The wind in the Black Cathedral changed that night.
It no longer carried the echo of prayers or the hiss of embers — it buzzed.
A low, ceaseless, wet hum, as though the walls themselves had become a hive. The stained glass trembled, and behind the saints' shattered eyes, black wings flickered.
Lucien and Isadora had found a small cell in the far underhalls — the closest thing to shelter in this place. They lay against the stone, her body curled around his, her hand pressed over the heart that now beat in tandem with hers.
Sleep would not come.
The buzzing grew louder.
Then it spoke.
> "Child of ash… bride of ruin…"
Isadora stiffened. Lucien's grip on her tightened.
From the far corner, a shape peeled away from the wall — as if the wall itself had grown tired of being stone. It stepped into the weak light.
She was a woman, and she was not.
Her hair was made of knotted, writhing flies.
Her eyes were pale eggs, veined in red.
Her dress was sewn from umbilical cords, some still dripping.
In her arms, she cradled something swaddled in spider silk.
The smell was unbearable.
She smiled — a terrible, rotting sweetness.
> "I am the Midwife," she whispered.
"The one who cuts the cord between the living and the damned."
---
Lucien stepped forward instinctively, but the Midwife's head jerked toward him with insect speed.
> "Not you, Father of nothing. You have no womb to bargain with."
Her gaze slid back to Isadora.
> "He will come for it soon — the Devil. For your belly. For the crown he has planted in you. You think you can run? No."
"The child will grow even if you flee to the ends of the earth. It will come screaming in his name, crowned in fire."
The buzzing deepened. The swarm in her hair shifted restlessly.
Isadora's stomach turned.
> "And what would you have me do?" she asked.
The Midwife's teeth gleamed — too many teeth.
> "I can stop it. I can take the seed before it quickens. Before it roots in you. But…"
"…there is a price."
---
Lucien's voice was a rasp.
> "Don't listen to her."
> "The Devil made her," he hissed.
"She's part of his game."
The Midwife laughed, her flies bursting from her mouth and crawling back inside.
> "Oh, I was his once. I carried the first crown. I died screaming. I am not his now. I am my own hive."
Her tone softened, almost motherly.
> "The price is not your life. Death is too small. The price is your memory of him."
Isadora froze.
> "Whose memory?"
> "Lucien's," the Midwife said.
"Every touch. Every kiss. Every night you clung to him in the dark — gone. You will see him as a stranger. You will not love him. You will not ache for him. He will still bleed for you, but you will feel nothing."
---
Silence.
The swarm in her hair quieted, as if even they waited for Isadora's answer.
Lucien stepped closer, his hand finding hers.
> "Don't do it," he said.
"We can fight. Together."
Her chest ached.
Because she knew — the Devil would never stop.
And if she carried the crown-child to term… it would be the end of everything.
But the thought of never knowing Lucien — never remembering the way he whispered her name, never feeling his arms around her again — was a grief deeper than hell.
---
She looked into the Midwife's pale eyes.
> "If I refuse?"
The Midwife tilted her head.
> "Then I will midwife for him. And when your child comes, it will open its eyes already knowing your blood, your scent, your voice — and it will love you with all its black heart."
Her lips split wider.
> "And then it will kill you."
---
Lucien's hand squeezed hers tighter.
> "I'd rather die in your arms than have you live not knowing me."
Isadora's throat burned.
The buzzing filled the cell, crawling into her ears, her teeth, her lungs.
The Midwife extended a thin, bone-handled knife — its blade dripping honey-thick blood.
> "So, child of ash. Bride of ruin. Will you keep your love…"
"…or keep your soul?"
---
The knife glistened between them.
Lucien's eyes begged her to refuse.
The Midwife's smile dared her to accept.
And in the dark, Isadora's heart beat twice.
Once for him.
Once for herself.
End of Chapter Seventeen.