Page 13

I stood beneath the hot water, trying to cleanse away the tension that clung to me. It wasn’t just the sweat and shame of the day I wanted to wash off, but the heavy weight of everything that was expected of me tonight. Once the water turned lukewarm, I turned it off, stepping out, and wrapping myself in the soft, oversized towel hanging on the hook.

For a few moments, I lingered, just standing there in the steam-filled bathroom, staring at my reflection in the fogged mirror. After drying off, I dressed in something simple, knowing Esther would arrive soon.

It wasn’t long before I found myself combing through my damp hair and filing my nails just to keep my hands busy. There was an uneasy restlessness that had settled in my chest, making the minutes feel like hours. I hated feeling useless, like a doll waiting to be dressed and primped. Finally, I heard the soft murmur of voices below.

The women had arrived.

I didn’t wait for Verity or any of the other servitors to come fetch me. I left my room and descended the stairs to greet them, the low hum of their chatter growing louder as I approached. Esther stood in the foyer, already dressed in a stunning gown, though her hair was still undone, and her face bare of any makeup.

She gave me a warm smile as I entered, her eyes lighting up. “There you are!”

Behind her, Drita and Nanno stood with garment bags draped over their arms, their expressions calm and composed, as always.

"Ready to get started?" Esther asked, her voice bright as if we were preparing for a party and not some ceremony I still didn’t fully understand.

I nodded, forcing a smile. "I guess so."

Esther grinned, linking her arm through mine, and leading me toward the large bathroom on the ground level. I hadn’t been back inside that room since the night I was dressed to be branded. That felt so long ago now as if it had happened to an entirely different person.

It wasn’t just any bathroom—this was more like a personal spa, with floor-length mirrors on every wall, a plush ottoman in the center, and an array of beauty products and tools laid out like an artist’s palette. The soft lighting gave the space a warm glow, making it feel luxurious and intimate.

“This is where the magic happens,” Esther teased as she motioned for Drita and Nanno to hang up the garment bags.

I sat on the ottoman, allowing Esther and the others to take charge as they began their work. Drita worked with precision, styling my hair in a way that felt both regal and haunting. It was pulled back into an intricate updo, with a few loose strands framing my face, delicate red roses woven in. Nanno focused on my makeup, her hands steady as she painted my face with careful strokes. The black lace gown that had been chosen for me hugged my body in all the right places, the delicate embroidery shimmering faintly under the light. I looked… ethereal. Almost otherworldly.

Esther smiled approvingly as she finished adjusting her own dress in the mirror, her fingers running through her hair to smooth it out. “You look amazing , Lo.”

"Thank you," I murmured, still trying to process the transformation.

The other women exchanged glances before Esther turned to them, her expression softening.

“Go ahead and wait in the foyer. I’ll join you soon.”

Drita and Nanno nodded obediently, leaving the room without another word. The door clicked shut behind them, and for a moment, it was just me and Esther. She turned to face me, her eyes searching mine. “You’ll be heading to the Chapel soon,” she said, her voice quieter now, more serious. “I’ll see you there and will stay with you as much as possible, but... try to keep an open mind tonight, okay?”

An open mind.

I wasn’t sure how much of that I had left, but I nodded, knowing it was the answer she was looking for. Esther stepped forward, wrapping me in a warm, familiar hug.

She was always like this—touchy, affectionate, and full of life. It was easy to forget sometimes just how deeply woven into this world she was.

“Take a deep breath, okay? It’ll be over before you know it,” she whispered, pulling back slightly to give me an encouraging smile.

“I’ll try,” I replied, though the nerves were still gnawing at me and her vagueness wasn’t helping. There had to be a reason she was being so mute. Esther didn’t hold back any other time.

She squeezed my hand once more before stepping back. “Wait ten minutes, then head out. My brother will be waiting for you.”

I nodded again, and with one last smile, she left the room. As the door clicked shut behind her, I turned back to face the mirror, taking a better look at myself. My reflection stared back at me from multiple angles.

For a moment, I didn’t recognize the person standing there. She was eerie and beautiful all at once, like something from a dark fairy tale. The roses entwined in my hair added a touch of fragility, yet the deep red petals against the dark waves were reminiscent of blood—beauty mingled with something more dangerous.

My face was a different story altogether. The skull design painted over my features gave me the appearance of a spirit caught between two worlds. The haunting lines traced across my cheeks and around my lips made me look almost skeletal, yet somehow elegant. It was as if my face had been transformed into a mask, concealing who I truly was beneath it all. I tried to find the familiar features—my eyes, my lips—but they were hidden. All I saw was someone who belonged in this twisted world.

I stared into my own eyes, darkened with smoky shadows that made them appear larger, more intense. There was a sharpness to them, an edge that hadn’t been there before. I didn’t recognize that part of myself either. The girl I used to be, before all of this, was almost gone. She was buried under layers of ceremony, tradition, and expectations.

I tilted my head slightly, watching as the skull lines shifted with the movement. Was this truly who I was meant to be? Sponsa Diaboli. The bride of the devil himself. It was a title I still hadn’t fully grasped, even after all this time. The weight of it pressed down on me, and for a moment, I felt like I couldn’t breathe. The longer I stared at my reflection, the more I felt like I was slipping into this new identity.

But I couldn’t, not as long as there was that part of me that resisted.

I took a deep breath, my hand instinctively brushing over the roses in my hair, grounding myself in the present. Eight minutes. Eight more minutes before everything changed again.

When I finally left the bathroom, I cursed under my breath, testing out the heels Esther had chosen for me. Why did it have to be heels? I never wore them, and now I had to somehow glide through the night without face-planting in front of the entire congregation.

Each step felt precarious, like walking on a tightrope, and I knew I’d need all the grace I could muster to survive this evening without embarrassing myself. My hands lightly brushed the soft fabric of my gown, the weight of everything I had seen in the mirror still lingering in my thoughts. I tried to shake it off, focusing on making it to the foyer without tripping over myself. As I approached the foyer, I slowed down instinctively, my heart skipping a beat as I caught sight of him.

Alexander.

He stood by the entrance, as still and imposing as a statue. His head turned upon hearing me approach and for a moment, neither of us moved. We just… stared at each other. The world around us seemed to blur, and all I could focus on was him—his presence, his aura, the sheer intensity of his gaze.

He was dressed in an all-black suit, perfectly tailored to his body, as if it had been crafted solely for this night.

It clung to his broad shoulders and tapered waist, the darkness of the fabric making him look both regal and dangerous. It wasn’t just the suit that caught my breath—it was his face. Painted just like mine, the same skull pattern etched over his features, but somehow, on him, it felt more sinister and powerful. The contrast between the sharp lines of the design and the smooth planes of his face made him look just as otherworldly, like a demon come to life.

His topaz eyes, bright and fierce, stood out even more against the paint, glowing like embers in the low light. They burned through me, intense and unyielding, and in that moment, I felt completely exposed. It was as though he could see right through the layers of makeup, right through the gown, and into the very core of who I was. And yet, I couldn’t look away.

He was gorgeous.

The word felt too small, too insignificant to describe the way he looked tonight.

There was something magnetic about him, something that drew me in, even when I wanted to run the other way. I swallowed hard as my eyes trailed over his form. There was a quiet authority to the way he stood, exuding confidence and control. He was a man who knew his power, and who knew how to wield it. He took a slow step forward, his gaze never leaving mine, and for a moment, the room felt too confining. The air between us crackled with tension, an unspoken pull that I couldn’t explain but also couldn’t ignore.

“ Deliciae ,” he murmured, his voice soft.

I could barely breathe. My hands clenched into fists at my sides, my nails digging into the flesh of my palms as I fought to keep my composure. With the way he looked at me, the way his eyes devoured every inch of me—it was overwhelming. He stopped just a few feet away, his eyes slowly roaming over me, taking in the gown, the roses in my hair, the painted mask that matched his.

A slow smile curved his lips, dripping with intent, and my heartbeat thrummed in my ears. “You wear our darkness so well...you’re exquisite.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but no words came out. I couldn’t find my voice, not when he looked at me like that, not when every inch of me felt like it was on fire under his gaze. Finally, I managed a shaky breath. “You don’t look so bad yourself.”

He chuckled softly, the sound deep and rich, and it did something to me I didn’t want to admit. He closed the distance between us and leaned in, his lips brushing against mine in the barest of touches before pulling away. “Let’s not keep them waiting.”

With that, he took my hand in his, and together, we turned toward the door. My legs felt like jelly, but somehow, I managed to walk without stumbling, even in the damned heels. His hand remained steady in mine as we made our way out into the night.

There was a flashy sedan waiting for us just outside the door. I didn’t know much about cars, but I could even recognize the unmistakable "R" emblem on the hood.

“That’s a bit extravagant,” I commented, raising an eyebrow as I took in the sleek, polished vehicle.

“I like the best in life,” he replied smoothly, his voice like velvet. “That’s why I have you.”

His words hit harder than I wanted them to. I tried not to let it show, tried to steel myself against the effect he always seemed to have on me, but it was useless. My pulse quickened and I looked away, feigning indifference. I failed miserably. It was his usual driver waiting for us, the same man I’d seen a handful of times.

He was always silent but somehow commanding in his own way. He gave Alexander a respectful nod as he opened the door for us.

Alex motioned for me to get in first, carefully helping with my dress before sliding in beside me. As the door shut behind us and the engine purred to life, the plush seats cradled me in a way that felt both luxurious and claustrophobic. The quiet hum of the car filled the space, the world outside a blur of passing trees and darkening skies. Getting closer to the Chapel, I began to notice subtle changes.

The security on the Isle had been increased tenfold. Guards were stationed at key points, ensuring that the boundaries keeping the tourists in check were solid and well-patrolled. Alexander noticed me watching them and, as if reading my thoughts, began to explain.

“They’ve increased security for tonight. We can’t risk anyone wandering too far.”

I nodded but said nothing, my eyes still glued to the passing landscape.

The long road between the trees that led to the Chapel stretched ahead of us, a dark, winding path that grew more ominous with each passing second.

After another a few minutes I began to see them??people of the Isle. They dotted the landscape, moving like shadows through the trees, their faces either painted or hidden behind elaborate masks. It was like something out of a twisted masquerade ball, their attire much different from ours—simpler, but no less formal. Some wore vibrant colors, others dark and muted tones. The designs on their faces ranged from intricate patterns to bold streaks of paint, all adding to the surreal atmosphere.

We bypassed the main entrance of the Chapel, instead heading for a private one. The car stopped, and Alexander, ever the gentleman, helped me out before leading me through a hidden doorway. He paused just inside, careful not to smudge my face paint as he adjusted something on my gown.

His fingers grazed my skin with a tenderness that caught me off guard.

For a moment, his eyes met mine, and there was a depth in his gaze that made the world around me tilt, as if the very ground beneath me was shifting. He stopped just a few feet away, his gaze sweeping over me with a quiet intensity, absorbing every detail—the gown that clung to me like sin, the roses entwined in my hair, and the mask painted to mirror his. His eyes gleamed with a dark hunger, and I could feel the air shift between us, thickening with unspoken promises.

"Perfection incarnate," he murmured, his voice dark and rich, like the whisper of temptation itself. "Are you ready for your debut?"

I realized, with a sudden tightening in my chest, that the people on the Isle—his disciples—hadn’t truly seen me since the night I was branded. That night had sealed my fate but after that... I had remained a ghost, hidden in the shadows of the viewing room, a whispered name sometimes seen behind a flock of tourists, a presence always just out of reach. Now, I was about to step into the light, no longer a myth or prophesized fable, but something real and tangible.

The people of Stygian Isle wouldn’t see Lolita, the server, the cashier, or the hotel housekeeper. They would see me as I was now. His. The woman the Isle had been waiting for.

I took a shaky breath, meeting his gaze once more. “I’m ready.”

What else could I be?

He took my hand, and we moved down a long hallway lined with closed doors. I recognized this path. This was the corridor that led to the room where punishments were conducted during the services. The room that everyone feared, where the guilty were taken when the ceremonies demanded it.

At the end of the hall, another door stood open, revealing a scene that stole my breath. I stopped in my tracks, unable to move as my eyes took in the room beyond.

Opulence.

That was the only word that came to mind. Glistening chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, their crystals throwing shimmering patterns of light across the marbled floor below. Long, polished tables stretched from one end of the room to the other, adorned with gleaming silverware, crystal goblets, and the finest linens.

The scent of a grand feast filled the air—roasted meats, freshly baked bread, and rich, aromatic spices that made my stomach twist in a strange mix of hunger and unease. Everything felt heightened, every sound louder, every scent more vivid.

The room swirled with colors and laughter, people mingling as they moved between tables and clustered in small groups. It was surreal, like the entire scene was dipped in a haze I couldn’t quite shake. I whispered to Alexander, who stood tall beside me, his presence grounding me in the chaos, "How could everything be prepared so quickly?”

He glanced down at me, his expression unreadable. “Within moments of receiving the news, the preparations began. Many came forward to volunteer, to help with the cooking and decorations. It's our tradition, a mark of respect and unity.”

His words were simple, but there was an edge to them that I couldn’t place. A formality. A practiced response. The people here had seen this sort of thing before. They knew what was expected, what needed to be done.

The subtle pull I’d felt earlier, the strange connection to everything around me, was growing stronger. Was it the atmosphere? Or was it something else—the drink I’d consumed, perhaps? Whatever it was, it made me feel as though I was tethered to every person in the room by some invisible thread, drawing me in closer, making it harder to distinguish my own thoughts from the noise around me.

Music drifted from somewhere in the background, soft but steady, the melody weaving its way through the air, adding to the otherworldly feel of the night.

We paused at the entrance, and I instinctively clutched Alexander's arm for support. My fingers tightened around the fabric of his sleeve, the only thing anchoring me was the overwhelming swirl of sounds, sights, and smells threatened to pull me under. Then, as if on cue, a voice echoed through the room, clear and commanding:

“Our Diabolus and his Sponsa Diaboli have arrived.”

Multiple heads turned toward us as we entered the grand room, and the weight of their eyes on me made me grip Alexander’s arm tighter. My heart thudded in my chest, and I clung to him like he was my anchor in the sea of masked, painted faces—some of them unfamiliar, all of them watching us.

Alexander’s hand on my back was steady, guiding me forward through the crowd. The people parted for us without hesitation, their eyes never lifting as we passed. There was something almost unnerving about it, the way they treated him like a god and me like his queen. I wasn’t sure how to feel about it, about any of this. But I didn’t have time to dwell on it. Not now.

We moved deeper into the room, Alexander’s gaze never leaving me.

He had that look in his eyes—the one that told me he knew exactly what I was thinking, even if I hadn’t said a word. I could feel his possessiveness, the quiet authority that radiated off him in waves. There was no doubt in his mind that I was his. And in this world, where everyone else seemed to believe it too, I found it harder and harder to resist the pull of it.

The evening unfolded like some kind of twisted fairy tale. It was nothing like a funeral.

The feast was elaborate, with tables overflowing with food, and conversations hummed around us like soft background noise. But beneath the surface, there was tension, an undercurrent that made my skin prickle. This wasn’t just a celebration—it was something darker I wasn’t sure I was ready to fully understand.

At one point, I drifted away from Alexander’s side, pulled toward Esther, Keres, and Pandora. We gathered around one of the long tables, the night taking on a quieter, more intimate tone. It was easier with them, but even here, the difference in how we were treated was glaringly obvious. Keres and Pandora were respected, sure, but I— Sponsa Diaboli —was placed on a pedestal. Every word spoken to me was gentle, filled with reverence.

No one met my eyes unless I initiated it, and even then, some people avoided my gaze entirely. It reminded me of when I’d first Cassandra and Jamison.

I asked Esther about it as we stood by one of the ornate tables. “Why won’t they look at me?” I whispered.

Her painted lips twitched into a smile. “It’s out of respect,” she explained. “They aren’t on a level high enough to meet your gaze.”

I frowned. “That applies even now?”

“Of course. It’s a sign of respect, acknowledging your place above them.”

“But I’m not—.”

“You are,” she cut me off gently. “You’re Sponsa Diaboli now. Alexander’s chosen. That puts you above even other Electi.”

I looked around the room again, at the people who avoided meeting my gaze, the polite smiles that were directed my way but never lingered.

It felt... strange. Like being placed in a glass case for everyone to admire but never truly interact with.

“Is it always like this?”

Esther laughed lightly, her arm brushing against mine in a familiar gesture. “For you? Yes. This is your life now. It comes with a certain level of... separation. You will always have me, though, and the other Electi, so don’t think you’re alone. And their servitors, Drita and Nanno, are two of the most well-educated and loyal the Isle.”

I nodded, trying to absorb everything, though it still felt overwhelming.

"And what about you?" I asked, hesitating for a moment before adding, "I've heard you referred to as Domina. Mistress of Shadows?"

She smiled. "You've been reading the doctrine. That's good. Knowledge is power here." She paused, her eyes studying me for a moment. "As for me being the Domina, you could say I'm like an advisor for you. Well, I will be, officially, after you and my brother's final Rite."

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening as I realized what she meant.

Our final Rite—nuptials. The very thought made my pulse race, a mixture of dread and curiosity twisting in my gut. I forced the words out before I could second-guess myself. "I’ve been wondering what marriage is like here."

Esther’s gaze softened, and she stepped closer, her tone turning more thoughtful. "More respected than the marriages not of the Isle. More sacred."

She said it with such reverence that it felt like the word marriage meant something entirely different.

"Marriage on the Isle," she continued, "is not just a personal commitment, but a vow that ties you into the very fabric of our society. Every union here has a purpose, far beyond love or convenience. It’s a partnership that commands respect and requires sacrifice."

“Sacrifice?”

She nodded, her gaze growing distant for a moment. “Yes. You’ll understand in time, but just know that marriage here is not just a bond between two people. It’s a merging of legacies, bloodlines, and the roles we play within the Isle. You will never just be his wife—you will always be a symbol for the people of Impío.”

I looked away, the weight of her words pressing on me.

That certainly wasn’t what I had ever imagined when I thought of marriage. This was something far deeper, more dangerous, and more powerful. I wasn’t just marrying him. I was marrying the Isle, its history, and its secrets.

Esther watched me closely as if reading the thoughts that flitted through my mind. “It’s intense,” she admitted softly. “But it’s also beautiful in its own way. You’ll come to see that.”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I simply nodded again, my mind whirling with the possibilities and the unknowns that lay ahead. The nuptials, the Rite, the role I would play—it was rushing toward me faster than I could prepare for.

After a long moment of silence, Esther placed a hand on my arm, grounding me back in the present.

“You’ll do fine,” she said with certainty. “You were chosen for a reason, and I will be with you every step of the way.”

I gave her a small, tight-lipped smile, though it did little to ease the knot in my stomach. "I hope you're right."

Her grip tightened slightly, and she leaned in closer. “I know I’m right. You’re stronger than you realize. And once you’ve completed the Rite, you’ll understand your true power.”

The conviction in her voice was both reassuring and terrifying. My eyes flicked to Pandora, who sat calmly, sipping a drink with her ever-present blindfold. Tonight, it matched her painted face perfectly. She looked like a painting come to life.

I wondered how she navigated all of this without seeing the world around her, yet somehow managing to be more aware than anyone else. As the night wore on, music swelled, and the laughter around me grew louder, more vibrant. Despite the noise, I felt distant, disconnected from it all. I glanced over at Alexander, who was deep in conversation with someone I didn’t recognize, his face unreadable as always. For a moment, I wondered if he ever felt like this, if the weight of his position ever suffocated him the way mine seemed to be suffocating me.

Then again, he thrived in this world. He was born for it. I was still trying to figure out where I fit in. When it came time for everyone to eat, Alexander led me to the table situated on a small dais above the rest. The air felt thick with anticipation as we approached, and I couldn’t help but notice how once again, every head turned in our direction.

My grip on his arm tightened reflexively, and he pulled me closer. The chair at the head of the table caught my attention first. It was unlike any of the others—made of what looked like blackened bone, twisted and intricate, almost grotesque in its beauty. I did my best not to stare at it too hard, unsure if I was seeing it correctly or if my mind was playing tricks on me. Alexander pulled out a chair for me, not with the casual elegance he usually displayed, but with a sense of ceremony. I sat down, trying to ignore the strange weight of everyone’s eyes as he claimed the grotesque-like throne.

Across from me, a man with a painted face, much like the rest of us, smiled broadly. His features were familiar, his sharp profile unmistakable—Emilio. I’d seen his face many times in the photos that lined Alexander’s office. His grin was too bright for the occasion, and it threw me off for a moment before I forced myself to return the smile, albeit hesitantly.

Esther took the seat beside me, while across from her, Alexander’s father sat, his gaze immediately locking onto mine. No matter how many times I saw him in passing, it was never any less unsettling how much he looked like his son. Even with his face painted it was like staring into a future version of him down to the unsettling intensity that lingered in his expression. But there was something more predatory about him that made my skin crawl. The rest of the table filled up quickly—Keres, Pandora, Jamison, Phoenix, and Osiris, along with a few others I didn’t recognize. They were all men, save for us Electi and Esther.

I noticed the empty chair beside Alexander’s father and assumed it was meant for his mother. She wasn’t here, though, and I wondered why. I hadn’t formally met any of his family, really. It struck me as odd, especially with our marriage looming.

Shouldn’t I know them before that happened? The Isle was big on family, traditions, and bloodlines.

“She wasn’t feeling her best,” Esther leaned over and murmured.

She’d seen me staring at the empty seat. I was about to reply when Alexander’s father suddenly spoke.

“You look beautiful,” he remarked loud enough to carry across the entire table—and beyond. The compliment wasn’t directed to anyone else but me.

Murmurs of agreement spread through the gathering. I glanced at Alexander, unsure of how to respond, but his father continued before I could say anything.

“You’ve been blessed by the Isle,” he said, now looking pointedly at Alexander. “She should have been here all along.”

The room buzzed again, a little louder with more agreement.

It wasn’t simply a compliment, it was an endorsement, a proclamation to everyone in attendance. He was explicitly stating that I belonged here, that I had always belonged here.

But why now?

Why make such a declaration on a night meant for a sole purpose? Was it another test? A show of power? Or was there something else going on that I wasn’t aware of? Alexander’s hand found its way to my thigh beneath the table, his grip firm but reassuring. He leaned in slightly, his voice low. "Take it as a compliment, deliciae . It means more than you know."

Bishop, seated further down the table, raised his glass in a small toast. “Indeed, she’s a gift to us all.”

Jamison seated a little further down from Esther, grinned, his tone lighter than the rest.

“It’s true. We all see it. The Isle has a way of revealing those meant for greatness and it’s granted us three of the foretold Electi and our Sponsa Diaboli.”

Keres caught my eye, her confusion clear as day. Three of the foretold? How many more were there? The Impío doctrine either didn’t mention this or I had overlooked it somehow, which was doubtful. I clenched my hands in my lap, trying to steady my nerves. The pressure of Alexander’s hand on my thigh kept me anchored, but it also served as a reminder that I was still very much under his control.

The conversation around the table continued, but I felt distanced from it all like I was watching from the outside. Alexander’s touch, though meant to reassure, only added to the weight of the moment. As the meal was served by masked servitors, I did my best to blend in and not draw attention, but it was nearly impossible.

Masked nuns and fellow disciples began serving the food, our table first. Plates of meats, vegetables, and greenery were placed before us, and though I barely recognized most of the dishes. Our table was served first, followed by the others. Before anyone could eat, Alexander rose to his feet.

Instantly, the room fell into silent reverence that bordered on worship. I could feel it, thick and palpable in the air. Every gaze was locked onto him.

Alexander’s voice was slow, deliberate, each word dripping with a sinister weight, as though the very stones of the Chapel absorbed the darkness in his tone “His eyes swept over the room like a shadow crawling across the floor, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his lips—but it was devoid of warmth, a cold, calculated gesture that never touched his eyes. “We do not mourn this loss,” he continued, and his voice seemed to echo off the walls.

“To mourn is to deny the truth of the cycle, to defy the Isle’s will. Instead, we honor the inevitable return to the darkness from which we all came. Tonight, we honor Jamison, and the child returned to the shadows.”

His father watched from his seat, pride etched into his features, the resemblance between them a haunting reflection of shared power.

Alexander's voice deepened, growing more sinister, more hypnotic. “The child may no longer walk among us, but its soul lingers within the Isle. Nothing here is ever utterly lost. It is not forgotten, for the shadows remember. And in that memory, we find our strength. The Isle breathes through the lives it claims, and we—its chosen—stand united by that unholy bond.” He raised his goblet high, the dark liquid within catching the flicker of candlelight.

The room held its breath, every eye fixed on him as the silence swelled. “To life,” he intoned, his voice a velvet shroud of command, “and to death. Ad vitam et mortem. ”

The room exhaled in unison, voices rising like a chant from the depths, “ Ad vitam et mortem! ” The words hung in the air like a funeral dirge, wrapping around us, binding us to the darkness Alexander spoke of. My hand trembled as I lifted my goblet, the weight of it cold against my skin. In that moment, the shadows felt alive, breathing, watching. I realized that this place, this Isle, demanded more than blood and absolute devotion—it demanded souls.

I hesitated only a second before drinking. The liquid burned slightly as it slid down my throat, sweet and potent, but I ignored the taste. This wasn’t the time to hesitate or make a scene.

As I lowered my glass, Alexander’s eyes shifted toward me, an approving smile on his lips as he took his seat. Conversation resumed, and as I pushed the food around on my plate, I became aware of movement near the far wall. Masked nuns approached what looked like a keypad, their movements swift and synchronized.

I watched, curious, as they keyed in a sequence, and the wall began to shift, stone grinding against stone. As the wall opened, revealing the Chapel’s sidewall terrace, my breath caught in my throat. The terrace was grand, a sprawling open space that stretched out like a natural amphitheater. Tall, sculpted stone walls flanked the sides, the boundary between civilization and the untamed wilderness beyond. The trees loomed in the distance, their canopies whispering in the breeze, carrying the weight of ancient secrets.

At the heart of the terrace stood a slightly elevated circular platform, surrounded by concentric rings of cobbled stones. At the center of the platform, a massive inverted cross loomed high, a symbol of the Isle’s faith. Bound to the cross was a figure—a woman. I blinked, my heart hammering in my chest as I recognized her.

Emilia.

Her body was wrapped in dark-colored rope, her head hanging forward, and even from this distance, I could see the strain in her muscles, the unnatural stillness that radiated from her. The wind swept across the terrace, carrying with it the distant hum of laughter and celebration from the feast. The air felt charged. The very atmosphere pulsed with anticipation. The music shifted, its tone eerie and hypnotic, weaving through the crowd like a whisper, luring them outside in a slow, relentless tide.

People moved together in pairs and small clusters, their faces painted in vibrant masks, hands intertwined as they swayed beneath the blackened sky. Their laughter was soft, like a murmur under the music, blending into the night. I inhaled deeply, catching the scent of the distant lake carried on the breeze, With each breath, I felt something shift inside me—an unsettling pull, like an invisible thread had wrapped itself around me, dragging me forward without my consent.

My steps felt disconnected, my body moving of its own accord. Every inch of me was hyper-aware: the night air cool against my skin, the fabric of my gown brushing my legs, the strange heat coiling low in my belly, growing steadily. My mind screamed that something wasn’t right, but my body didn’t listen. It was as if I was trapped in a waking dream, unable to stop myself from moving.

Before I realized what was happening, I was no longer seated at the table. No one had stopped me, no one had even followed, as if I had vanished from their awareness altogether. The terrace stretched out before me, bathed in the dim glow of flickering torches, but my focus was drawn to the raised dais at the far end. Emilia, bound to the cross. Her pale skin gleamed in the torchlight, the sharp angles of her body casting deep shadows. She was alive—very much alive. My breath hitched in my throat, and I blinked, my thoughts slipping like sand through my fingers.

The world around me was a blur, dulled yet sharpened in the most unsettling way. I couldn’t think, couldn’t process. I was simply… there. Standing in front of the dais, as if I had been summoned by a force beyond my control. The scent of the bold red flowers decorating the terrace mixed with the night air, the aroma of food lingering from the feast, but none of it mattered. My gaze remained locked on Emilia, and I couldn’t tell if the warmth flooding through me was panic or something else. I was here—so close, yet untouchable, just as Emilia was bound and waiting.

What was she waiting for?

People nearby were dancing, their movements slow and hypnotic, a languid rhythm that felt almost ritualistic. It was then that I began to notice the way their eyes lingered on one another, the subtle caresses and secretive smiles exchanged between couples. Their touches were deliberate, filled with a meaning I hadn’t grasped until now.

The air around me seemed to thicken with the tension of something darker, more primal. This night, I realized, was about to take a very drastic turn. “What’s happening?” I whispered, my voice thick and barely audible, as if the weight of the question were too heavy to release.

Emilia’s head lifted slowly; her face contorted into a strange, mournful smile. But her eyes—her eyes were void of anything but despair.

“They are celebrating,” she said, her words soft but chilling in their detachment.

“Is your loss really something to celebrate in this way?” I asked, my voice faltering as I struggled to understand.

Her smile widened, sad and knowing. “It is an honor I never dreamed of. I am nothing but a vessel, chosen for a purpose few are ever granted.”

I swallowed hard, glancing at a nearby couple, their bodies now entwined, eyes glazed with something darker than simple revelry.

“What does that mean?” I asked, though deep down, I feared the answer.

Emilia’s voice softened, resigned yet unwavering. “I am giving myself to the feared Crematio Excludere ,” she murmured as if the very name was both a curse and a blessing.

My gaze drifted up to the cross behind her—the towering, grotesque structure that loomed like a relic of ancient suffering. Crematio Excludere . The words echoed in my mind, stirring memories of the doctrine I had read. But seeing it now—seeing her tied to that cursed monument—brought the reality of it crashing over me in a suffocating wave of horror.

“This?” I breathed, my voice trembling with disbelief. The heat coursing through my body warred with the sudden, ice-cold dread settling in my chest.

I felt dizzy, disoriented, torn between the effects of whatever had been in my drink and the rising terror that gripped me. Around me, the laughter of the partygoers seemed sharper, mocking the gravity of what was unfolding on the terrace. Every sound, every breath felt amplified, as if the world were narrowing to this single moment of cruel revelation. I could hear the distant murmur of the crowd, the music still lilting in the background, as though none of them realized—or cared—what was truly happening here.

Or maybe it was me.

Maybe I was the one who was wrong for not joining them, for not falling into the rhythm of their dark celebration. I felt uncoordinated, a single heartbeat in a room of strangers who pulsed to a different, twisted rhythm. The wind carried the sound of their laughter, their whispers, their bodies entwined in languid dances, completely blind to the pain standing at the center of it all.

Emilia nodded, her sad smile fading as she gazed out at the oblivious crowd. Her voice cracked when she finally spoke, barely above a whisper. “I cannot give the man I love what he needs,” she said, her words splintering like glass. “I am no use for the Isle or his legacy.”

Her words hit me like a punch in the gut, and I gasped, struggling to keep up with the gravity of what she was saying. The puzzle pieces began to fall into place, forming a grotesque picture. The ritual I had only read about, with all its cryptic warnings, was no longer just ink on parchment. It was unfolding, right here, right now.

“You’re still a person,” I managed to choke out, grasping at anything to stop the tide of horror that threatened to drown me.

She turned her head slowly, her eyes dark with resignation. “No, Diaboli. I am nothing.”

Her words echoed in my mind, wrapping around the warmth that had begun to bloom inside me, twisting it into something ugly.

My body—traitorous and weak—was betraying me. The drink they had given me was stirring something within, making my skin tingle, and my pulse race, as though I was part of their twisted game. I hated it. I hated the pull I felt toward everything around me—the music, the people, the dark allure of the night.

And yet... my mind was torn. Half of me wanted to reach out to Emilia, to somehow save her from this fate, while the other half—drunk on whatever they had put in my veins—wanted to give in to the sensations they had ignited inside me. I felt dazed, spiraling between empathy and something darker, something that whispered to just let it all happen.

I forced myself to look at her again, to find some clarity in the confusion that clouded my mind. Emilia’s gaze met mine, and the sorrow in her eyes was palpable. It made my chest ache.

“I must be expelled from Stygian,” she said quietly, her voice calm, almost accepting. “The Isle demands it.”

Her acceptance made my stomach churn. She wasn’t fighting this. She was walking willingly facing her fate, just as I had been with Alexander without understanding it. The realization made me want to scream, but the drink—whatever poison was coursing through my blood—held me captive, blurring my senses and heightening all the wrong feelings at the worst possible time.

I could feel my body responding to the night, the heat rising inside me, my thoughts clouded and chaotic. I hated myself for it, for not being able to resist the intoxicating pull of this place, even as Emilia stood bound to the cross, ready to sacrifice herself to a world that saw her as nothing more than a vessel.

She was giving in, just as I was on the verge of doing, and the thought terrified me.

In the shadows of Stygian Isle, surrender seemed inevitable.

“And thank you, Diaboli,” Emilia’s voice was soft, almost reverent, “for consuming my last. It is the greatest honor of all.”

I stared at her, confusion rippling through me, her words not fully sinking in. “What?” I managed to murmur, feeling a strange sense of unease.

Her smile faltered, her eyes searching mine as if she had expected me to understand. “You weren’t aware.”

“Aware of what?” I asked, my voice shaky, an uneasy tension coiling in my stomach.

Emilia’s gaze flickered back inside toward the table, where the remnants of the feast still lay. “The first flesh is always served to Diabolus and his high table. It’s our tradition,” she said, her tone calm and measured like she was explaining something obvious.

Her eyes locked onto mine again, a haunting weight behind them.

My mind raced, the pieces slowly, sickeningly clicking together. I felt my blood run cold, recalling the food I had eaten without question. My pulse pounded in my ears, and my hand trembled slightly as I began to understand. “What-what did I eat?” I asked, my voice barely a whisper, horror lacing every syllable.

Emilia’s expression didn’t waver. Her voice remained soft, resigned. “My precious boy.”

The truth washed over me in a nauseating wave. The meat I had eaten—it was the remains of the baby, the very one I’d watched be delivered. My stomach lurched, bile rising in my throat as the full weight of what I had unknowingly consumed settled into my bones. I had been made part of something monstrous. Something I could never undo.

The effects of the drink were gradually taking a stronger hold, blurring the sharp edges of my horror. My heart raced for reasons I couldn’t control and despite the sickening truth I’d uncovered, a warm, disorienting heat spread through my body. My pulse quickened, and my thoughts grew hazy, clouded by a sudden rush of lust and an unwelcome pull toward the world around me. I felt a presence beside me and Alexander’s hand slipped into mine, his touch firm and possessive. I looked up, startled, my skin tingling from his proximity. His black and white face made him appear hauntingly beautiful and sinister in the flickering light. He didn’t speak, just squeezed my hand, guiding me closer to the dais. The night had long been decided, and I was simply a player in the unfolding nightmare.

A group of women, dressed in thin, sheer black gowns, silently formed a semi-circle around the dais, their hands linking together in ritualistic reverence.

Their faces were hidden beneath veils, their movements slow, deliberate. The congregation gathered, drawn like moths to the flame. Their eyes were fixed on Alexander, who now stood before them, commanding the night with his presence. His hand released mine as he stepped forward, his voice cutting through the thick air with a dark authority that sent shivers down my spine.

“Tonight, the tainted shall be purged from among us.”

Out of the shadows, Cassandra and Jamison stepped forward. I hadn’t seen his wife all night, and her sudden appearance sent a wave of unease through me. There was something about the way she moved, her face serene that felt wrong.

It was as if she had been waiting for this moment her entire life. I knew she hated Emilia for receiving her brother’s, her husband’s affection.

Jamison stood beside her, his expression carefully neutral, unreadable, as he gazed up at the woman he had comforted tenderly, not so long ago.

Alexander’s dark voice filled the air, commanding and absolute. “The Isle claims all, and we—its chosen—stand witness to the return of the tainted to the shadows. The cycle is eternal. We do not question the Isle's will. We obey, we consume, and we burn away what is unworthy.”

As his words hung in the air, two masked nuns appeared, emerging from either side of the dais with solemn grace. Each carried a lit torch, the flames casting long, eerie shadows that danced across the terrace. One nun approached Alexander and handed him a torch, while the other moved silently toward Jamison, who took the torch without hesitation. The air crackled with tension as Jamison stepped forward, lowering his torch to the base of the structure that loomed above us all.

The flames caught in an instant, licking up the inverted cross with terrifying speed. The heat was intense, the fire roaring, illuminating the terrace in a fierce, unholy glow.

Alexander’s voice, deep and resonant, echoed over the crackling flames. “The Isle reclaims the tainted. In fire, the unworthy are purified. Ad vitam et mortem. ”

The crowd responded as one, their voices rising into the night like a dark prayer. “ Ad vitam et mortem! ” The chant filled the air, thick and oppressive, as the flames grew ever higher, wrapping the cross in its fiery embrace. Alexander raised his torch high, his gaze sweeping across the congregation, eyes glinting with a sinister intensity.

Jamison, standing beside him, looked once more at the burning structure, then, in a chillingly smooth gesture, handed his torch to Cassandra. She took it eagerly, her lips curling into a grin as she stepped forward, adding to the growing inferno.

The fire roared, feeding on the fuel of their dark ritual. Emilia, who had remained silent aside from beginning to cough, her expression eerily calm throughout, began to stir. At first, it was just a faint movement, almost imperceptible, as the heat began to lick her feet. Then the first flames touched her, and a painful gasp escaped her lips. The flames grew fiercer, climbing her body, and soon her voice broke free, a scream of agony that echoed through the night.

No one moved to help. No one even blinked. Instead, the women in their thin, black gowns began to chant in Latin, their voices low and haunting as they circled the blazing cross.

Their chant was rhythmic and ancient, their bodies swaying in time with the growing flames, as though they were conducting the ritual itself. The music began to rise again, slow at first, eerie, and hypnotic, matching the cadence of the women’s chanting.

As the fire raged and Emilia’s screams turned into desperate cries, the music picked up, growing louder and more jubilant, as if this grotesque display were something to be celebrated. The congregation, entranced by the fire and the ritual, began to move. Laughter and shouts filled the air as the celebration broke out, people dancing and drinking as if they had just witnessed something glorious. The scent of burning wood—and flesh—filled my nostrils as I stood frozen, caught in the nightmarish scene unfolding before me.

The flames consumed everything, but for them, it was nothing more than a reminder of their twisted faith. I stepped away from the dais, my pulse hammering in my ears, struggling to hold myself together. I could feel eyes on me—watching with suffocating reverence. If I lost it now, if I let the horror take over, I knew I’d pay for it. Swallowing down the nausea that threatened to overtake me, I forced myself to move.

Each step felt like a fight against the weight of the drink still fogging my mind. My legs carried me down a path that twisted into the trees, away from the terrace and the celebratory atmosphere. The cool night air hit my skin, offering a fleeting sense of relief as I sucked in deep breaths, trying to steady my racing heart. I just needed a moment to breathe, to clear my head before I completely unraveled. I stopped, leaning heavily against the rough bark of a tree, pressing my forehead against it, willing myself to keep it together.

Slowly, I turned, hoping for a second of peace—then I froze. Alexander stood just a few feet away, his hands casually resting in his slacks, watching me with that calm, almost unsettling confidence. The flames from the burning cross cast flickering shadows across his painted face, making him look both beautiful and terrifying. He observed me like I was a puzzle he’d already solved.

The screams, the chanting, and the moans around us were mere background noise to him.

"You're doing well, Lola.” His gaze swept over me, measuring every trembling breath, every twitch of my hands.

“How could you do this to me?” I asked, the words slipping from my mouth, thick with disbelief.

He took a slow, deliberate step closer, his dark eyes locked on mine. “Do this to you?” he repeated, his voice low and smooth, as though my question was amusing to him.

"I haven’t done anything to you, not really. I’ve only shown you more of our truth—of our home, the Isle, and its ways. Nothing more, nothing less."

I couldn’t pull away in my current state. My body hummed with an odd mixture of heat and numbness, the effects of the drink making it hard to think clearly, to even react the way I knew I should. I squeezed my eyes shut briefly.

“The drink,” I whispered, my voice strained. “You said you'd tell me if you gave me something.”

Alexander stepped even closer, his presence commanding. His hand lifted to my face, his fingers brushing my cheek with the same deliberate control that defined everything about him. “I told you earlier, and I’m telling you now,” he murmured, his voice intimate, as though sharing a secret meant only for the two of us.

My breath hitched, a sob catching in my throat as the chaos of the night pressed in on me—Emilia’s screams, the music, the distant moans of the congregation. My mind was in a state of turmoil, everything twisted into a nauseating haze of fear, disgust, and a torturous undercurrent of need that I couldn't ignore. Before I could even form a single thought, he pressed himself against me from behind, his body radiating heat as he pinned me between the rough bark of the tree and his looming figure.

"Watch," he commanded softly, his breath skirting over my ear. Through the darkness and shadows, I had an unobstructed view of the dais, the flaming cross holding the remains of Emilia's charred body, and the figures writhing below it in a sickening dance. My heart raced as I watched the grotesque ritual unfold before us, the stench of burning flesh filling the air like a tangible force.

My eyes locked onto Jamison, seated on a stone bench with Cassandra straddling him. Her body moved against him in a grotesque parody of intimacy, riding him as his lover burned alive in front of them. It scarcely registered he was fucking his sister. A sound caught in my throat, somewhere between a gasp and a cry, as I tore my gaze away, only to see others following suit—couples and groups shamelessly indulging in one another, their bodies entwined in plain sight beneath the flickering firelight. The air was thick with lust, smoke, and the scent of burning flesh.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" Alexander’s voice was a soft whisper in my ear, his breath warm against my skin. "How loss can create this?" There was a twisted reverence in his words, as if the destruction unfolding before us was some kind of art form.

I felt the warmth of his lips against the side of my neck, soft at first, but lingering far too long. I couldn’t move, couldn’t tear my eyes away from the horrifying scene unfolding before me. His kiss burned into my skin, sending a ripple of sensation through me that I couldn’t fight, no matter how much I wanted to. His hands moved with practiced precision, fingers sliding up my thighs as he began to lift my gown, inch by inch. My torso pressed harder against the rough bark of the tree, his body closing in behind me, trapping me.

“You’re part of this now,” he murmured against my neck, his lips grazing my skin, the words sinking deep into my bones.

“This is where you belong.” His voice was dark, seductive, wrapping around me like the flames that devoured everything in their path.

I could feel his hands moving higher, and I hated how I was responding—how the drink, the night, and the darkness of the Isle had twisted something inside me.

My breath came in shallow gasps, the sounds of moaning, chanting, and burning filling the air around us. As his fingers reached the apex of my thighs, I trembled under their gentle pressure, unable to push him away despite the war raging inside me.

"This is where you belong," he repeated, and I couldn't help but wonder if he saw through me. If he knew the truth of what I was feeling. A mixture of fear and desire that left me twisted and confused. His lips found my earlobe, nibbling gently as his hand slipped between my legs, pulling my underwear aside so that he could touch me.

I whimpered, arching against his hand despite the horror unfolding before us. His hand grew more fervent, his touch more insistent, until I could barely breathe, each gasp punctuated by the sounds of the ritual around us. Without warning, he pressed himself against me, his other hand gripping my waist as he entered me in one swift motion.

My breath caught in my throat, and I cried out, my body reacting to the sudden invasion with a mixture of pain and pleasure that was impossible to separate.

I could feel him everywhere—his breath hot against my neck, his body heavy against mine, trapping me against the tree. The world around us continued its descent into chaos, but all I could focus on was the way he moved inside me, his rhythm dark and possessive, like he was claiming me just as surely as the Isle had.

"This," he murmured against my ear, his voice low and commanding, "is what you were made for."

The words cut through me, and yet, despite everything—the horror, the shame—I couldn’t deny the pull. My pussy was wet and slick, allowing him to easily slide deeper inside me.

My fingers dug into the bark of the tree, and I couldn't help the whimpers that escaped my lips. Each thrust brought a new wave of sensation, both painful and pleasurable. I felt as though I was being torn apart and put back together all at once.

His lips found mine then, and his tongue slipped past my lips, tasting me urgently. The familiar bitterness of sin filled my mouth, twisting the taste of him into something darker still. His hands held me tight, like a vice, never letting me escape the grip of his power. As the ritual continued to swirl around us and the drums beat in time with his rhythm, I found myself lost in it all.

One part of me screamed for him to stop, to let go of me—the other part craved more of his touch. The darkness inside me unfurled its tendrils, eagerly seeking more.

I spread my legs without conscious though, seeking more.

“Harder,” I whispered against his mouth, surprised even by the sound of my own voice. He responded with a growl that sent shivers down my spine, deepening his thrusts, and clutching me even tighter. The pain and pleasure melted into one incredible sensation, consuming me.

The sounds of the ritual grew louder, drowning out everything but the rhythmic pounding of my heart. His lips trailed kisses down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in their wake. My thoughts became a haze of desire and dread, both feeding off each other in an intoxicating spiral. His hips moved with renewed vigor, each thrust more deliberate, more demanding.

I felt my limits slipping away, the hedonistic allure of his touch pulled me under, drowning out reason and logic. All that remained was the unquenchable thirst for more. His lips found mine again in a frenzied kiss, tasting the sweetness of my surrender. The scent of blood and sin filled the air. All I could do was hold onto the tree, moaning and crying out.

I was lost.

His eyes never left mine, watching as I succumbed to his control. My body arched against his, the tree bark digging into my skin, leaving dark marks that mirrored the ones on my soul. He adjusted how he was thrusting, and a cry escaped me, a blend of agony and ecstasy that echoed through the woods, joining the cacophony of sounds that surrounded us.

“Alex,” I whimpered. His name was a plea for mercy, but also a confession of my all-encompassing devotion to him.

He responded by deepening the rhythm, his hips slamming into me with an intensity that bordered on cruelty. The pain was indescribable, yet it only heightened the pleasure coursing through me like wildfire. As our bodies moved in unison, I felt my own climax building, a wave of pure ecstasy that threatened to swallow me whole.

I clawed at the tree bark, leaving deep grooves in my wake as I cried out his name once more, "Alexander!" It was a cry of both agony and rapture, a testament to the power he held over me as I came hard, my body shaking uncontrollably beneath him.

“Fuck,” he rasped, his breathing a touch ragged as he pulled me closer. His lips found my neck, teeth gently sinking into the delicate skin, drawing blood, and sending electricity coursing through my veins. A cry escaped me, a fusion of pain and pleasure that echoed through the trees.

As he neared his climax, he pulled back slightly, letting the tip of his dick brush against my pussy teasingly before thrusting back inside me. My vision blurred with pleasure, the world around us fading into obscurity. I could only focus on the one man who held all of my desires and all of my fears in his hands. He pulled me away from the tree. With one swift motion, he bent me over, his hands gripping my hips, and I felt the full force of our height difference as his body pressed against mine.

My gown was bunched up around my waist, barely a barrier between us, as he took me with abandon, his sheer size overwhelming me, making me feel small, completely at his mercy. Each movement felt more intense, the his every touch igniting something deeper, something darker. as his cock pounded into me. I wasn’t aware of those that had come closer, people finding their own pleasure as they watched us.

I could only focus on the one man who held all of my desires and all of my fears in his hands. He released me from the tree, finally bending me over completely. As he continued to fuck me, our captive audience grew, more people drawn to the scene unfolding before them.

"Alexander," I choked out, my body shuddering with pleasure.

He was all that mattered in this moment - his cock deep inside me, his hands gripping my hips. It was as if he could read my mind, knowing exactly what I needed without me even having to ask. I felt him come, his cock pulsing, filling me completely. The sensation was overwhelming, and I cried out again. He held me tightly, thrusting deeper. His grip on my hips tightened, pulling me closer to him as he thrust into me one last time. He pulled out of me slowly, our bodies sticking together like glue, the heat of his skin lingering on mine before we reluctantly separated.

The cool night air hit me, but it didn’t do much to temper the fire that still burned in my veins. I already wanted more, the desire throbbing through me like a dangerous pulse. It was wrong, twisted, and yet it consumed me entirely. I turned to face him, needing to see him, to feel him again, but before I could even speak, he grabbed my face, his fingers digging into my skin with a possessive strength. His lips crashed against mine, his tongue plunging deep into my mouth. The world around us—the screams, the flames, the music—remained as nothingness.

I could feel how much he wanted me, how much he needed me, and the force of it left me helpless beneath his control. He pulled away slowly, breaking the kiss but keeping his gaze locked on mine, his eyes dark and full of hunger. My breath was ragged, my heart pounding, as I stared up at him, my mind caught in the haze of lust and confusion.

Without a word, his hand slid down my cheek, then to my throat, his grip firm but not painful as he guided me downward, lowering me to my knees before him. I felt myself sinking further into this twisted bond we had formed. I knelt there, looking up at him, the firelight casting shadows over both of us. The night was a long way from over, but whatever came next, I knew I had crossed another line there was no coming back from.