chapter 7: the glow of the unknown

The nun walked back into the room carrying a bundle of clothes. Simple, but clean — a long, soft tunic and a wrap skirt, both in muted earth tones. Isla's torn, bloodstained pajamas were clearly beyond saving. Isla took the clothes gratefully, her voice trembling as she said, "Thank you," but then, realizing the nun might not understand, she bowed low, trying to show respect.

The nun blinked in confusion. "Child… what are you doing?" she asked, her voice gentle but puzzled. "Why are you bending like that? Are you hurt?"

Isla straightened up, face flushing in embarrassment. She scrambled for words in the strange Latin-like language, the only thing they both seemed to understand. "You… thank," she said haltingly.

The nun's face softened, though her eyes still held confusion. "We don't do that here," she said kindly. "Not in the Kingdom of Edrith. Gratitude is shown with words and deeds, not bows."

The Kingdom of Edrith. Isla's breath caught. That wasn't any country she'd ever heard of. Not on any map, not in any history book. The uneasy feeling in her chest grew stronger.

Was this really happening?

The nun smiled gently, brushing Isla's damp hair back from her face. "You must be so tired, child. Get some rest. We can talk more in the morning when you've had some sleep."

Isla wanted to protest, wanted to ask a hundred questions — where she was, what had happened, why everything felt so wrong — but exhaustion was pressing down on her like a weight. Maybe she was just being paranoid. Maybe she'd hit her head harder than she thought.

Without much more thought, she let the nun guide her to a small, simple bed with a rough but warm blanket. Isla lay down, her body aching and her mind spinning. The room was quiet, the wooden walls creaking softly in the night breeze. She closed her eyes, but sleep didn't come easily.

When it finally did, it was broken and restless — two or three hours at most — filled with half-formed nightmares and flashes of memory she couldn't piece together. And when she woke, the questions were still there, waiting.Despite barely getting two or three hours of sleep, Isla didn't feel tired. Her body ached, her mind was a mess — but exhaustion? That was familiar territory. She'd been running on little sleep for years as a medical resident. This was nothing compared to the brutal 48-hour shifts she'd pulled at Elrond Medical.

So when the soft light of dawn slipped through the wooden shutters, Isla sat up, alert. Her heart still pounded with everything that had happened, but her body moved like it always did — on instinct, trained to push through no matter how drained she felt.

The room was quiet, save for the faint sounds of movement from elsewhere in the church. Isla's stomach twisted, and she wasn't sure if it was fear, hunger, or the lingering shock of everything she'd been through. Probably all three.

But one thing was clear — she needed answers. And she needed them now.

Isla gently and quietly opened the door of her room, stepping out into the dimly lit hallway. The air was cool and still, and the corridor stretched ahead, silent and empty. She hesitated for a moment, then began to wander, hoping to find the kind-hearted nun who had helped her the night before. Maybe she could finally get some answers — figure out where she was, how she'd ended up here, and what exactly was going on.

But as she turned a corner, she nearly collided with another nun. The woman's eyes went wide, taking in Isla's torn and disheveled appearance. "Who are you?" the nun demanded, her voice sharp and wary. "How did you get in here?"

Before Isla could answer, more nuns appeared — drawn by the commotion. They surrounded her quickly, their faces a mix of suspicion and caution. Isla felt her heart race, fear tightening her throat. The nuns spoke in hurried whispers, their eyes flicking over her bruises and the ragged state of her clothes.

"She must be a thief," one of them murmured.

"Or a gypsy," another said, her voice tinged with both fear and curiosity. "Look at her… she's far too beautiful to be a commoner."

Isla's mixed features — the blend of Asian, Italian, and Spanish heritage — seemed exotic and unfamiliar here. She could feel their eyes on her, judging, wondering.

"No— I'm not—" Isla started, struggling with the unfamiliar version of Latin they spoke. Her words felt clumsy and broken. "I… the man… the man who saved me… he brought me here."

That made the nuns go still. Their eyes darkened with something Isla couldn't quite read — fear, maybe, or suspicion.

"What man?" an older nun asked, stepping forward. Her voice was stern, her gaze sharp and measuring.

Isla's throat went dry. She didn't even know his name. "The one who… who killed them," she whispered. "He… he spoke your language."

A ripple of unease passed through the group. One of the younger nuns gasped. Another made a quick, strange gesture over her chest, like a ward against evil.

"Come with us," the older nun finally said, her voice cold and commanding. "If you speak the truth, the Mother will decide what to do with you."

And just like that, Isla's brief moment of freedom turned into something far more dangerous.

The hall was vast and serene, filled with the soft flicker of candlelight. The air smelled of wax and something earthy — like herbs or incense. Isla's eyes swept over the space, taking in the rows of wooden pews and the intricate carvings on the stone walls. But it was the statue at the front that made her breath catch.

It wasn't Jesus on the cross.

The figure was a woman, carved from smooth, white marble. She stood tall and graceful, her eyes covered by a delicate blindfold. Her face was serene but powerful, as if she saw everything even without sight. In her hands, she held a pot — simple, rounded — and from it poured a constant stream of water, clear and glimmering as it flowed into a small basin below. The sound of trickling water filled the hall, soothing and strange.

Isla couldn't take her eyes off it. There was something both comforting and unsettling about the statue. It felt… ancient. Sacred. But also unfamiliar.

One of the nuns noticed Isla's staring and whispered, almost reverently, "You gaze upon the Lady of Aeloria, the Mother of Mercy and Judgment. She sees the truth, even without eyes."

Isla blinked, her mind spinning. This wasn't any religion she knew. Not Christianity, not anything she'd studied. A new name. A new goddess.

And with that, a new and terrifying thought crept into her mind: maybe this really wasn't her world at all.One of the nuns took Isla's hand and guided it into the water. Isla didn't know what she was supposed to expect — but when the water began to shimmer, glowing softly with what looked like specks of light, she froze.

The nuns gasped, their voices rising in excitement.

"A good heart!" one whispered in awe.

But Isla couldn't focus on them. She stared at the glittering water, her mind reeling. This was impossible.

The kind-hearted nun entered just as Isla's knees threatened to give out.