The church was suffocating in shadows, its air dense with a chilling chant that coiled and reverberated through the cavernous space.

  Lux captiva, potentia nostra, Sacrificium accipe, dominus inferni…

  The words flowed like an ancient, malevolent hymn, their cadence vibrating against the cold stone walls. Each note seemed to linger, bouncing softly before vanishing into the oppressive void. Anastasia pressed herself against the icy surface of the pillar, her breath shallow. Below, faint candlelight flickered, casting distorted shapes that wavered like ghosts across the grotesque painting of a saint pierced with arrows.

  Her gaze locked on the staircase leading up from the crypt, its shadows twisting ominously. “Look over there,” she murmured, breaking the silence.

  The air was still except for the faint crackle of torches and the rhythmic rise and fall of the chant. Shadows stretched and collapsed in eerie harmony with the trembling flames, revealing flashes of the macabre altar below. Her black hair dissolved into the gloom seamlessly. Beside her, Giacomo’s reddish hair gleamed faintly, a patch of warmth in the otherwise cold, muted palette.

  “Get down, Redhead. You’re standing out like a neon sign,” she hissed, reaching out to yank him into the shadows.

  The chant grew louder, its guttural tones weaving into one another like overlapping whispers.

  Tenebrae invocāmus, lūmen exstīngue, Virtūtem tuam nōbīs dā.

  From the crypt below, four cloaked figures emerged in deliberate, synchronized steps, carrying Giona on their shoulders. The faint, deliberate scrape of boots against the stone echoed softly through the vast chamber, blending into the ritual’s ominous melody. They laid him on the altar, his limp form barely illuminated by the trembling light.

  “They’ve covered his right hand,” Anastasia noted, narrowing her eyes. “It’s wrapped in… something. Like a bag.”

  “Amateurs,” Giacomo replied, his voice hushed but edged with amusement. “What, they think putting his hand in a sack will stop him from illuminating them?”

  “Well, lucky us,” she said with a dry smile. “They clearly don’t know the first thing about the Light.”

  Giacomo leaned forward, craning his neck for a better look. The faint creak of the pew beneath him rippled through the quiet, drawing a sharp glare from Anastasia.

  “Do you have a death wish? Stay still,” she snapped, her voice sharp but barely above a whisper.

  “Relax, boss,” he whispered back with a grin, though he obediently eased back against the pillar.

  The chant rose in intensity, every syllable carrying weight that seemed to hang suspended in the air. The voices reverberated in waves, folding into each other, giving the impression that the walls themselves were speaking:

  In nōmine tenebrārum, sacrificium offerimus,

  Lūmen captum, potentia nostra.

  Dominus īnfernī, audī precēs nostrās,

  Et dā nōbīs vīrēs lūcis.

  A tremor of unease worked its way up Anastasia’s spine as four red-robed figures approached the altar. Their torches burned brighter, the flames sputtering violently and casting elongated, unnatural shadows across the rows of white-hooded, black-masked followers. Each deliberate step sent faint, hollow echoes across the floor, underscoring the rising urgency of the chant.

  This is next-level creepy, Anastasia thought, her stomach tightening as the tension built.

  Giona stirred suddenly, pulling against the ropes securing him to the altar. The movement broke the spell momentarily, prompting a wave of startled gasps from the gathered cultists.

  “He’s awake,” Giacomo whispered, leaning in too close. His breath was warm and irritating against Anastasia’s ear.

  “No kidding, Sherlock,” she muttered dryly, brushing him aside as her focus snapped back to Giona.

  Even restrained, Giona’s presence was commanding. His lips moved soundlessly, their motion undeterred by the oppressive chant still echoing from every corner of the church. Anastasia couldn’t help but smirk. Typical Giona—talking smack, even tied up.

  Her smirk widened as the nearest guard leaned toward him, perhaps to catch whatever words Giona was murmuring. That was all it took. Giona’s eyes locked onto the man’s, then she knew what happened: a subtle glint of Light flickered from his palm, visible only to him and the other person. The effect was immediate—the guard froze, his body stiffening as the Light took hold.

  “Showtime,” Anastasia murmured, nudging Giacomo.

  “Finally!” Giacomo whispered back, his body alive with anticipation. He stretched theatrically, loosening his neck as though preparing for a big performance.

  “Cut it out,” Anastasia hissed, her tone a blend of exasperation and urgency.

  The illuminated guard moved as if in a trance, leaning toward one of his companions and whispering something. Seconds later, a second figure broke away from the formation, moving toward their hiding spot.

  Anastasia’s heart quickened. “Here we go,” she whispered under her breath, shifting her weight into a crouch.

  She held her position, her pulse pounding against her eardrums as the figure drew closer. Giacomo, ever the wildcard, crouched beside her, deliberately sticking his finger in his mouth and contorting his face into a ridiculous pout.

  Anastasia clenched her jaw to keep from laughing. I’m surrounded by idiots, she thought, though the humor eased some of the tension she was feeling.

  The approaching figure hesitated, clearly unnerved by the scene. That pause was all the opportunity Anastasia needed. Slipping silently from her position, she closed the distance and placed her hand lightly on the figure’s shoulder. The briefest flicker of Light passed between them, and just like that, the adept stilled, then turned and walked away as if nothing had happened. Giacomo approached her.

  “Do you still really need to touch them?”

  “Yes, of course, I’m a Navigator not a Predator!”

  “Well, I’m a Scavenger, but still I don’t need to…”

  Anastasia pointed a finger right at his face. “Not a word more! This is not a competition!”

  “Ok, ok… What’d you make him do?” Giacomo asked, his voice tinged with curiosity.

  “Free Giona,” she replied curtly.

  “And?”

  “Send someone else our way.”

  “You’re ruthless,” Giacomo said, flashing her a grin. “I like it.”

  The chant echoed louder still, pressing against Anastasia’s ears as though the voices had seeped into the very stones.

  Lūx et tenebrae, in ūnum coniungimus,

  Virtūtem tuam nōbīs trānsfer.

  Sacrificium accipimus, dominus īnfernī,

  Et potentiam tuam invocāmus.

  “This is it. Get ready,” Anastasia whispered.

  She turned to glance at Giacomo, and in that moment, everything clicked into place—just like in Steal the Light. The unspoken cues, the instinctive timing, the effortless flow of movement. He cracked his knuckles, his focus sharpening, his mind perfectly in sync with hers thanks to her Navigation abilities. Every shift, every motion felt as natural as breathing, a testament to the hours they had spent mastering their game. But yet, that unbearable smirk on his face, as if this situation too was all a game…

  “Would you focus, you lunatic?” she hissed, narrowing her eyes. “And quiet down—you’ll get us caught.”

  “Relax, I’ve got this,” he whispered, though his movements became slower, his posture more deliberate.

  Below, on the altar, Giona struggled harder against the ropes. His movements became more deliberate, more forceful, as if he was slowly breaking out of the spell that had kept him unconscious. Of, course, her message had reached him too: get ready, it’s show time! His lips moved again, but this time, Anastasia could catch glimpses of the words.

  “What’s he doing?” Giacomo asked, leaning forward slightly, careful not to shift the pew beneath them.

  “Talking,” she replied. Her brow furrowed. No, provoking. Giona’s lips curled into a smirk, even as one of the red-robed figures drew closer to the altar. The cultist raised his hand—intent clear—ready to strike Giona across the face.

  “Don’t do it,” Anastasia whispered, her hands clenching into fists.

  Giona’s gaze turned sharper, boring into the man. And then it happened—effortlessly. His lightest touch of illumination, precise and decisive. The cultist froze mid-motion, arm suspended in the air.

  “What did I say? He’s the best,” Giacomo whispered, his voice lower this time, though a tinge of awe crept into his tone.

  “Shut up,” she snapped.

  But Giacomo wasn’t entirely wrong. Giona wasn’t panicking—he was in control. Somehow, even in this horrifying setup, he was steering the situation, bending it to his will.

  The room shifted. It wasn’t the noise they made—they’d kept it subtle—but there was a noticeable crack in the rhythm of the chant. A flicker of hesitation rippled through the ranks of the white-hooded figures. Anastasia felt it, a momentary faltering in their conviction.

  He’s turning the tide.

  She took a slow breath, steadying herself. “Your turn,” she whispered, nudging Giacomo.

  He blinked at her. “What? Already? That was fast.”

  “Move,” she hissed.

  “Fine, fine,” he muttered, his voice barely audible. He pushed himself off the pillar with exaggerated care, taking slow, precise steps forward.

  Anastasia stayed hidden, watching as Giacomo crept toward the second cultist—the one sent to investigate. He was being cautious this time, adjusting his stance with care. From her position, she could see everything was going smoothly, no need to panic. She let the feeling flow to Giacomo through Navigation, steadying his nerves.

  He moved with the quiet confidence of someone who knew how to get out of trouble—or into it. Reaching the broken pew, he paused and glanced back at her. Not for reassurance, obviously. He didn’t need that, not when their connection was still loud and clear. No, this was something else entirely. He just wanted her to watch.

  Damn it, he’s about to do something stupid. She clenched her fists and gestured for him to keep going, though her gut was already twisting.

  The second cultist stopped, his gaze narrowing as he scanned the space. Giacomo feigned a stumble, catching himself just in time to avoid hitting the pew, his motion controlled.

  The cultist froze. Neither moved. Anastasia held her breath, her heart pounding.

  Then, Giacomo tilted his head, his arms slightly raised, palms visible in a show of surrender. “I’m just passing through,” he said, his voice soft and casual, with a faint edge of humor.

  The cultist hesitated, clearly suspicious but drawn closer. As he moved within reach, Giacomo extended his hand slowly, as if offering help. “No harm, promise.”

  The cultist inched closer, and Giacomo struck—quick, subtle. His hand landed on the man’s shoulder, casual as if offering reassurance. Anastasia didn’t need to see it to know: a faint flicker of Light pulsed from his fingertips, visible only to him and the cultist.

  The effect was immediate. The man stumbled, his legs buckling awkwardly, as though his brain had forgotten how to walk. Anastasia raised an eyebrow. That’s advanced… but seriously?

  The falling cultist grabbed wildly at a nearby drape in an attempt to steady himself. Instead, he yanked it down, sending the heavy fabric cascading over several red-robed figures with a muffled “whump.” Chaos erupted in the church—cultists snapped at each other, some scrambled to untangle their companions, while others argued over what just happened. Their focus shifted entirely away from the altar.

  Anastasia groaned, rubbing her temples as Giacomo ducked back into the shadows beside her, moving like he hadn’t just single-handedly upended the scene. His steps were precise, calculated—contrasting sharply with the grin plastered across his face.

  “Okay,” she hissed through clenched teeth, glaring at him. “You’re a Scavenger, not a comedian.”

  “And yet, here we are,” he replied smugly, gesturing toward the mayhem with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. “Worked, didn’t it?”

  Was it really necessary to wipe his muscle memory?” she hissed. Giacomo shrugged, his grin unapologetic. ‘Worked, didn’t it?’ he replied, motioning toward the entangled cultists struggling beneath the drape.

  “Did you also make him do something?” Anastasia asked, her voice a whisper.

  “Same as you did. Free Giona,” Giacomo replied, brushing his hands off as if it had been the simplest thing in the world. “Oh, and I told him to blend in. Wouldn’t want anyone to notice.”

  Anastasia shot him a sharp look. Was it supposed to be funny? But the corners of her mouth twitched despite herself. “You’re insufferable.”

  “And yet, irreplaceable,” he quipped, his grin smug but quieter this time.

  Anastasia’s mind raced as her eyes stayed fixed on the ceremonial knife. The red-robed figure shot just a quick glance to the scene, but then resumed the ritual. He held the blade aloft, letting it catch the flickering torchlight in sinister flashes. The chanting became sharper, more fervent, as though the entire congregation had been stirred into a trance.

  “Giacomo,” she whispered, her tone tight. “We don’t have time to mess around anymore. Move.”

  Giacomo gave her a quick nod, his playful smirk flickering. “You know,” Giacomo muttered under his breath, “trying to act like a Predator and erase memories for dozens of people at the same time isn’t exactly easy. I mean, I’m the only one here who can pull this off! A little ‘please’ would be nice, just saying.”

  Anastasia rolled her eyes.

  “Just keep moving,” she snapped, her irritation barely masking her amusement. At least, he seemed to recognize the gravity of the situation. Quietly, they moved into position. Anastasia crouched low, her body tense as she clung to the shadows. The red-robed figures had started pouring something into small vials—empty vessels they had retrieved from the altar.

  Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

  Her stomach churned. “Are they…?”

  “Yeah,” Giacomo muttered, his voice a breath of disgust. “They’re going to collect his blood. Drink it, probably.”

  Anastasia’s fists tightened. The thought sent a jolt of revulsion through her. “That’s insane.”

  “That’s cults for you,” he muttered, shifting closer to her. His usual teasing edge was absent now. “What do we do?”

  Her gaze snapped back to the altar. Giona was twisting more aggressively against the ropes. His eyes blazed with a cold, calculating anger that Anastasia had come to rely on. He wasn’t afraid—he never seemed to be afraid. But still, they couldn’t wait for him to act alone.

  “They’re distracted by the ritual,” she whispered. “This is our chance.”

  With steady precision, she moved closer to the edge of their hiding spot. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, but her mind stayed focused. “We need to take out as many of them as possible. Quietly. One at a time.”

  Giacomo nodded, his usual bravado muted. “Lead the way.”

  On the altar, Giona let out a low grunt as he flexed his bound wrist. The slack in one of the ropes had grown more noticeable. The knife hovered above him, gripped tightly by the cultist nearest to his side.

  Anastasia inhaled slowly, her fingers flicking in a silent signal—Steal the Light shorthand they had perfected through countless games. Giacomo caught the gesture instantly, his grin flickering into focus. This time, he moved with deliberate care, each step light and precise to avoid any telltale noise.

  The tension in the air was suffocating. The rhythmic chanting, punctuated by the crackling of torches, seemed to grow louder with every passing second.

  Giacomo reached his target, his hand landing softly on the adept’s shoulder. The Light rippled outward, slicing through the man’s memory of the past few minutes. The adept blinked rapidly, his gaze darting around the chaotic church.

  “What am I doing here?” he mumbled, backing away in visible confusion. Giacomo stifled a laugh and gestured to Anastasia.

  “Hey, look at that—I made us a spectator.” Anastasia shot him an exasperated glance, though she couldn’t help but notice the opening his tactic created.

  She slipped forward, her movements as fluid and silent as a shadow. Another figure was close by, their attention locked on the ritual. Her hand found their arm, and with a faint pulse of Light, they stilled. When they turned toward her, their expression was blank, compliant.

  “Go help Giona,” she whispered, her voice low but firm.

  The adept nodded once before stepping away.

  At the altar, the first of the red-robed figures began chanting louder, his voice cutting through the murmur like the toll of a distant bell. The knife in his hands glinted as he raised it higher.

  Anastasia’s chest tightened as her senses stretched outward, attuned to the growing unease rippling through the congregation. The faint hesitation in their movements, the quiver in their voices—as an advanced Navigator, she could feel their doubt, their fear, seeping into the air like smoke from the torches. It was fragile, yet potent, a crack in their conviction she knew they could exploit.

  “This is it, let’s go.” She whispered. “Don’t give them time to notice what we’re doing—”

  “I know,” Giacomo interrupted, his voice unusually serious. “Just tell me what to do.”

  She swallowed hard and gestured toward the remaining adepts near the altar. “We need them on our side. We can’t do this alone. Let’s build a small army.”

  “On it,” he said, moving without another word.

  Meanwhile, Giona took a sharp breath as the final rope binding his wrist loosened. He twisted his arm free, keeping his movements controlled to avoid drawing attention. The chanting continued to climb in intensity, a crescendo of eerie devotion that filled the space with a suffocating weight.

  The cultist holding the knife was fully immersed in the ritual, his voice trembling with zeal as he began to lower the blade.

  The chanting swelled, cascading in waves that seemed to press against the very walls, growing louder, harsher, until the sound became almost unbearable—a grinding, discordant hum that burrowed into Anastasia's skull. The flames of the torches writhed violently, casting feverish, flickering shadows that danced like specters on the stone walls.

  The blade caught the light in quick, sharp flashes as it descended, each glint a reminder of what was about to happen. The vials on the altar trembled with the vibrations of the voices, the glass clinking faintly in a fragile counterpoint to the roaring chant.

  A gust of air swept through the hall, carrying with it the acrid, metallic tang of hot iron and wax. Anastasia inhaled it, her breath catching as dread wrapped itself around her chest. She could hear every strained creak of the altar beneath Giona’s weight, every rustle of the red-robed figures’ ceremonial garments as they shifted forward, their movements stiff with purpose.

  This can’t be happening!

  Then came the moment that pierced the noise—a flash of silver as the blade arced high above the cultist’s head, catching the flickering torchlight like a shard of lightning. The chanting swelled, oppressive and unrelenting, as the blade began its rapid descent toward Giona’s chest. Anastasia’s breath caught, her pulse pounding as the ritual’s weight pressed down on her, suffocating and inescapable.

  The metallic gleam of the knife blurred in motion, slicing through the air with a deadly precision. The shadows around the altar seemed to ripple, drawn toward the blade as if the Light itself recoiled from the impending strike. But it was Giona’s next move—a sudden, explosive burst of defiance—that shattered the ritual’s hold over the room. With a single explosive motion, he broke free from the final binding. His hand shot out to grab the knife before it could be snatched back by the cultist. The red-robed figure recoiled, stumbling slightly as Giona rose, his movements precise and fluid, like a predator finally unleashed.

  Anastasia acted instantly. She used Navigation to let Giona’s know they were there, acting. As if telling him to buy them some time. Then, the hours and hours of training and games kicked is. Her mind flipped a switch, and everything became instinct—like stepping into a match of Steal the Light. “Giacomo, now!” she barked, her voice cutting clean through the chaos.

  He gave her a quick nod, his playful smirk replaced with rare concentration. Giacomo darted forward, moving silently through the rows of pews. His steps were light, deliberate, each one calculated to avoid drawing attention. Anastasia mirrored his pace, slipping from shadow to shadow, her movements smooth and controlled. They didn’t need words to communicate—it was muscle memory by now, and pure concentration through the ripples of the Light. Every gaze they met, every touch, every noise… they used everything they could to illuminate those cultists, and use them as human shields. But they needed to hurry.

  At the altar, Giona met the advance of two red-robed cultists. He sidestepped one’s strike with ease, the ceremonial knife flashing in his grip as he used the momentum to block the second’s approach. Then he shifted, locking eyes with the first cultist. The man froze, momentarily caught in Giona’s unrelenting gaze. A subtle pulse of Light flared between them, unnoticed by anyone but them. The cultist stiffened, his posture shifting as the illumination took hold.

  “Off to a good start,” Anastasia muttered, her lips curving into a faint smile as she moved to her next target.

  Her path was blocked by a white-hooded adept standing near the nave. The figure, completely absorbed in the fight happening on the altar, hadn’t yet noticed her approach. Anastasia slowed her breathing, focusing on the faint tang of incense that lingered in the air. She moved closer, quiet as a shadow, until the smell reached them both—sharp, unmistakable. The adept’s head turned slightly, their senses aligning in shared recognition. In that instant, Anastasia struck. The Light flickered between them, connecting through the brief, fleeting bond they shared in the scent. The adept blinked, then turned obediently, awaiting her command. I can do it! I can use the smell!

  She whispered her command: “Head to the altar. Help Giona the one you wanted to sacrifice. And hurry!”. The adept nodded once and rushed toward the growing cluster around the altar.

  On the other side of the room, Giacomo was making his own moves. From behind the cover of a shield of adepts, he crept toward an unsuspecting cultist, his footsteps nearly silent on the stone floor. But instead of direct contact, he smirked and leaned into the pew nearest him. He visibli tapped his fingers against the wood. He’s using sound, she thought. Whatever works. He motioned toward the altar, and the man obeyed without hesitation.

  The synchronized ritual had crumbled into a mess. The chanting faltered, replaced by sharp commands and panicked shouts from the remaining red-robed figures. The illuminated adepts moved seamlessly among the chaos, allowing Giacomo and Anastasia to proceed unnoticed.

  Giona stood at the center of the altar, his presence commanding as he deflected another attack from a red-robed figure. The knife in his hand moved with precision, each motion calculated to disrupt his opponent’s rhythm. He stepped back, allowing one of the illuminated adepts to take his place, then shifted his focus to the next threat.

  The red-robed leaders were running out of options. Their movements became more erratic, their attempts to regain control undermined by the growing number of illuminated adepts surrounding them. Firelight flickered against the stone walls, casting long, shifting shadows that seemed to mirror the chaos of the room.

  Anastasia reached the altar, her mind racing as she analyzed the shifting currents of the conflict. ‘Form up!’ she commanded through the mental connection she created. She extended her Light outward, syncing their movements in a pulse of the technique called “Battle Harmony”, something she had been trying to master for ages.

  It works!

  Giona disarmed a cultist with precision, and Giacomo darted forward in seamless rhythm, their actions flowing as though guided by an invisible thread connecting them all. But then the connection snapped. Giacomo went his way, focusing on creating more adepts, and Giona moved further from her, instead of regrouping.

  I spoke too soon… She could not really master navigating with two people at once. Damn it… Oh well, switching very fast between Giona and Giacomo for now, will have to do…

  She reached the altar. His human shield keeping her safe from a cultist that tried to reach her arm.

  “You took your time,” Giona said, disarming his last enemy. His voice even but edged with dry amusement.

  “Had to clean up after you,” Anastasia shot back, her chest heaving as she caught her breath.

  Giacomo appeared beside them a moment later, his face flushed but triumphant. “I think we just broke their playbook,” he said, gesturing to the scattered remains of the ritual.

  Before anyone could respond, one of the remaining red-robed figures lunged forward, his knife aimed directly at Giona. Anastasia reacted instantly, stepping into the man’s path and meeting his gaze with unwavering intensity. The sudden connection was enough to stop him in his tracks. The Light surged, overpowering his focus as the knife slipped from his grip.

  “Thanks,” Giona said, his tone casual as he stepped past her to retrieve the fallen blade. “Not bad!”

  “Don’t mention it,” she replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline coursing through her veins.

  Together, the trio turned to face the remaining cultists. Anastasia’s mind was already racing, analyzing their next moves. “Form up,” she commanded, her voice cutting through the din. They fell into position without hesitation—Giona at the center, Anastasia and Giacomo flanking him on either side.

  The cultists hesitated, their fear palpable as they faced the three champions of Steal the Light. The flickering torches cast long shadows over their masks, their authority crumbling under the weight of their failure.

  “Let’s end this,” Anastasia said, her voice low but resolute.

  In perfect harmony, they advanced.

  The silence that followed was deafening. The crackle of the dying torches echoed faintly in the vast space, and the lingering smoke hung heavy in the air. The shattered remains of the ritual were scattered across the church—a twisted tableau of broken vials, overturned pews, and trembling shadows.

  Giona let out a slow breath, lowering the ceremonial knife in his hand. His posture, once stiff and defensive, softened slightly as the adrenaline began to fade. He glanced at Anastasia and Giacomo, his eyes still sharp but carrying a hint of exhaustion.

  “Well,” Giacomo muttered, slumping against the edge of a pew. “That was nuts.” He ran a hand through his hair, a faint sheen of sweat catching the dim light. “And can we talk about how amazing I was for a second? MVP of the night, thank you very much.”

  Anastasia shot him a tired glare, but her lips twitched into a faint smile. “You’re impossible.”

  “Hey, I kept us alive,” he said, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “You’re welcome.”

  She rolled her eyes, but the tension in her shoulders began to ease. It was always like this after a battle—waves of relief, muted by the lingering weight of what they’d faced. Her gaze shifted to Giona, who was staring at the altar, his grip still firm around the knife.

  “Giona,” she said softly, her voice carrying a note of concern. “You okay?”

  He turned to her, his expression unreadable for a moment before his lips curled into a faint smirk. “Never better.”

  “Sure,” she replied, though the edge in her tone betrayed her doubt.

  Before she could press further, the faint sound of a groan reached her ears. Anastasia froze, her gaze snapping toward the source of the noise. It was faint at first, broken and uneven, but as she focused, the sound grew sharper—a strained, guttural mix of pain and frustration. Her heart tightened. Someone was struggling.

  Near the corner of the room, a figure twisted and thrashed against the firm grip of two illuminated guards. Their hands held him down with an unnatural calm, their expressions blank and unyielding. His legs kicked weakly against the stone floor, and his arms flailed, only to be pinned again by the guards’ steady hands.

  Anastasia narrowed her eyes, her breath hitching as she tried to make sense of the scene. The flickering torchlight cast jagged shadows across the figure’s face, illuminating his wild, frantic eyes and the sweat glistening on his forehead. He let out another groan, louder this time—a jagged sound that echoed faintly off the walls.

  Her stomach churned as she stepped closer. The figure’s robe was torn, the fabric clinging to him in jagged strips. His hands trembled as he tried to push against the guards’ grip, but his strength faltered, leaving him slumped and gasping for air.

  And then the truth hit her, stark and undeniable. Stripped of his mask, his face lay bare under the flickering light—Giovanni.

  Her lip curled instinctively. The sight of him—his bloated, sweaty face, his greasy hair plastered to his forehead—made her stomach turn. She could still see the smugness in his expression, even now, even after everything. It was revolting.

  “Giovanni,” she said, her voice low and sharp. Her fists tightened. “Of course it’s you.”

  His wild eyes met hers, and for a moment, his lips twisted into a bitter smile. “Anastasia,” he croaked, his voice hoarse but dripping with disdain. “Still bossing people around, I see.”

  She stepped closer, her disgust bubbling to the surface. “You—you did all of this? For what?”

  He coughed, his shoulders shaking as he tried to sit up. “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Try me,” she snapped, her tone cutting. “You almost got people killed, Giovanni. For what? Some twisted power grab?”

  His bitter smile widened, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “Power? No. You think I care about that?”

  “Then what?” she demanded, her voice trembling with anger.

  He hesitated, his gaze flickering for a moment before he muttered, “You.”

  The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Anastasia froze, her stomach twisting violently. “What?” she whispered, her voice barely audible.

  “You,” he repeated, louder this time. “You think I didn’t notice? You think I didn’t care? You—you rejected me. You humiliated me. And now look at you—look at us. This is all your fault!”

  Her disgust surged, sharp and unrelenting. “You’re pathetic,” she spat, her voice trembling with fury.

  Giovanni’s smile faltered, but the bitterness in his eyes remained. “You don’t get it. You never did.”

  “Anastasia,” Giona’s voice cut through, low and steady. She turned to him, her fists still clenched, her breath coming in sharp bursts. His calm gaze met hers, grounding her.

  She exhaled sharply, stepping back from Giovanni. “You’re lucky he’s holding me back,” she muttered.

  “Enough,” Giona said quietly. He crouched beside Giovanni, his posture relaxed but his presence imposing. “You don’t have to understand the Light,” he murmured, his voice even. “But you need to know this: it doesn’t belong to you. You can’t take it—not from me, not from anyone.”

  Giovanni didn’t reply, his glare unwavering. Giona rose, turning away without another word.

  “What are we supposed to do with him?” Anastasia asked, her voice softer now, though still laced with frustration. “We can’t just leave him.”

  “I haven’t erased his memories. Let me…” Giacomo suggested.

  “No,” Giona said firmly. “He’s not ours to judge. And I want him to remember.”

  “What does that even mean?” Giacomo asked, his brows furrowing in confusion.

  “It means,” Giona replied, his tone unwavering, “that we leave him here, thinking about what he’s done. The Council will find him, one way or another.”

  Anastasia hesitated, her gaze flicking between Giona and Giovanni. She wanted to argue—to demand justice for everything he’d done—but the weariness in Giona’s voice stopped her.

  “Fine,” she muttered, turning away. “But he doesn’t deserve your mercy.”

  “Mercy has nothing to do with it,” Giona replied, his voice steady. “It’s about doing what’s right. Nobody will believe him anyway.”

  Giovanni coughed again, his bitter smile faltering as the weight of the moment settled over him. He wouldn’t escape the consequences of his actions—not entirely. And for now, that would have to be enough.

  The night embraced them as they stepped out of the church into the quiet alley. The air was cool, carrying with it the faint scent of rain yet to fall. Their footsteps echoed softly against the cobblestones, a solitary sound in a city that rarely slept. Around them, the alley twisted between timeworn buildings of ochre and terracotta, their stucco facades weathered and adorned with wrought-iron balconies and shutters that had stood for centuries. The electric lanterns along the walls cast gentle halos of light, their glow mingling with the silvery beams of the moon that spilled from above.

  Rome, so often alive with the hum of voices, scooters, and laughter, seemed suspended in a rare moment of quiet. Here, deep in the night, even the ever-present thrum of the city had stilled, replaced by a peaceful hush that was a world apart from the oppressive chants and chaos of the church. Compared to the cacophony they had left behind, the silence here was almost surreal, like the city itself was holding its breath.

  The three of them walked in silence, the cobblestones beneath their feet uneven but familiar. Anastasia found herself trailing slightly behind the others, her thoughts still lost somewhere in the vastness of the night. The buildings seemed to lean in around her, their ancient facades whispering stories of centuries past. Vines crept along some of the walls, their shadows shifting in the interplay of moonlight and lanterns. She let her fingers brush against the rough surface of a stucco wall, the tactile connection grounding her for a fleeting moment.

  Ahead, Giacomo was recounting something to Giona—his voice low but animated, his gestures a little too big for the narrow alley. Giona responded in his typical reserved tone, his words calm but laced with that subtle edge of sarcasm that only those closest to him would notice. Their banter floated back to her, soft and unintrusive, a reminder of the world outside her mind.

  Anastasia stopped walking, just for a moment. The city stretched around her in layers of sound and silence, light and shadow. She tilted her head back, her gaze drawn again to the moon. It hung low and heavy in the sky, its glow spilling over the rooftops and gilding the distant domes and bell towers. For a moment, it felt as though the entire city were caught in its web of light, bound by the same invisible threads that connected them all.

  She imagined the Light flowing through those threads, reaching into every corner of the city and beyond. Into the stars, the distant planets, the dark stretches of space between them. The Light wasn’t confined by walls or limits—it was infinite, weaving through the very fabric of existence itself. It touched everything, from the smallest atom to the vastness of the cosmos, binding it all into a single, intricate tapestry.

  Her thoughts drifted to what had happened in the church. The chaos, the danger, the moment when everything could have fallen apart—and yet, they had prevailed. Not through brute force or luck, but through connection. They had moved as one, their actions synchronized and seamless. Each sound, each touch, each glance—it had all been part of the same flow. The Light had guided them, just as it connected them to everything else.

  The cool night air brushed against her skin, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and something she couldn’t quite name—something ancient, like the city itself. She felt impossibly small and infinite all at once, caught between the weight of the moment and the boundless expanse of the universe.

  “Hey,” Giacomo’s voice broke through her thoughts. She glanced up to see him standing a few steps ahead, his brow furrowed in concern. “You good?”

  She smiled faintly, nodding. “Yeah. I’m good.”

  He held her gaze for a moment, as though trying to gauge the truth behind her words. Then he shrugged, his grin returning. “Just making sure. You were looking a little spaced out there.”

  “Thanks for your concern,” she said dryly, though the warmth in her tone betrayed her words.

  Giona glanced back at her as well, his expression unreadable but steady. He gave a slight nod, a silent reassurance, before continuing down the alley.

  Anastasia took a deep breath, falling into step behind them. The Light wasn’t just something they wielded—it was something they were. It flowed through them, connected them, made them part of something far greater than themselves. And in that moment, walking through the quiet streets of Rome, she felt the beauty of it in every step she took.

  They turned a corner, the sound of their footsteps fading into the night. Above them, the moon continued its silent watch, its light spilling over the rooftops and into the lives below. The city breathed with them, and in its stillness, the infinite presence of the Light lingered.