They knelt, not before saints, but before secrets. In a chapel long abandoned, where ivy crept through fractured stone and candles burned without names, she offered her own rites. No hymns. No holy relics. Only whispered intentions and crimson beads strung with care and defiance.
The Red Benediction is no ordinary blessing. It drapes like a relic of forbidden liturgies — a tangle of blood-dark glass and ruby-glinting truths, each loop a vow unspoken, each drop a prayer they dared not sanction.
Wear it not in reverence, but in remembrance: of those who found divinity in the margins, and made their own sacraments in shadow.
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