It had all begun that night, the night Kafka seized the Church of the Lesser Demons. A night etched into Serafina's memory as vividly as if it had happened yesterday.
She remembered standing in the shadows of the old chapel, her body still and poised like the weapon she had been trained to be since birth.
The leaders of the Church, monsters in human skin, men and women who had raised her and the rest of her sisters as disposable tools, were gathered in arrogance, believing themselves untouchable.
And then came Kafka.
In a single night, in front of her very eyes, he dismantled them. Every one of those figures she had once feared, who had lorded over her life with cold cruelty, were slaughtered without mercy.
He tore through them like they were nothing, like their power, their legacy, their cruelty was no more than dust under his feet.
