The old church groaned around him—stone grooved from centuries of prayers, candle holders long disarmed, each one rusting with a different tale. Even the floor tiles had their own dialects of creak and clatter. Ian swore he knew them all.
He kept a few paces behind the boy he was following, ducking into archways, skipping the traitorous stones, peeking around corners with the confidence of a master agent. In his mind, this was a covert mission. The fate of something large and shadowed depended on his silence.
Of course, the older boy ahead of him had heard everything—Ian's not-so-quiet scuffles, the whisper of his coat, the overly dramatic pauses behind columns. But he didn't say a word. He let Ian believe.
Sometimes the best way to deal with a fool was to let him narrate himself.
They reached a dead end.
Ian stepped forward—right onto a loose tile—and immediately rolled his ankle with a spectacular lack of grace.
The plank he'd stepped on creaked open slightly.
The older boy didn't turn. He just said, flatly:
"You gonna roll around all day, or…?"
Ian, still halfway on the floor, narrowed his eyes. This wasn't over.
He watched as the boy began tapping along the wall, listening. Knock. Knock. Thud. A section gave.
The kid peeled the board aside like a curtain. Dim light leaked out from the other side.
Then he turned, face unreadable.
"You coming or not?"
Ian blinked. Then pointed at himself, just to be sure.
Me? He thought. How did he even—
I should be invisible right now. I've been skipping tiles. Shadow-walking. Perfect form.
Unless…
Unless his eye is trained.
Ian froze mid-step, convinced once more that movement was the enemy.
If I don't move, I can't be seen.
"The hell are you doing?" the boy asked. "Come on."
Ian slipped behind the boy through the panel.
The air changed—cooler, quieter. The walls here were older, the stone warped from damp. Candle stubs flickered inside old iron sconces, their wax puddled across crates and hymnals. The chapel-turned-classroom ended here—in a forgotten limb of the building's body.
A handful of kids sat cross-legged on the cracked floor, hunched over books too damaged to shelve and too strange to throw away. In the center, two boys were making a bishop headbutt a pawn.
Ian blinked.
"What in the world are you two doing?"
Ian stood over them, eyebrows raised. One of the boys was making the rook roar. The other had stacked a bishop on top of a pawn like a tower of divine chaos.
They looked up. Startled.
"Who are you?"
"Nobody," Ian said. "Just confused. Those aren't action figures, you know. There are rules to this game."
"What game?"
Ian blinked. "Chess."
"What's that?"
"Lord." Ian started scanning the room. "Where's the board?"
"There's a board?"
He sighed like an old man and kept looking. Eventually, beneath a dusty shelf of rotting hymnals, he found it: a faded checkered board with a strange, thick book hidden beneath it.
The book caught his eye—its cover etched with something long lost. A symbol faded into obscurity. But he tucked the board under his arm and ignored the rest.
Back at the center of the room, he dropped the board between the kids.
"Alright. Lesson one."
He started placing the pieces. They didn't all match. Three black pawns were missing, and someone had drawn a mustache on the king. But it'd do.
"This here's the knight," Ian said, lifting the horse-shaped piece. "He moves in an L shape—like this. Bit of a show-off, honestly."
"Why can't I have all knights?" one of the boys asked.
"Because there's only two."
"Why?"
Ian blinked. "Because… order, balance, the natural laws of chess. I don't know. There just is."
Another kid leaned in. "Can I turn my pawn into a knight?"
Ian exhaled like he'd aged a decade. "Technically… yeah. If it makes it to the other side of the board, sure. Go wild. Knight it up."
"WHAT? REALLY? AWESOME."
Ian nodded, satisfied. That should keep them busy for a while.
By the time he'd finished explaining how bishops cut diagonals and queens could do everything, the whole room had circled around. They weren't talking. Just… watching.
All but one.
From the corner of the room, a lone kid sat apart—eyes not on the game, but on Ian.
Ian felt it and slipped away. Quietly.
He retraced his steps to the place where he'd first seen the board—where that odd book had been hidden underneath.
It was still there.
The same book.
A faded thing, wrapped in cracking leather. The symbol on the front had been rubbed away by time or handling or maybe something more deliberate. He brushed his thumb across it. Nothing stirred.
He flipped it open.
The pages inside were stained and torn, full of water damage and ash-like flecks that dusted off into his lap. Whatever it was, this wasn't part of the school's curriculum.
Then his eyes caught the words—just a fragment:
"…dreadful is this place! This is none other but the house of… and this is the gate of…en"
The ink had bled away at the edges of the sentence, leaving it half-swallowed. But it was enough to rattle something inside him.
This isn't a fairytale, he thought. This was prayed over. Or maybe prayed against.
"What's that?"
Ian snapped the book closed.
The kid from the corner. He was closer now. Watching.
"Just a… book." Ian slid it under his shirt. "Probably trash."
The kid said nothing. Just kept looking at him like he already knew better.
Ian made his way back to the chess crowd.
"How long have you guys been doing this?" he asked casually.
One of the kids shrugged. "Couple weeks."
"Who found this place?"
"Elias," the kid answered. "He started it. Brought the first few books too. He hasn't shown up in a while though. He's… sick."
"Sick how?"
The kid looked down. "Just sick."
Ian nodded slowly, eyes scanning the room again. "Who else knows about this?"
"No one," another kid chimed in. "Not even Gaius. And he knows everything."
"Are you sure this place is… safe?" Ian asked, voice low now.
The others hesitated.
"There's just… weird stuff in here," one of them mumbled.
"Like what?"
"I dunno. Nothing, probably."
Ian raised an eyebrow. "You guys know this feels like a little cult, right? Hidden room, secret books, kids playing with forgotten knowledge…"
Nobody laughed.
He stretched, yawning. "Anyway—I should head back. I'll stop by again sometime."
He slipped out through the loose plank, easing it shut behind him.
Outside, the world looked just a little brighter. The wind a little quieter. He pressed a hand against his shirt and felt the weight of the book. It felt warm. Heavy with meaning. And he couldn't wait to tear through it.
Back outside, Isabelle finally met back up with Isaac.
"Where's Ian?" Isaac asked.
"I don't know. He left a note here and just ran off, like Ian does," Isabelle responded.
"Yeah, sounds like something he'd do," Isaac said.
"Think we should wait for him?"
"Nah, I'm sure he'll find us. He always does somehow."
"Did you know he was good at math?"
"Ian's good at math?"
"Yeah."
"Huh."
"So what were you and Gaius talking about?"
"Oh, nothing. He was just telling me that we'd be the only ones doing deliveries for a while now."
"He pulled you aside just to tell you that?"
"Yeah, you know how he is. He sure loves his performances."
They started walking, and not long after, a third set of footsteps joined.
"Guys, GUYS!" Ian huffed, jogging up to them.
"LOOK!" He struggled to remove the book from underneath his shirt.
Isabelle flinched away. "I don't want to see your pitiful abs, Ian."
"No, not that—wait, actually, you think my abs are pitiful? Nevermind. We should find a more secluded spot. Let's go behind that tree over there."
The three sat down beneath the swaying leaves.
Ian took out the book and planted it in front of them.
"Well? What is it, man?" Isaac asked.
"Yeah, what is it, Ian? Stop messing around," Isabelle added.
Ian opened the book to a worn-out page.
"It's a mystery!"
"What do you mean it's just a book, Ian."
"Yeah, it's just a book, Ian. What's so special about it?"
Ian divulged where he found it.
"So you found it in the abandoned ruins of the school?"
"Yeah. It was with a bunch of other stuff. There's a whole society back there—it's actually really cool."
"Sure."
"Well, what's it say?"
Ian flipped through another page with legible text.
"...put away the strange gods that are among you, and be clean..."
"...altar unto the God who answered me in the day of my distress..."
"Something about God?"
"It doesn't sound like any of the scripture I've read at the church," Isabelle chimed in.
"Sounds like something that would get you in trouble," Isaac said.
"Of course it'd get us in trouble. Everything gets us in trouble."
"Us? I do not claim that book," Isaac said, half-joking.
"Well, I showed you, so you're a part of it now, Isaac."
"I don't see the harm in it. I'm sure the church would be understanding if we had questions?"
"Apparently Alexandra's son discovered the place. Maybe he knows more?"
"Alexandra's son? Even if he does, he's in no shape to talk."
"Didn't she say the church gave up on trying to heal him?"
"Yeah, but maybe you can convince Gaius, Isabelle. He does love your sister."
"Hm."
"What do you think, Isaac?"
Isaac?
He's back in the other world.
CAIRN:
"Careful with that book, Isaac."
(Steps forward — eyes suddenly very old.)
"It's not a toy. It's a memory. And memories rot when you read them wrong.
Alexandra's son? He opened those pages too fast. Now his soul's somewhere between verses, and his body hasn't caught up."
(He leans close, almost whispering.)
"You're dreaming mid-conversation, by the way. Still sitting there—eyes open, lips closed, while your friends wait for a sentence you'll never finish."
(A beat. The color drains from the sky behind him.)
"Keep playing prophet, and you'll bury them in your gospel."
(Snap.)
Gone.
Isaac blinked—and the world remembered him again.
To be continued.