“What if,” Aldric said slowly, “I don’t do the laps?”
Father Aldric had memorized the list forty years ago, back when his spine still allowed him to bow properly. He could recite every rule without a stumble: Rule 47: The left sleeve must be rolled three times, no more, no less. Rule 48: Nuts are to be eaten with the right hand only, lest the soul be unbalanced. Rule 112: A sneeze after sunset requires a counter-sneeze before sunrise, or a penance of seven laps around the reliquary.
Then came the day of the sneeze.
The beast did not wake.
Aldric froze. The other monks froze. The candles guttered. “What if,” Aldric said slowly, “I don’t do the laps
Matthias didn’t move. Instead, he did something extraordinary. He laughed. Not a mocking laugh, but a small, weary, human laugh. “What if the rule is wrong?” he asked.
Matthias blinked. “Father, it’s dark. The reliquary is unlit. I’ll break my neck on the marble.” Rule 112: A sneeze after sunset requires a
The chapel went colder. Aldric felt the old god’s attention—or perhaps just the weight of forty years—press down on his shoulders. “The rules are not wrong. The rules are . Without them, the beast wakes.”
The sun rose anyway.
“Rule 47,” Aldric muttered, almost to himself, “makes no exception for darkness.”
“You will perform the laps,” Aldric said, his voice a dry leaf. “At once.” Aldric froze