The symbol carved into the crumbling wall wasn't Roman. Not entirely.
Adunni crouched low, brushing away debris until the rest of the design emerged — a moon threaded through with fire, surrounded by etchings that mirrored old Yoruba cosmology. She gasped quietly, pulling out her notebook, hands trembling with a scholar's thrill.
Her flashlight flickered again.
"Here," Camilla muttered, handing her a backup. "Don't get all sweaty about it."
Adunni ignored her.
The etching began to glow — faint, gold, and impossible.
"What the—" Camilla took a step back.
Adunni's pulse skipped. She reached forward, compelled, and pressed her palm to the center of the crescent.
A soft click echoed from beneath the altar.
Stone grinding against stone.
The floor beneath them shifted.
"Camilla, back up!" Adunni called, grabbing her wrist just as a portion of the marble gave way, revealing a narrow staircase descending into blackness.
No one said anything for several long seconds.
Then Adunni whispered, "It's real."
---
🌑 Below the Altar
The staircase led to a circular chamber. The air was cooler down here, damp and humming with something electric.
In the center of the chamber, on a stone pedestal, rested the relic: a disk of obsidian edged in gold, carved with both Latin invocations and Yoruba sigils—shaped like the same moon-fire symbol.
The closer Adunni got, the more her skin prickled with heat and warning.
"It's not just decorative," she whispered. "It's a key. Or a seal."
Then she reached out.
As her fingers brushed the relic—
Flashes.
Not memories.
Visions.
A wolf under a blood moon.
A man's voice screaming her name.
A woman cloaked in flame.
And the phrase: The Flame either tempers... or consumes the King.
She staggered back, dazed, and bumped into a wall of muscle.
Luca DeLuca stood behind her, hands catching her arms before she fell.
"You touched it," he said, voice tight.
"You said it was a legend."
He didn't let go. "You shouldn't have touched it."
Adunni twisted free, eyes flashing. "Why? Because you didn't get to touch it first?"
Luca's jaw clenched. "Because it responds to you. And things that respond... are dangerous."
Their eyes locked. His golden gaze seemed to flicker—not human. Not fully.
She stepped closer, breath shallow. "Then maybe you should stop circling me like you're waiting for me to fall."
His mouth curved. Not kindly.
"Falling," he said, "was never your danger."
He leaned in just enough that his breath hit her cheek. "Burning is."
The moment stretched—intimate, taut, almost unbearable—before he turned and walked away, disappearing into the shadows like a wolf that knew exactly where the hunt would lead.
---
Flashback: Grandmother's Story
That night, back at her temporary flat, Adunni sat cross-legged on the floor, staring at sketches of the relic and the carved symbols.
And then—like memory cued by blood—her grandmother's voice rose in her mind, rich and low with age.
"Not every fire destroys, my daughter. Some fire is the blood of kings. And some women, born with two shadows, carry the flame that awakens wolves."
Adunni had laughed then, years ago, resting in her grandmother's lap.
"Powerful Wolves aren't real, Nana. I would believe if you said Sango or Obatala, sugbon Ìkokò, Aja igbo lasan ni won, won o lagbara"
Her grandmother had looked down at her, eyes full of quiet knowing.
"No, child. They just wear the faces of men. They exist."
Adunni blinked, once again, her breath catching in her throat.
Because tonight—under ancient Rome, in a ruined church, with a relic that should not have existed—she saw the wolf's face.
And it wore Luca DeLuca's eyes.
DeLuca Estate – Private Rooftop Terrace
Matteo DeLuca was barefoot, drink in hand, lounging on a chaise under the glow of Roman city lights. The moon sat low, barely a sliver, but still enough to make his skin gleam with silver edges.
Sabine Rousseau emerged from the shadows like a ghost in boots, dressed in black leather and clean menace.
"I told you not to smoke up here," she said.
He didn't even glance at her. "It's clove, not tobacco. Your nose is being dramatic."
Sabine rolled her eyes and leaned over the balcony railing, her spine straight and tight with control. Always in command. Always keeping Matteo at arm's length. Which, naturally, made him lean in closer.
"You're tense, Sabine," he said after a long sip. "Should I be worried?"
"Worried? No." She kept her eyes on the skyline. "Suspicious? Always."
Matteo grinned. "Mm. You say that like it's not your favorite part of me."
She glanced sideways, eyes flickering. "I'm not sure I have a favorite part of you."
"I can make a list for you," he said. "Very detailed. Very... visual."
Sabine gave a low, amused hum and finally turned to face him fully.
"Why do you flirt like a man who's never been denied?"
He stood, closing the distance between them. No smirk now—just quiet heat, head tilted, his voice lower.
"Because I haven't. Not by you. Not yet."
Her breath caught. For one brief second, she didn't move—didn't blink.
Then her lips curved in a dangerous smile. "Keep dreaming, DeLuca."
He leaned just close enough to let her feel the whisper of his breath.
"Oh, I do."
---
✧ MEANWHILE: Adunni's Apartment, Night ✧
The relic was wrapped in black cloth and hidden in a safe drawer across the room.
Adunni lay awake in bed, restless.
The hum of it still pulsed beneath her skin, singing in her blood.
Sleep came in fits. Then—
THE DREAM
She stood barefoot in a field of ash and moonlight.
The sky above her burned red. The moon was full, enormous, bleeding fire.
Wind howled around her, filled with voices not her own. Calling. Warning. Praising.
She looked down at her hands.
They weren't hands anymore.
Bronze skin turned molten, veins glowing gold. Her nails—claws. Her eyes reflected the moonlight like silver coins. And her body—taller, leaner, wild—cloaked in living flame.
She heard a growl behind her.
Turning, she saw a massive black wolf with golden eyes—Luca's eyes—watching her from a stone ridge. Not approaching. Just… waiting.
When she moved toward him, the earth beneath her feet cracked.
Fire followed where she walked.
In the sky above, a voice—not hers, but inside her—roared:
"You are not born. You are called."
She fell to her knees, clawed hands sinking into scorched soil.
From the flame around her rose a shape—a goddess of both ash and ember, whispering in Yoruba:
"Ìkokò rẹ kin she Ìkokò rẹ̀. Ó ni agba. Ìkokò re nii."
"Your wolf is not his. It is older. It is yours."
🛏️ Morning After
Adunni bolted upright, gasping, soaked in sweat.
Her hands trembled.
She looked down.
Her palms were red-hot. Glowing.
The relic in the drawer pulsed once—then went still.