Dogma -

“Rule 47,” Aldric muttered, almost to himself, “makes no exception for darkness.”

Matthias wiped his nose on his sleeve—the wrong sleeve, Aldric noted with a spike of panic—and looked around. “Sorry,” he whispered.

The beast did not wake.

In the beginning, there was the Word. And the Word was a list.

The silence was a held breath. Aldric’s hand drifted to his own Compendium , still crisp in his pocket after four decades. Rule 112 . The sun was gone. The sneeze had occurred after sunset. A counter-sneeze was required. But who could sneeze on command? And what if the counter-sneeze was performed with the wrong inflection? What if the soul was already unbalanced? “Rule 47,” Aldric muttered, almost to himself, “makes

He took the Compendium from his pocket. The laminate had yellowed. The corners were soft. He looked at the list—all 247 rules, plus the 83 addenda and the 12 secret clauses known only to the high clergy—and for the first time, he didn’t see a leash holding back chaos.

It was twilight. The Order’s chapel smelled of dust and burnt beeswax. Brother Matthias, a novice with hair like straw and a face full of doubt, sneezed. It was a wet, violent, unapologetic sneeze. And it happened exactly as the sun’s last sliver bled below the horizon. In the beginning, there was the Word

Matthias blinked. “Father, it’s dark. The reliquary is unlit. I’ll break my neck on the marble.”

Matthias shrugged. “Then we go to bed. And in the morning, we decide which rules still matter.” Aldric’s hand drifted to his own Compendium ,