Lucy sat hunched on the narrow cot in the sealed chamber, the iron door cold against her back. The oil lamp had burned down to a weak, stuttering flame that barely pushed back the dark. The hunger was a living thing now, a constant, grinding pain in her gut that made her teeth ache and her skin feel too tight. Every breath tasted like ash. She kept her hands pressed hard against her stomach, as if she could hold the emptiness inside. The key Thorne had given her still hung around her neck, heavy and useless. She was locked in the place that raised her, by the man who taught her to fight monsters. Now she was the monster, and the Order wanted her gone.
The door scraped open with a slow, heavy groan. Father Thorne stepped inside alone. He carried a small leather pouch in one hand and a lantern in the other. The light caught the deep lines on his face, turning them into black canyons. He closed the door behind him. The lock clicked shut. Lucy stood up slowly, legs unsteady but refusing to shake. The hunger surged forward, sniffing at him like a starving dog, drawn to the steady, warm life-force pulsing under his skin. She clenched her jaw and held it back.
Thorne set the lantern on the bolted chair. He opened the pouch and poured a thin stream of black nightshade sand into his palm. The grains glittered like crushed obsidian. One handful could burn a demon to ash in seconds. Against her, it would hurt—badly—but it might kill the hunger before it killed her soul. He looked at the sand, then at her, and the pity in his eyes was worse than any blade.
"You're still in there," he said quietly. "I can see it. The girl I pulled out of that orphanage. The one who wanted to be strong."
Lucy crossed her arms, trying to look calm even as her stomach twisted. "You locked me in a cage, Father. That's not strength. That's fear."
He took a slow step closer. "I'm afraid for you. Not of you." His voice cracked just a little. "You were never normal, Lucy. Even as a child, you watched the world like you were waiting for it to show its teeth. Shadows followed you. Things happened around you—accidents, disappearances, whispers. We thought the Order had burned it out. We were wrong. It was always waiting. And now it's awake."
Lucy's breath caught. "You're saying I was born wrong."
Thorne's hand trembled. The nightshade sand shifted in his palm. "I'm saying your blood isn't clean. Someone—something—left you at that orphanage. A cambion line, maybe. Or worse. The essence you took in the crypt didn't make you this way. It just opened the door. And now the hunger is spreading. You're becoming something the Order cannot let live. Not because we hate you. Because we can't risk what you'll do when the hunger wins."
The words landed like a punch. Lucy felt the ground shift under her feet. All those years of training, of bleeding, of proving herself—she had been fighting her own blood. The hunger roared inside her, furious, protective, filling her chest with a hot rush that made her vision blur at the edges. She clenched her fists so hard her knuckles cracked.
"You raised me to hunt monsters," she said, voice shaking. "You made me swear oaths to protect people. And now you're telling me I'm the monster?"
Thorne's eyes filled with tears he refused to let fall. "I'm telling you because I still believe there's a piece of that girl left. And if there is, you need to fight this. Right now."
He lifted his hand, the nightshade sand glittering black in the lantern light. "This will hurt. It will burn the hunger out. It might burn you out too. But it's the only mercy we can give."
Lucy stared at the sand. Then at Thorne's face. The man who had pulled her from the cold orphanage floor. The man who had taught her how to hold a sword. The man who was now ready to kill her to save the Order's precious purity.
The hunger surged again, loud and furious, drowning out everything else. It didn't care about mercy. It only knew the man in front of her had life-force—bright, steady, full of years and regret. Lucy's vision narrowed to a tunnel. Her hands shook. The hunger pushed harder, promising relief, fullness, power.
Then a tiny, rose-gold shape crawled out of her collar—Thorn, small as a sparrow, wings trembling. The little devil hissed at Thorne, tail lashing, thorns glinting. Lucy's hand shot up instinctively. Silver-blue light flared from her palm, wrapping around Thorn like a leash. The imp quieted, perched on Lucy's shoulder, eyes wide and curious.
Thorne's hand froze. The nightshade sand slipped through his fingers, falling to the floor in a soft black rain.
"What… is that?" he whispered.
Lucy looked at the tiny devil who had just saved her life—or condemned it. Her voice came out soft, almost awed.
"She's me," she said. "The part I was never allowed to be."
Thorne stared at Thorn, then at Lucy. His face crumpled. He reached for the pouch again, fingers fumbling, pulling out another handful of sand. His voice broke.
"I'm sorry, child. I can't let this spread."
He threw the sand.
The black grains hit Lucy's chest like burning coals. Pain exploded through her—white-hot, blinding. Thorn shrieked, wings flaring. The silver-blue light surged from Lucy's skin, wrapping around the sand, trying to smother it. The hunger roared in fury, pushing back. Lucy staggered, hands clawing at her chest, screaming.
Thorne stepped forward, tears streaming down his face, pulling a short blade from his belt—the same blade he had given her on her first hunt.
"I'm sorry," he whispered again.
He raised the knife.
Lucy's vision went red. The hunger broke free. Thorn grew in an instant—wings stretching, thorns blooming, eyes blazing crimson. The little devil launched herself at Thorne, tail whipping like a lash.
The blade never fell.
Thorn's thorns sank into Thorne's throat.
He gasped once, eyes wide, hand dropping the knife. Blood poured dark and thick. He sank to his knees, clutching his neck, staring at Lucy with something like regret, something like love.
Lucy dropped to her knees in front of him, hands shaking, trying to stop the bleeding. "No—no—no—"
Thorne reached up, touched her cheek with blood-slick fingers.
"Live," he rasped. "Whatever you become… live."
His hand fell. His eyes went dull.
Lucy stared at his body, blood pooling on the stone.
Thorn perched on her shoulder again, smaller now, trembling, thorns retracting, petals blooming silver-blue along her wings. The little devil nuzzled against Lucy's neck, soft and warm.
Lucy's breath came in harsh sobs.
She looked at Thorne's lifeless face.
Then at her own hands, glowing faintly silver-blue, streaked with his blood.
The hunger purred, satisfied, full for the first time.
And as the oil lamp flickered out, plunging the chamber into darkness, Lucy realized with a cold, shattering certainty that the Order had just lost its most loyal hunter—
—and the girl they raised to kill demons had just killed her father figure to survive.