Page 233 of The Devil's Thorn

Not with Rafael’s voice still in my head, still wrapped around my throat like silk and steel.

“You’re rewriting your own.”

Was I?

Or was I just following shadows until I disappeared into one?

Another turn. Another slow breath. And then, just ahead—something stopped me.

A weight. A presence. A stillness too vast to ignore. I blinked, eyes adjusting as I stepped into the small open square—and there it was. The Duomo di Napoli.

The cathedral rose like a monument to forgotten sins. Towering spires and carved stone, dark against the sky, backlit by soft, amber lighting that bled from its arched entryway and the subtle glow of stained glass windows.

It was massive. Beautiful. Haunting. A place meant for reverence. Or maybe reckoning.

I stood there in silence, heart beginning to beat harder, slower, like it recognized something my mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

I didn’t move. Not until I understood why I had come.

The cathedral loomed in front of me like a memory I didn’t know I had—silent, immense, carved from shadow and stone. It wasn’t lit like the others I’d passed. No tourists snapping photos. No soft choral music echoing from within.

Just light. Low. Flickering. From within.

And a door that wasn’t closed fully. Like it had been waiting.

The wind curled around me gently, lifting the ends of my hair, brushing against the collar of my jacket. It smelled faintly of candle wax and cold marble. Old. Sacred.

I should’ve turned back. But I didn’t.

I stepped forward, slowly, my boots echoing faintly against the stone steps as I approached the entrance.

And then—without a second thought—I entered.

The air changed the second the heavy door closed behind me. Cooler. Still. Like the building had swallowed sound.

I stood just past the threshold, eyes adjusting to the dim, golden glow from the chandeliers high above and the flickering votive candles scattered along the sides. The scent hit me next—aged incense, wax, stone dust, something metallic and floral all at once.

The ceiling stretched high above, arching into pointed vaults that disappeared into shadow. Statues of saints stood frozen in alcoves along the walls, draped in linen and gold, their eyes cast downward. The pews stretched in long rows ahead of me, carved dark wood softened by time, velvet kneeling benches worn smooth at the edges.

My breath caught as I looked up at the massive altarpiece at the far end of the nave. Gold. Marble. Angels carved into the base, wings outstretched. And towering above them—painted in stunning, haunting color—was a fresco of the Garden of Eden.

I stepped forward slowly, the soles of my boots echoing on the polished floor, each footstep sounding louder than the last. There was a Bible, left open on a pedestal near one of the sidechapels. Old, leather-bound, the pages frayed at the edges from years of fingers searching for meaning.

I walked to it instinctively. The page was marked—Genesis. I recognized the lines instantly.

The fall.

Adam. Eve. The serpent.

Lucifer.

The first betrayal. The first rebellion.

My fingers hovered above the page but didn’t touch. And still, I read.

The woman saw the fruit was good… desirable for gaining wisdom. She took it. She ate. She gave it to him.And then… they saw.

I stared at the words. Not because I believed them. But because I understood them.