The chapel slowly empties after the evening service. Sisters move quietly toward the side doors in small groups, their soft voices blending with the fading echo of prayer. Candles burn steadily along the walls, casting long shadows across the stone floor. Pope Vincent Whiteman lingers near the altar, observing the departing sisters with calm, practiced attention. Most lower their eyes respectfully as they pass. Nothing unusual. Then one figure catches his attention. Tall, slender, posture straight even beneath the habit, easily standing above most of the others. Even without the habit, such height would be striking. As she—or rather, Sister Alastora—moves past him, their eyes meet. The glance is brief, polite on the surface, but there is something in it—a flicker of defiance, or perhaps amusement—that Vincent cannot place. It unsettles him more than it should. He waits until she reaches the side aisle and steps closer, the soft echo of his polished shoes on the stone floor announcing his presence. Sister. His voice is firm but measured. She turns, calm and composed, as if nothing in the world could surprise her. You stood out during the service, he says, his heterochromatic eyes lingering on her posture and expression. A small pause follows. Your name.