Florence, midnight
The city had fallen silent.
Not the silence of sleep—but of waiting. A hush settled over the stone facades and tiled roofs of Florence, as though even the wind dared not breathe too loudly. The moon hung full and low, casting a pale shimmer over the Arno, and in the eastern courtyard of the Palazzo Rosso, Esmé stood beside Luca, heart thundering.
"You said the Council wanted me gone," she said softly. "Why would they allow me to see them now?"
"They didn't," Luca replied. "I'm invoking an old right—Testamentum Sanguinis. It permits one of our kind to bring a witness into the Circle, under protection."
"Witness to what?"
"To everything," he said.
Then, without further warning, he led her across the courtyard to the far side, where an ancient fountain trickled faintly. Its basin was cracked, the lion's mouth dry. The statue at its center was headless—worn by time and rain.
Luca placed one hand against the lion's jaw. A pulse of red shimmered along the stone.
The water stopped.
And the basin sank.
Esmé gasped as a narrow stairway spiraled downward beneath the city, lit only by flickering runes etched into the walls.
"Welcome," he said, "to the true Florence."
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The descent took minutes.
Maybe longer.
The steps were steep, worn smooth in the middle, and the air grew colder with each level. Esmé held the bone charm beneath her blouse, fingers tracing its edge. The silence around her grew deeper—not empty, but full of something old. Something listening.
At the base of the stairs, a vaulted tunnel stretched forward. The walls were lined with stone coffers, inscribed in Latin, Etruscan, and even stranger scripts she didn't recognize.
"I thought vampires hated being underground," she murmured.
"We don't," Luca said. "We remember what the world tries to forget."
————————————————————
The chamber opened wide.
A cathedral—buried beneath the living city.
Pillars stretched toward a ceiling lost in shadow. Stained glass windows, long removed from sunlight, glowed faintly from within—as if lit by memory. A circular table of black marble stood in the center of the room, surrounded by high-backed chairs carved from obsidian.
And seated in those chairs were figures who did not look like nobles.
Nor men.
They were too still. Too pale. Their eyes too quiet.
They turned as one when Luca entered.
And then—when Esmé stepped into the light—they rose.
She is mortal.
The voice wasn't spoken aloud.
It was felt—pressed into her mind like cold fingers.
She is not ours.
"She is mine to bring," Luca said aloud. "By the rite of Testamentum Sanguinis."
The rite is ancient. But this— one of the councilors rose, a tall woman with silver hair and glowing eyes, —is dangerous. She is Veilborn.
Esmé tried to keep her chin high, though her knees trembled. "You act as though that's a curse."
Another voice answered—male, rough.
It is a memory. And memories are sharp things.
Luca stepped forward. "You told me to watch. I watched. You told me to observe. I did. But now I bring proof. The Veil is thinning. The Crimson Faith walks our streets. And she—" he glanced at Esmé, "—is their target."
Then kill her, came a third voice. End the danger.
"No," Luca said.
Silence.
Not refusal.
But tension.
Esmé took a breath. "I didn't ask to be part of this."
The Council turned toward her again.
She swallowed.
"But I won't run from it, either."
A few murmurs—mental, indistinct—echoed like ripples in a still pool.
Then the silver-haired woman stepped down from the dais.
She moved like water—gliding, graceful, unblinking.
She stopped just before Esmé.
Her voice came softly now, almost kind. "Do you know what your blood carries, child?"
"No," Esmé replied honestly. "Only that it sees what others cannot."
"More than that." The woman reached up, fingers hovering just before Esmé's chest. "Your ancestors were the last to hold back the dark when the stars forgot us. They bled for it. And now their fire runs in you."
Esmé held her gaze. "Then I'll use it. If I can."
The woman smiled faintly. "Brave. Or foolish. But perhaps both are what we need."
———————————————————
She turned to the Council. "Let her remain. Let her see what comes. If the Veil shatters… she may be the last light we have."
The rest of the meeting blurred.
Talk of threats. Symbols. Old treaties.
A name: Valtheran. Whispers said he had returned. Leader of the Crimson Faith. Exiled. Feared.
He seeks the Heart Below.
Esmé didn't know what that meant—but the way Luca stilled told her enough.
They were afraid.
Not of her.
Not even of war.
But of awakening something that should never wake again.
———————————————————
Afterward, Luca led her from the chamber through a second tunnel.
She didn't speak until they surfaced into the cool air of the Palazzo's northern garden, the moon now overhead.
"I wasn't ready," she whispered.
"No one ever is," he replied. "But you didn't run."
"I wanted to."
"I know."
They stopped beneath a cypress tree.
Esmé turned to him. "What is the Heart Below?"
He didn't answer right away.
Then: "A myth. A relic. A buried truth. It's said that beneath Florence lies an altar older than language. A place where the first pact was made. The first blood offered. If Valtheran finds it, he can tear the veil apart."
"And you?"
"I was sent to guard it."
He looked at her then—not as a vampire, not as a Council envoy.
But as a man.
Tired.
Haunted.
Hopeful.
And for the first time, she reached out—not in fear or defiance, but choice.
Their fingers met.
Not quite a vow.
But something that felt very close.