Florence
The forge was cold.
Esmé sat cross-legged on the stone floor, a shallow bowl of ash and water before her. Her hair was pulled back in a tight braid, her hands resting on her knees, and the silence around her felt earned, not endured.
It had been three days since her father's eyes blinked. Since he gripped her fingers with the strength of memory, not reflex.
Three days since she chose not to run.
And now, for the first time since the world had cracked beneath her feet, she didn't feel like she was falling.
She felt like she was standing.
————————————————————
Livia watched her from across the training courtyard, arms crossed, her usual scorn tempered by something approaching respect.
"You're slower," she observed.
"I'm more deliberate," Esmé replied.
"Deliberate gets you killed."
"No," Esmé said calmly. "Rushing gets you killed. Deliberate gets you through."
She dipped her fingers into the ashwater and traced a single sigil onto the stone.
It pulsed—softly, not violently—and spread like ink through invisible veins beneath the floor. One by one, the warding marks around the courtyard lit up, steady and controlled.
No flare. No fracture.
Just power, shaped into precision.
Livia said nothing.
But she didn't interrupt.
————————————————————
Later that day, Esmé stood in the library with Anselmo, her sleeves rolled, charcoal staining her fingers.
Together, they studied an ancient scroll depicting the Veil's deeper layers—concentric circles that moved like tides, each one corresponding to emotion, memory, truth, and essence.
"The outer rings bend to those with blood," he said. "But only the center ring—Memory—answers the Veilborn."
"And what happens if I walk too far inward?" she asked.
"You lose yourself," he replied without hesitation. "Or find what you were never meant to know."
She met his eyes. "What if I already know who I am?"
Anselmo smiled. "Then maybe it's time you stopped studying and started commanding."
————————————————————
By evening, she stood alone in the observatory.
She reached into the Veil not to observe—but to shape.
And it responded.
Light bent around her fingertips.
Not harsh like fire. Not fleeting like smoke.
It bent like glass in flame—pliable, glowing, dangerous only to those who didn't understand it.
She formed a sigil mid-air, fingers moving like a dancer's, eyes closed.
When she opened them, the sigil hovered. Complete. Self-sustaining.
Her breath caught—not from fear, but awe.
She whispered the word.
"Bind."
And the sigil anchored to the stones.
A living rune.
A memory she had made real.
————————————————————
She found Luca in the garden later that night, seated on the low edge of the fountain, a book in his hands.
He looked up as she approached.
"I felt the Veil shift," he said.
"I reshaped a memory."
His brow rose slightly. "That's rare."
"I didn't know it was supposed to be."
He set the book aside.
"You're not the same," he said.
"I know."
"You've found something."
"I found stillness," she said. "I thought I had to burn to be strong. But now I understand—I don't have to burn everything around me."
He studied her quietly. "No. You just have to shine."
————————————————————
The Council summoned her the next day.
Not to test.
But to witness.
She stood in the circle of obsidian with Luca at her side.
They watched as an elder vampire—one who had once doubted her—presented a fragment of Valtheran's script, stolen by a spy within the Faith.
Esmé leaned forward.
"His next move," she said.
"No," said Livia. "His endgame."
The scroll revealed coordinates—buried beneath one of the oldest churches in Florence. A crypt never charted. A resting place of the first pact between vampire and Veilborn.
And a warning:
When the rose burns black, and the blood runs backward, the gate shall open.
Esmé looked at the sigil drawn in blood beside the text.
She recognized it.
It was the same rune she had shaped.
Not copied.
Not seen.
Created.
Her pulse thundered.
"I've seen this," she whispered. "In the Veil. In a dream. This isn't just a gate."
"No," Luca said. "It's the lock."
————————————————————
That night, Esmé returned to her father.
He was seated by the window, a blanket over his legs, hands still trembling slightly.
She knelt beside him.
He blinked. Slowly. But he saw her.
She took his hand.
"I'm stronger now," she said. "But not harder. I promise you, Papa—I will never forget who I was before this."
A tear slid down his cheek.
She didn't wipe it.
She let it fall.
———————————————————
Back in the forge, she lit the fire herself.
No magic.
Just kindling.
She shaped a glass rose from molten fire, breath steady, hands sure.
The petals glowed pale gold.
Inside, she sealed the Veil sigil.
And when it cooled, she held it up to the moonlight.
It shimmered like something alive.
Something new.
Something made of will.
Not fate.