The female demon's voice cut through the heavy silence of the ruined orphanage like a blade scraping against bone, sharp and wet and full of mocking amusement.
"...And who might you be, little one?"
I did not hear her.
My ears were ringing, filled with the echo of screams that had already faded, and my eyes were fixed on something else entirely—on Elder Marta's body lying crumpled on the floor in a way that made my stomach turn and my throat tighten.
Her white dress was no longer white. It was soaked red from her chest down to her knees, the fabric clinging to her body in wet, dark folds. The blood was still spreading, creeping across the floorboards in slow tendrils that seemed to search for something else to stain.
Her eyes were open.
