The dreamless dark held her like velvet.

  Warm. Weightless. Free of thought.

  But Mary Magdalene woke slowly - dragged upward from unconsciousness by a sound that didn't belong in dreams.

  A gunshot.

  Then another. Close. Too close.

  Her eyes fluttered open. The velvet dream was gone, repced by a haze of gold-filtered sunlight and a faint headache blooming behind her temples.

  She was on her bed. Her quarters. The silence was suffocating. The darkness of the night engulfed her room, the crack of moonlight seeping in providing lukewarm illumination.

  Another shot cracked the air, echoing like a sp against stone.

  Her limbs moved before her mind did. She stumbled to her feet and moved to the window - not out of bravery, but instinct.

  Her fingers parted the heavy curtain. She was afraid of what she might see, of what she feared might have come.

  Outside, in the narrow courtyard below, a line of people -around ten - stood against the outer wall.

  A woman, finely dressed but bleeding from the temple, clutched a child to her chest. Her eyes were wide, terrified, her cheeks streaked with grime and tears.

  A soldier - no crest, just uniform and command - struck her with the butt of his rifle to the back of the head. She crumpled, the child screamed, but she dragged herself back upright, clutching him even tighter.

  More soldiers pushed the group back into line. A man tried to beg. Another woman simply stared ahead, her face sck with defeat.

  One by one, sacks were drawn over their heads.

  The child she held was ripped from her arms, carried away to somehwere unknown. She just watched it, reaching for her child as it left her sight. She cried out, but Mary was unable to hear it.

  Defeated, the woman stood there, staring listelessly into the distance.

  Just before the bag was lowered over her head, the mother looked up.

  Looking directly at Mary.

  Their eyes met through two floors of gss.

  Mary didn't breathe.

  The woman's face wasn't angry. It wasn't pleading.

  It was tired.

  So, so tired.

  Then the bag went down, and Mary dropped to the floor.

  "STEADY!"

  Another voice shouted.

  This time she could hear it.

  "AIM!"

  Mary closed her mouth, tears welling in her eyes as she refused to make a sound. She was shaking.

  "FIRE!"

  Mary clutched her head as the gunshots tore the air apart, their rhythm steady and cold.

  Each shot was a hammer against her skull.

  The silence that followed was worse.

  She didn't know how long she sat like that, crouched against the wall, nails digging into her arms through yers of silk.

  Her mouth was dry. Her chest refused to rise properly.

  She wanted to scream, to vomit, to disappear.

  But she didn't.

  She sat there.

  Cowardly. Still.

  Like always.

  She tried to justify it - her hands were trembling, she was just one person, this wasn't her decision.

  But none of it stuck.

  She had watched a woman die. A mother. With a child.

  And she hadn't moved.

  Not even when the eyes had met hers.

  A wave of nausea rose. She gasped, clutched the edge of the window, barely avoided throwing up.

  Then another face came.

  Damian.

  Bruised. Bleeding. Still trying to smile as he bled on the floor. Eyes stared defiantly against fate.

  You're not okay, she had said.

  He had smiled and said: You should see the other guy.

  And what had she done?

  Cried. Shaken. Healed him while shaking like a pathetic child.

  He'd been the one in chains.

  And she - the one with power - had done nothing but weep.

  What good were her eyes? What good was her bloodline? Her prestige? Her path? Her Nobility.

  Nothing.

  She couldn't save Damian.

  She couldn't save that woman.

  She couldn't save herself.

  Her mind spiraled.

  Thalia...

  Another face she hadn't been able to save. Another person who was innocent, their life taken away from them by now.

  M-maybe theres still time? Time to save Thalia.

  But no matter how Mary tried to get up, to go save her friend, she couldn't. She wouldn't stop shaking, and it felt like her chest would implode at any moment.

  Coward.

  Mary pressed her head against the cold gss of the window, tears leaking down silently.

  Why me? Why am I alive?

  Her eyes burned. Her trembling hands lifted to her throat, fingers curling slowly - hesitantly - then tightening.

  Her thumbs pressed against the sides of her neck. Her sobs turned to gasps, choked and ragged.

  Tears streamed freely as she clutched her throat harder, the pressure closing in like a vice. Her chest convulsed, spasming in uneven rhythm, and bck spots began to cloud the edges of her vision.

  She couldn't breathe.

  Couldn't stop.

  Couldn't think.

  Her fingers dug in deeper, her sobs breaking into strangled whimpers as her body screamed in protest. Every part of her shook.

  And for a moment - just one - she thought it might end here.

  No more eyes. No more bloodline. No more guilt.

  Only-

  A whisper.

  "You're afraid."

  Her eyes snapped wide. Her grip loosened in shock, and she doubled over, coughing harshly as she sucked in ragged breaths.

  No one there.

  Just the wind.

  Then again, soft and intimate, like breath on skin:

  "You don't feel guilt. You feel fear."

  She clutched her head, pressing against her ears.

  "Stop it. Get out."

  But the voice didn't listen.

  "Guilt is for the innocent. You only mourn because you know - deep down - if the bde turned, you'd scream for mercy louder than any of them."

  A sob escaped her lips.

  "You watched that woman die not because you couldn't stop it…"

  The room dimmed.

  "…but because you were more afraid of dying than you were of being a coward."

  "NO-!" she screamed, her nails digging into her scalp.

  "Because you don't want justice."

  The air went cold.

  "You want to survive."

  She colpsed to the floor.

  Hands shaking. Mouth dry.

  Voices now - louder. Overpping. Echoing. Crawling.

  "Selfish."

  "Abomination."

  "False noble."

  "Damian should've let you burn."

  She shrieked and struck her head against the floor, once, twice - anything to shut it out.

  And then - golden light.

  The voices stopped.

  Like divine silence after a storm.

  The curtains fluttered, though no wind blew.

  Mary gasped, body still folded, as light poured through the cracks, warm and radiant.

  A figure stepped from the glow.

  Faceless. Feminine. Golden. Wings unfurled like molten gss. A silhouette of purity.

  Mary blinked, choking on her breath.

  An angel.

  "Do not be afraid," the figure whispered, voice as soft as lulbies.

  "You are not wrong to fear."

  Mary's lip trembled. She couldn't speak.

  "You were born into a world that cursed you. That feared you. That never asked if you wanted this."

  The angel knelt.

  "Let me carry it. Let me make you strong."

  A golden hand reached for her.

  "No more fear," it whispered.

  "No more weakness."

  "No more death."

  Mary didn't move.

  She couldn't.

  Then she colpsed into the angel's embrace.

  It was warm.

  So warm.

  The figure held her, cradling her like a mother would a dying child. Stroking her hair as Mary sobbed in her embrace.

  And for a moment, there was peace.

  Tranquil. Perfect.

  Then-

  Teeth.

  Pain.

  A blinding pain shot through her neck as something tore into her flesh. Her eyes fred open, but the room was gone.

  White. Blinding. White.

  And in the abyss, as her scream echoed out-

  Two golden eyes stared back at her.

  And smiled.