Today’s religious studies with Bishop Vladmir were rather mundane. She was going through the complete set of Bible translations from Ruskyiev to English with his guidance. Yet, Eliza couldn’t shake what she had seen earlier. The question nagged at her: who truly runs this Basilica Castle, supposedly the holiest place known to man?

  Brother Vladmir noticed her distraction as he lectured on the Psalms. “Sister Eliza, are you with me?” he asked.

  “Oh, my apologies,” she said, forcing a polite, awkward smile.

  “What is on your mind, Sister Eliza?” Bishop Vladmir prompted.

  “I… well…” she hesitated.

  “I…?” he pressed, almost teasingly.

  “I was wondering… what’s inside the holy twelve-foot-tall golden mosaic door?” she finally asked, though the question she truly wanted to voice was something else.

  “Ah, really? HAHAHA!” Bishop Vladmir laughed, clearly amused. “Well, frankly, pardon me, but Duke Dmitri does not allow me to speak of it. It is an off-limits place, sealed for the sake of holiness itself.”

  Eliza’s mind raced. Was Bishop Vladmir hiding something from her? What secrets could lie beyond that door? She knew well from the Bible that the universe’s mysteries belonged only to God; no earthly place could fully hold them. Still, she sensed that Duke Dmitri, at his core, might be a devout man who had made solemn promises to past popes, bishops, and priests to never reveal what lay behind that golden door. Despite her curiosity, Eliza resolved to respect it.

  Eliza continued her Bible studies, and once she finished, she was finally given time to herself. Winter had arrived in full, and the snow was falling thick and white. Excitement stirred in her chest; she hadn’t left the Basilica-Castle in twenty-two days. The thought alone felt like freedom. She bundled herself in her winter clothes and hurried toward the gates, eager to feel snow beneath her boots.

  But when she reached the entrance, the gate remained closed. No guards stood watch, no explanation offered. She tried again, assuming there had been some mistake. Still, nothing. The restriction unsettled her. Outside, the grounds looked inviting, almost playful under the snowfall—yet the gate refused to yield.

  Stubbornness rose in her. She tried once more.

  “And just where, in this thickening and treacherous snow, do you believe you are going, young Sister Eliza Kalinin?”

  The voice was unmistakable. Duke Dmitri Stephanov emerged, his presence commanding, the snow gathering at his boots.

  “Oh—Your Highness,” Eliza said quickly. “There must be some error. The gate won’t open, and I only wished to enjoy the snow—”

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  “Enjoy a snow that will soon claim your fingers with frostbite and leave you lifeless?” Dmitri interrupted, his tone sharp enough to still her words.

  “But, Your Highness, it isn’t even a snowstorm—” she tried.

  “Ruskyiev snowstorms are deadly, Sister Eliza,” he said firmly. “I speak with authority. You will return inside.”

  Before Eliza could protest further, Olga appeared, wrapping a blanket around her shoulders and guiding her gently back toward the Basilica-Castle.

  “It’s alright, Sister Eliza. We’ll take you in,” Olga murmured, holding her close.

  “He was stern because he loves you deeply,” Olga said softly as they walked, dabbing Eliza’s face with a handkerchief the way one might soothe a child. “You have been a good postulant. A devoted Christian woman.”

  Eliza’s eyes trembled. “I don’t understand, Sister Olga. What does all of this mean? Why do I feel… like I’m bound here?”

  Olga’s smile never wavered. “Oh, you silly girl. What chains? You have been given every kindness. And soon you will return to America, yes? We only wished you to know—” she leaned closer, her breath carrying incense and rosewater—“you are dear to us, Eliza. We consider you… family.”

  “Family?” Eliza whispered, testing the word carefully.

  “Da,” Olga replied simply, her gloved fingers brushing Eliza’s cheek. “Family.”

  “Sister Olga,” Eliza said, her voice trembling with gratitude and confusion, “I truly don’t know what to say. Only… thank you. Thank you dearly.”

  “My sweet Misha,” Olga replied warmly. “Obedient, yet bold. You are truly loved.”

  There was something else beneath her tenderness—something quiet, something withheld.

  “And I will miss you dearly… when the time comes.”

  Curiosity of my true mother,

  I was scolded by the Duke for trying to do simple things, such as playing in the snow, and I was absolutely upset, confused as to why am I was not allowed to play in such a harmless environment, a mere playground, and I'd felt the crave of the carefree energy again, and again.

  But then Sister Olga came to me, wrapped a warm blanket around me, and she comforted me, telling me that I will be alright. Despite the lack of nurture I'd endured in my lifetime, I finally felt a motherly love for the first time in ages. Throughout my orphan life I was always rather treated with the discipline of religion as well as lessons of a scholar. Throughout those days, I'd always wondered how gentle parenting would've truly felt like.

  Somehow, turning back to the early thoughts, what is truly behind the golden door? None of the members told me anything about this. Not even Bishop Vladmir himself, who is somehow always in charge of the whole orthodoxy. It gets

  strange, and my curiosity always got the best of me. Whatever lies behind it or even if it is just an ordinary room, I will continue to pray.

  -Eliza.

  It was the night of rest. Eliza lay in her bed, eyes closed, sinking into a deep sleep in preparation for another day of lessons.

  Suddenly, she felt a weight pressing down on her. She could not move, trapped as if someone were pinning her to the mattress. Helpless. Her body frozen, her mind screaming, she sensed a presence, Dmitri Stephanov. His hands and breath seemed to explore her, and she heard him whisper, soft and chilling, “My dearest Eliza… come to me, my sweet cinnamon. Your blood… as delightful as the blood of Christ himself.”

  Frozen in terror, she could only watch as her dream conjured him with reddening, blackened eyes. His jaw opened wide, revealing long, curved fangs. She felt the phantom sting of his bite, the imagined warmth of each drop of blood, until she jolted awake with a violent gasp.

  She clutched her neck, panicked, but there was nothing—no mark, no pain, only the remnants of the dream’s nightmare.

  Shaking, she went to the window and saw him again—Dmitri, with innocent, night-blue eyes, as if nothing had happened. The contradiction twisted inside her, leaving her questioning her own sanity. How far could this reach?