The Abbey's looming stone walls and the ever-present silence of its halls left too much room for questions, too little for answers. He had no memories of being brought here at five—only the afterimage of Ava’s hand in his, and the rumor of an unreadable letter from the Archbishop of England that had opened every door without explanation. These fragments of a beginning haunted him.
Ava’s voice sounded sharper this time. “Enough fog for today,” she said, still not meeting his eye. “You’ve wandered and stared at me long enough without a purpose. Let’s change that. You’re late for class, and Sister Mabelle has probably noticed already. Quickly now—no detours.”
He thought of arguing and decided to keep his breath.
His mind moved on to what he’d tell Sister Mabelle for being late a third time this week.
***
The world outside the Abbey had already begun to stir.
The Winter Lights Festival, the year’s most cherished tradition, was beginning to be prepared in earnest, drawing tourists and villagers alike.
But beneath its cheerful bustle and vibrant colors, few remembered its ancient origins. Long ago, the Winter Lights Festival was not just a seasonal gathering, but a sacred observance—rooted, some said, in rites meant to hold the town steady as the days grew thin. As centuries passed, the true meaning faded into folklore, replaced by games and markets. Yet, the most ancient texts—hidden in a vault beneath the Abbey few even knew existed—spoke of forgotten rites and mystical signs that once accompanied the festival.