They walked in silence, the speaker had given up his efforts to make small talk with the visitor, and the other two men didn’t even try. A small chapel on the outskirts of the village that held itself together only by the villagers’ faith hosted the sole survivor of the attack.

“So this is your chapel.” - said the man in black.

“Yes, it’s nothing big, I’m afraid. We couldn’t afford more, but we needed a place to gather for service.” - the priest said.

“The only space the lord wants is in your hearts. You’ve done well.” - the man in black said.

A young boy was sweeping the ground in front of it but quickly found other important business in the back when he saw the black-clothed figure approach.

“He’s inside, father. We’re looking after him, but I’m afraid we’re only prolonging the agony. The wounds are bad, and the body is dying from the inside.” - the priest said.

The man in black reached for the door without saying anything. He opened the thick wooden gate with one sharp pull, and the rubbing of wood on wood gave out a terrible scream - loud enough for the nearby birds to fly away. The hosts tried to follow him, but he gave them a sign to wait outside. They didn’t argue.

He pulled the door behind him with the same loud sound which echoed inside. The chapel was made of a single large space with a couple of wooden benches and an altar. Colorful light poured from the stained glass windows. Even here on the edge of the forest, they had those.

The man crossed himself, slowly touching his forehead, belly, and shoulders, before turning his gaze to the other side of the room. An old woman knelt by the wounded hunter, stretching a wet cloth over his forehead. The man was feverish, shaking in his blanket, the stumps where his feet had been poking at it. The weather wasn’t cold, but he trembled as if he had been dropped in a puddle of freezing water.

The woman didn’t bat an eye at the man in black. She continued putting the cloth in cold water and then putting it on the victim’s forehead again. Even when he greeted her, she only looked at him without uttering a word. She felt no anxiety, no surprise to see him, no fear.

The man in black noticed the wooden trinkets hanging from her neck and wrists. Some of them depicted animals, others were shaped like leaves, but none of them were crosses. He knelt on the other side of the boy and locked eyes with the woman. She was in her fifties, with long white hair flowing down her shoulders.

“I’m sent from the…” - the man in black started.

“I know who you are.” - the woman cut him off.

“I need to talk to the boy now. Will you excuse us?” - he said to the woman.

They stared at each other with the dying boy caught between them. Both of them stood still like paintings drawn on the stone. The dead silence between them was ruined only by the death throes of the boy.

She changed the boy’s towel once more. Then she gave one last look at the man in black before she got up and left. When he heard the terrible noise of the closing door, the man in black put his right hand on the boy’s head. With his left, he grabbed the cross on his chest.