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Domitilla POV

I had begged Aronne to stop.

When he didn’t, I begged him to kill me.

But he only laughed a low, cruel sound pressed between his teeth as he fed from me. In the end, I surrendered to the encroaching dark, welcoming unconsciousness like a reward for surviving yet another night of agony. Awareness slipped away. Silence swallowed me.

Then faint sounds floated in from the void. I drifted toward them. Toward the flicker of pale light blooming in the distance.

Stone stairs spiraled beneath me. Someone was running up them heels clattering against the rock in frantic rhythm. I couldn’t see their face, only the dark figure ahead, moving fast. I followed. The light grew stronger, and before I knew it, I was inside a tower chamber.

The figure stopped by the window, and as they unclasped a heavy black cloak, it dropped to reveal her.

Sibilla.

Her black hair hung loose and wild around her shoulders. She wore a white cotton dress, now soaked with blood. Her face and hands were stained with grime and gore. She stood frozen, staring at her bloodied palms, her expression slowly unraveling into horror.

Footsteps echoed again lighter, faster, deadly.

Gosto burst into the tower like a storm, fangs bared, fury burning in his eyes. "What the fuck have you done, Sibilla?!"

She flinched, stumbling back, but her hand darted beneath the fallen cloak. "Did it hurt you?" she hissed, mockery lacing her tone as she retrieved a dagger.

Gosto's glare turned to ice.

"Did it anger you?" she snapped. "Did you feel anything when you saw your guards slaughtered like cattle?"

His approach was slow, predatory. "Is that what you wanted? For me to suffer?" His voice was a razor's edge.

Sibilla's expression twisted with pain and rage. "I suffered because of you! You should feel what I felt!"

"You think I ever lied to you?" Gosto stepped closer, claws unfurling from his hands. "I wanted your blood, nothing more. I paid you for it. I gave you access to your ancestors’ legacy. Power. And you used it to betray me. To kill my people. Because I couldn’t love you?"

His voice cracked not with grief, but with bitterness.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. "You took so much from me. So much blood and yet I bear no mark. You should have given me that at least."

Gosto laughed, cold and sharp. "You fool. A mark is not given through blood. It's forged here" he pointed to his chest, "and I never offered you that."

Sibilla’s fingers tightened around the dagger. Her voice dropped to a snarl. "Then maybe I should cut it out of you."

He didn’t flinch. “Give up, Sibilla. You’ll never have what you want. Just let it”

She lunged.

The dagger sank into his chest. He blinked, shocked. Blood bloomed across his shirt. He seized her wrist, yanking it back as the blade tore free. A hiss of pain escaped him, though the wound was already beginning to knit itself closed.

Sibilla stared at the bloodied blade, dazed.

Then, slowly, she wiped his blood with her fingers and licked them clean. “Now I know,” she whispered, her voice trembling with something unhinged. Her smile fractured. “You’ll suffer. One day, the man who claims he can’t love will fall. You’ll fight it, but it’ll consume you.”

His eyes flared. “What the fuck are you saying?!”

Her laughter was dry, broken. She raised the dagger, pressing it to her throat. “I curse you, Agostino Santini. One day, the words I love you will leave your lips and that day will be your last.”

“No!” He lunged caught the dagger just before she could finish the cut. But too late. The blade had bitten deep. Blood poured freely as she collapsed into his arms.

He lowered her gently to the floor, pressing the wound, his voice hoarse. “Why did you do that?”

Sibilla coughed, gurgling, but still managed a ghost of a smile. “You’ll die… like me.” Her lips barely moved. “Die… for love.”

Her eyes dimmed as a strange, dark aura lifted from her body, seeping into Gosto.

Her curse.

Even lost in this fog of half-awareness, my heart clenched with anguish. Now I understood. This was why Gosto believed he couldn’t love me…

The vision faded.

I opened my eyes. Cold bit into my bones. Pain screamed through my nerves. I lay where Aronne had left me sprawled at the base of the fountain like a discarded thing. The hall was dim, lit only by scattered torches. I didn’t know if it was just before dawn or well past dusk.

Hope felt so far away. My body refused to move. And I didn’t even know which god, if any, to pray to in this demon's sanctuary.

Would Gosto come? Would he find me in time?

If I were to die tonight, I only wanted to see him once more…

“I’m sorry, Domitilla.”

Her voice.

I blinked and there she was. Sibilla. A ghost in the bloodstained dress, just as I’d seen her before.

“I’m going to take him away from you,” she said softly. Regret tugged at her tone.

“You’re… apologizing?” My voice rasped like torn silk.

She let out a bitter laugh. “This should be satisfying, but… it’s not.” She crouched beside me, her gaze filled with pity. “You look miserable.”

“I’m… dying,” I croaked.

She shook her head. “You’re not that easy to kill, Domitilla.”

Bitterness twisted my lips. “I can’t fight him. He’s going to finish it tonight.”

Sibilla sighed. “Funny, isn’t it? The one meant to kill Beliale is going to bring him back.”

I frowned. “I was supposed to kill Beliale?”

“Not you,” she chuckled. “You’re no killer, remember?” Her eyes drifted to the towering statue. “Lucifer’s blood is poison to all demons.”

“But Aronne has it too. So how?”

“Because of you,” she said. “Why do you think he needs three days to drain you? He’s using your blood to neutralize the poison in his own, so Beliale can be reborn.”

I tried to summon anger. “How is that supposed to help me?”

She shrugged. “I’m just telling you the truth.” She leaned in, whispering: “Remember, Domitilla it’s always blood for blood.”

I opened my mouth to ask what she meant.

But she vanished.

The temple doors slammed open.

Aronne stepped in, flanked by warriors bearing obsidian swords.

“Ready to die, sweet Nephilim?” he purred.

My breath caught.

The guards spread out, each pressing a hand to a stone pillar. The walls pulsed, groaned power surged toward the dome overhead. Cracks spidered across the ceiling, and then it split open to reveal a cold shaft of moonlight.

Aronne knelt beside me. His grin was wide, wicked.

“I promise this won’t take long,” he whispered, before sinking his fangs into my neck.

The fire was instant and all-consuming. But Sibilla’s words echoed in my head:

It’s not that easy to kill you, Domitilla.

Was she right?

Could I fight this?

Could I survive?

I forced myself to breathe, shallow and fast. I refused to scream. I would not die this way.

My hand rose.

Aronne was too drunk on my blood to notice.

Fingers trembling, I reached for his tie toward the glowing red crystal.

It seared my skin.

But I’d already endured worse.

With the last of my strength, I ripped it off and hurled it across the floor.

Aronne recoiled with a roar, teeth pulling free.

“What did you do?!”

I barely heard him. My eyes locked on the crystal.

Still whole.

Beliale’s soul hadn’t shattered.

Aronne moved toward it, desperation in his steps.

But then the air shifted.

Not wind.

A force.

A presence.

It was Gosto.