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“No. No. No.” Alessa backed down the aisle, shaking her head, away from yet another dying Fonte.

Failure. Murderer.

There it was. Her answer. The verdict. Dea had spoken.

She wasn’t meant to save. She was created to kill. That’s all she’d ever do.

Across the corridor from the temple, the stairs led back to the Cittadella.

To her right, the corridor to the city.

To her left, darkness.

The darkness won. She ran.

Thirty-Nine

A torto si lagna del mare chi due volte ci vuol tornare.

He ought not complain of the sea who returns to it a second time.

DAYS BEFORE DIVORANDO: 13

There were worse places to die.

The moon hovering just above the horizon seemed twice as large as it had in the city. Alessa sat on a large piece of driftwood, running her palms over the rough bark until something caught. She pulled the splinter free and tossed it into the grass, then squeezed her finger until a trickle of blood dripped into her palm.

If she’d been another girl, in another life, perhaps she’d be sprawled on a beach blanket with someone she loved, counting stars, trading kisses, and watching the ripple of moonlight on the waves. But that life was not for her.

Dante once described this beach as the most beautiful placehe’d ever seen, and now it would be the last place she’d ever see. That would have to be enough.

All she’d asked in return for years of her life, her family, her name, was to not be alone when the monsters came. To face death on that cliff with a partner by her side.

If she’d died, she’d have died a hero.

If she’d suffered, at least she wouldn’t have suffered alone.

That was the deal. That was the promise.

Lies. All of it.

The gods had given their verdict.

Either humans were a loose thread to be snipped, or humanity wasn’t the problem,shewas. Either way, she had no choice.

Her heart was still beating, but shewasdeath. Not created by Dea, to save. But by Crollo, to usher in the end.

She couldn’t connect. Couldn’t save Saverio.

Would she be welcomed to the heavens for trying, or had her soul blackened the day her hands became weapons?

Smearing tears across her face with a hasty swipe of her arm, she tore off her dress. The last mark she’d leave on the world, a stained wedding gown in the dirt.

Clad in a thin slip, she walked into the ocean.

When it grew too deep to stand, she swam.

She couldn’t force herself to drown, but if she kept swimming, her arms would eventually grow too weak to carry her back. The water would close over her head, a new Finestra would rise, and her family, her friends, Dante—everyone except her—might have a chance to live.