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Flynn

Today, after High Mass at Santa María la Mayor, I was approached by Padre Rodrigo de Valencia himself. My hands still tremble at the honour. He spoke of having observed me these past months—my dedication to prayer, my earnest study of the Holy Scripture.

“God has shown me your destiny,” he said, with certainty. “You, Sebastián Salazar, are meant for His greater purpose.”

That a man of such standing—personal confessor to the Duke of Medina—should take notice of me!

Though Father says our family’s position demands such attention, I cannot help but feel blessed.

Padre Rodrigo has offered to guide my theological studies personally, speaking of how Spain needs strong, educated men of faith in these troubled times.

If only Magdalena shared such divine inspiration. Again, she refused Mass, claiming illness. Mother believes her, but I heard her in the gardens, singing those peculiar songs. I pray she will soon see sense—her soul depends upon it.

Padre Rodrigo says I have the makings of an Inquisitor. The very thought makes my heart soar. To serve God and Crown, to protect Spain from the poison of heresy… What greater calling could there be?

He wishes to meet again tomorrow, to discuss my future path. I must prepare myself to be worthy of such attention.

- Sebastián Salazar

December 24th, 1520

The eve of Our Lord’s birth, and my heart is full of His purpose.

These past months under Padre Rodrigo’s tutelage have opened my eyes to depths of theological understanding I never dreamed possible.

Today we discussed Aquinas’s treatise on divine law—Padre Rodrigo says my grasp of Latin surpasses many seminary students twice my age.

Mother is pleased with my studies, though she frets I spend too many hours in Padre Rodrigo’s library.

But how can I refuse when he shares such rare manuscripts?

Yesterday, he showed me documents from the Holy Office itself—actual transcripts of interrogations!

He says such knowledge will serve me well when I take my place among the defenders of the faith.

But my joy is tempered by growing concern. Magdalena was caught with a strange book today—symbols and foreign script. When Father threatened to burn it, she became hysterical.

Padre Rodrigo, who was taking Christmas confession with us, suggested I keep the book to study its heretical nature with him.

It contained a crude drawing that still disturbs me.

A woman with serpentine features, surrounded by beasts that looked like wolves or hyenas, rising from water.

“The oldest evil,” Rodrigo whispered, crossing himself. “She who refused to submit to Adam.”

He grows increasingly troubled by my sister’s behaviour. “Your own household,” he warned me, “is where vigilance must begin.”

I shall pray extra hard tonight for Magdalena’s soul. Padre Rodrigo says God has chosen me to guide her back to His light.

- Sebastián Salazar

I flicked through the pages of 1521 and 1522, scanning entries that charted Seb’s descent into religious fanaticism.

The handwriting became neater, more controlled—like watching someone grow up through their penmanship.

Most entries mentioned Padre Rodrigo: dinners at his private quarters, late-night theological debates, gifts of rare books.

Christ, the manipulation was obvious, but younger Seb had written about him like he hung the moon.

Between the lines of formal language and religious devotion, I could see Rodrigo slowly isolating him, turning him against his sister while positioning himself as Seb’s only true guide.

It made my stomach turn. I skipped to summer 1523, where the handwriting underneath the English translation looked oddly messy.

June 18th, 1523

I witnessed my first trial two days ago. Even now, my hand shakes as I commit these words to paper.

Padre Rodrigo arranged everything. A special dispensation from the Holy Office allowed me to observe from the gallery as they brought forth the accused—a woman barely older than Magdalena, charged with Jewish practices.

The evidence was irrefutable; witnesses testified to seeing her light candles on Friday evenings, and salt was discovered beneath her floorboards.

I confess, when they applied the instruments, I nearly fled. But Padre Rodrigo’s hand on my shoulder anchored me. “Watch,” he whispered, his breath warm against my ear. “This is God’s mercy in action. Through pain, we save their immortal souls.”

The woman confessed within the hour.

Afterwards, Padre Rodrigo insisted I join him in his study to discuss what we had witnessed.

Though the hour grew late, he would not let me leave until I had understood every detail of the proceedings.

His knowledge of interrogation techniques is remarkable—he speaks of them with such passion, such intensity.

When I mentioned the lateness of the hour, he grew agitated.

“Your soul’s education cannot be bound by mundane concerns of time,” he said, his eyes so bright in the candlelight.

Padre Rodrigo presented me with a silver crucifix today, claiming it was blessed by the Archbishop himself. “A symbol of your dedication,” he said, pressing it into my hands. I shall treasure it always.

But I write now of graver concerns. Upon returning home that eve, I found Magdalena’s room empty.

The servants discovered her in the olive grove, dancing.

There were markings in the dirt, symbols that made Padre Rodrigo cross himself when I described them to him today.

He insists I bring him anything else I discover about her activities.

My sister’s soul weighs heavy on my conscience. I know the price of heresy, and I cannot bear to think of her facing such consequences. I must save her, whatever the cost.

- Sebastián Salazar

April 3rd, 1524

Another three condemned today. The weight of such judgements should grow lighter with practice—how many has it been now? Twenty? Thirty? I’ve lost count.

Sometimes, in the dark hours before dawn, their faces haunt me. The merchant’s wife who wept for her children. The old man who quoted Scripture even as they led him away. But Padre Rodrigo reminds me of our holy purpose. “Through us,” he whispers. “God cleanses Spain.”

My position on the Tribunal grows more secure with each passing month.

Father speaks of family pride, but if he knew the true honour…

To serve God and Crown in such a manner!

My signature carries the weight of divine justice now.

The other Inquisitors seek my counsel, praise my dedication to rooting out heresy.

Padre Rodrigo says I’ve exceeded even his expectations.

Yet my joy is tainted. Magdalena’s behaviour worsens with each passing moon. Yesterday, I discovered dried herbs beneath her pillow, tied with red thread—a clear sign of folk magic. When confronted, she spoke of “older ways” and “natural healing.” I confiscated the items immediately.

Today, Magdalena asked to see my crucifix. Something in her eyes troubled me—a hunger I did not recognise. When I refused, she grew angry. “You trust his gifts more than your own blood?”

Padre Rodrigo visits our house almost daily now, taking an unsettling interest in these discoveries.

“Your sister’s soul weighs in the balance,” he reminded me over dinner last evening, his fourth visit this week.

He stayed until well past midnight, pressing me for every detail of Magdalena’ s movements.

When I suggested some matters might remain private within the family, his demeanour turned cold.

“There can be no privacy,” he said, “in matters of faith.”

This morning, a messenger arrived with a note demanding my presence in his private quarters. When I explained I had duties at the Tribunal, another message came within the hour. And another. Each more insistent than the last.

I find myself thinking of the accused woman from last summer’s trial. Her eyes, when they brought in the instruments…

God forgive me these doubts. Padre Rodrigo has only ever guided me towards His light. Without his mentorship, where would I be? I owe him everything.

But Magdalena… Sweet Christ, guide me.

- Sebastián Salazar

I lowered the diary, my throat tight. Beside me on the wooden floor, Seb sat rigidly, his dark eyes fixed on nothing. Reading these words had painted something horribly raw across his face.

I reached for his hand. His skin was cool against mine, but his fingers curled into my grip.

“We can stop,” I whispered.

He shook his head. “No. I need…” His accent thickened with emotion. “I need to remember. Remember it all. Properly .”

Something told me he remembered everything these diaries recounted crystal-clear already.

I leaned over and pressed my lips to his temple, lingering there. His curls brushed against my cheek, and I caught the faintest tremor running through him.

“Right, then,” I said, keeping hold of his hand as I picked up the diary again. “Let’s remember together.”

October 22nd, 1525

My hands shake as I write. Tonight has destroyed everything .

I followed Magdalena. God help me, I followed my own sister into the woods beyond the city walls.

Padre Rodrigo’s whispers proved true—she was not alone.

A gathering of women, dancing beneath the winter moon, speaking in tongues that made my blood run cold.

Magdalena led their chants, her hair wild, her feet bare despite the frost.

Their voices carried fragments I recognised from my studies of Hebrew—“mother of night, first woman, she who rules the waters.” But worse was their altar: a clay bowl filled with water, and within it, a horrifying figure shaped from wax—a woman with a crown of serpents, surrounded by prowling beasts.

The same unholy image from that book she had years ago.