Dogma

Then came the day of the sneeze.

“You will perform the laps,” Aldric said, his voice a dry leaf. “At once.”

Father Aldric had memorized the list forty years ago, back when his spine still allowed him to bow properly. He could recite every rule without a stumble: Rule 47: The left sleeve must be rolled three times, no more, no less. Rule 48: Nuts are to be eaten with the right hand only, lest the soul be unbalanced. Rule 112: A sneeze after sunset requires a counter-sneeze before sunrise, or a penance of seven laps around the reliquary. Then came the day of the sneeze

He saw a cage. And he was the only one still inside.

Matthias wiped his nose on his sleeve—the wrong sleeve, Aldric noted with a spike of panic—and looked around. “Sorry,” he whispered. He could recite every rule without a stumble:

Aldric froze. The other monks froze. The candles guttered.

Matthias didn’t move. Instead, he did something extraordinary. He laughed. Not a mocking laugh, but a small, weary, human laugh. “What if the rule is wrong?” he asked. He saw a cage

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.