The wind howled as Magdalena knelt on the stone floor of the old chapel, hands trembling in her lap. Her white gown was soaked through from the storm, clinging to her skin like a second layer of shame. Outside, thunder cracked across the sky like Heaven was warning her, punishing her for what she had done.
For what she had become.
Lucien sat in the shadows of the sanctuary, his raven-black eyes following her every movement. His shirt was undone, streaks of blood and ash across his pale skin. He looked otherworldly—too beautiful to be human, too cruel to be divine. But he was calm. Patient. Watching.
"Say it," he said, voice like melted sin. "Say you wanted it."
Magdalena's breath caught.
"I—I can't," she whispered, pressing her palm to her chest where her heart beat wildly, still echoing the rhythm of their sin.
"Yes, you can," he said softly, rising from the pew. "Because it was never about me. It was always you. Your hunger. Your fire. It was you who burned the veil."
She looked up sharply. "That's not true. You tempted me. You tricked me—"
"I freed you."
Lucien crouched before her, lifting her chin with a gentle fingertip. His touch was heat and cold all at once, a contradiction she would never resolve. Her skin flared beneath his hand.
"I didn't come here to break your vows, Magdalena," he murmured. "I came because you called me."
She shook her head, tears threatening again. "I didn't—"
"You prayed for truth. For escape. For something more than empty rituals. I am what came."
Thunder struck again. The crucifix behind the altar creaked, and the silver figure of Christ trembled on its wooden beam.
"Why me?" she asked, voice barely audible. "Why not someone else?"
Lucien smiled—slow, knowing, a little sad. "Because you're not just a nun."
He stood, and in his palm, a symbol burned to life—red, glowing, like embers under skin. A sigil. Not one of Hell. Not one of Heaven. Something older.
"You are of the bloodline of the Crossroads," he said. "Daughter of the divine and the damned. You were born to tear the veil."
Magdalena gasped, stumbling to her feet. "What are you saying?"
He moved toward her slowly. "That your mother was not entirely human. That your father never told you the truth. That you were raised in white robes because they were afraid of what you would become."
"No," she whispered. "That's not true—"
"You were hidden in the Church not for your safety, but theirs."
Lucien stopped before her, looking down into her wide eyes. "And now the seal is breaking."
Magdalena touched her chest again. There—beneath her skin—she felt it. Something pulsing. Glowing. Like a sigil etched into her soul.
"I'm not... I'm not evil," she whispered, trembling.
Lucien cupped her face. "Neither am I."
He leaned in, brushing his lips to her forehead. Her breath hitched. She hated how her body responded, how her thoughts scattered. Her faith had never prepared her for him—for this.
"I've seen what evil looks like," he said quietly. "It wears white robes and quotes scripture while burning people alive."
His words sliced through the silence like a blade.
"You're scared because they taught you to fear your own power," he continued. "But fear is a cage. And I'm here to open it."
A bolt of lightning split the sky. The chapel's stained-glass windows rattled. The flickering candles blew out, one by one, until darkness embraced them both.
And then—warmth.
From her chest, a faint light began to glow.
Magdalena looked down in horror. The mark—the same sigil Lucien bore—was appearing on her skin, just above her heart. Glowing gold and red, like a sunrise in blood.
Lucien exhaled reverently. "It's begun."
"No..." she backed away, stumbling over broken tile. "What have you done to me?"
"Nothing you didn't already do yourself."
She turned to run—but the chapel doors slammed shut with a deafening bang. The candles reignited, forming a circle of flame around her. Lucien didn't move. He didn't have to.
"Your power is awakening," he said. "You're no longer just a pawn in their holy war."
"I didn't ask for this!"
"But it was always yours," he said. "And now, Heaven knows it."
At that moment, a high-pitched ringing filled the air—shrill, divine, wrong. Magdalena fell to her knees, clutching her ears. Light—blinding white—poured in through the stained-glass windows. And through it, figures descended.
Winged. Armored. Holy.
Angels.
Lucien's face darkened. "Too soon."
The archangel at the center was cloaked in silver fire, his wings stretching across the chapel like blades. He drew his sword and pointed it at Lucien.
"Step away from the girl, Morning Star."
Lucien's eyes burned black. "She is not yours."
"She is not yours either," the archangel replied coldly. "She is ours. And she will be purified."
Magdalena screamed as the sigil on her chest flared. The fire around her surged, spiraling upward like a cyclone. Her hair lifted in the supernatural wind. Her voice echoed—not in fear, but fury.
"Don't touch him!"
Her cry cracked the stained glass behind the altar. The crucifix shattered. The sword of the archangel wavered.
Lucien looked at her in awe.
"You've chosen," he said softly.
And Magdalena—glowing, trembling, terrified and defiant—stepped forward, placing herself between Lucien and Heaven's blade.
"I don't belong to any of you," she whispered. "Not anymore."
The angels surged forward—
And everything exploded into light.
Cliffhanger for Chapter Nine:
Did she die? Did she ascend? Or had she just torn a hole in Heaven itself?