"Dice?" The guard's boot nudged Draak's ribs. "You betting again, Devilspawn?"
Draak didn't answer, staring at the polished bone cubes glittering under the flickering dungeon torchlight. They'd been confiscated weeks ago—his last comfort in this Vatican hellhole. Yet here they lay, impossibly, beside his moldy bread. The guard chuckled, kicking them into the drain grate. "Better pray instead, half-breed."
When the footsteps faded, Draak scrambled. His fingers, raw from shackle burns, scraped against wet stone. One die gleamed in the murk. He palmed it, feeling its unnatural warmth seep into his skin. Thunder boomed far above, rattling the iron door. A card fluttered onto his tray—stiff parchment depicting a crumbling spire struck by lightning. *The Tower*. Draak traced the embossed ink. His mother's deck. Impossible.
Marco Rossetti's laughter echoed down the corridor before he appeared. The warden's polished boots stopped outside Draak's cell. "Feeling lucky?" Rossetti's smile didn't reach his cold eyes. He gestured to two guards hauling chains. "The Pit needs fresh meat. Let's see if your angel blood sings today." Draak's fist clenched around the die. Luck wasn't random here; it was a blade poised above his throat.
Rosalin Fuentes slipped past Rossetti's entourage like shadow. Her faded nun's habit smelled of incense and damp wool. "Play his game," she breathed against the bars, tossing a worn tarot pouch at Draak's feet. "But fold on the third round." Her gaze held his—fierce, desperate. Then she vanished. Draak scooped up the pouch. Inside, more cards pulsed with faint energy. His mother's legacy. A blood pact etched in paper and fate. Survival wasn't chance; it was inheritance.
The torchlit Pit stank of sweat, iron, and old terror. Draak faced Goran—a mountain of scarred muscle wielding a rusted pike. Rossetti leaned on the railing, grinning. "Begin!" Goran charged. Draak dodged, his chains clanking. *Third round*, Rosalin had said. He feigned panic, stumbling backward toward the unstable east wall. Goran roared, thrusting. Draak twisted. The pike slammed into cracked mortar. Stone groaned overhead. Dust rained down. Draak rolled clear as the ceiling collapsed in a roar of grinding rock, burying Goran alive. Silence fell. Draak stood untouched amidst rubble. Rossetti's grin died. Luck wasn't a blessing. It was a storm wearing his mother's face. Draak met Rosalin's eyes across the chaos. Time to run.
They fled through collapsing tunnels, Rosalin pulling Draak past choking dust and falling debris. Her habit snagged on jagged stone; she ripped it free without slowing. Behind them, Rossetti's shouts echoed—raw, furious. Draak's stolen die burned in his fist. Survival wasn't chance. Each step crackled with that terrible certainty. They burst into a forgotten ossuary, skulls stacked high under crumbling arches. Moonlight sliced through a high, broken window. Rosalin slammed a rotting door shut, barring it with a femur. "He knows about the pact now," she gasped. Cold certainty settled in Draak's gut. His mother hadn't just cursed him; she'd painted a target on his back.
Rosalin pressed a folded map into his hand—Cairo's tangled streets marked in faded ink. "The Ivory Bazaar. Find Kasim al-Sahir." Her fingers trembled. "He knew your mother. He trades in… unusual inheritances." Outside, hounds bayed. Close. Draak traced the map's lines. *Inheritance*. Not just survival—power. Raw and hungry. He could taste it, metallic and sharp, like blood on his tongue. The die's heat pulsed against his palm. Rossetti wouldn't stop. Not ever. Draak crushed the map in his fist. Cairo. Answers. Revenge. A growl ripped from his throat—half angelic defiance, half infernal hunger. The hunt reversed now. He was done being prey.
Splintering wood. The barricade shattered. Rossetti stood framed in moonlight, pistol gleaming. Hounds snarled at his heels. "Devilspawn!" he spat. Draak didn't hesitate. He hurled the die. It struck Rossetti's forehead—not hard, but precise. A crackle of unseen energy. The warden staggered, pistol firing wild into the skull piles. Plaster rained down. Draak lunged, grabbing Rosalin's arm. They scrambled through the window slit as the ossuary's vault groaned, collapsing inward onto Rossetti's curses. Cold night air hit them. Rome's rooftops stretched below, slick with rain. Draak didn't look back. The Tower had fallen. Cairo waited. And his mother's dice were rolling again.