel profondo dell’oscurità, dove il fuoco non riscalda e il gelo non dà sollievo, may your soul find the forgiveness it denied in life.”
A shudder ran through Giancarlo’s spine. His heart pounded, his hands trembled. The fear—the certainty in Roche’s voice, the finality of his words—sent him spiraling into desperation. With a scream, he threw his uninjured arm outward, white fire crackling through the snow, laced with violent streaks of electricity.
The ground lit up in a blinding flash. Father Roche gritted his teeth as the energy surged through his body, his muscles locking, pain searing his nerves. His limbs refused to obey, and for the first time in the fight, he found himself vulnerable.
Father Giancarlo saw his chance.
With his dagger raised high, he lunged—
Then, from the shadows of the storm, a massive eagle-owl swooped down, its talons catching the dagger mid-flight. Giancarlo’s eyes widened as the bird twisted gracefully, carrying the weapon away.
Roche, still struggling against the paralysis, inhaled sharply and sent a pulse of resonance through the snow beneath him. The force propelled him backward, putting distance between him and his opponent. The owl circled back, dropping the dagger at Roche’s feet.
But Roche merely glanced at it before kicking it away. Instead, he reached into his robe and pulled out a silver mouthpiece set. With a slow, deliberate motion, he placed them in his mouth.
Giancarlo snarled. With a flick of his fingers, the dagger wrenched itself from the snow and flew back into his grasp. He charged once more.
The owl let out a piercing cry and dove straight for him.
“No!” Father Roche commanded. “Stay back!”
But the owl did not listen.
Giancarlo slashed through the air. The blade cut deep into the bird’s chest, and it tumbled into the snow with a soft, broken cry.
Still, Giancarlo did not stop.
Roche exhaled, lowering himself into a seated position. Snowflakes swirled around him as he closed his eyes.
He began to whisper, “The shepherd’s murmur.” His voice was soft, yet it carried through the storm, a hum reverberating through the mountain’s bones. “Lord, shepherd of souls, hear the voice of Your servant. Bring peace to the broken heart, illumina la via del perduto.”
The silver in his mouth shimmered. His hum deepened, growing into a resonant force that surged outward in undulating waves, pulsing through the mountain like the tolling of a cathedral bell.
The first wave struck Giancarlo square in the chest, sending a ripple through his muscles as if his very soul had been touched. His charging footsteps faltered, but his fury burned still.
“Io non temerò alcun male,” Roche hummed.
The mountain trembled.
Another shockwave struck, its invisible force clawing at Giancarlo’s limbs, pulling at his resolve. His breath hitched. His heart pounded erratically, caught between wrath and something… else. A deep, aching sorrow.
“Perché tu sei con me,” Father Roche hummed.
The third soundwave crashed into Father Giancarlo, stronger now, wrapping around him like the arms of something unseen—something ancient, something holy. His vision blurred as warmth spread through his chest, replacing the icy hatred that had fueled his steps. The dagger in his hand trembled. He clenched his teeth and pushed forward.
“La tua verga e il tuo bastone… They comfort me.”
A fourth wave struck, washing over him like a tidal wave. His knees buckled, snow spraying beneath him as his stride faltered again. His breathing was ragged now, his body sluggish as if weighed down by something far heavier than exhaustion.
“Tu prepari una tavola per me…”
The next wave hit like a hammer against Giancarlo’s ribs, knocking the wind from his lungs. He stumbled, his free hand clawing at his chest, as if trying to tear out the storm of emotions rising within him.
“Davanti ai miei nemici…“
The sixth wave sent Father Giancarlo reeling. His grip on the dagger slackened, his fingers barely able to hold on as tremors wracked his body. His fury had been replaced by something terrifyingly foreign, grief.
Tears streamed down Giancarlo’s face, hot against the freezing wind. His mind, once consumed by righteous wrath, was unraveling beneath the weight of Roche’s prayer. The world spun. He was still moving forward, but his heart no longer burned with rage.
By the time he reached Roche, the dagger slipped from his fingers.
Tears streamed down his face.
“I—” Giancarlo gasped, his voice breaking. His knees buckled, and he collapsed onto his knees in the snow. “Forgive me.”
Roche stood, placing a hand upon Giancarlo’s head. His voice was steady, unwavering, as he recited: “That they may all be one; as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee, that they also may be one in us: that the world may believe that thou hast sent me. And the glory which thou gavest me I have given them; that they may be one, even as we are one: I in them, and thou in me, that they may be made perfect in one.”
The broken monk wept like a child.
“We only wanted to understand…” Giancarlo whispered. “We only sought deeper knowledge of resonance. We Enochs… do not believe the Church should govern its study so strictly.”
Father Roche exhaled, his breath heavy with contemplation. “Our faith has always been divided—different orders, different sects, each interpreting scripture in their own way. Each choosing which verses to follow and which to ignore, depending on what suits them at the moment.” He gazed down at Giancarlo, his expression unreadable. “I have heard many things about the Cantors of Enoch. Though I believed them to be relics of the past, one thing I always remembered was their impatience.”
He took a step closer. “If you truly believe resonance should have no restrictions, then why not wait until one of your own rises to the papacy? Let the world judge your ideas then. It will either flourish under your vision or fall into chaos. But must you rob others of their lives just to prove an untested belief?”
More tears rolled down Giancarlo’s face, but this time, they were joined by a slow, unsettling smile. He tilted his head back, exhaling a breath that curled in the cold air like incense rising to the heavens. His bloodshot eyes gleamed with something unreadable—reverence, madness, certainty.
“You are right, Father,” he whispered, his voice trembling with emotion. “We have been impatient. But soon, we will have the papacy. Soon, this world will see our vision.”
A chill ran through Father Roche. This was not the rambling of a desperate man grasping at lost faith. This was conviction. A calculated strategy.
“Too bad I won’t be there to witness it,” Giancarlo continued, his smile never wavering. “For I have failed him.”
Father Roche took a step forward. “Failed who?” he demanded, his voice edged with urgency. “Which cardinal belongs to your order?”
Giancarlo didn’t answer. Instead, with a flick of his wrist, the dagger flew from the snow and into his palm.
Roche instantly raised a resonance barrier around himself, bracing for an attack. But Giancarlo did not lunge. Instead, he turned the blade inward, pressing it against his own throat.
His smile grew wider.
“It is already written, Father. Soon… soon you will see.”
And with that, he dragged the blade across his throat.
Blood erupted in a violent spray, steaming against the snow as Father Giancarlo fell to his knees. His body convulsed, his fingers twitching as if still reaching for something unseen.
Then, stillness.
The wind howled through the mountains, carrying the scent of iron and death.
Father Roche lunged forward, his heart pounding as he reached his fedel’s side. The great grey owl lay still, its chest wounded, but miraculously still alive, its breath shallow. The snow had settled around it, bandaging the injury with a blanket of cold. Roche cradled the owl gently in his arms, his heart heavy with the weight of it all.
He glanced up at the distant lights of the monastery, his mind spinning. The Cantors of Enoch had infiltrated the Church. Sister Livia and Father Giancarlo’s deaths confirmed it. The Vatican needed to be warned immediately, but time was slipping away.
If Giancarlo’s words held any truth, then this war wasn’t coming. It had already begun.
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