“Benethasia… I want you to sit down for a moment.”

  My father’s voice was gentle, but there was a firmness beneath it that made my stomach twist.

  Mother was already seated in her usual chair — the one by the wall where she read to me when I was little. She patted the spot beside her, and I obeyed without question. That alone should have told me something. Normally, I would have asked why.

  Father sat across from us, in his chair, hands clasped between his knees. He did not look like the man who baked laughter into bread. He looked smaller somehow. Sadder.

  My mind raced.

  Did I do something wrong?

  Was the bakery failing?

  Was someone sick?

  I wish — to this day — it had been one of those things.

  “You asked your mother and I what was wrong,” he said quietly. “And we’ve decided… you deserve to know.”

  Mother pulled me closer, her arm wrapping around me, her fingers rubbing the side of my arm in slow circles. She did that when she was trying not to cry.

  “It has to do with the mark on your hand,” Father continued. “You still don’t know what it is, correct?”

  I shook my head. My throat felt tight, my chest heavier than it should have been. I wanted to cry — not because I understood, but because of the way the room felt. Like something fragile was about to break.

  “That mark,” he said, “is known as the Mark of Tar’Tesh of Names.”

  The words landed like a stone dropped into deep water.

  I didn’t know the mark.

  But I knew the name.

  Tar’Tesh.

  Even children knew it.

  A devil. A fiend. A whisper in the dark corners of bedtime stories. There had even been a rhyme we sang when we were little, laughing because we didn’t understand.

  Write thy name, write thy text,

  Tesh will finish you with maddic hex…

  I had never understood it. Something about names being stolen. About promises twisted. About doom that came quietly.

  Father spoke again, his voice steady but his eyes wet.

  “My father… your grandfather… was taken from us by Tar’Tesh. A very long time ago. So when you showed us the mark…” He swallowed. “You can imagine our worry.”

  Panic swelled up inside me like rising water, but Father leaned forward quickly.

  “But listen to me. The times have changed. And we happen to live in the best place possible for this to happen.”

  I clung to those words like driftwood.

  “Father Bruno has stopped Tar’Tesh eleven times,” he said. “Eleven. He knows how to keep you safe.”

  I turned to Mother. Tears shone in her eyes, but she was smiling — the kind of smile you wear when you are trying to be brave for someone else.

  “I know this is frightening,” she whispered, hugging me tighter. “Confusing. But you are safe. Tonight may be scary… but tomorrow we will come for you, and this will be nothing more than a bad memory.”

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  Questions flooded my mind.

  Why didn’t you tell me sooner?

  Am I really safe?

  Did Grandpa Prosic have the mark too?

  But only one escaped.

  “How did I get it?”

  Father inhaled to answer, but Mother spoke first.

  “School,” she said softly, voice trembling. She cleared her throat. “The day you signed your name at the schoolhouse. That’s the only time it makes sense.”

  The stories rushed back in fragments as she explained.

  “Tar’Tesh tricks people into writing their names in his presence — or through his influence. Once your name is given… the mark forms. He comes for those he marks in eleven days. And he strikes every eleven years.”

  The number echoed in my mind.

  Eleven.

  I should have been crying. I should have been screaming, asking a thousand questions.

  But instead, something else filled me.

  A pull.

  A quiet certainty.

  I wanted to go to the temple.

  Not from fear.

  But from a strange sense of… inevitability. As if this part had already happened in some other version of my life, and all I had to do now was walk forward.

  I stood, slipping out of Mother’s arms.

  She went still.

  “I think… we should go,” I said.

  My parents looked at one another. No words passed between them — only understanding.

  They nodded.

  We stood together.

  No one spoke again.

  And we left the house, walking toward the Temple of Bruno Tilden, the night air cool against my skin, the mark on my hand feeling heavier than it ever had before.

  I fought the urge to be mad at my parents. At least, I thought that’s what I was doing. Maybe it wasn’t anger at all — maybe it was fear, or confusion, or simply the feeling of the world shifting under my feet. I knew they loved me, probably more than anything, but my childlike stubbornness still took hold.

  So I stayed quiet.

  I ignored their comments, their questions. I would be lying if I said I didn’t learn this trick from my mother — she wielded silence like a blade when my father tested her patience. To them, it probably looked like I was pouting. To me, it felt like I was drowning in thoughts too big for my head.

  All I knew was I needed to get to Grandpa Prosic. He had a way with words — and with the world — that could make sense of things no one else could explain. If I was going to be stuck inside a temple all night, he would be the one to answer my questions. All of them.

  We reached the stone path that led to Father Bruno Tilden’s grounds. Over time, the stones had worn thin, patches of earth peeking through from the countless feet that had traveled it. We weren’t followers, not truly. But through my mother’s friendships with many who visited weekly, we had come here often — for feasts, for lessons, for celebrations.

  Father Bruno Tilden was… complicated.

  He was a clergyman, yes — but also a brilliant scholar, a seasoned warrior, and a man who gave everything he had to those around him. And yet, he was also known as an absolute coot. A perfect blend of wisdom and lunacy. He could heal the sick with a divine touch one moment, and make the most dignified noble blush the next. I adored him. He was like the town’s mad great-uncle, and he knew it.

  Thinking of him — and of Grandpa Prosic — eased my nerves, if only a little.

  I remembered a story he once told at a feast about single-handedly driving off a tribe of giants. Whether it was true didn’t matter. His reputation as a warrior was real enough, and that alone gave me comfort.

  We finally saw the cathedral grounds.

  Seven massive buildings stood in a grand semicircle, ancient and imposing, their architecture older than memory. Statues lined the space between them — worn, faceless figures eroded by time. My mother once told me they might have been Avatars of the gods, their faces forgotten just like their names.

  We weren’t alone.

  Others walked the path too — ahead of us, behind us. Their faces wore the same tight worry I felt in my chest. All of us moving toward the main cathedral.

  The wooden doors stood open, massive enough to require two people to move them. I stared at them as we climbed the stone steps.

  Warmth greeted us inside. Candles lined every surface. A red rope guided newcomers forward. Two monks stood at the entrance. One was bald and elderly, the other around my father’s age with a wild mop of brown hair.

  “Please follow the rope and candles,” the younger monk said with a polite nod.

  The older one lifted a donation basket toward my father with a pleasant smile.

  My father rolled his eyes and started to speak, but my mother’s hand shot up. She dropped a coin into the basket without breaking stride. My father muttered something under his breath about what he’d “already paid,” but my mother looped her arm through his, keeping us together.

  We followed the path through the cathedral and emerged into a large open garden, also lit by candles and guided by the same red rope. At its center stood a domed structure — freshly painted a vibrant, almost shocking purple.

  I nearly stopped walking just to stare at it.

  But my mother’s hand tugged mine, urging me on.

  A small line had formed at the entrance. A young woman monk stood there with a parchment, checking names. She was beautiful, I thought — not much older than me, maybe ten years at most. I wondered why she had chosen this life.

  It was our turn.

  “We are here for Benethasia Plad,” my father said.

  She glanced at the parchment, then looked at me with a warm, almost sisterly smile.

  “Welcome, Miss Plad,” she said gently. “Your parents may see you inside. Father Tilden will speak with them before they must leave.”

  My parents hesitated, but both thought better of protesting.

  She waved us in.

  We stepped into the domed house — now bustling with quiet, anxious life.