Chapter Three: The Devil's Tongue
Magdalena's fingers trembled as she refolded the letter. The wax seal of Rome—its crimson broken like blood across parchment—seared itself into her memory. Her breath came short, each inhale scraping against the walls of her throat like a prayer half-swallowed.
She turned toward Brother Alaric. "How did this get here?"
He narrowed his eyes, clearly displeased to find her alone in the chapel. "A rider came through the woods. He said it was urgent. He didn't stay." Alaric's eyes moved to the altar, then to the extinguished candles. "Why are half the flames out?"
Before she could answer, a soft voice echoed from the shadows. "Perhaps the storm still lingers. Even holy ground cannot hold off the darkness forever."
Lucien stepped from behind a pillar, as though he had always belonged in the gloom.
Alaric's spine straightened. "You shouldn't be here."
Lucien raised a brow. "And yet I am."
Magdalena stepped between them instinctively. The space grew thick with unspoken tension, the air so charged she thought the chapel stones might fracture. "Lucien was offering to help clean the relics," she lied.
Lucien's smirk was amused, but brief. "I'll take my leave," he said, with a mocking bow that made Alaric's lip curl.
Once he was gone, Alaric turned on her. "You trust him too easily."
"I offered sanctuary."
"That man is no pilgrim. There's something wrong about him. Look in his eyes—there's no God there."
Magdalena said nothing. Because Alaric was right. And yet… she could not ignore the ache that started in her chest and spread lower when Lucien spoke, or the fire he stoked just by breathing near her.
She didn't sleep that night.
Instead, she wandered the cloister halls beneath the pale torchlight, the scent of incense still clinging to her robe. Her thoughts were restless as birds trapped in the belfry. Her faith trembled on the edge of something else—something darker and more intoxicating.
She paused outside Lucien's door.
It was cracked slightly, and candlelight flickered within.
She should have turned back.
But she didn't.
Magdalena pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Lucien sat on the edge of the narrow cot, shirt undone, chest bare. His skin gleamed like moonlight on obsidian. He looked up from an old, leather-bound book. One she recognized from the restricted shelves of the library.
"Couldn't sleep either?" he asked, voice low and smoky.
She lingered near the door, heart pounding. "That book is forbidden."
"Most things worth knowing are," he replied. "You're braver than I thought, Sister."
"I only wanted to see if you were well."
"Is that truly why you're here?" He rose and crossed to her, the book forgotten. "Or are you starting to ask the questions your faith won't let you voice?"
His presence wrapped around her like heat, the scent of him—spice, fire, old secrets—curling through her senses. Her resolve frayed with every breath.
"You should not tempt me," she whispered.
He reached out, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. "You were already tempted. I'm just giving it a name."
Her body shivered under the lightest touch of his fingers. She wanted to flee. She wanted to stay forever.
Lucien leaned close, lips at her ear. "The Church tells you desire is sin. But desire is truth, Magdalena. It's the first truth Eve ever tasted."
She turned her face to him, her breath hot against his. "You speak like a serpent."
"Maybe I am," he murmured, before his lips touched hers.
The kiss was fire and shadows. It was wrong and perfect. She melted into him, her hands against his bare chest, her soul unraveling in that moment of blasphemous clarity.
When she pulled back, gasping, her eyes met his—and for a heartbeat, she saw it.
Not just a man.
Eyes like fire-lit mirrors. A flicker of horns in the candlelight. Shadows that slithered like snakes across the floor.
She stumbled back. "What are you?"
He exhaled, almost sadly. "You already know."
"You… you're…"
"The Devil?" He gave a half-smile. "Lucifer. Morningstar. Prince of Lies. I've worn many names."
She backed against the door, reaching for the crucifix at her throat.
"Don't," he said softly. "It won't save you. It's not me you fear. It's what I awaken in you."
"You seduced me."
"I didn't need to," he replied. "You're already falling, Magdalena. I'm just here to catch you."
Her breath came in shallow bursts. The chamber spun with ancient fear and impossible hunger. She fled—burst through the door and down the hall, robes whipping around her legs like storm clouds.
But even as she ran, part of her wanted to go back.
To touch him again.
To ask what it would mean to surrender completely.