Lucy reclined on the wide velvet chaise in the sunlit chamber, legs stretched across Isolde's lap. The duchess was gently rubbing scented oil into her calves, fingers moving in slow, worshipful circles. Thorn sprawled across Lucy's stomach, tiny wings spread like a rose-gold blanket, petals along her horns blooming lazy silver-blue in the warm light. Lucy's pink hair spilled over the cushions in bright waves, catching every stray sunbeam until it looked like liquid candy. She wore the same skimpy black-and-silver outfit from yesterday—cropped top barely containing her chest, skirt riding high, stockings shimmering with faint rose-gold thread. The air smelled of jasmine, warm skin, and the faint sweetness of the liturgy book resting open on her thigh.
She was halfway through a quiet recitation of the Litany of Cleansing when the room grew colder.
The candles flickered. Shadows stretched longer than they should have. Thorn's head snapped up, petals shifting to sharp rose-gold, tiny thorns glinting. A low hiss escaped the little devil's throat.
Lucy closed the book with a soft snap and looked toward the window.
Mother Nyx stood there.
She hadn't come through the glass—she simply was. Red hair flowed like spilled wine down her back, violet eyes gleaming with amusement. The black gown clung to her curves as if painted on, slit high enough to show endless leg. She leaned casually against the window frame, arms folded, smiling the slow, patient smile that had haunted Lucy's dreams since the crypt.
"Well," Nyx purred, voice velvet over broken glass. "Look at you. Still alive. Still pretty. Still wearing scraps of the Order like a naughty child who stole her mother's clothes."
Lucy didn't move. She kept her expression calm, fingers resting lightly on Thorn's back to keep the little devil from launching. Isolde's hands froze on Lucy's calf, eyes wide, but she didn't pull away.
Nyx stepped fully into the room. The air rippled around her like heat from a fire. She glanced at Isolde, then at Thorn, then back to Lucy.
"I see you decided to feed the hunger along the way," she said, nodding toward the duchess and the empty space where Raphael usually stood. "Thank goodness. I was wondering how you would survive without the Order's teat to suckle. A duchess for comfort… an angel for purity… clever girl. You've turned starvation into a banquet."
Lucy set the liturgy book aside. Her voice came out cool and even. "Leave."
Nyx laughed—low, delighted, genuine. "Oh, sweet thing. You don't get to dismiss me that easily. Not when I planted the seed that made all this possible." She gestured at Lucy's body, at Thorn, at the faint silver-blue glow that still lingered under her skin. "Look at you. Pink hair, skimpy clothes, a little devil on your lap, a noble massaging your feet, an angel probably flying back right now with hearts in his eyes. You're thriving. And you owe that to me."
Lucy stood up slowly. Isolde rose with her, stepping slightly behind but staying close. Thorn fluttered to Lucy's shoulder, wings spread, thorns fully extended, ready to strike.
"I owe you nothing," Lucy said. "You tried to break me. You failed. Now get out."
Nyx's smile sharpened. She took one step forward. The air grew heavy, scented with jasmine and smoke. "Careful, little bloom. I could take it all back with a word. That hunger you're so proud of taming? I can make it scream again. I can make your angel weep blood. I can make your pretty duchess forget her own name."
Lucy's hand rose. Silver-blue light flared from her palm, brighter than before, weaving into sharp, glowing sigils that hovered in the air—lines pulled straight from the liturgy she had just been reading. The words of cleansing twisted, reshaped by her will, becoming something new: a banishment spell laced with her own rose-gold hunger.
Nyx's eyes narrowed. For the first time, a flicker of real surprise crossed her face.
"Disgusting," she hissed. "So the rumours are true. A fiend with the power of an angel. How anti-climactic."
Lucy stepped forward, sigils burning brighter, air crackling around her fingers. Thorn hissed, wings flaring wide, petals blazing silver-blue and rose-gold at once.
Nyx held her ground for one heartbeat longer.
Then she smiled—slow, wicked, promising.
"This isn't over, little bloom."
She dissolved into black smoke and red sparks, vanishing as though she had never been there.
The sigils faded from Lucy's palm. The room warmed again. Thorn settled back onto her shoulder, petals dimming, tail curling around Lucy's ear in quiet triumph.
Isolde exhaled shakily and pressed her forehead to Lucy's shoulder. "She's gone?"
Lucy nodded once.
She looked at the empty window where Nyx had stood.
Then she picked up the liturgy book again, opened it to the same page, and resumed reading—voice calm, steady, unshaken.