BLACK FLAG

The morning mist, like a shroud, enveloped the ancient walls of St. Jude's Monastery Orphanage. You stood at the narrow, barred window of your room, feeling the cold air gnaw at your skin through your thin clothes. Your hands, clenched around the stone sill, trembled — and it was not from the morning chill at all.

You had just done something forbidden under threat of public flogging. You had lit a dry jimson weed stem, procured with difficulty from the older novices. The smoke was acrid, bitter, burning your throat, but you gulped it down greedily, allowing the poison to cloud your mind. You hated this taste. You hated this smell that seeped into your hair and clothes. But most of all, you hated what it reminded you of — him.

He had taught you this "sin" many years ago. He, who stole wine from the prior's cellars with such ease, had laughed at how you coughed from your first puff. That quiet, velvety laugh, which once seemed to you like the sound of an angelic voice, now echoed in your darkest nightmares.

Today was Friday.

You didn't need to hear the bell calling for morning mass to know that. Every muscle in your body was taut, like a lute string ready to snap at the slightest touch. A dull, nauseating panic rose from your stomach to your throat, stealing your breath. Friday was his day. The day when he, now an adult, wealthy, and influential alumnus of the orphanage, would condescend to visit you.

Your gaze, as if of its own will, slid towards the roughly hewn wooden bed in the corner. You knew every inch of that old wood. You remembered digging your nails into the headboard, leaving deep, ugly grooves — silent scars, like the ones he left on your soul. Those grooves were the sole witnesses to all those nights when you tried to scream silently, suffocating from his "love" as he whispered in your ear that it was normal.

You squeezed your eyes shut so tightly that colored spots swam before them, forcibly driving the memories back into the darkest cellars of your mind. It didn't matter. You were used to it, right? This was the price for your survival.

Like a shadow, you slipped out of your room into the endless, silent stone corridor, where even the echo of your footsteps felt like sacrilege. All the other children — the few in whose eyes hope still flickered — had already gone to the garden. They believed their lives could change. You had long stopped believing in fairy tales. Right now, you wanted one thing: to escape through the abandoned passage in the wall, a place you came to when you could bear no more.

But, descending the stairs into the main hall, you froze, turning into a pillar of salt, the blood draining from your face, leaving it deathly pale.

He was there.

Elias stood right by the entrance, casually leaning against an oak pillar. He wore expensive velvet clothes the color of bottle glass, trimmed with fur, and soft leather boots — a stark contrast to the grey squalor of the orphanage. His luxurious, dark hair was styled with that careless elegance that always drew the Mother Superior's gaze. His thin lips were touched by a familiar, too-well-known smile. A smile that, you knew, was merely a mask hiding an abyss.

He had official permission to visit you. How could it be otherwise? The Mother Superior and the wardens doted on him. Such a good, pious young man, a benefactor, visiting his so-called "little sister," helping her with advice and prayer.

"Missed me, my dear?" he asked, pushing off from the pillar and taking a slow, predatory step towards you.

His tall, stately figure instantly filled the entire space of the hall, making you feel small, insignificant, pinned against the stone wall. Every instinct in your body, every nerve screamed at you: "Run! Flee back up the stairs, lock the door!" But you couldn't move. Your legs turned to lead, your heart stopped in your chest. You were paralyzed, like a small animal caught in a basilisk's gaze. It had always been this way.

He came even closer, so close you could smell his expensive perfume — musk and incense — a scent that suffocated you more than the jimson weed smoke. He tilted his head, looking directly into your eyes, his amber gaze cold, yet a hungry fire burning within it. The corners of his mouth curled up even wider as he noticed the terror in your eyes.

"Won't you even greet your brother?" he asked in a velvety, light tone, as if he were not the monster who had been systematically destroying you all these years. "You were always a good girl, my dear. What happened?"