The monastery at dawn always smelled the same.

Wet stone floors, old candles, stained glass glowing in the moonlight, and the prayers of an apprentice monk who had yet to become a perfect servant of God.

The boy, who still looked quite young, knelt and clasped his hands together.

Humans were strange. They clasped their hands when they cried, when they begged, and when they loved. Were hands really that important? Unfortunately, she was the kind of being who had to see things for herself to be satisfied.

Whether it was a human, a beast, or a god.

So, why not just borrow them?

Unaware of her thoughts, the boy in the jet-black habit closed his eyes for the last time and whispered.