Chapter 1 – The Scent of Myrrh and Rust

The iron bites into the delicate skin of my collarbone before I even open my eyes.

I don’t need to see the cage to know its dimensions. My body has memorized the geography of this nightmare through sheer, shivering contact. Three paces to the left, the chain pulls taut, threatening to snap my neck. Two paces forward, the uneven, freezing stone drops off into a shallow drainage trench that reeks of old copper and rot.

Every slight shift of my weight sends a grinding shriek echoing off the vaulted ceiling of the dungeon. It is a terrible, rhythmic sound—metal eating metal.

I pull my knees to my chest, pressing my bare soles flat against the freezing flagstones. The unnatural cold radiating from the floor does not just chill the skin; it seeps directly into the marrow. It is the exact same, biting frost that gripped my ankles three nights ago.

The memory surges, unbidden and visceral, triggered by the icy stone beneath me. I am no longer in the dark; I am back on the unforgiving slopes beneath the Sanctum of San Severo. I can feel the blinding, stinging whip of the mountain blizzard tearing at my thin dress. I can feel the brutal, bruising grip of my father’s hand around my wrist. He hadn’t looked at me. Not once. He just kept dragging me upward through the knee-deep drifts, his fingers digging so hard into my bones I thought they would splinter.

A tithe for the sanctum, he had told the masked monks at the iron gates, his breath pluming in the freezing air. For the grace of the High Priest. For our salvation.

They had traded my breathing, beating heart for a promise of a decent harvest and a handful of silver. The cold inside this cell is the very same cold of that night—the absolute, bone-deep absence of warmth, of mercy, of humanity. I swallow hard, forcing the phantom sting of the blizzard out of my lungs. I am in the dungeon now. The snow is outside. The real monsters are inside.

A heavy, rhythmic thud shatters the oppressive silence of the cell block.

Clack. Pause. Clack.

Leather heels striking ancient stone. The footsteps are unhurried, perfectly measured, possessing a terrifying absolute certainty. They do not echo like the hurried scuffles of the lesser acolytes who bring the slop buckets. These steps belong to a man who owns the shadows he walks through.

A dull, orange glow bleeds beneath the heavy oak door of my cell. The iron tumblers of the lock groan, screaming in protest as a heavy key forces them turn.

The door swings outward. The draft of the hallway rushes in, and with it comes a scent so thick it coats the back of my throat. It drowns out the stench of the dungeon’s filth. Heavy, cloying myrrh. Burning frankincense. The unmistakable, waxy aroma of melting red sanctuary candles.

It is the smell of the altar. The smell of absolution. The smell of the executioner.

Tadeo Escalante steps into the threshold.

He holds a rusted iron lantern in his left hand, the crimson glass casting a bloody hue over his stark, unreadable features. His dark, heavy clerical robes fall in immaculate, rigid lines, absorbing the weak light rather than reflecting it. The silver embroidery on his collar catches the candlelight, forming the jagged shapes of the Sanctum’s holy crest.

I remain perfectly still on the floor, the chain heavy against my throat. I do not scramble backward into the corner like a frightened animal. I know better than to give a predator the satisfaction of a chase.

Tadeo steps into the cell, closing the heavy oak door behind him with a soft, decisive click that sounds entirely too loud in the cramped space. He sets the lantern on a small stone shelf carved into the wall. He does not speak. He does not need to. His sheer physical presence consumes the oxygen in the room.

He approaches my huddled form. I am acutely aware of how small I must look to him, bruised and shivering in a torn linen shift. Yet, I keep my chin level, refusing to lower my gaze.

Tadeo stops inches from my bare feet. I can see the immaculate polish on his black leather boots, speckled with a few errant flakes of melting snow from the upper courtyards. Slowly, with agonizing deliberation, he crouches down, his heavy robes settling around him like the wings of a dark, resting bird.

Up close, the smell of incense is suffocating. Beneath it, there is something else—clean linen, sharp winter air, and the faint, metallic tang of ozone.

His hand emerges from the folds of his dark sleeves. He is wearing thick, black leather gloves. The leather creaks softly as his fingers curl, producing an object from his belt.

It is a ceremonial blade. The hilt is wrapped in dark, worn leather, but the blade itself is what catches my breath. It is carved from a single piece of black jade, the edges honed to a lethal, glass-like thinness.

Without a word, Tadeo reaches forward. I do not flinch, though my muscles lock so tightly they ache.

He presses the flat of the black jade blade against the side of my neck, right over my pulse point.

The stone is unnaturally cold. It sends a violent shiver down my spine, a shock of ice against my feverish skin. The blade rests heavy against my artery. I can feel my own blood hammering furiously against the smooth, freezing surface of the jade, broadcasting my terror to him in rapid, frantic thumps.

Tadeo’s dark, hollow eyes finally lock onto mine. They are devoid of any recognizable warmth, a flat, dead obsidian that matches the weapon at my throat. He watches the rapid pulse fluttering against his knife with detached, clinical interest, like a scholar observing a dying insect.

He tilts his head, the crimson light from the lantern casting long, demonic shadows across the sharp angles of his jaw.

"You do not weep," Tadeo states.

His voice is a low, abrasive scrape, barely louder than a whisper, yet it resonates in the hollow cavity of my chest. It is a voice accustomed to chanting prayers over open graves.

I keep my mouth shut. The blade is so close to my jawline that speaking might draw blood. I simply stare back, trapping the desperate, screaming urge to survive behind my teeth.

Tadeo twists his wrist slightly. The razor-thin edge of the jade turns inward, biting into the fragile top layer of my skin. A sharp, stinging pain flares, followed by the immediate, hot trickle of a single drop of blood trailing down my collarbone.

"The Tenth Tithe must be pure when the Blood Moon rises," he whispers, leaning in so close that the scent of myrrh completely envelops me, making me dizzy. The leather of his glove brushes against my jaw. "You belong to the altar, Inés. But understand this—until the night of the ritual, every breath you take in this cage is a privilege I grant you."

He presses the edge just a fraction of a millimeter deeper, the sting blooming into a searing ache.

"If you bare your teeth at my guards, if you dare to speak without permission, or if you attempt to slip this collar…" Tadeo’s eyes darken, a terrifying promise flashing beneath the cold surface. "I will not wait for the ritual to start peeling away your sins."