Seamus remained on the cathedral steps, shoulders slumped.
He had meant to protect her.
Not expose her.
Not reopen a wound so vicious it nearly undid her.
"Blast it all…" he muttered, pulling at the sleeves of his coat. "She has every right to be upset."
He tapped his signet ring against the marble stair in a rhythmless beat.
How can I make this right?
Elena wandered through Puerto Cuidad like a ghost in mourning.
Her black cloak fluttered, her hair unraveling from its bun, long curls tossed by the sea wind. Her boots echoed on the stone streets. She didn't know where she was going—only that she had to keep walking, or she would shatter.
Her tears fell in silence. They glittered like gems against her skin.
Only when she collided with a low, weathered building by the docks did she stop.
She looked up.
The house was old. Unassuming. Forgotten by time.
Drawn by something unnamed, she stepped closer and knocked.
No answer.
But the door creaked open—on its own.
She hesitated. Her heartbeat pounded. But still, she crossed the threshold into a dark, fragrant foyer.
The scent hit her first—sandalwood, sweet wine, incense smoke, and salt air.
Before her stood a small altar space.
The room was lit only by candlelight. On the altar were offerings—bowls of fruit and food, bottles of liquor, vibrant flowers, and a small, gold statue gleaming in the dim light. The Saintess, but not like she had ever seen her.
Not bronze. Not cold.
This one looked alive.
Compelled, Elena approached.
She lit an incense stick from a candle flame and gently placed it in the sand-filled bowl.
The smoke rose in twisting spirals.
She stepped back—and the door slammed shut behind her with a thunderous bang. A rush of wind hit her back, coming from inside the house.
Then—a voice.
Smooth. Velvet-rich. Ancient.
"And where do you think you're going?"
Elena tore off one glove, allowing the ambient magic in her skin to feel for presences. Yes—there was someone here.
She raised her hand. Purple lightning crackled at her knuckles.
"I go where I please."
A laugh echoed from the shadows.
"Indeed. Have a wonderful day."
The door flung open again—harder than before.
"But if you ever want to know the truth, Muerte Juju is here to help all our brothers and sisters."
Elena froze.
She glanced back toward the shadows. No face emerged.
But something inside her shifted.
She gave a small, respectful nod.
"I might just take you up on the offer."
And with that, she walked out into the sunlight once more.
Back at the cathedral, Seamus paced, torn between his instincts and his word.
He'd seen her.
Just a glimpse—Elena vanishing into an old, crumbling house by the docks.
His heart leapt, but his feet remained still.
"She said she needs space," he whispered to himself. "Let's give her that."
He turned away, heading toward the waiting car. His mind raced with questions, regrets, and plans.
How could he make her feel safe again?
How could he prove she was more than a dossier?
More than a mistake?