The sealed chamber felt smaller with every passing minute, the stone walls pressing in like a slow, living trap. Lucy sat on the cold floor, back against the iron door, knees pulled tight to her chest. Thorne's body lay a few feet away, blood already congealing into a dark pool that caught the dying lantern light. The smell of iron and wax filled the air, thick and choking. Thorn perched on her shoulder, small wings trembling, petals along her tiny horns blooming silver-blue as if trying to comfort her. Lucy didn't move. She couldn't look at Thorne's face—eyes open, staring at nothing. The man who had saved her from the orphanage. The man who had raised her. The man she had just killed.
The hunger was quiet for once. Satisfied. Full. It purred deep in her gut like a cat that had finally eaten after days of starvation. Lucy hated how good it felt. She hated how right it felt.
Footsteps echoed down the spiral stair—fast, heavy, multiple sets. Voices followed, low and urgent. The Order had come to check on Thorne. To make sure the job was done.
Lucy stood up slowly. Her body felt different—lighter, sharper, like every muscle had been restrung with steel wire. Thorn fluttered to the top of her head, tiny claws gripping her silver-blonde hair. The little devil's tail curled around her ear, whispering in a voice only Lucy could hear: *They're coming. They want to finish what he started.*
The door rattled. A key scraped in the lock.
Lucy stepped back into the shadows beside the cot. Her hands flexed. No weapons—Thorne had taken her swords. But she didn't need them. Not anymore.
The door swung open. Three Blades stepped inside—two men, one woman—all in full silver-threaded cassocks, short-swords drawn, faces grim. The woman saw Thorne first. Her eyes widened. "Father—"
She never finished.
Lucy moved.
It wasn't running. It wasn't even a lunge. One heartbeat she stood in the corner. The next she was behind the first man, hand clamped over his mouth, other arm wrapped around his throat. She twisted. Bone snapped—clean, quick, quiet. The man dropped without a sound.
The second Blade spun, sword rising. Lucy was already moving again—too fast, impossibly fast. She ducked under the blade, grabbed his wrist, wrenched it until the sword clattered to the floor. Then she drove her elbow into his throat. Cartilage crunched. He fell choking.
The woman Blade screamed—a short, sharp sound that echoed up the stair. She lunged, sword thrusting for Lucy's chest. Lucy caught the blade between her palms. The silver edge bit into her skin, drawing blood, but the pain felt distant, muffled. She twisted. The sword snapped in half. The woman's eyes went wide with shock.
Lucy punched her in the sternum—hard, precise. Ribs cracked. The woman flew backward, slamming into the wall, crumpling.
More footsteps thundered down the stair—five, maybe six more Blades. Shouts rang out. "She's loose! Seal the upper door!"
Lucy looked at the broken sword in her hand. Then at the bodies on the floor. Thorn giggled against her ear, delighted. *More,* the little devil whispered. *They taste like fear.*
Lucy stepped into the doorway.
The stairwell was narrow, spiraling upward. Perfect choke point. Perfect killing ground.
The next wave came—four Blades, swords drawn, holy sigils glowing on their blades. They saw her and charged.
Lucy met them head-on.
She moved like liquid shadow—dodging, weaving, striking. A sword slashed toward her face; she leaned aside, grabbed the wrist, yanked the man forward into her knee. Nose shattered. He dropped. Another Blade swung from behind; Lucy spun, caught the blade on her forearm—skin split, blood sprayed—but she didn't stop. She drove her fist into the woman's solar plexus, then snapped her neck with a quick twist.
The third Blade hesitated. That was his mistake. Lucy lunged, faster than thought, hand clamping around his throat. She lifted him off the ground—impossibly strong—and slammed him against the wall. Stone cracked. He slid down, lifeless.
The last one turned to run.
Lucy was there before he took two steps. She grabbed his cassock, yanked him back, and drove her knee into his spine. He collapsed with a wet crunch.
Silence fell. Only the drip of blood and the faint crackle of the dying lantern.
Lucy stood in the middle of the stairwell, breathing hard, hands and arms streaked with red. Thorn fluttered down to perch on her blood-smeared shoulder, licking a drop from her cheek with a tiny, pink tongue. The little devil purred, wings fluttering happily.
More shouts from above—reinforcements. Dozens this time. The entire compound was waking up.
Lucy looked up the stair.
Then she smiled—small, sharp, dangerous.
She started climbing.
The stairwell became a slaughterhouse. Blades rushed down in waves. Lucy met them without hesitation. She moved at speeds that blurred—dodging thrusts, snapping limbs, crushing throats. A sword grazed her side; she barely felt it. Another cut her cheek; blood ran warm down her jaw. She laughed once—low, breathless, almost surprised at the sound.
The hunger drank it all in—the fear, the adrenaline, the life-force leaking from dying bodies. Thorn grew with every kill—wings stretching, thorns blooming into silver-blue petals, eyes blazing crimson. The little devil darted ahead, distracting, biting, siphoning tiny sparks back to Lucy that fueled her speed, her strength.
She reached the top of the stair.
The corridor beyond was packed—twenty Blades, maybe more, swords drawn, holy sigils flaring. They saw her—blood-soaked, glowing faintly silver-blue, tiny rose-gold devil perched on her shoulder like a crown—and froze for one heartbeat.
Then they charged.
Lucy stepped forward to meet them.
She became a storm.
Swords flashed. Blood sprayed. Bodies fell. She moved through them like water through stones—dodging, striking, breaking. A blade pierced her shoulder; she ripped it out and used it against the owner. Another slashed her thigh; she spun, snapped the attacker's arm, and kept moving. The corridor filled with screams, the wet crunch of bone, the copper stink of blood.
She reached the end of the hall.
The great double doors to the main nave stood open. Moonlight poured in through the high windows, turning the marble floor silver. More Blades waited—dozens, forming a wall of steel and faith.
Lucy stopped.
Thorn fluttered to her other shoulder, wings spread wide, petals fully bloomed. The little devil giggled, tail curling around Lucy's ear.
The Blades raised their swords. Holy light flared along the blades—bright, blinding.
Lucy smiled again—slow, feral, beautiful.
She took one step forward.
Then the air in the nave changed.
A cold wind blew through the open doors, carrying the scent of frost and iron and something older than death. The holy light on the Blades' swords flickered, dimmed, died.
The temperature dropped.
Every Blade froze.
From the shadows at the far end of the nave, a figure stepped forward—tall, cloaked in black that seemed to drink the moonlight, face hidden under a deep hood. Two pale hands emerged from the sleeves, long fingers tipped with black nails. In one hand she held a scythe, the blade curved like a crescent moon, edge shimmering with frost.
Lady Death.
The figure stopped in the center of the nave. The hood fell back.
A woman's face—beautiful, terrible, ageless—pale skin, eyes black as the void between stars, lips the color of old blood. Long white hair spilled down her back like frozen water. She looked at the carnage, at the bodies, at Lucy covered in blood with Thorn on her shoulder.
Then she smiled—slow, knowing, almost fond.
The hunger inside Lucy went still. Completely still. For the first time since the crypt, it felt… small.
Lady Death raised one hand.
The air rippled.
Every dead Blade on the floor stirred.
Their eyes opened—white, empty, glowing.
They rose—slow, jerky, like puppets on strings.
Lucy took a step back.
Thorn hissed, wings flaring.
Lady Death spoke, voice soft as falling snow, cold as the grave.
"You've been busy, little bloom."
She lowered her hand.
The risen Blades turned as one—facing Lucy.
Lady Death tilted her head, smile widening.
"Now," she said, "let's see what you're truly made of."
The undead Blades lunged.
And Lucy realized, with a clarity sharper than any blade, that the hunger had only been the beginning—
—the real test had just walked through the door.