Book 1: Gospel : What’s Done in the Dark

Book 1: Gospel

Chapter 5: What’s Done in the Dark

Dark Hollow,Steelwilds, Fourth Age

We woke to the smell of a breakfast so rich and holy it could’ve been written into scripture. Crisp bacon. Spiced eggs. Dark grain bread slathered in sweet cream and crushed berries.

And the tea—Creator’s mercy, the tea—it was brewed so stiff and dark that even Saint Velessa would’ve dropped to her knees in confession.

We found ourselves at the main dining table downstairs, long and carved from dark pine, half-covered in wildflowers and silver dishes. Ms. Tulip, bright-eyed and barefoot, poured from a steaming kettle as she launched into the morning’s Steelwilds gossip like it was divine writ.

“Business is booming up and down the eastern side of the Elemental Mountains,” she chirped,“Fools still trying to carve alternate routes west—anything to avoid the Eastern Pass or paying for the Treestride.”

She dropped a spoon into her tea with a sharp clink,“Won’t happen. Not now, not ever. The dragons will see to that. They remember what it means when mortals start cutting into sacred ground.”

I sat across from her, crunching toast, rifling through a stack of parish papers and local gazettes she’d dropped beside the honey pot. One leaflet caught my eye: glossy parchment, embossed with gold filigree and a dramatically curved font.

“Adrana’s Bead Emporium – Now Serving Blight Briar Hollow!”

I groaned aloud, tossing it toward Itza, “Look at this. The Church is already trying to monetize essence again. Pricing guides for rosaries, bead bundles, cleansing oils. They’ve got subscription plans now.”

Itza squinted at the paper,“Tiered pricing for prayer fulfillment?”

Tulip chuckled into her tea,“Oh, honey. That Emporium’s been running sin and salvation in equal measure since before you were born.”

One entry in the leaflet caught my eye—bold script embossed with violet ink:

“Rosary Master Produced Beads – Exclusive Regional Variants”

Each line came with a discreet sketch, tasteful… but not subtle.

•Temporal – “Make that moment last.”

•Chain-Binding – “Locked and loaded for multiples.”

•Echo – “Don’t worry about going too soon. Nothing sends a message like a delayed reaction.”

And just beneath those…

Help Wanted

Pregnant mothers—now paying top coin for premium-grade Milk Beads and Womb Beads.

Any trimester. All production capabilities welcome.

⸻

I groaned and passed it to Itza,“I swear…”

She scanned it, her brow furrowing… then relaxing into something colder. A slow, tired exhale.

“I could earn just as much money on my back,” she muttered,“as I could standing and walking for the Creator.”

The words hung there. Sharp. True. And heavier than any rosary bead I’d ever held.

Tulip, buttering a scone without looking up, said,“That’s the secret, love. Some of us figured it out. Some of us still pretend we didn’t.”

I smiled and reached for Itza’s hand.

“I don’t care what they’d pay,” I said quietly, “or what blessings the Church might offer.I’d store up every bead you made in a chest… and bury it where only I would know.”

I kissed her fingers—soft and strong—and she smiled without looking at me.

We finished our breakfast, thanked Ms. Tulip, and stepped back into the sun.

The day passed in peaceful rhythm.

A few pilgrims, a handful of vendors, and the occasional dragon milepost broke the long stretches of silence. The trees swayed like old congregants, whispering prayers in the wind.

Somewhere near the fifth marker, I noticed Itza fingering her rosary, lifting it off her hip and trailing her fingers along its length. I did the same.

Her beads were pinks, golds, and soft cream-whites. Mine were blues, greens, and deep violets.

Most rosaries started simple— every bead had a specific color that marked it when it was first produced.

But over time…

If a bead wasn’t used, it would take on colors that mirrored the soul of the wearer. Not dyed. Not painted. Just changed.

Itza lifted one of her baby pink beads and kissed it gently. I knew it well. It was the Legacy bead from Parla’s birth.

We’d found it beneath her in the birthing bed, nestled in the blood and sweat and tears—a crystal born of pain and love.

She held it near her lips and whispered,“You know… I’ve never been able to understand why someone would give up something like this. A reminder so precious. So alive.”

I didn’t say anything for a long while.

Because I didn’t know how to answer her.

Not honestly.

Not without making it more emotional than it had to be.

I’ve made a few beads myself over the years. Mostly Whispers, a handful of Prayers, maybe two or three Legacy beads when moments demanded it. Menfolk had only just begun producing beads back home in the Grovelands. Uncle Shirokaze hypothesized that it had something to do with Fernweh’s destruction of the Monoliths and Sphere’s. Despite all that male beaders were looked upon wirh extreme suspicion, and any sane male kept his a secret. No need in bringing the ire of the Church and Ashhounds upon your family looking for traces of the Taint. Thankfully, Itza understood and saw it as a miracle of the Creator. She even wore two of mine on a pendant around her neck.

I stepped a little ahead—just out of arm’s reach, just in case.

“What if,” I said, voice low,“all a woman had to keep herself alive… or out of indenture…was to get rid of some?”

Itza looked at me, unreadable, trying to decide where I was going with my words.

I continued making sure to keep enough distance between us just in case,“Not the big ones. Not the Legacy kind. Just the everyday ones. The multi-produced types. Like… Cycles.”

The silence between us now was different. Not cold. But thick. Like sap clinging to the bark of something old.

Itza tilted her head, her eyes narrowing in thought. Then she brought one of her beads to her lips— A blue-grey shimmer, veined with faint silver.

I knew it instantly.

Her first Soul Weave bead.

The one she made when she bonded with me. The bead of our marriage. She pressed it between her front teeth, smiling around it like a misbehaving priestess.

My heart jumped.

She glanced sideways at me, then made that face. The one that said you’re right, but I’m not letting you off easy.

“I can agree with that, love,” she said casually,“Outside of the first time, there’s no need to keep things you make all the time. Cycle beads. Milk beads. Common prayers. But some?”

She lifted the Soul Weave bead and twirled it between her fingers, then poised it above a stone like she might shatter it.

“Some are just clutter,” she teased. “Like this one. I mean, what’s one little bond bead in the grand scheme of—”

“Don’t you dare shatter our marriage,” I growled, stepping closer, heat rising in my chest.

Itza grinned, all teeth and fire,“Ohhhh, okay. It means a lot, does it?”

She dropped the bead into her palm and kissed it gently,“Well, I guess I’ll keep it.”

As dusk bled out across the forest floor, the first lantern lights of Dark Hollow flickered into view—dim, yellow-orange things that wobbled like uncertain prayers in the evening fog.

Where Wither Hollow had been colloquial and homey, Dark Hollow put the low in colloquial.

It had never grown past its original outpost roots, and by the looks of it, had no intention to.

No Blackwater Oak. No chapel bells. Not even a proper gate sigil.

The wall surrounding the place was made of old, moss-covered logs, many of them still bearing the scorch marks and axe scars from Fernweh’s cleansing fire, decades ago.

Inside was a familiar blend of Haint architecture: steep gables, wide porches, and wood so old it wept sap in the moonlight.

I stopped just inside the main gate, the path beneath my boots changing from packed earth to hollow-sounding boards.

Itza stood beside me, quiet but alert, “ Something seems off around here, Zeke. It’s dusk we should see orbs floating around a settlement this old. They are all over Hollow Port and Wither Hollow. I wonder why they aren’t here?”

“That is odd. I remember from mission logs that all the spheres and monoliths in this area have been confirmed destroyed or quarantined. ” I muttered, scanning for a signboard or a town post. “ Maybe there hasn’t been enough emotional awareness built up around here yet for souls to be manifesting yet?”

Itza tilted her head thoughtfully, her eyes scanning the dark tree line, “I remember reading about that in some of the books Mama Yoko had. One of the older Druids Fernweh researched thought there was a link between emotional awareness and the soul. That emotions are truly what gave a soul its sentience.”

I touched the beads on the russet around my neck, “ I think that makes sense. I feel like my soul touches yours when we make love or spend time or pray together, because I can feel the way you feel. Those emotions are potent, and there is sometimes a bead that forms then. So I can see the tie between emotions and an orb forming.”

Itza looked at me and inclined her head to the entrance of Dark Hollow, “ Come on love, we can discuss Soul Theory more once we are out of the gloom and mosquitoes. At least a roof over our heads and some bread and gruel. I doubt they’ve got a Chapel Inn here… much less one with sheets that weren’t blessed by mildew.”

I followed her still mumbling to myself, slipping a pouch into my lip, “ What if when a person dies, the bead is what’s left of the physical side of the soul and orb is the spirit or the emotions?”

Itza grabbed my arm and tugged me along, “ COME ON, dear before these bugs cart me off for a sacrifice.”

A crude sign hung lopsided over a crooked bulletin board near the gate:

Visitors: Stay at your own risk. Ask for ‘Granny’s Place’ at the Rusty Pipe Tavern. No sanctification services after dusk.

Itza let out a slow exhale,“Charming.”

She looked down at her rosary,“My beads don’t hum here. That’s a pretty good tell that the emotional buildup is still very low here.”

We walked the main muddy track through Dark Hollow, boots sucking into the road like the land itself didn’t want us here. My eyes swept left and right, scanning for any signs of church markings—a Gospel glyph, a home-rosary, even a widow’s pendant.

“See any signs of Gospel families, Itza?”

She shook her head, sharp and quiet,“No. And if this is where they’re funneling the stolen beads…Do we really want to alert anyone to our presence here?”

I nodded grimly,“Good point.”

I gestured ahead,“Guess it’s ‘Granny’s Place’ then. Maybe they’ll have a decent beer at least.”

Calling the building ‘ramshackle’ was generous. The Rusty Pipe Tavern looked like someone had taken a sanctified barn, cursed it, then dared time and termites to finish the job.

Mud-stained boards, shuttered windows lashed with cordage and wattle, and a roofline that slouched like a drunk preacher.

We pushed open the door.It shrieked on its hinges like it hated us personally.

Smoke met us first. Then dim orange lamplight, shadows flickering like they were trying to crawl away. The floorboards groaned under our steps—like they remembered better patrons. Maybe holier ones.

At the bar sat the largest woman I had ever seen. Not just tall—formidable. Broad-shouldered. Towering. Hands like rootknobs, eyes like old moonlight on still water. She turned her head—slowly—and sized us up like she’d already buried people for less.

I walked up to the counter, keeping my tone casual,“Hello. We saw the sign outside—said to come here and ask for ‘Granny’s.’ Maybe you can point us in the right direction?”

The massive woman behind the bar didn’t speak. She just pointed at herself.

I looked back at Itza.

She shrugged.

“Alright, then… do you have any rooms available?”

The gigantic woman nodded once.

“How much?”

She held up two fingers.

“Two hundred gold?!”

She pointed back at the door.

Itza hissed softly through her teeth. I sighed,“Alright, fine. What time’s breakfast?”

She raised six fingers.

“We’ll take the room.”

She turned, slow as a shifting tide, to grab a key from a rusted rack mounted behind her.

That’s when I saw it. The bulge under her apron. It wasn’t the shape of a belly. Not the heavy sway of fat or age. No… this moved on its own.

Subtle. Intentional. Breathing.

I said nothing, but I made a quiet note to ask Itza if she noticed the same thing.

We followed Granny down the hallway through a warped back door into what must’ve been the inn half of the Rusty Pipe.

She moved with a hunched, ponderous gait—her body swaying more like a bear upright on hind legs than a woman.

Too wide at the thighs, too heavy in the rear, her hips rolled, not walked.

The floor creaked under her with each labored step.At the far end of the corridor, she turned, slowly, and gestured to a door with one thick-knuckled hand.

“Thank you!” I said as we passed her,“See you in the morning.”

Granny didn’t speak. Just turned, and lumbered back down the hall like she’d never stopped moving in her life.

The room was a stunningly far cry from the tavern’s rot and smoke.

Raw-hewn log bed, topped with fur blankets and thick pillows. A stone basin sat neatly atop a polished slab. And in the corner, a deep wooden tub, gleaming in the lamplight—pipes clearly set for hot and cold flow.

Itza let out a soft hum of delight, “ Remind me to never judge a bead by its shine again.”

“This is a lot nicer than I expected,” she said, slipping her shirt over her head.

I paused. My eyes completely arrested.

The glide of her torso, the curve from hips to waist to breast—It hit like a hymn. Holy. Earthy. Mine.

She reached behind her back, unclasping her bra, and without turning, smirked,“I can feel you staring. Everything here is yours to unwrap, my love. We’ll just have to say thanks later.”

I smiled, folded my hands together, and whispered,“Amen.”

I slipped my rosary over my head, letting it rest beside my pendant of Saint Yubert the Huntsman. Its weight against my chest was grounding, a reminder of purpose, of covenant, of vows made under sun and fire.

I leaned over Itza, hands braced on either side of her, the blanket pulled just high enough to shroud and beckon. Her brown hair was pulled up, but a few soft strands framed her face—wild, beautiful, like ivy on sacred stone. Her eyes caught the dim light, green and glowing, the way they always did when her love burned bright.

I kissed her. Slow. Long. Like a prayer that didn’t need words. A communion of breath and want and the holy stillness before revelation.

My lips traveled—past her jaw, her collar, the trail of her pulse—before those familiar hands, steady and sure, drew me back to her.

And in that single, steady motion, we were together again. Not just in flesh. But in soul. In rhythm.

In the sacred heat of the mystery, where two do not just become one—but become something greater.

The room grew quiet. Except for us. Except for the heartbeat-thrum of shared breath and whispered names and the music of married flame.

Her voice caught—a broken whisper of my name, like a psalm. And I, like a soldier in the service of her joy, answered it with fire.

Not for me. For her. Always for her.

And when we were both spent, held tight in the heat beneath fur and faith, she reached up and kissed me once more.

“Amen,” she whispered.

“Amen,” I echoed, forehead against hers.

Outside the room, far down the hallway, Granny waddled off into the dark— her silhouette bent, her steps slow and strange, as if she knew the shape of love but had long forgotten how it felt.