The bell tower of Saint Lirien's Cathedral struck midnight with the slow, bronze-hearted certainty of a judge who already knows the verdict, and Lucy Anselem did not flinch. She stood motionless on the highest balcony of the western spire, black cloak snapping behind her like an impatient flag, silver-threaded cassock catching moonlight in thin, holy glints. The wind tasted of coal smoke, wet iron, and the faint metallic promise of rain that never quite arrived. Below her, Calder's Row had already surrendered to the new age: gas lamps blinked along crooked streets, steam rose in lazy white pillars from factory chimneys, and the distant ironworks growled like a beast that refused to sleep. Lucy liked the noise. It drowned out the small, traitorous voice inside her head that asked the same cruel question every night: what happens when the lock wants to turn?
Tonight was not supposed to be a hunt. Tonight was renewal, the sacred ritual where she knelt on freezing stone and reminded her body it had no right to want. She stepped back into the small stone chamber behind the balcony, the air thick with old incense and candle wax. A single beeswax flame burned on the low altar, throwing long shadows across the marble floor. Above it, carved deep into the gray stone, were the words that had haunted her since she was fourteen: "Flesh is fleeting. Desire is the devil's door. I will be the lock." Lucy dropped to her knees, bowed until her forehead nearly kissed the floor, and spoke the oath aloud in a voice low and steady, the careful tone of someone talking to a lover who might disappear if you shout.
"I, Lucy Anselem, daughter of the Order, blade of the Eternal Flame, renew my oath this night. I forsake all carnal knowledge. I forsake all warmth that is not born of divine fire. I forsake the hunger of the body so that the hunger of the soul may be fed. Should temptation find me, let it find only steel. Should desire speak my name, let it speak to a corpse. I am the lock. I am the end of doors."
Silence rushed in after the last syllable, thick and listening. Lucy stayed on her knees a heartbeat longer than the ritual demanded because every single time she finished the oath, the same little monster in her chest perked up and whispered: And what happens when the lock gets curious? She crushed the voice the way she always did—quickly, ruthlessly, without mercy—then rose, dusted off her knees, and crossed to the weapon table. Twin short-swords of blessed silver waited in perfect order, bandolier of throwing knives, palm-sized reliquary with the alleged splinter of the True Cross. She strapped and buckled with practiced snaps, then lifted the black velvet pouch Father Thorne had pressed into her hand that morning.
Three vials of quicksilver blessed under a full moon. The liquid inside moved sluggishly, as though it resented being turned into a weapon. "Only when the corruption is too thick to cleanse with steel," Thorne had said, voice rough as gravel. "It burns the demon out… and the host with it." Lucy had met his gaze without blinking. "Got it." She clipped the pouch to her belt and felt the vials settle against her hip like three little guillotines. Tonight was renewal. Tomorrow night was the raid on the succubus cult festering in Calder's Row. Three abandoned chapels. Bodies that stopped smiling only after they were already dead. Mother Nyx, who could glance at you and make you forget your own name while thanking her for the privilege.
Lucy stepped back onto the balcony. Cloak billowed. Wind howled like an excited fan. Below, the city glittered like someone had spilled a jewelry box into a gutter. Somewhere in that glittering snarl waited Mother Nyx and her choir of night-blooming flowers. She placed one boot on the stone railing, smiled—small, sharp, private—and stepped off. Not falling. Never falling. The blessed steel grapnel at her wrist sang as it bit into the buttress. She swung in a long, perfect arc, boots kissing stone, body light as a whispered prayer. Down into the city. Into the dark. Into the only battlefield she had ever truly understood.
The bell tolled the quarter hour behind her. Lucy did not look back. She never did. Because looking back was for people who still believed they could be saved, and Lucy had already traded her soul for a very sharp pair of swords and a promise that felt heavier every year, a promise that was starting to crack just a little around the edges. She landed on a rooftop overlooking Iron Lane, the old tannery crypt entrance gaping like an open mouth in the shadows below. The briefing had assigned her the crypt alone. Single stairwell. Narrow corridors. Perfect choke point. She descended the stone stairs without hesitation, the air growing thicker with every step, pressing against her skin like damp silk.
The chamber opened up like a mouth that had been waiting to yawn. Thirty black candles burned in a rough circle, fat wax dripping onto the floor in slow, obscene tears. In the center stood Mother Nyx—tall, willowy, skin the color of fresh cream under moonlight, long red hair cascading down her back in lazy waves, black gown clinging in all the places it shouldn't. Her violet eyes were soft, warm, almost kind. They met Lucy's without flinching. "Blade-Bearer," she said, voice like velvet dragged over broken glass. "You're early. The others aren't here yet." Lucy drew both swords in one smooth motion. The blades sang high, clear notes that made the candles flicker.
"I don't wait for invitations," she said. Nyx smiled—patient, certain. "I could make this easy. Lower those pretty blades. Sit. Listen. Feel what you've been denying since you were a child." Lucy stepped forward, boots scraping stone. "I've heard the pitch before." Nyx laughed—low, delighted, genuine. "You're strong. Most last three minutes before they beg." Lucy lunged. Swords flashed in twin silver arcs. Nyx did not move. The air rippled—harder this time, a sudden pressure wave of essence slamming into Lucy mid-stride. It was pleasure so sharp it felt like pain. Every nerve lit up at once—heat blooming behind her eyes, down her spine, pooling low in her belly like liquid fire. Her knees buckled. She caught herself on one sword, blade biting stone with a screech.
Nyx watched, head tilted. "You're fighting it. Most don't even try." Lucy forced herself upright, sweat beading on her forehead. "That's because most people aren't me." She lunged again—faster, angrier. Nyx sidestepped with lazy grace. One hand reached out, fingers brushing Lucy's wrist—light as a sigh. Essence poured through the touch like wine through cracked glass. Lucy's vision blurred. Colors sharpened. Sounds amplified. She could hear her own heartbeat—thudding, hungry, alive in a way it had never been allowed to be. She snarled, twisted, broke the contact, drove one sword toward Nyx's heart. The blade stopped an inch from skin. Nyx's hand closed gently around the flat of the sword. The metal glowed red, then white, then began to melt.
Lucy yanked it back. Too late. The hilt burned her palm. She dropped the sword with a curse. Nyx stepped closer. "You're beautiful when you're angry," she said softly. Lucy laughed—harsh, breathless. "You should see me when I'm winning." She drew the first vial of quicksilver, popped the cork with her thumb. The liquid gleamed like liquid moonlight. Nyx's eyes narrowed. "That's not necessary." Lucy raised the vial. "You're right. It's merciful." She tipped it toward her own mouth. Nyx moved—faster than thought. Her hand clamped over Lucy's wrist. The vial shattered between them. Quicksilver sprayed in a glittering arc—splashing across both their skin.
The burn was immediate. Holy fire seared Nyx's palm. She hissed, recoiled. Lucy staggered back. The quicksilver on her own skin fizzed, burned, then… sank in. No agony. No cleansing blaze. Just a faint tingle, like champagne bubbles against her nerves. Nyx stared at her burned hand, then at Lucy. Her violet eyes widened. "You're… different." Lucy grinned, wild and reckless. "Yeah. Turns out the lock's been cracked for a while." The chamber trembled. Candles guttered. The acolytes gasped in unison. And from deep within her chest—where the hunger had always lived, quiet and patient—a new heat answered. Hotter. Hungrier. Alive.
Lucy froze. Because the warmth wasn't coming from Nyx anymore. It was coming from her. And as the first true wave of her own essence stirred, uncoiling like a serpent finally free of its cage, Lucy realized with a clarity that punched through every vow she had ever spoken that the raid had not ended her. It had only just begun her. The warmth roared in triumph—loud, wild, joyful—and somewhere beneath Calder's Row, in the dark places the factories had not yet reached, the earth itself seemed to sigh in anticipation, because the Bloom had found its most perfect flower, and it was finally ready to open wide.