Lucy's back hit the cold iron door of the sealed chamber with a dull clang. The key had turned in the lock behind her, the sound sharp and final, like a coffin lid settling into place. Darkness swallowed the room whole except for the weak orange glow from a single oil lamp hanging high on the wall. The space was small—bare stone walls, a narrow cot, a chipped basin, and a single wooden chair bolted to the floor. No windows. No way out unless someone from the outside decided she had suffered enough. She slid down the door until she sat on the rough flagstones, knees pulled tight to her chest, breathing shallow.
The hunger clawed at her insides, a constant, gnawing beast that paced back and forth behind her ribs. It had been quiet during the walk down the spiral stair, almost patient, but the moment the lock clicked it woke up fully. Now it demanded food. Not bread. Not water. Life. The bright, warm spark that lived in every breathing person. Lucy pressed her palms hard against her temples, trying to squeeze the ache out. It only made the hunger laugh—a low, rolling vibration she felt more than heard.
She closed her eyes. The darkness behind her lids was thicker than the room. And in that darkness, something shifted. The hunger didn't just want essence. It wanted memories. It wanted to remind her who she had been before the Order, before the blades, before the oaths. Lucy fought it for a moment, muscles rigid, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Then she gave in. Not because she wanted to. Because fighting only made the beast stronger.
The world tilted.
She was small again. Tiny hands clutching the rough hem of a too-big gray smock. Bare feet on freezing stone. The air smelled of sour milk, wet wool, and the faint copper of old blood. Voices overlapped in a dull roar—crying babies, sharp nuns barking orders, older children whispering secrets in corners. The orphanage of Saint Agnes stood on the edge of Calder's Row, where the city's poorest spilled out like dirty water from a cracked pipe. It was not a kind place. It was a holding pen for children nobody wanted until they were old enough to be useful.
Lucy—though she didn't have that name yet—remembered the first night clearest of all. A nun with pinched lips and a candle had marched the new arrivals down a long hallway lined with narrow beds. She pointed at one corner cot. "That one's yours. Don't wet it." Then she left. The girl crawled onto the thin mattress, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around herself. The other children stared. Some pitied. Most ignored. One boy, older, with a scar across his cheek, leaned over from the next bed.
"You got a name?" he asked.
She shook her head. Her throat was too tight for words.
He shrugged. "They'll give you one when they feel like it. Until then you're just another mouth."
That night she heard the first scream.
It came from the far end of the dormitory—high, sharp, terrified. The nuns rushed in with lanterns and switches. They dragged a girl away who had been caught sneaking bread from the kitchen. Lucy watched from her cot, heart hammering. The girl didn't come back. The next morning the nuns told everyone she had been sent to a better place. Nobody believed it.
Days blurred into weeks. The orphanage ran on routine: dawn prayers, thin porridge, lessons in scripture, chores until hands bled, more prayers, lights out. But there were cracks in the routine. Whispers of things that happened after dark. Older children who disappeared into the city and never returned. Nuns who vanished for days and came back with glassy eyes and strange smiles. Rumors of a lady in black who walked the alleys behind the orphanage, offering warmth and food to anyone brave enough to follow her.
Lucy never followed. She was too small. Too scared. But she watched. And she learned.
One winter night the hunger came to the orphanage itself. Not her hunger—the other kind. The windows rattled with wind. The oil lamps flickered low. A girl older than Lucy, maybe twelve, slipped out of her bed and crept to the door. She opened it just enough to peek into the hallway. Lucy watched from her cot, pretending to sleep. The girl stepped out. The door closed behind her with a soft click.
Minutes later a scream tore through the building—high, wet, cut off mid-note. Nuns rushed in again, this time with swords and lanterns. They found nothing but an empty hallway and a single black rose petal on the floor. The girl never came back. The nuns told everyone she had run away. Nobody believed it.
That was the night Lucy stopped sleeping with her eyes closed all the way. That was the night she started watching the shadows instead of hiding from them.
The dream shifted. Time jumped.
She was older—nine, maybe ten. The orphanage had changed. More children gone. Fewer nuns. The building felt emptier, colder. One morning a man in a black cassock arrived with a wagon. He wore the sigil of the Order of Eternal Purity on his chest. He walked the rows of children, looking at faces, asking questions in a calm, quiet voice. When he reached Lucy he stopped.
She stared up at him, chin lifted, eyes hard.
He knelt so they were level. "Do you want to be safe?" he asked.
She didn't answer right away. Safety was a lie the nuns told before they took things away.
He waited.
Finally she said, "I want to be strong."
He smiled—small, sad, real. "Then come with me."
She climbed into the wagon without looking back. The orphanage faded behind her, a gray smear in the snow. The man—Father Thorne—didn't speak again until they reached the compound gates.
There, in the shadow of the tall iron bars etched with holy wards, he turned to her.
"You will learn to fight," he said. "You will learn to hunt the things that take children in the night. And you will never be helpless again."
She nodded once.
That was the day she became Lucy Anselem.
The day she chose blades over bread.
The day she swore she would never again be the small, nameless girl watching from a cot while the darkness walked away with someone else.
The dream cracked open.
Lucy's eyes snapped wide in the sealed chamber. She was on the floor, back against the door, knees still pulled tight to her chest. Sweat soaked her cassock. Her breathing came in harsh bursts. The hunger hadn't gone anywhere—it sat heavy in her gut, patient, waiting.
But now it had a new flavor.
It tasted like memory.
Like the orphanage hallway.
Like the black rose petal on the floor.
Like the promise of strength that had kept her alive.
And somewhere in the deepest part of that memory, Lucy heard the faint echo of a woman's laugh—soft, musical, patient.
The laugh of someone who had been waiting a very long time.
The laugh of Mother Nyx.
Lucy pressed her palms to her eyes, trying to block it out. But the sound lingered, wrapping around her heartbeat, sinking deeper, promising that the past she had fought so hard to escape had never really left her at all.
It had simply been waiting for her to become strong enough to feed it.