They left at 4:58 a.m., just before the first pale blade of dawn cut the horizon.
The plane was a 1948 Douglas DC-3, bought decades ago by the monastery for missionary hops to the Caribbean and lovingly maintained ever since. No computers. No fly-by-wire. Just two radial engines, analog gauges, and a cracked paint job that still read "Our Lady of Guadalupe" in faded blue letters on the fuselage.
Two hundred and nineteen souls stood in perfect silence on the frozen grass of the old airstrip behind the monastery, breath rising like incense.
Every forehead glowed.
Every hand held a rosary.
Every heart beat in the same rhythm.
Sofia walked the line alone, barefoot in the snow, wearing a simple white dress one of the nuns had sewn overnight and the brown scapular that had become her general's sash.
She stopped in front of each person and touched their forehead with her thumb—leaving a tiny cross of blessed oil that flared gold for a second before sinking in.
When she reached Father Elijah, he couldn't speak.
She pressed the Miraculous Medal he had given her in the tunnel into his palm and closed his fingers over it.
"Keep this until I come back," she whispered. "Or until we meet There."
He tried to protest. She laid two fingers on his lips.
"Offer your Mass for me every day at 3:33. That's how I'll know you're with me."
Diego was last.
Her brother—nineteen, tattooed, eyes red from crying all night—dropped to his knees in the snow and wrapped his arms around her waist like he was eight again.
"Don't do this, Sophie. Please."
She knelt too, cupped his face.
"You became a man the night you ran to the chapel with the seal burning on your hand.
Now let your big sister do her job."
She kissed the glowing cross on his forehead.
"Pray the Rosary like ammunition, Diego. Every bead is a bullet I'll feel in Rome."
Then she stood and walked to the plane.
Dom Pius and two monk-pilots waited by the steps.
The abbot handed her a small leather satchel.
Inside:
- One olive-wood rosary (the one that had floated in the crypt)
- One green scapular for conversions
- One tiny vial of St. Michael oil
- One Host in a golden pyx, consecrated the night before and still radiating faint warmth
- A single sheet of paper with the entire community's names written in Dom Pius's spidery hand
"Carry us with you," he said simply.
Sofia tucked the satchel under her dress, right against her heart.
The propellers began to turn.
As the DC-3 taxied to the end of the strip, the entire Rosary Army dropped to their knees in the snow and began the Joyful Mysteries in one voice.
The engines roared.
Sofia stood in the open doorway, white dress whipping in the prop-wash, hair flying like a battle standard.
She raised both hands in blessing.
The plane lifted off exactly on the first "Hail Mary, full of grace."
For thirty seconds the DC-3 climbed straight into the dawn—and every soul on the ground saw the same thing:
Guardian angels—hundreds of them—flying in perfect formation around the little silver plane, wings of fire, swords drawn, escorting it eastward across a sky that had suddenly turned the color of Our Lady's mantle.
The final Glory Be faded into silence.
Father Elijah stayed on his knees longest, clutching the Miraculous Medal so hard it cut his palm.
Diego stood beside him, shotgun forgotten, eyes fixed on the tiny plane until it vanished into the rising sun.
Dom Pius's voice was soft but carried like a trumpet.
"Seven days, children.
Seven days of peace bought with one girl's yes.
We do not waste a single minute."
He turned to the Army.
"From this moment until Sofia returns or is crowned in heaven, we pray fifteen decades every three hours, around the clock.
We fast on bread and water Wednesdays and Fridays.
We offer every Mass for the conversion of the man in Rome."
Two hundred and nineteen voices answered:
"Amen."
Far away, in a private jet painted pure white and bearing no national markings, Prince Alessandro watched the live satellite feed of the ancient DC-3 climbing over Lake Superior.
He steepled his fingers and smiled with genuine anticipation.
"Come, little sister," he whispered to the screen. "Come and see what I have prepared for you."
Then he turned to the empty air beside him and spoke in a language that predated Eden.
"She's coming alone. Exactly as planned."
Something vast and winged uncoiled in the shadows of the cabin and laughed with too many throats.
The seven days had begun.
To be continued…