The city was quieter than usual that night, as if Rome itself sensed something stirring beneath its streets. The rain had begun again, steady and unending, washing through the gutters and turning the roads into mirrors of light. I watched from the window while Grace packed a small bag behind me—flashlight, gloves, the journal, and the letter that had started it all. She moved with calm precision, but her silence carried the weight of fear she refused to admit.We were leaving the safety of the penthouse. Whatever waited out there had already found its way to us once, and waiting for it to return was no longer an option.I turned from the window and said quietly, “You’re sure the cathedral still exists?”Grace nodded without looking up. “Sant’Elia. Abandoned after the fire twenty years ago. But I traced the name through your father’s old records. It’s mentioned three times, each connected to the Brotherhood’s meetings.”“Twenty years ago,” I repeated under my breath. That was the year my f

The night was heavy with rain. It clung to the windows, sliding down the glass like tears the sky couldn’t hold back. I stood at the top of the staircase with Grace lying unconscious in the room behind me, her breathing shallow, her skin pale against the dim light. Every few seconds, I looked back, afraid she might stop breathing altogether.Elen waited by the old grandfather clock in the hall, a small lantern in her hand. Its flame flickered against her face, carving lines of exhaustion I hadn’t noticed before. She looked older tonight, worn by something deeper than time.“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.“I don’t have a choice,” I said quietly.She nodded, then pushed the clock aside. The movement revealed a narrow arch behind it—an old door I hadn’t seen before. It was made of dark stone and carved with symbols that pulsed faintly, like veins lit from beneath.My chest tightened. “This was here all along?”“Your father built it himself,” she said. “He called it his chapel, b

I didn’t sleep that night. I sat beside Grace until the candles turned to puddles of wax, until the window began to pale with the gray light of dawn. The fire inside me never dimmed. It pulsed quietly, steady as a heartbeat, reminding me that it wasn’t gone—just waiting.Grace stirred once, her fingers twitching against the sheets. Every time she moved, my chest tightened with that strange mix of fear and hope. I wanted her to wake. I was terrified she would.Elen hadn’t returned since the night before. Maybe she needed distance from whatever this had become. Or maybe she knew that some things shouldn’t be watched too closely.When Grace finally opened her eyes, the light outside was soft and silver. She blinked a few times, then looked at me as if trying to remember where she was.“You stayed,” she said. Her voice was fragile, the kind of voice that makes you want to whisper back.“I couldn’t leave,” I said. “You were—” I stopped myself. What word could describe what she was? Possessed? T

When I woke, the world was silent.No sound. No breath. Only the faint hum of fire somewhere deep beneath my skin. The ground felt cold against my back, the scent of ash and stone thick in the air. For a moment, I didn’t move. I was afraid of what I might find if I did.Light seeped through the cracks above me, dim and golden, painting the chamber in ruins. The mirror was gone—shattered completely, its fragments burned into the walls like molten scars. Smoke drifted lazily through the air, carrying with it the smell of something both alive and dying.I tried to breathe. It hurt. My chest burned with every inhale, the kind of fire that doesn’t consume but transforms.“Luca?”Grace’s voice broke through the silence. I turned my head and saw her sitting near the fallen altar, her hair tangled, her face streaked with soot. She looked terrified—not of the destruction, but of me.“Grace,” I whispered, my voice rough and strange.She crawled closer, hesitating halfway. Her eyes flicked to my hands.

I started noticing it in the smallest ways. The flicker in Luca’s eyes when the lights dimmed, the way his voice would lower unconsciously when silence filled the room. It was as if something inside him had begun to breathe on its own.At first, I told myself it was exhaustion. None of us had really healed, not from the ruins, not from what we’d buried beneath them. But the longer I watched him, the harder it was to pretend.He had changed.He moved differently now, slower and quieter, like he was listening to something I couldn’t hear. His reflection sometimes lingered in mirrors even after he’d turned away. And once, late at night, I heard him speaking softly in the dark. The words were faint, impossible to understand, but the tone chilled me—it was too calm, too familiar.He was talking to someone.This morning, the city was already waking when I found him standing by the window again, staring at the skyline. His coffee had gone cold in his hand.“Luca,” I said gently, “you didn’t sleep