The alarm blares, its sound merging with my fading dream as I open my eyes, the smell of my own sweat creeping into my nose.

  My dog is cuddled up next to me.

  As I look at him, I feel a deep warmth for life.

  As I pet my dog—Connor—I catch the aroma of pancakes seeping through the air.

  I roll over to turn off the alarm, falling out of bed.

  I lay there for a second as my dog sniffs my face and gives me one good lick.

  I giggle from the tickle.

  “Okay, okay, Connor. I’ll get up.”

  The bathroom is dimly lit—lavender-painted walls, ivory curtains.

  Steam from the hot shower creeps across the mirror, hiding the demon staring back at me.

  Her curly black wolf cut hangs low, shrouding crimson eyes and olive skin.

  “There I am,” I think to myself.

  Every day, I stare into the mirror—not out of admiration, but to distract myself from the thought of being hideous.

  It’s not that I’m ugly, but... I just forget.

  Why do I kid myself?

  I enter the dining room of the estate.

  I feel the vast expanse between me and my father.

  My heart sinks at my mother’s empty chair.

  I glance at my younger brother, Antonio.

  He looks up at me, bright-eyed.

  “Chiara, how are you this morning?”

  I smile softly, ruffling his jet-black hair.

  “Good.”

  “Good morning, daughter.”

  My heart flinches at the word.

  Daughter.

  Cold. Distant. Impartial.

  Yet suffocating.

  “Have a good day at school. Remember, you have your initiation into the Order… tonight.”

  He slides money across the table.

  “Here’s some money for lunch. You forgot to do the dishes last night. Take out the trash. And your room needs to be cleaned by the end of the week.”

  He pauses, almost playfully.

  “And if you do meet anyone interesting, be sure to bring them over.”

  He smiles softly.

  I force a hollow smile.

  “Yes, Father.”

  I stood at the bus stop.

  The humid air suffocated me as a light drizzle patterned the pavement.

  Something in it stirred the stillness of my heart.

  The Past Should Stay Dead played through my headphones.

  And within it… I found a voice.

  A voice the expectations of my father had denied me.

  I’m shaken out of my trance by a soft tap on my shoulder.

  I turn around and find a boy.

  He looks stunned—like the sight of me has frozen something inside him.

  His eyes cradle my face, wide and sunken, searching.

  He pauses before speaking.

  “I just had to say... Your voice is beautiful.

  A pensive smile hung in his face

  I freeze like a deer in headlights when met with his bronze skin, his auburn, almost Asiatic eyes narrowing into a squint.

  His voice is measured and steady—but not impassive.

  “I’m Kahlil.”

  “I’m Chiara,” I respond, a little thrown.

  “Are you Italian?” he asks.

  “What a weird question,” I say, my face scrunching into a soft smile.

  “Yeah, I’m Italian.”

  “Do you like pizza?”

  “Occasionally.”

  “I learned that Italians like pizza,” he states, a grin stretching across his face.

  “You’re… not one of those people who think race determines personality, are you?”

  “I am, actually,” he says—dead serious.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “Well, if that’s the case—what are you?”

  “Persian,” he says bluntly.

  “Sooo… what does being Italian mean, then?”

  He shrugs. “In my eyes, they’re the only really civilized ones among whites. They’ve got a kind of nobility—an aristocratic air.”

  He follows it with a smug smile.

  I look at him for a second, then grin.

  “Just wait till the ravens come knocking on your window. Let’s see how long you can keep this up.”

  I giggle uncontrollably.

  He smiles softly—

  but then he sees the Latin runes stretched across my body under my clothes, peeking from beneath my shirt.

  His gaze hardens.

  “Your tattoos… I lied about the reason I approached you. It wasn’t just because of your voice.”

  “I don’t know how else to say this… but I know what you are.”

  My gaze sharpens.

  “And what is that?”

  “You’re a vampire.”

  Silence hangs in the air.

  “And you chose to talk to me anyway?”

  “Yes… yes, I did.”

  “It’s only fair. I come from a long lineage of sultans, priests… and scholars.

  I wanted to know what you know—and maybe I can teach you what I know.”

  He pauses.

  “And also… you’re pretty. Like, very pretty.

  And funny—

  which I never thought I’d use to describe a vampire.”

  A mischievous grin stretches across his face.

  The engine of the bus fades into my senses as I stand there, dumbstruck.

  “You’re sitting next to me on the bus.

  You’re sitting with me at lunch.

  And you’re meeting me after school.”

  He blinks.

  “Were you supposed to say that out loud?”

  He gestures toward the bus door.

  “After you.”

  Later that day, I’d been waiting for the lunch bell.

  All I could think about was… him.

  The bell rings. My heart skips a beat.

  I’m walking through the cafeteria with my tray when I see a crowd gathered.

  I hear a girl berating someone.

  “You piece of shit. This is why your sister killed herself. Why your father ran off.

  You piece of shit. I hate you. Look at him—how could you not hate him? He’s pathetic.”

  The girls around her laugh.

  Kahlil clenches his fists. His jaw tightens As he stands in the crowd before the girl

  That—I cannot stand.

  I dump the food off my tray. The cold metal rests in my grip as I storm toward the girl.

  I tap her on the shoulder.

  She turns.

  “And what do you want, bitch?”

  “Blood,” I reply.

  Before she can respond, I feel the tray collide with the side of her head.

  I toss it aside and start pummeling her until I’m dragged off.

  As they pull me away, I smile softly—looking at Kahlil.

  And he smiles softly, in appreciation.

  “Father… I’m sorry. I didn’t want to shame you. I never wanted to shame you,” I say, avoiding his gaze.

  He sits in silence, contemplating.

  “Well,” he begins, “we can’t understand ‘what’ without ‘why.’ So I’m asking you—why?”

  “This girl was bullying my friend.”

  “Friendship requires faith in the other person’s judgment—even if you don’t understand it. Even if you can’t see it.

  You should assume, on the basis of the relationship, that they would not implicate you any more than they had to.

  I trust that you would not shame me any more than you had to… to restore dignity wrongly taken.

  And if it’s right… is there really any shame?”

  I’m shocked as my father pulls me close, hugging me.

  I rest my head against his chest and begin sobbing. I hold him tighter and tighter.

  “You need to do this more,” I say, my voice muffled.

  “…I… see your mother’s eyes in you… it’s…”

  The principal invites us into the office, interrupting the moment.

  The drive home is silent. I sit in the front seat beside my father.

  “I’d like to meet the young man who caused you to go through such great lengths to defend his sovereignty,” he says.

  “Reminds me of Penelope from The Odyssey… except, well—”

  (He glances at me, and I glance at my bloody knuckles.)

  “—you.”

  We drove past the bus stop. I see Kahlil waiting.

  “Stop the car. Please—stop the car.”

  I step out, looking him up and down.

  “Well, are you gonna stand there like a lost puppy, or are you gonna get in?”

  He smiles softly.

  My father glances at me. “Not bad,” he murmurs.

  I punch him softly on the shoulder. He chuckles.

  Kahlil gets in the back seat. His eyes scan the car—wide.

  “Holy shit… this is a Jaguar.”

  He pauses, glancing at me.

  “If you’ve got money like that… why are you taking the bus? Why are you even going to public school?”

  “Sorry. That was rude of me,” he adds quickly.

  My father responds, calm and thoughtful.

  “I feared that growing up in a private school would negatively impact her development—as it did mine.”

  He keeps his eyes on the road.

  “In my younger years, I carried an arrogance… an entitlement. It robbed me of the chance to experience genuine human connection throughout most of my life. And eventually, it cost the life of Chiara’s mother.”

  I turn to him, voice quiet.

  “Father… I never knew you thought about me that deeply.”

  He doesn’t respond immediately. He just smiles softly, still looking ahead.

  But I see it—the way he’s turning my words over in his mind.

  Processing them.

  “So what about you?”

  Khalil hestites

  “Your persian so i assume your muslim”

  “We found our grounding once again—after centuries of persecution—in 1800s New York,” he continues.

  “By blood, I am that. But for the most part, I’m American through and through.

  My family hates that I see things that way... but they still love me.”

  He chuckles, clearly picturing them in his head.

  “I’ve got family in New York… we don’t really get along,” I sigh.

  “Let me think,” he replies. “Italian. Lots of money. Old money, in fact. And New York. What could it possibly be?”

  “Well, if you were going to say anything other than mafia, I would’ve kicked you out of the car,” I say, my facial muscles twitching into an uncontrollable smirk.

  “What for?”

  “Because I hate stupid people.”

  “You would’ve come back.”

  “Yeah.”

  My father breaks the tension with a whistle and an uncertain expression, pursing his lips.

  “We’re here,” he says.

  “You… weren’t kidding. You really are from an ancient bloodline that predates the fall of Rome,” Kahlil mutters, his face pale as he looks at the estate.

  “Who would’ve thought—smack dab in San Francisco, California.”

  We sit across from my father as he stands before us—the ivory curtains behind him contrasting with the wooden floor and magenta rug, the hearth flickering gently behind.

  “I guess it’s time we had that conversation, Chiara,” he says.

  Then he looks to Kahlil.

  “I expect you to be a responsible man—and that includes her heart. Even if you two are only friends… or more, if she allows it.”

  He turns to me.

  “I don’t believe in fighting the inevitable. So I will not deny you your womanhood—and that includes completing a missing part of yourself, one you’ll only be able to see through a man’s eyes.”

  Back to Kahlil.

  “That being said, Kahlil—if you hurt her, there will be consequences. That’s all. Now, enjoy the estate. I’m sure my daughter has shown you her... video games.”

  “Father!” I shout, flustered.

  He chuckles, then adds more softly:

  “I just had to make sure my daughter was being responsible with herself. That she was honoring her heart... and presenting herself in a truthful manner.”

  He pauses, then speaks as if sealing something sacred:

  “Never, ever be embarrassed or ashamed of who you are—what you represent. Be yourself, and the world will separate itself accordingly.”

  Kahlil swallows, shifting in his seat.

  “Is this… how families are supposed to operate? Are fathers just supposed to hand their daughters over?” he asks, spooked, his foot tapping nervously.

  My father doesn’t flinch.

  “I don’t want to,” he says. “But if I kicked you out or threatened you... I’d rob my daughter of her agency.”

  And my late wife would haunt me.

  He nods toward a faded text mounted above the hearth.

  “Sis cor eius, et ipse erit fortitudo tua. Ubi duo in altero refugium invenerint, ibi invenitur amor aeternus — non carnis, sed spiritus.”

  “What does it say?” Kahlil asks.

  My father answers without looking away from the fire.

  “Be his heart, and he will be your strength. Where the two find refuge in one another, there is a love eternal—not of the body, but of the spirit.”

  He begins to leave.

  Kahlil panics.

  “You’re not actually about to leave us here—

  I have somewhere to be. I left something important because my daughter broke the rules to restore your honor.

  I’m guessing you approached her first. So honor her. Honor her heart.”

  The room grows hotter as my father closes the door.

  I sit there in silence.

  Kahlil looks dumbfounded.

  I sneak glances at him.

  My stomach curls in on itself.

  “Come on, Kahlil… be a fucking man,” he whispers to himself.

  Then he grabs me—pulls me in tight.

  And where our bodies meet, there is relief.

  For once, I truly understand that I am loved.

  I am cared for.

  I am beautiful.

  I am desired.

  I am cherished.

  And for once, I don’t question it.

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  I am worthy of myself.

  We lay in my bed, in my room—him cradling me in his arms.

  He’s my whole world, reflected in those auburn eyes, hooded behind his squinted gaze.

  He smiles.

  “What’s up, Chi Chi?”

  I scrunch up my face in a smile. “Is this what we’re doing now?” I headbutt him lightly.

  “How... how do you feel?” I ask.

  “I can’t explain it in words,” he says. “One sec.”

  He grabs his jeans from the side of the bed and pulls out an iPod with headphones.

  “Don’t think. Don’t question. Just listen.”

  I close my eyes.

  My heart flutters.

  “What’s the name of the song?” I ask.

  “‘Best Friend’ by 50 Cent.”

  I pinch his nose. “You are not about that life.”

  “Oh, me?” He points to himself. “I’m a critter. I come from the gutters of Compton.”

  I blush at his corniness as a smile works its way across my face.

  But then his expression fades to melancholy.

  “I don’t want this to ever end… and it won’t for me. I’m human. But you’ll outlive me. And you’ll never know the joy of heaven. You’re forever married to the Earth.”

  I giggle.

  “That’s a misunderstanding. But if you wanted another round, that’s all you had to say.”

  “No, no—I do. But… no.”

  “I want to know what you are.”

  “A vampire, duh.”

  “But what exactly is a vampire?”

  “Well, do you want an answer—or do you already have one?”

  “I want an answer.”

  “Then an answer you’ll get. But you have to be silent... and just listen.”

  “But before that—” I lower my head down to his waist. I see his face relax.

  I wake up to the smell of blood. It jolts me into full alert.

  Kahlil stirs beside me.

  “What’s wrong? It’s dinner time.”

  “Shit,” he mutters. “My mom’s gonna kill me.”

  “I’ll drive you home.”

  “You had a car this whole time?”

  “It’s my mother’s. But I don’t like using it. It... hurts to sit in it.”

  He exhales. “Guess I’m spending the night.”

  “You never had a choice, Kahlil,” I sneer.

  “I can’t go anymore. So… what do you want to do?”

  “Well, you said you’d tell me what vampires were an hour ago.”

  “Well... long ago, on the brink of the Roman Empire’s collapse, we prophesied—drawing from the Tower of Babel and the Various texts—that something was coming. A psychological boiling point. A moment when our social frameworks would outpace our evolutionary capacity. The tool would outgrow the user.”

  Kahlil lies there, processing.

  He nods.

  “So we gathered the greatest seers and shamans. They sang, they danced, and they interlocked their wills with the Divine Logos—to trap one of its aspects in superposition.”

  “They slayed this creature. Extracted its DNA and Used alchemy to graft it onto a virus. They used the virus to alter the DNA of an aristocratic family—noble in character, wise in study, proven in practice. That was the first generation.”

  “But even then… they couldn’t channel enough. Understand enough. Contain enough of the Divine to fight what you call angels—what we understand to be demons.”

  “Around the 1700s, we were chased out of Europe. Our family was hunted.”

  “What did you do that was so bad they had to persecute you?”

  “We’ve had our hands in a lot of things, historically. We helped Isaac Newton with his physics. Helped Nikola Tesla. Helped Einstein.

  We’ve always been there.

  But the fire that once burned with our family’s noble character? It’s dimmed in recent times. My father and I were exiled from the clan—or dynasty, if you want to call it that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because we contested them. And now we’re in San Francisco... working with the Knights Templar. Or what’s left of them.”

  I kiss him.

  “Tonight’s the last night I get to be normal. The last day my life is my own.”

  “So what’s with all the myths of vampires drinking blood?”

  “Because we do, silly.”

  “Have you ever killed a human?”

  “No. I haven’t.”

  “But we have. In the past. When there was nothing else to eat.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you killed all the animals we would’ve gotten blood from.

  And then we we’re punished... for surviving.”

  “You’re nobility… typically, nobility protects us commoners from something,” he says teasingly.

  “There is something,” I reply.

  I pause for a second.

  “Three hundred and seventy-six years ago, there was an eclipse in Spain—where my family resided at the time, or at least our branch of the family.

  Where the Lord’s benevolent gaze fell upon the earth, no demon could walk... lest they face His wrath, swiftly and justly.”

  “Where the night coalesced with the day, and the divine divorced itself from the earth... unspeakable horrors emerged from the sea, from the abyss where mankind’s nightmares are born into flesh.”

  I feel my breathing grow shallow. My hands begin to shake.

  “The devil is coming... for all of us.”

  “You don’t understand the hatred in his heart for you—humans.

  There is no bargain. No negotiation to be made.”

  “So many people are going to die,” I whimper.

  “I have to meet my family.”

  “I can help,” Kahlil says, firm and certain.

  “My family remembers that event. I was told stories... but I never believed them.

  I pale in comparison to the Magi of old, but I’m no slouch. Just comes with the era.”

  “What can you do?”

  “A lot of things. I can call upon spirits that allow me to interface with the astral plane—through song.”

  “Why song?”

  “It’s the language of resonance.”

  He sings a tune in Arabic—a language I’ve always found beautiful.

  Suddenly, I begin to hyperventilate—as if something is being forced out of me.

  It burns me from the inside out.

  Then I hear a whisper from a part of me that isn’t me:

  “Please stop.”

  But he’s in a trance.

  I hear humming. The air begins to vibrate.

  My mind collapses in on itself as trumpets sound in my chest.

  I feel there is no room for me in the world he’s about to expose me to.

  I reflexively cover his mouth—just as a ball of fire erupts above my bed.

  “Al-Nār al-Muqaddasah,” he whispers.

  “Holy flame.”

  I feel something writhing inside me. But I ignore it.

  A voice—primal and instinctual—is uttered from my lips:

  “Sophia… your warmth will burn me.”

  “What about you?” he asks.

  “Well, you know... the obvious things—hypnosis, strength, and enhanced cognition. But I can use magic.”

  “Can you now?”

  “I can’t invoke the literal flame of God...

  But all laws married to the earth—I can control, to an extent.”

  “I’ll teach you to wield the flame.”

  “I’m not worthy. I can’t.”

  “My family... they’ve long abandoned their post. They just hoard their knowledge,” he says, his brow furrowed.

  “We’re supposed to be holy men—and yet we’ve given men nothing.

  But your family... gave them everything. And still continues to give.”

  He takes a breath.

  “And I see your entire legacy echoed in your speech, your compassion—even your fury.

  You’re good people.”

  “Well...” I smirk, “I guess we should get dressed.

  It was dinner time an hour ago, and it smells like sweat in here.”

  I stand beside my father before representatives from the Knights Templar and the Freemasons.

  Old money. Old blood. Old wisdom stands before me—all of which I possess.

  But today, I will be judged.

  I stare at the floor, illuminated by torches.

  The figures ask in unison:

  “Which path will you walk: the Prophet, the General, or the Warrior?”

  I mull it over, inhaling the scent of burning wood.

  My breath echoes across the vast expanse of the chamber.

  “You mean to ask under whom I wish to train?”

  I think of the obsession with knowledge I had as a child.

  To me, the answer is obvious.

  I meet their gaze—cold, unmoving, impartial.

  My life and legacy are being weighed on a scale.

  “Then,” I say, “these are not equal in weight to each other.

  What is a general without the prophet’s vision to guide him?

  What is a warrior without the general’s vision to direct him?

  Yet, from the bottom up—the general cannot exist where there is no warrior.

  And the prophet cannot exist without a boundary that carves out a history for a people.”

  One of them smiles—faintly, but enough for me to register it.

  They remain silent.

  “What is the higher virtue?” they ask. “Mercy or justice?”

  I pause. I run calculations in my head—but they just confuse me.

  So I decide to speak from the heart.

  “Justice says: ‘This is mine. You cannot have it. Give it back.’

  If we really practice what we preach, we are modern men.

  And modern man believes everyone is entitled, by birthright, to dignity.

  Like all things, it’s a finite resource.

  Dignity is a social construct—yes.

  But all social constructs are derived from functionality.

  And since there are only so many people to appraise—

  and only so many people who can praise—

  it becomes a finite resource.

  We think there is only so much dignity to go around.

  And this…

  this is how you rob a man of his dignity:

  You make others think less of him—

  and through that, he thinks less of himself.

  And from this, we derive… justice.”

  I take a breath.

  “But we can also choose otherwise.

  We can choose to give up dignity—

  to give up territory we have every right to claim.

  This is what we call grace… or mercy.”

  I lower my head slightly.

  “But if you ask me what I personally value...

  It’s mercy.

  But I also understand—there’s very little room in this world for it.”

  They remain silent as the scribes record my words.

  A moment passes.

  Then a voice cuts through the stillness:

  “Recite Verse 3 from Book 2 of the Sacred Text.”

  I parse through my memory—then recite:

  “Time, by which we measure movement, is the source of divinity in the human spirit.

  The understanding of continuity allows me to lift myself out of the physical hell that results from a mind confined to the present moment.

  It allows me to imagine tomorrow and yesterday—for better or worse.

  It allows me to have compassion for those I have not felt with my eyes.

  O Father, O Mother, forever in an eternal dance of chaos and order—

  and I, trapped in your belly between you two…”

  “Time, by which we measure movement, is the source of divinity in the human spirit.

  The understanding of continuity allows me to lift myself out of the physical hell that results from a mind confined to the present moment.

  It allows me to imagine tomorrow and yesterday—for better or worse.

  It allows me to have compassion for those I have not felt with my eyes.

  O Father, O Mother, forever in an eternal dance of chaos and order—

  and I, trapped in your belly between you two…”

  “As above, so below. So within, so without.”

  Silence echoes throughout the chamber as the scribes record my words once more.

  “Chiara D’Alessi,” one of the elders speaks.

  “Six years ago, you were told of this day. For six years, you were tasked with cultivating knowledge to bring to this Order.

  What fruit have you borne?”

  I inhale slowly.

  Then I begin.

  “From the moment there was a spoken word,” I say, voice steady,

  “man declared war against his mother, Nature—tearing down her forests, uprooting her gardens, and ripping mountains and stone from the earth in an attempt to make her in his image.

  And now that he has conquered Nature, his hubris declares war against his father, the Spirit.”

  I glance up at them—just briefly.

  “All in the name of Progress—a mistress who cares for no one except the one married to her last.

  And many men have conjoined themselves with such a mistress.

  He constructs abominations to pacify himself—

  to reduce himself to the state of an infant with drugs like opium and hashish.

  And now that he has conquered his father, he sets his aim on himself.”

  A flicker of surprise moves through the chamber, but no one interrupts.

  “Man creates cradles of stability to protect himself from his mother’s whims.

  Through his understanding of continuity, he’s able to develop a sense of permanence in relation to his environment.”

  I begin pacing slowly, my tone deepening.

  “This is the will of man: to maintain continuity—or rather, to establish boundaries.

  This is that. I am me. He is him. That animal is different from me.

  Because of this, he can create structures across time.”

  I stop walking. Then look up again.

  “But man betrays himself when he indulges in instant gratification.

  This is why it is seen as the ultimate vice—because it contradicts the very foundation upon which man realizes his will to power, to dominance over Nature.”

  “Continue,” one of the figures says plainly.

  I nod once and take a breath.

  “I believe there is an objective morality,” I say. “But rationality has suppressed it.”

  I look down, collecting my thoughts.

  “I ask myself: what is an emotion?

  It is a push or pull toward an object.

  You ask yourself, ‘Is this good for me?’

  But in humans, there’s an inherent erosion of boundaries between themselves.

  We are our group, and they are their group.

  We are our beliefs, and we are what we do—and they are what they do.

  And so we ask: ‘What is good for us?’”

  I notice a few scribes glance up from their parchment.

  “Secondly,” I go on, “the emotional component is often labeled as subjective—but it is, in fact, a product of the pressure of natural selection. A very real phenomenon.”

  My voice rises—not with passion, but with clarity.

  “Emotions are instinctual attractions and repulsions, with subcategories: love, hate, avarice, humility—the list goes on.

  While the emotional component may seem subjective, the realm that precedes it—where everything must answer to functionality as the arbiter—is, by definition, objective.”

  I pause. I make eye contact now.

  “It is removed. Detached. Impartial through its unfairness.

  And in this sense, instinct is subject to Nature.

  And Nature is objective.”

  “All life has a desire to reproduce, to facilitate goodness for itself.

  And emotions arise from this drive—through Nature—as a mechanism of refinement.”

  Then I let the silence stretch.

  “If there is no push and pull, no attraction, the mind is not willed to move the body.

  And an inert body… is a dead one.”

  A Templar leans forward.

  “And what are the implications of this?” he asks.

  I meet his gaze.

  “Does the modern man realize,” I ask, “that by partaking of the Tree of Knowledge—his rationalism, his objectivity—he has suppressed his limbic system…

  and thus the very thing that animates his vessel:

  his emotions, his instincts?”

  I let the words hang.

  “He has committed spiritual suicide.”

  The chamber shifts. The air grows heavier.

  But I’m not done.

  “After spiritually castrating himself, he tries to lay with his women,” I say, “but he is not endowed with the life force she craves.

  Such a tragedy.”

  A sharp breath escapes somewhere in the shadows.

  “And the devil laughs — and I laugh next to him.”

  Still, no one interrupts.

  So I go deeper.

  “He projects his own insecurities onto her nature, mentally masturbating with his theories on sexuality, and attempts to devalue the woman to rectify his soul—

  to escape from what is necessary.”

  I glance at the scribes.

  Even they seem stunned now.

  “They demonize sex.

  Lust.

  And as a result, they walk around as incomplete men.”

  I take another breath.

  “To be a man is to realize your potential.

  To realize yourself and the world.

  To reign in the chaos and establish order.

  To look at yourself—and love yourself—through the woman, within and without.”

  I raise my voice slightly.

  “The women without you become the women within you.”

  “In other words: to desire an image of yourself—

  and as a result, to move toward that image of the best you.”

  I soften. Just slightly.

  “That is the nature of the feminine: the union of the objects, both concrete and abstract.

  It has many degrees and forms—love, lust, desire, attraction.”

  I speak slower now, as though baring something sacred.

  “Men do not have an inherent attachment to life or to the earth.

  They are married to the Father—the Spirit.

  Therefore, when a man marries me, he is not only marrying himself to me—laying with me—

  but he is conjoining his dopamine circuitry to the Earth itself.

  Thus, he tethers his spirit to the world.”

  I take one final breath.

  “And thus, when I marry a man, I marry myself to God—to Logos—

  thereby tethering my spirit… to God.”

  A pause.

  Then, for the first time, one of them turns to the one beside him—and smiles.

  It breaks a sacred formality.

  “Chiara D’Alessi,” they say in unison,

  “we welcome you to the Order.”

  I begin to rise, but the head Templar lifts a hand to stop me.

  He waves off the scribes.

  “Off the record…” he says, his tone shifting.

  He leans forward, almost in a whisper.

  “Why did you… choose this knowledge? Of all the things in the cosmos?”

  I don’t hesitate.

  My voice softens—vulnerable, but certain.

  “I wanted to know if love was real.”

  I smile—softly.

  He nods once, solemn.

  “Go home. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”

  Then quieter:

  “The eclipse nears.

  It’s unfortunate you’ll face such a burden so early.

  I can only hope you emerge with your spirit intact.”

  There is a hollowness in his voice—like he is mourning me in advance.

  Kahlil looks at me. But he hesitates.

  “I have a question.”

  “Ask it.”

  “If they hadn’t pulled you off that girl… in the cafeteria… would you have stopped?”

  I meet his gaze.

  “No.”

  He flinches.

  I don’t blink.

  “Not unless she repented. Or begged.”

  The silence between us is not empty.

  It’s consecrated.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “How could you…?”

  I look at him.

  “She invoked suicide and lineage abandonment as tools of shame.”

  I look away, the fire in my heart dimming.

  “She corrupted the social order—by striking down the innocent in public.”

  I pause. My voice is low. Clear.

  “She transgressed upon the only thing a man has that makes him sovereign: his spirit.”

  He listens—silent. Reverent.

  “It is one thing,” I say slowly,

  “to take a man’s arm, his leg, his money… even his life.

  But to rob him of his spirit—the only thing he can truly call his own—

  that is a cardinal sin.”

  My voice softens—not for pity, but for gravity.

  “Once the Lord leaves someone… there is no fight left in them.”

  “And without that…”

  “A man is not a man.”

  And for my man …that will never happen

  I kiss him on the forehead.

  “Now... do you want the wired controller or the wireless?”

  He smirks.

  “What’s the game?” he asks.

  I stare him dead in the eyes.

  “Why do you pretend?”

  He blinks. Then chuckles — a little nervous, a little charmed.

  “You must have confused me with another boy. You’re cheating already?”

  “No,” I say, folding my arms. “I’m just irrationally irritated because... for some reason, you think the controller actually makes a difference.”

  An uncontrollable giggle erupts from my mouth — like a glitch in my mask.