Two triangles: each vertex touching the other’s centroid, a line cutting through the middle, perpendicular to both bases. The symbol on Franka’s head was the same as the one etched on Maselli’s kitchen counter. Ezra had started it, he had completed it, and now he would be the one to destroy it.

  Survivors crept from their hiding places, staring as though unwilling to believe. Most were too far away for Maselli to recognise, and if he let his eyes linger, the tears would surely come. With Ezra and Mari standing behind him, he found the courage to speak.

  “You don’t have to be afraid anymore,” he said. “We stopped Franka... for now. I know it’s far from over, but I promise we’ll be okay. Can anyone tell me if they’ve seen Gemma down here?”

  Gasps rippled through the crowd as they realised Gemma was the hound. Maselli regretted naming her, for it shifted their focus from his question. Emotions surged, voices clamouring for answers he had no intention of giving. Instead, he called for those who mattered.

  “Jaspha. Miller. Are you still alive?”

  Miller stood close, though it took longer for Jaspha to emerge with his wife and children. They stepped forward, golden-brown eyes shining. Miller’s son stood beside him, his torn shirt soaked in blood, face streaked with sweat and grime—yet the boy seemed unscathed. Jaspha, by contrast, looked fresh and clean, though his frown was the deeper of the two.

  All eyes fixed on Maselli, waiting. What he was about to reveal could mean his lynching—or his redemption.

  “Do you see the symbol on my brother’s forehead?”

  Miller and Jaspha craned their necks. Neither could make it out, but both affirmed its presence.

  “There’s another on my kitchen counter. Gemma is guarding it as we speak. That’s the only reason she didn’t follow Franka down here. I need the two of you to distract her while I destroy—”

  There was an uproar. Faceless figures surged at Maselli, spilling out from behind Jaspha.

  “Have you lost your mind?” Mari hissed in his ear, yanking him back. “Why would you tell them that?”

  He was about to ask men to risk their lives for the village. The least he could do was give them the truth. “Maselli, I’m scared.” Ezra’s voice trembled. She reached for his hand, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold them.

  Jaspha and Miller stepped between him and the mob, both refusing to give way.

  “Are you going to kill the boy who stopped the demon?” Miller bellowed. “There’s someone down here I fear more than anything else. It’s not the demon. It’s not the fae. It’s that boy there.”

  Miller’s words sobered the crowd. Some lowered their eyes, as though meeting Maselli’s gaze might bring ruin. Fair enough. He needed them to feel that way—because fear gave him control.

  “I’m not speaking in your favour,” Miller snarled, his glare cutting to Mari. “You keep secrets from us all, and you expect anyone to trust you?”

  “Hanna told me about the fae, and I did nothing,” Antonica cried from the crowd. “And now this has happened. If it weren’t for Miller, I’d have beaten you to death myself.”

  Hanna stood among them, silent, watching. Maselli caught her eye, and though she tried to look away, the weight of his gaze held her. She had betrayed his deepest secret to Antonica. He knew he ought to be angry—but instead he was relieved. Aron had wanted him to spend his life with Hanna, and Maselli had carried guilt for ruining it. Now he realised he had made the right choice. Retaliation was pointless. What was done was done. The secret was gone.

  “You can trust me—just as I trust you to shield me from the mob,” Maselli said to Miller. “Please let me fix this. We’ll go to the surface. You’ll keep Gemma busy, and I’ll destroy the spell before Franka breaks free.”

  Miller and Jaspha hesitated, turning Maselli’s words over in their minds. Miller’s son tugged at his father’s arm, eyes wide with fear. When the boy realised this might mean never seeing him again, he thrashed, screaming and kicking. Gracie hurried to restrain him, urging Miller to go.

  Jaspha approached his pregnant wife and sons. Against all odds, they had survived Franka’s assault again. Jaspha spoke to them in private. He swore he would return soon enough and that he was sorry for breaking his promise so soon. Jaspha called on Antonica, asking the stout man to keep his wife and sons safe until he returned.

  “Don’t go,” Ezra pleaded with Maselli. “Why do you want to die so badly?”

  “Someone has to,” Maselli replied, closing his eyes and heart, turning away.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  Ezra dug her nails deeper into his wrists, dragging him to a stop. “It’s not going to work,” she said. “You’ll get yourself killed. If you die, I will never forgive you—Maselli, look at me.”

  “I’m leaving, Ezra.”

  “No, please don’t. Maselli, I’ll die if you go. I’ll kill myself. Mari, why aren’t you saying anything? Stop him. Maselli, listen, please don’t do this to me. I swear, I’ll kill myself if you go back.”

  Mari whispered, “Ezra, that’s enough,” and the weight fell off Maselli’s arm. He couldn’t hear her anymore. The urge to turn around and see them ate him up. He did no such thing, not even a glimpse. If he looked back, he would never leave for the surface.

  As they reached the final hallway leading to the entrance, the last Blacken stopped following the small team. Here was a mishmash of body parts scattered along the path. There was no need to name the bodies. He tried his best not to look at them as they kept on going. Gemma, if she was nearby, was unaware of the prey as they returned to the surface.

  They emerged into the open air, where the sight of more bodies greeted them. Maselli focused on the motorcycles resting in the dirt, which Miller and Jaspha mounted. The engines roared to life as they waited for instructions. “Drop me off at Block Seven,” Maselli instructed, mounting behind Miller. “Once Gemma comes for you, take her for a ride. I’ll be done before you know it.”

  “Right,” said Miller. He revved his engine and sped forward, with Jaspha following behind. They burst through the fence, the chapel blurring past them. As they passed under the shadow of the pillar, Maselli glanced at the Ring, hoping to see a portal open. But the machine had grown cold.

  Riding closer to the apartment blocks, Miller brought the motorcycle to a halt at once. “Hold,” Miller said, signalling Jaspha to stop as well. What was Miller thinking? They had to get to the apartments. Miller dismounted, and so did Jaspha, forcing Maselli to do the same.

  Buried underneath the dirt were the mangled officers, their uniforms torn apart by countless footsteps. Miller nudged one body with his boot and discovered a pistol beneath it, marked with a small glowing blue triangle. Jaspha checked the other body and found a radio in the holster.

  “Call for help. Reach out to the Green Guard or anyone who might be listening,” Miller instructed Jaspha. “Tell them everything.”

  “What about my plan?” asked Maselli. The distance from where they were to his apartment was short enough to cover on foot, but he didn’t want to proceed without their support. He needed someone to distract Gemma.

  A gust of wind swept past. Maselli coughed, the sting in his throat almost unbearable. For a moment, everyone vanished from sight. Then he saw Jaspha, flat on his back, with Gemma straddling him. She ripped open his body, digging further and further inside. Jaspha showed no sign of pain—he had been gone long before she was done. Still, her assault continued, shredding flesh, dragging out intestines, breaking bone. His hand clutched the radio, untouched by the carnage.

  Miller stood a short distance away, a gun limp in his hand. He stared at Jaspha’s brutal end as if unable to decide whether it was real. What had they gained by coming to the surface? His eyes flicked toward the motorcycles, as though considering retreat into the tunnels. But for what? To wait for Franka’s spell to unravel?

  “Get to your apartment,” Miller ordered, pointing at Maselli. “You asked for time, and we’re giving you time. Go!”

  The hallways were a miserable exhibition—piles of torn flesh and cloth strewn across the floor, bodies impaled on railings. Maselli pressed on, climbing flight after flight until he reached the top floor. Broken concrete crumbled under his feet as he moved through the dark, guided only by memory. At last, he reached the kitchen counter, fingers searching for the familiar carving.

  Once, twice, he ran his hand along the stone. Nothing. He tried again—then the roar of an engine and the sharp crack of gunfire shattered his focus. Gemma was after Miller. He had no time. He pressed his fingers along the counter, recalling the evening he had sat there eating rice and stew with Ezra. He stopped. There it was.

  His hand traced the intricate design carved into the surface. It gave no glow, no hint of otherworldly power. Taking a steadying breath, Maselli placed both palms flat on the counter and prayed.

  “Rheina, my God, my Lord, break this curse. We have learned our lesson. We will not misuse your gift of magic for selfish ends. Take away the curse. In your name, we pray.”

  He cracked one eye open, straining for silence.

  Then he bolted from the apartment. Down the hall, Miller knelt, radio clutched tight, screaming into the receiver. Gemma stalked him, her bloodied hand outstretched.

  It wasn’t too late.

  Maselli ran back to the counter, slammed both hands onto the symbol, and prayed again.

  “Rheina, stop Franka and Gemma. Break the spell! Do not let them suffer eternal torment. Remove them from the Living World—embrace them on your divine bosom!”

  Miller screamed.

  “Fury, Grefus, Geles,” Maselli chanted. “Intercede on my behalf. End the curse that holds Blackwood.”

  Miller’s screams sharpened, agony twisting into curses. Maselli raked a hand through his hair, hissing in frustration. “Samos, Wilihay—anyone! I pray to the Six, I pray to the Six! Help me! Save us!”

  The cries below did not relent, only faltering when they turned to choking gurgles. Miller drowned in his own blood.

  Maselli’s faith drained away. He yanked open a drawer, pulled out a knife, and leaned over the balustrade. Below, Miller’s body lay twisted in the dust, his legs bent grotesquely back against his shoulders. Gemma stood beside him, hands on her waist. She glared up at Maselli, then lunged for the apartment.

  Maselli dropped to one knee, dragging the blade across the wooden floor. He carved a triangle, then hammered a dot into its centre. Another triangle. And another. A fourth. Tossing the knife aside, he slammed his palm down on the markings.

  The unseen power of marker-ascension erupted, hurling him against the wall deep inside the apartment. Gemma halted at the threshold, the four symbols glowing faint grey. Three of them flared brighter, forming a barrier that twisted the flow of time itself. She dared not cross, knowing she would be caught and locked in the current—just like her counterpart in the tunnel.

  So she stopped.

  Maselli stared at her from across the barrier, and she stared back.

  She looked so slight. A slender girl in a tattered dress, one side of her hair neatly braided, the other a tangled mess.

  “Gemma,” Maselli whispered, his voice trembling. “You don’t have to be afraid of Franka. Let me go, and we can stop him together.”

  Tears glistened in her eyes.