Page 150 of Nocturne

“Not for me, kid.” She shakes her head, turning her sharp gaze towards me.

“But if she gets here too late," Willow murmured, her voice a mix of fear and pride, "there won’t be a force in this world that can stop the havoc that mad bitch will unleash."

V

Month three

That day when Bapo dragged me from my cell, I didn’t resist. There was no point. My body, gaunt and depleted, lacked the strength to fight back. My mind had already retreated, bracing for the familiar horrors he would inflict. Bapo wasn’t imaginative in his cruelty; he relied on a few favoured tortures—the lake, the chase, the whip, or hanging me from the ceiling like a broken marionette.

The pain had become a rhythm, a grotesque routine I could brace for. My body had adapted in ways that bordered on miraculous. I could run for an hour barefoot, hold my breath for four minutes—impressive for someone untaught, shaped only by necessity.

But no amount of resilience could numb the agony. The whip still ignited my nerves like wildfire. His fists left bruises that lingered like echoes long after he was gone. And yet, his violence was calculated, never leaving scars. That, I knew, was Vir’s doing. His “master” had decreed that my body must remain unmarred—pristine in its suffering. Bapo’s hands could only bruise the surface, but his cruelty burrowed deep.

So when he turned left instead of right, my mind jolted awake. A deviation in his routine meant something. Orders. Orders that required me alive and out of my cell.

He dragged me forward, my weightless, unresisting body moving like a doll in his grip. The dungeon’s oppressivedarkness gave way to the ritual grounds. Firelight danced chaotically, the air thick with the metallic tang of fear. The followers were gathered, their grotesque masks of animal skulls and skins transforming them into nightmares. Bapo donned his mask as we entered their circle, leaving me bare, exposed.

The fire pit roared, and the symbols glowed red, etched into the earth beneath our feet. And at the centre stood Vir, robed and waiting. My legs locked beneath me as Bapo released his grip, but Vir’s presence drew me forward like a noose tightening around my neck. There was something about him—something darker than Bapo’s brutish violence. He was calculated and insidious.

“The time has come, dear,” he said, his voice dripping with mock affection.

I couldn’t speak. Fear clamped around my throat, and my mind scrambled for understanding. His words didn’t make sense. None of this made sense. The fire, the masks, the sigils—it all felt like the prelude to something far worse than the torments I had known.

“The time has come for the blessed one to begin the ritual,” Vir continued. “For the great Azazel to grant his power, for his descent to be fulfilled.”

His words washed over me like a tide of lunacy I couldn’t comprehend. Then I saw them. Six women, dragged into the circle, their white dresses clinging to their trembling bodies. They were laid on the ground, their captors holding them down. Their eyes darted wildly, searching for salvation in a sea of monsters. And then they found me.

Vir’s hand on my shoulder snapped me back to the moment. He pushed me forward, his grip unyielding as he forced me to kneel beside the first woman. Her eyes, wide with terror, locked onto mine. Silent tears streamed down her face, her lips trembling as she pleaded without words.

“You must draw the blood of the sacrifice,” Vir said, pressing a black dagger into my shaking hands. “It is your duty as the blessed one.”

The world spun. My hands trembled so violently that I thought I might drop the blade. I couldn’t—I wouldn’t. My head shook vehemently, a desperate denial of what he was asking. My tears blurred the scene, but nothing could obscure the malice in Vir’s eyes or the despair in the woman’s.

“If not them,” he whispered, his voice low and venomous, “then it will be you.”

I had braced for that. I had made my peace with dying. But then his voice cut deeper.

“Or your sister.”

My breath caught. The blade in my hands felt impossibly heavy. I shook my head, sobbing, choking on my resistance. I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. But then the woman’s hand, trembling and weak, reached up to touch mine.

“Do it,” she whispered. Her voice was steady, almost serene.

“I can’t,” I sobbed, my voice breaking.

“Please,” she urged. “Let it end.”

Her eyes, once frantic, now held a strange peace. The other women echoed her plea, their voices barely above a whisper. They weren’t begging for release; they were begging for mercy.

My hands shook so violently that the dagger nearly slipped. The choice was no choice at all, and yet it shattered something fundamental within me. The hope I had carried, the defiance I had nurtured—it all crumbled as I pressed the blade to her skin.

“Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking as her blood stained my hands.

One by one, they came. Each woman walked to her death with the same haunting serenity, their tears mingling with mine. The blade grew heavier with every life it claimed. The final woman’s tears burned against my skin as I took her life, a searing reminder of what I had become.

By the end, I knelt in a pool of blood, my soul as hollow as the pit before me. I stared at my trembling hands, now stained with crimson, and knew there was no redemption. No going back.

I wasn’t the girl my parents raised. I wasn’t the sister Iyra loved. I wasn’t a victim anymore.

---