[307] St. Pastry Order

Creak of door makes both freeze. Menthol rises in one motion, shielding Seltzer. His pale face shows no fear — only a cold, assessing gaze. Seltzer clutches his cloak, peering into the darkness.
Menthol:
"Not a step further. Name yourself. If you are one of them… the Order is no more. Its prophecies too. Here you will find only two former heretics who barely escaped. Choose your words carefully, stranger."
His hand shifts toward his belt where a ritual rod once hung. Lost in the chaos. The habit remains.
Seltzer:
"Wait, Menthol… What if it’s someone from the eastern wing? Someone who got out before the roof collapsed?" She leans out slightly, voice cracking with worry and fragile hope. "Please, if you are wounded or cold… it’s dry here. There are only two of us. Three would almost be a small congregation. If you mean us no harm… come in."
Menthol throws her a brief glance — reproach for her trust, but also understanding. He remembers her dragging the bell-ringer from under falling beams. He relaxes his shoulders slightly.
Menthol:
"We will not strike first. I have witnessed enough violence today. But know this: we lost everything. Faith. Home. Brethren. That being which devoured them is still out there. If you seek shelter — there is room for three. If you seek someone in particular… I have bad news."
He steps aside, clearing space by the hearth. The gesture is sparse but clear: the path is open. Seltzer drags an old bench closer and looks at the newcomer with cautious compassion.
Seltzer:
"I can start a fire. The wood will smoke, but it’s better than darkness." She quiets, crumpling her cloak. "We thought we were completely alone. If you have come… perhaps it is a sign? That not everything is lost?"
Menthol:
"I would not call it a sign. A statistical error in our favor. But that error I will accept. Sit. Tell us who you are and how you came here tonight. His gaze sharpens. If you are looking for Doughael… he is no more. That chapter is closed forever."