The pit was deep, a hollow carved into rock where cold clung to the bones. The walls oozed moisture, and the sound of near-frozen water trickling through invisible cracks filled the silence. Lucia Hernica knelt by one of the water threads, submerging her hands to cleanse the whip wounds on her shoulders. The pain made her hold her breath, but she didn't cry. Not this time.
With quick gestures, she wiped away tears that had escaped unbidden. They'd taken her grandmother's necklace—the amulet of Ceres she always wore close to her heart. Now only emptiness remained in her chest, and rage boiling beneath her skin like water from a hidden spring.
Footsteps echoed above. Lucia straightened instantly, adjusting her torn dress with dignity. Bare feet, numb fingers, or fear closing her throat didn't matter. When the trapdoor of the upper grate opened, she stood planted before the ladder, back straight and gaze fixed on the darkness.
—Come to burn me too, coward? —she spat upward, voice clear as the water around her— Or just to steal what little I have left?
No answer came, only the echo of her words bouncing off stone. But Lucia didn't lower her head. If they meant to drag her to the pyre, they'd do it while meeting her eyes.
And in those eyes, between fear and fury, burned a promise:
No one would humiliate her again.
Segismundo de Lariano lowered his voice to a whisper barely distinguishable from the dripping water in the dungeon. His green eyes, luminous even in gloom, sought Lucia's with urgency.
—Listen —he said, gripping the iron bars— When they take you to trial, say the amulet is merely a family relic. Something inherited, without meaning. In Rome, many noble houses keep pagan objects for historical value, not faith. Swear ignorance of its symbolism, and I can ensure your return to your father.
Lucia didn't flinch. The pit's cold seemed to seep into her voice:
—Lying isn't very Christian, monk. Nor very pagan.
A bitter smile crossed her face. Pressing a hand to her chest—where Ceres' amulet once lay—she added:
—I believed in my mother's and grandmother's goddess before today. Now more than ever. For I've seen the cruelty of your Roman god.
Segismundo paled. Not at the reproach, but at understanding no holy argument would bend that will. Lucia would choose fire over betraying what she was.
—Then... —he swallowed— what will you do?
She straightened, and in her brown eyes burned something beyond fear—defiance:
—What I've always done: remind them this land was ours before their gods came with swords.
Outside, guards' footsteps echoed in the corridor. Segismundo retreated—not to flee. With a swift motion, he dropped a cloth-wrapped parcel between the bars. Inside gleamed a shard of sharp flint.
—To cut ropes —he murmured— Or throats.
And for the first time, Lucia smiled.
—Some say the good gods of antiquity were truly God's angels —murmured Segismundo as if confessing forbidden knowledge, his torchlit green eyes urgent yet pained— teaching kindness to human hearts. This trial is beyond irregular... but Lord Darío has inflamed the guard captain past reason. I've lost all authority over them.
Lucia kept staring, shackled hands forming fists.
—Keep that dignity when Darío summons you —he whispered lower— Any deviation or weakness... from what I've heard, may prove dangerous.
She smirked bitterly.
—Just another wolf.
Segismundo inhaled deeply, then declared with newfound resolve:
—I ride for Rome. My kin will ensure Darío's tyranny doesn't further stain our faith's honor.
—Your faith? —Lucia's gaze turned blade-sharp.
But Segismundo held her stare, bearing guilt like a mantle. And for the first time, Lucia felt something unexpected—peace. A cold clarity:
Had he been the high priest instead, none of this would've happened.
He might have advanced Roman religion by decades, not regressed it through Darío's brutality.
As Segismundo finally left—not as the coward she'd thought, but a man choosing sides—Lucia clutched that realization like a weapon.
For wolves always fall.
Darío de Frascati concluded his flagellation rite with a final lash that finally quelled his lust's fire. Wiping away blood, he bathed in icy water and donned coarse gray wool. He dreamed of cardinal red, bishop's purple, someday papal white—but today held only a rebellious prisoner.
When guards dragged Lucia Hernica before him, Darío found the whip's work insufficient. Though gaunt from imprisonment, her beauty remained sublime—a provocation. Chestnut hair still luminous, earth-dark eyes brimming with contempt that excited him. His hand twitched toward her, but he restrained himself.
—You're noble-born —he feigned solemnity— Mercy awaits if you burn this idol —he displayed Ceres' necklace— kiss the cross, and take holy vows.
Lucia didn't blink.
—My father will geld you for this.
Darío laughed, though it pulled his fresh scars.
—As high priest, I stand above temporal lords.
—My father is no lord —she spat— He leads by the people's choice.
Darío tilted his head, savoring the moment.
—Leader now, yes. Like his father, and his father's father... no?
Lucia's lowered gaze confirmed it. Marco Hernico Caese was no mere mayor—his family had ruled these mountains for generations. His lands, influence, and loyal men made him a lord in all but name. A threat.
—The Pope must control men like your father —Darío stroked the necklace— Rome tolerates no petty kings at her borders.
Lucia raised her chin.
—Rome rules here no longer.
Darío smiled.
—We'll see.
As guards hauled her away, he whispered:
—Pray your father chooses obedience... or you'll burn as the witch you're not.
Adjusting his tunic, Darío felt lust return—hotter than ever.
The game had just begun.
The moon hung like a silver scar between clouds as Segismundo de Lariano slipped from the papal villa. His dark cassock merged with shadows, though every gravel crunch made him tense. The stone walls seemed to lean like accusers.
Through the village's maze of narrow alleys and thatched roofs, he moved like a shadow. Once, a guard passed so close Segismundo felt torch heat on his face—but the drunken man dragged his spear like a cane, humming.
"Darío distrusts me, but not all know it." The rumor of the priest flogging his own acolytes for "weakness" had sown discord. None wished to fall from favor next.
The bay stallion he chose was sturdy, its tangled mane framing calm eyes. Segismundo cut its ties and mounted bareback just as a sentry turned.
—Halt! —The man's shout faltered upon recognizing the noble monk.
Segismundo spurred the horse into a gallop as chaos erupted behind him.
—Why didn't you stop him? —The captain struck the sentry.
—'Tis Lord Segismundo! —the soldier stammered— If the priest wants him arrested, let him say so plainly...
The captain cursed. In this critical hour, with the village near revolt, hunting a holy man would seem madness—or worse, heresy.
As Segismundo vanished into night, guards exchanged glances. Some crossed themselves. Others spat.
None pursued.
Riding toward Rome, the icy wind scrubbed guilt from his face.
Men's faith was fragile... and he'd just shattered Darío's.
The path narrowed into a mountain cleft, its rock walls sheathed in marble-hard snow. Segismundo urged his horse onward, the beast's breath frosting the gelid air. Behind lay the village's chaos; ahead, only the peaks' hostile silence.
Emerging from the pass, he entered a forest of frost-laden pines—when an arrow's hiss sliced the air.
The projectile struck snow a hand's breadth from the bay's hooves. The horse reared as gray-cloaked figures materialized like ghosts, their double-curved rune-carved bows glinting.
Their leader—a feline-eyed man with a dark braid—spoke first in flawless yet guttural Latin:
—Why flee, Father?
Segismundo recognized Cayo Ulfangar, the eastern hunter who'd left days prior with Marco Hernico Caese's party. His presence here meant one thing: the mayor was near.
—My superior's madness —Segismundo kept his hands raised— has pushed the village toward revolt. He burned the mayor's vassal, tortures his favorite daughter, and imposed martial law. If Marco comes armed, they'll slaughter him—unarmed, they'll imprison him.
Cayo's steel-gray eyes narrowed.
—Do you ride to join them?
—To Rome —Segismundo urged— My uncle, the Ostrogoth King of Italy, retains Senate influence. Only he can stop this. Darío's no longer human! A demon speaks through him!
Shadow crossed Cayo's face. He'd seen bloodstained altars in the Black Lands—known corrupted masters.
At his signal, bows lowered.
—The mayor and Septimio are half a league south —he pointed— Tell them what you've told me. Quickly.
As Segismundo galloped away, Cayo's final warning pursued him:
—Lie to me, monk... my next arrow won't miss.
The forest swallowed hunter and shadows alike. Segismundo didn't look back.
The battle for the village had begun.