The Fifth Confession

Resolve

The next day, Isabel visited the diocese archive in the next province. She posed as a researcher studying “colonial-era exorcisms,” and after a few polite lies and enough charm to disarm the old archivist, she gained access to sealed files.

There, she found what she hadn’t dared hope existed:

A letter from Fr. Manuel, dated weeks before his death, begging the bishop to intervene in what he called “heretical ceremonies infiltrating the Church in San Fernando.”

A confidential reply, warning him to remain silent, or face excommunication.

A reference to an underground group known only by initials: D.S. — Domini Sanguinis.

The Blood of the Lord.

A cult? A secret order?

Her hands trembled as she took photos of everything.

Back in her room, Isabel pinned every document to her growing investigation board. She had Clara’s name. Fr. Manuel’s warning. Raul’s testimony. The cult’s initials. And now, that stranger.

This was no longer a story. It was a war for truth.

And someone was starting to move against her.

She noticed it the next morning—her room had been entered. Nothing taken, but everything felt… shifted. The sensation was unmistakable.

Later, at the bakery, a man in a white barong stared at her too long. His eyes were blank, but too knowing.

She told herself to stay calm.

She had no allies.

Except maybe one.

That night, Isabel returned to the rectory. She found Elian sitting at the organ, staring at his reflection in its polished wood.

“I met someone,” he said before she could speak. “One of the men from that night.”

Her breath caught.

“They’re back,” he said. “And they want something from me. Or maybe from both of us.”

Isabel sat across from him.

“I found records. The name of their group. Domini Sanguinis.”

Elian went pale.

“I’ve heard that name once before,” he whispered. “Long ago. From the bishop who visited Fr. Manuel the week before he died. I was never supposed to hear it.”

He turned to her, voice trembling. “You need to leave. Before it’s too late.”

But Isabel shook her head.

“No, Father. I’m staying. I’ve already been marked. We both have.”

They sat in silence, the night pressing in on the rectory like a storm cloud ready to burst. Outside, the church bell began to toll—without wind, without anyone pulling the rope.

Isabel stood. “We find out what they’re hiding. We find out what happened to Clara. And then we expose them.”

Elian’s eyes closed briefly. When he opened them, there was something steelier in his gaze.

“Then we do it together.”