Florence, midnight
The rose rested in her palm like a heartbeat caught in crystal.
Each petal was fragile—formed from her own breath and fire—but within the heart of the glass bloomed the sigil she had summoned: veiled, radiant, and very much alive. It shimmered in silver and pale gold, the threads of magic stitched not from borrowed chants or Council tradition, but her own blood and will.
Esmé stood at the edge of the crypt entrance, her other hand gripping a sheathed dagger Luca had given her—iron and bone, etched with ancient runes.
"This mission should have waited," Livia had said earlier that evening. "She's not ready."
"She's the only one who can get through the lock," Luca had countered.
And that was the truth.
————————————————————
The symbol on the scroll stolen from the Crimson Faith—the one warning of a gate—wasn't just similar to Esmé's sigil. It was identical. Which meant she wasn't just a key.
She was already bound to the door.
The entrance to the mission lay beneath the remnants of an abandoned basilica on the outskirts of Florence, shrouded in ivy and fire-blackened stone. Esmé descended alone—by choice. Luca waited above, watching. Ready.
This had to be hers.
The air changed as soon as she stepped beneath the last archway.
The stone was damp, the scent of mildew stronger than death. Not decay, but disuse. The Veil pressed in on all sides—thick, pulsing with warning.
She walked slowly, her boots echoing across the curved floor of the corridor. Faded murals flanked the walls—angels stripped of faces, roses weeping blood, saints whose eyes had been gouged from plaster.
At the base of the descent stood a door carved directly into the stone. No handle. No hinges.
Only a smooth circle of black, surrounded by a pattern of thorns.
She reached into her satchel and pulled out the rose.
It glowed instantly.
The sigil at its heart pulsed, and light flooded the carvings.
The door shuddered.
And opened.
———————————————————
The chamber beyond was vast and circular, with walls of glistening red stone. Runes danced across the ceiling in ghostlight. The floor was arranged in a spiral that led toward a basin of dark water—still and mirror-like.
Esmé stepped forward, eyes scanning the edges.
No threats.
No movement.
Just silence.
But she felt it.
A presence beneath the water.
She approached slowly and knelt at the basin's edge, drawing the rose closer.
The reflection shimmered.
And then changed.
Not her face.
Not her body.
But her echo—a version of herself formed from the Veil, staring back with golden eyes and an expression of calm and terrible clarity.
"Do you know why you were called?" the echo asked.
Esmé didn't answer.
"Do you know why the sigil came to you?"
Still silence.
The reflection leaned closer. "Because you are not the end of the line. You are the beginning."
The basin rippled.
The water glowed.
And then it spoke—not in words, but in symbols, rising from the depths in light.
A message.
The Faith is seeking the Heart Below.
They do not want to destroy the Veil.
They want to rewrite it.
To choose what is remembered.
Esmé's throat tightened.
The basin showed a vision:
—Valtheran standing in a cathedral of bone.
—The city of Florence fractured, its leylines unraveling.
—The Veil, rewritten in red.
"No," she whispered. "Not while I live."
The light flared.
Then you must protect what was once lost.
———————————————————
As she turned to leave, a sound rippled through the chamber—sharp and wet. Her eyes snapped to the wall, where a section of stone had cracked open.
A figure stepped out.
Maskless.
Pale-skinned.
Red-eyed.
A Crimson Faith envoy.
"You shouldn't have come alone," he said.
"I didn't," she replied—and slammed the rose against the wall.
The sigil inside ignited, flooding the space with golden light.
The figure recoiled with a scream, raising an arm that turned to smoke and bone.
Esmé drew her dagger.
He attacked.
The fight was unlike any she had imagined.
Not a duel.
A test.
He moved with shadow speed, fingers tipped in claws of black flame. But her instincts were sharper now. She felt the ripples in the Veil before his body moved.
She dodged. Rolled. Cut.
Her blade nicked his side.
His scream echoed through the chamber.
"Veilborn witch," he hissed.
She pressed the rose against his chest.
The light pierced him.
And then he was gone.
———————————————————
The silence that followed was not peace.
It was purpose.
She left the chamber with blood on her hands and the rose dim in her palm.
Not dead.
Just spent.
And very, very powerful.
Luca met her at the edge of the stairwell.
His eyes searched hers—first for blood, then for fear.
Instead, he found resolve.
"I know what he's doing," she said.
"What?"
"He's not tearing the Veil," she said. "He's trying to control it."
Luca's face darkened.
"If he succeeds—"
"Then truth itself becomes a weapon."
————————————————————
Back at the Palazzo, the Council waited.
Esmé placed the rose on the table.
"This," she said, "is no longer a shield. It's a torch."
The Matron rose.
"And you?"
Esmé looked at Luca, then at her own stained hands.
"I'm done waiting to be chosen."
She lifted her chin.
"I'm ready to lead."