Florence, two days later
The air in the Palazzo Rosso's garden shimmered with a heat that did not come from the sun.
Esmé stood barefoot on a circular mosaic of broken marble and red tile, sweat clinging to her brow as she stared down the flickering pattern etched in chalk and blood at her feet. Her breath was steady. Her thoughts were not.
Feel the silence, said the voice beside her. Then tear through it.
She turned her head slightly. Livia di Rosso, wrapped in a crimson robe, moved around the perimeter of the circle like a predator with purpose. Her bare feet made no sound, her expression unreadable.
"I'm not sure I feel anything," Esmé admitted.
"You do," Livia said calmly. "You're just listening like a mortal. Try again."
Esmé closed her eyes and focused.
Stillness. Wind. A heartbeat—her own. The faint rustle of leaves.
Then—beneath that—a second rhythm. Slower. Older. Something humming just below the surface of the world.
She inhaled sharply.
"There," Livia murmured. "The Veil. It's always there. You were born with the ability to sense it. But sensing isn't enough. You must learn to command it."
"Command it how?"
Livia stepped forward and placed a small iron dagger into Esmé's hand.
"With blood."
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Later that evening, Esmé sat on a bench beneath a tree, her palm wrapped in a clean bandage. A single drop had been all it took.
A single drop of blood, pressed into the chalk line—and the symbol had burned, glowing like glass fresh from the forge. The Veil had responded. It had seen her.
But it had also recoiled.
"I think it hated me," she said softly.
"You're a new voice," Luca replied, seated beside her. "Old things fear what they don't understand."
"You mean like your sister?"
Luca smirked faintly. "Livia respects power. She just doesn't like sharing it."
Esmé turned to him, her voice low. "And you? Do you respect what I am?"
He met her gaze. "I fear it. Which is the truest form of respect."
That surprised her.
He continued, "I've seen magic twist those it touches. I've seen fire consume minds faster than fangs ever could. You're treading the edge of something ancient."
"Then help me walk it."
That silenced him.
Not because he doubted her, but because, for the first time, she wasn't asking.
She was choosing.
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Her training deepened over the following days.
She learned to read runes written in blood and bone. To draw light from fire. To shield her mind from illusions. Livia taught her focus. Anselmo, brought in secretly, helped with translation and history. Even Fiora—once skeptical—began helping in quiet ways, bringing herbs and ink, messages from sympathetic allies in the city.
Florence grew more dangerous as the Solstice neared. Disappearances increased. Citizens whispered of figures seen in mirrors. Children spoke of voices in fountains. The Crimson Faith was no longer hiding.
And still, Esmé trained.
Her magic did not roar like fire. It pulsed—quiet and precise. It sharpened her thoughts. Strengthened her will.
She began to see through glamour not only in others, but in places—realizing which walls weren't really stone, which shadows were masks.
————————————————————
One night, during a meditation beneath the full moon, something changed.
She closed her eyes and reached into the Veil. Instead of just sensing it—she entered it.
And suddenly she wasn't in Florence.
She was in a corridor of silver mist, stars spinning overhead, her body weightless, her heart still. At the center of the space stood a mirror made of water, and in it she saw:
—A burning cathedral.
—A throne of bone.
—Luca, standing alone in ash.
She gasped and collapsed backward.
Luca caught her before she hit the ground.
"Easy," he said, voice soft but urgent.
"I saw something," she whispered. "The future. Or… the end."
He held her close, hands steady against her back.
"The Veil speaks in riddles," he said. "But it never lies."
She met his eyes. "Then we don't have much time."