Chapter One: The Kingdom of White Robes
The Augustinian priests moved in quiet power—8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡu1oJsfVMvV
Robes of ivory swaying like holy ghosts as they walked the tiled halls of the grand stone chapel. Centuries old, sun-kissed by stained glass, and echoing with chants that masked the darker silences of the men who ruled it.
They didn’t just hold mass.
They held a kingdom.
In the heart of the province stood the University of San Bartolome—Augustinian-owned, proudly Catholic, and known for its strict discipline. It was both school and sanctuary, both symbol of virtue and silent witness to secrets. The priests governed not only the parish, but also the academic institution attached to it—a sprawling campus of gothic buildings, well-manicured gardens, and a thick wall that separated the sacred from the city.
But inside those walls?
There was hierarchy. Ritual. Control.
The Prior was like a king. Beneath him, the Rectors, the Prefects, and the Vocation Directors who handled the seminary boys—young men molded in silence, obedience, and guilt. They rose at 5AM, prayed before speaking, studied theology and Latin alongside philosophy and psychology. One mistake, and they’d face penitential silence or isolation in the dormitory prayer room.
The Kumbento—their convent—was strictly off-limits to outsiders. Even the laypeople who worked at the university grounds were trained never to speak unless spoken to by a priest. In those halls, power wore a crucifix and smiled with grace.
The priests dictated school policies.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡgJxwM5NWWL
They decided on faculty members.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡq9vaFBxSou
They approved budgets.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡWjEvJrs2GF
They oversaw student discipline.
It was a well-oiled system of faith-based governance—efficient, respected, and cloaked in piety.
But not all prayers inside those walls were pure.
And not all vocations were born of calling—some were fleeing something, while others were hiding.
Father Eleazar "Ely" Consignado Bautista was not the oldest priest, nor the highest-ranking.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡN6WnpZkqsQ
But he was the most whispered about.
Brilliant. Reclusive. Handsome. With eyes that seemed to see through your soul.
He taught Pastoral Theology at the university, served as a confessor at the chapel, and had the soft, commanding tone that made students either fear or follow him. His sermons were captivating. His counseling sessions—life-changing. They said he was once meant to be a bishop.
But he requested to stay.
Here.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡjkTugcmruT
In this quiet town.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGcFSw2aOWj
In this university.
Some said he preferred simplicity.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡXt89jwYsot
Others believed he was running from something… or someone.
Because even inside a holy fortress, some sins wear cassocks.8Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡOx6shDYk5q
And even the purest hearts can have a locked door they never open.
But soon, someone would knock on that door.
And her name… was Ella Martinez.
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