Marcella set aside the thick tome she had been reading as a part of her morning lessons on courtly etiquette and estate management. She exhaled, rubbing her temples. Even in this life, being a duchess-in-training was exhausting.
A knock occurred at the door. Before she could respond, the door flung open.
Anthony strode in. His coat was slightly askew, his dark auburn hair tousled from running.
"You look like you've run through the entire district." she remarked nonchalantly.
"I nearly did," Anthony shut the door behind him with more force than necessary. He didn't sit. He didn't waste time. "Marcella, the creature's body is gone."
Marcella set down the quill she had been holding. "Gone?" Her stare was one of disbelief.
Anthony nodded. "It's been erased. Wiped clean from existence, as if it was never there."
Marcella had expected this. Feared it. But hearing it confirmed sent a cold rush through her veins.
"And that's not all. Every noble who was there yesterday—including myself—was given an official statement to sign."
Her brow furrowed. "A statement?"
Anthony added. "We're all supposed to pretend it was nothing but a deranged beggar. A madman who attacked you in a fit of delirium. It's a royal order that was executed by the Duke."
The room suddenly felt smaller, the air heavier.
Her fingers curled into the fabric of her gown with her pulse thrumming against her skin.
Berith.
Of course.
She should have known.
The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth from how hard she bit her tongue.
Anthony sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Look, I don't think this is just his doing. You know how he is. He deals with things his own way. But this? This is making sure no one even thinks to ask questions."
Marcella pushed herself up from her chair, turning toward the window. In her past life, she had been too injured, too weak to notice the details. She had been bedridden for weeks. By the time she had recovered, the incident had already been buried.
And Berith had been the one to ensure that burial.
Just like now.
Her nails scraped lightly against the windowpane.
Marcella had thought… no, hoped… that things would be different this time.
Had she really changed anything at all?
The sharp bitterness of betrayal sat on her tongue. Her thoughts swirled in chaos—until, suddenly, a name surfaced.
A woman.
A face Marcella barely remembered from her past life.
She had been someone insignificant back then. Someone Marcella had dismissed as a naive woman of faith, someone who clung to prayers and kindness in a world that did not reward such things.
But now?
This woman knew something.
"Anthony, we're going to the church."
Anthony blinked. "The church?"
~~~~~~~
The carriage came to a stop, jolting her from her thoughts. Anthony was already reaching for the door, stepping out first before offering her his hand. Marcella barely noticed, stepping onto the worn stone pavement.
The air here was different—heavier, laden with the scent of burning incense and the distant murmur of prayers.
The grand spires of the Church loomed over them. This place felt like home to her. After all, her father was the High Priest of this very church. She had spent countless hours here in her youth, wandering its grand halls, listening to sermons she barely cared for, sitting in the pews as her father gave his blessings.
Marcella glanced at Anthony beside her. He said nothing, merely adjusting the cuff of his coat as he followed her lead.
With a steadying breath, she stepped past the threshold. Inside, a few worshippers knelt in silent reverence.
She ignored them. Her eyes scanning the vast hall until-- she saw her.
A woman stood by the altar, lighting a fresh set of candles.
Sister Evelyne.
Marcella felt a small pang in her chest.
That woman hadn't changed. Her long, chestnut-brown hair was tied back in a modest braid, a few stray strands curling against the sides of her face. Her eyes, a deep shade of hazel, held years of wisdom that Marcella had overlooked in her past life.
She was dressed in the simple garments of the church. The delicate chain of a silver cross hung from her neck, glinting in the candlelight.
How many times had Marcella brushed past this woman without a second thought?
Sister Evelyne turned to her. For a fleeting moment, a flicker of surprise crossed her face, but it vanished just as quickly, replaced by a calm, knowing smile.
"Lady Marcella," she greeted, inclining her head. "To what do I owe this visit?"
Marcella did not return the smile. Instead, she met the woman's gaze, "You knew." She lowered her voice to a conspirational whisper.
Evelyne's face softened. "What is it that you believe I know, my lady?"
Her eyebrows shot up. "The disappearances. The creature that attacked me. This is not the first time, is it?"
A pause.
And then— Evelyne exhaled, setting down the candle she had been holding.
"Come," she cued. "There is much to discuss."
The room Sister Evelyne led them to was small and dimly lit, the scent of aged parchment and burning tallow candles thick in the air. The walls were lined with shelves—stacks of ancient books, relics, and scrolls bound in leather and gold leaf.
A sanctuary of knowledge. Or perhaps, a vault of secrets.
Marcella stepped inside cautiously, her fingers brushing the smooth grain of the wooden table in the center. Anthony too followed them.
Evelyne shut the door behind them. Then, she slid the iron bolt into place.
"Are we prisoners now?" Anthony said, half-jokingly.
Evelyne laughed at the thought. "No. But it is better that no one overhears what I'm about to show you."
She moved to a tall cupboard at the back of the room; its wooden doors etched with faint carvings of celestial symbols. She pressed her palm against the center, whispering words too low to decipher.
The air shifted.
A shimmer, almost like a ripple in glass, appeared over the wood. Then, with a quiet creak, the doors parted.
Inside, there was a book. Not just any book. It was bound in darkened leather, its cover bore no title—only an emblem seared into the surface.
A symbol Marcella had seen before. A serpent devouring its own tail.
Evelyne lifted the book carefully, as though handling something alive. She brought it to the table and set it down before them. Then, she knelt, bowing her head in silent prayer.
Marcella exchanged a glance with Anthony, who was equally uncomfortable.
Why does this feel like a ritual?
After a long pause, Evelyne lifted her hands, drawing a slow breath. Then, only then, did she open the book.
The parchment inside was thick, inked with writings in an archaic script. The scent of aged paper and something faintly metallic—like dried blood—rose from its pages.
Evelyne turned through them with care, stopping when she reached an illustration.
It was an ink drawing. Dark, precise strokes forming figures twisted in grotesque contortions. Eyes hollow, mouths stretched into silent wails. Wings, not of angels, but of something ruined. Corrupted.
Demons.
A cotton ball formed in Marcella's throat. She had heard the stories. The myths. The scriptures that spoke of a war between the divine and the demons. She had read about them in the Holy Bible, heard of them in her father's sermons.
But those were just stories.
"W-What is this?" Anthony leaned in, his fingers pressing against the wood of the table.
Evelyne did not answer immediately. Instead, she ran her fingers over the page, tracing the inked figures as though reacquainting herself with them.
Then, softly—"The truth."
The candlelight flickered.
Surprise coasted through Marcella's eyes, "You mean to tell me demons are real?"
Evelyne's eyes met hers. Calm. Knowing. "Lady Marcella," she responded, "they have always been real."
Marcella clenched her jaw, her mind resisting. "But I have never seen one."
"You did," Evelyne corrected gently. "Yesterday."