A Blade in the Chapel

The man knelt in the middle of the chapel, blindfolded, his lips quivering against the cold marble floor. His hands were bound behind him, and his wrists were raw from struggling. A streak of ash marked his cheek like a warrior’s paint. Candles flickered along the altar in haphazard rows, casting long, dancing shadows that played on the stained glass windows. Above him, the painted Christ seemed to bleed into the heavens, his eyes wide open and watching.

"Forgive me," the man murmured, addressing no one in particular. "Please."

Alessandro Moretti stood next to the altar, his gloved hands clasped behind his back. He wore the same black attire his father always chose for executions. He hadn’t uttered a word. He rarely needed to. In this place, silence felt like a punishment all on its own.

The air was heavy with the scent of incense and decay, the kind that clung to wood that once heard confessions but now only echoed with the dead.

Behind Alessandro, Giovanni sat in the front pew, a figure of quiet authority, dressed in fine wool and darker intentions. He remained silent as well. His mere presence was enough.

"You know what happens to those who steal from us," Alessandro finally spoke, his voice low and steady. "But you didn’t just steal. You sold names. Family names."

"I didn’t mean to," the man gasped, his breath hitching. "It wasn’t supposed to go that far."

Giovanni made a soft sound in his throat, a mix of a sigh and a growl.

Then, a figure emerged from the shadows near the sacristy—the priestess.

She was barefoot, her white robes trailing along the stone, bloodstained at the hem. Her eyes were hooded and rimmed in coal. She didn’t say a word, but everyone felt the atmosphere shift when she entered—like gravity had momentarily changed.

Giovanni stood.

"This one is special," he said, his voice laced with danger. "Not for what he took. But for the day."

Alessandro looked up.

Sunlight streamed through the high stained-glass windows, but so did moonlight, silver and pale, seeping in from a corner the sun couldn’t reach. For a fleeting moment, both celestial bodies shared the same sky.

A perfect omen.

"He’ll mark number ninety-four," Giovanni said, stepping closer to the altar. "Let the deity’s hear it."

The priestess reached into her robes and pulled out a small, curved blade.

The man began to sob.

"No," he pleaded. "Please, I’ll give you the others. I’ll get you more."

Alessandro moved in, kneeling beside the man and carefully removing the blindfold.

The man’s wild, bloodshot eyes locked onto his.

"Please," he whimpered.

Alessandro’s face remained impassive.

Then, with a clean, swift motion, he took the blade from the priestess and drew it across the man’s throat.

The body jerked once, then lay still.

Blood pooled beneath the man’s face, flowing like a lazy river over the marble. The priestess dipped two fingers into the blood and marked a symbol on the dead man’s back a perfect circle sliced by four sharp lines.

The sigil.

Giovanni closed his eyes, as if he could hear something only he could. "They are getting louder."

Later, alone in the chapel, Alessandro knelt where the body had been.

The stone was cold, but not as cold as his father’s silence.

He hadn’t wanted to kill the man. Not out of guilt that had long faded, but because the man reminded him of someone. His voice. His fear. It felt familiar, like nightmares creeping up from places he thought were buried.

"You hesitate more these days."

Alessandro didn’t look up. He recognized that voice.

Giovanni.

"I do as you ask," he replied quietly.

"But you no longer ask why."

"I never did."

Giovanni knelt beside him, like a father might beside a son—if that father had learned love through violence.

"You were born under an eclipse," he said, placing a hand on Alessandro’s shoulder. "Your first breath came in silence. Your mother died so you could live. That was the first offering."

Alessandro stayed silent.

Giovanni’s grip tightened. "You’ve always belonged to me, Alessandro. But the ritual is nearly finished. Only seven remain."

Alessandro looked up, meeting his father’s gaze. “You mean six after tonight’s offering”.

"No," he replied. "There’s one last offering."

At the far end of the estate, the priestess lingered in her candlelit chamber, her hands stained crimson. The ritual bowl at her feet pulsed gently, reminiscent of a heartbeat.

The blood within no longer flowed like a liquid.

It was beginning to stir.

She murmured the ancient words, from a tongue older than any scripture, and the blood began to take shape—first a circle, then the mark of flame.

A name ignited in her mind.

Adrianna.

The final soul.

The daughter of Giovanni Moretti.