Prologue
“Mesdames et messieurs…”
The auctioneer’s voice, silky and dripping with a malice cloaked in elegance, echoed through the grand opera house.
“La prochaine lot est une jeune putain ravissante nommée Sophia.”
I had won the school prize for French at my high school. It had made me well-suited for this mission, but just now, I wished I couldn’t understand the auctioneer so well.
The next lot is a ravishing young whore by name of Sophia.
I couldn’t help but find the irony bitterly amusing, given how I had begged Malleus to take my virginity not more then thirty-six hours ago, only for him to refuse me with ruthless finality. My thoughts swirled like a tempest within me as the spotlight found my cage, casting a harsh, unforgiving light upon my bare skin. I fought to calm myself, to quell the rising tide of panic and humiliation.
Appear innocent at all times.
Malleus’ stern command whispered from the recesses of my memory. My heart pounded, each beat resonating with the weight of the expectations of the Pretorian Guard. I took a deep breath, striving to project a façade of naïveté and purity, despite the degrading circumstances. I definitely didn’t have to feign the blush on my cheeks, at least. To stand naked in a cage, on the stage of an opera house, with a crowd of well-dressed people watching in the audience would have mortified me even if I had been the experienced prostitute the auctioneer had mentioned.
“We’ll begin the bids at five million euros,” the auctioneer announced, my mind absorbing the French so perfectly, I didn’t need to translate it for myself. I heard the murmur of the crowd shift into an eager hum.
“Look at that lovely mouth, capable of giving so much pleasure,” he crooned, his tone somehow both lewd and reverential. “Her little breasts, firm and perfect.” Each remark felt like a knife twisting in my gut.
“I have five million,” the auctioneer said. “May I have five million, five hundred thousand?”
For a moment, I steeled myself, instinctively trying not to let my composure crack. I did everything I could to push away the mixture of revulsion and strange, shameful vanity at the attention being lavished upon my body, my most intimate parts dissected verbally before this assembly of depraved elites.
Then I remembered that high above my head, over the proscenium arch, a huge screen showed every inch of me. I felt my eyes go upward, my head turning to see. Despite the terrible viewing angle, I could see the image of my face, my neck craning and my head twisted. I saw the blush on my cheek, and I remembered that I had to play a role, that I had to show how innocent a fuck toy I would be, for the man who must buy me—if I were to save the world, anyway.
“Look at us, you little slut,” called a voice from the audience, the words in beautifully accented French. “Not at yourself!”
“Ah,” said the auctioneer, whose back was to me. He turned around and looked at me, his long face stern. He spoke in heavily accented English. “Little whores must not look up like zat, girl. Shall I zummon ze man with ze cane?”
My hands balled into fists as I fought to keep myself from covering my breasts and my smooth, bare pussy. Before the auction, all of the girls on stage, each in her own separate cage, had been instructed by the auctioneer not to do that on pain of whipping. He had left out the part about not looking up.
I had a real fear of the cane, that terrifying implement I had never felt across my backside. Malleus had used a very firm hand with me during my training, but the cane had always remained on the rack. I gave myself over to the fear, intentionally: I bit my lip and felt my forehead crease hard, and I shook my head anxiously to show the auctioneer I would try to obey—just the way a young woman who had been abducted for sale at the secret auction of Legeria City, but not trained as a honeypot by the Pretorian Guard, might.
The auctioneer gave me a final glare, and then he turned around. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, I suspect whoever purchases her will have the great pleasure of whipping her frequently. Let’s recommence at five million, five hundred thousand. Who’ll give me that, for the privilege of giving young Sophia the discipline she needs, in whatever way you see fit?”
That sum was bid, and the bids rose rapidly from there, punctuated by the auctioneer’s explicit commentary.
“Her tight little cunt, such a hidden treasure,” he continued, making me wish I had never learned the naughty French words that slid like poison into my ears. “And that anus, so ready to be explored.”
I clenched my fists, nails digging into my palms as I struggled to suppress the turmoil inside me. How could I feel anything other than disgust? And yet, as the numbers climbed higher—five million, six million—I couldn’t deny a flicker of perverse pride that such a value was being placed on me. It was a grotesque validation, one that made my stomach churn with self-loathing.
“Seven million,” came a voice from the crowd.
I thought of that huge image of my own face, projected on the enormous screen above. I wondered about the man who had seen my wide eyes staring into the audience and decided to offer that much money. Was it Delacroix? Had he bid yet? Would he? Malleus and his colleagues had felt certain Delacroix would have eyes only for my auburn hair, my little breasts, my slim hips, and the tender cleft between my thighs.
“Seven million two hundred thousand,” the auctioneer declared, his voice triumphant. The bidding war raged on, each number further cementing my fate. A part of me wished desperately to be anywhere else, while another, darker part reveled in the attention as well as the magnitude of the stakes involved.
“She’s magnificent, isn’t she?” the auctioneer purred. “She’s worth every centime for her unexplored potential. Think of opening that virgin flower on your cock, gentlemen. She comes with a certification that only her mouth has been used by the penis. May I have seven million five hundred thousand?”
A pause followed, and I wondered whether my fate had been decided. Had Delacroix placed that last bid? Malleus had said that in the event anyone else purchased me, the Guard would extract me quickly. I would go back to headquarters, probably to work as an analyst—and Malleus would take me as his nupta. I wouldn’t save the world, but I also wouldn’t have to risk my life, or give my body up for a villainous magnate’s depraved, degrading sexual pleasure. A spark of hope mingled with the terror of the unknown.
“Ah,” the auctioneer said suddenly. “Monsieur Delacroix. I had a feeling you would not remain silent. Seven million five hundred thousand. Thank you.”
Another pause.
“Going once,” the auctioneer said, the flat tone of his voice suggesting that he didn’t expect another bid. “Going twice.”
I swallowed hard. I peered out into the audience, not having to feign my panicked wish to make out Delacroix’s face. Malleus had refused to let me see a picture, even.
“Sophia,” he had said in his gravelly voice, “we must do everything we can to make your reactions authentic.”
The auctioneer spoke again, the word that made my tummy flip. “Sold to Monsieur Anton Delacroix. I hope you enjoy breaking in this lovely young whore, monsieur.”
A round of appreciative applause rippled through the audience. Heat rose into my scalp at the thought of all of them imagining a rich man deflowering me, ripping through the virgin barrier of my pussy as I cried out under his hard, thrusting manhood.
I knew I should focus on the specifics of the mission, on the minute training Malleus had drilled into me. But it seemed impossible not to feel the gravity of my situation, not to fear that the duality of my existence might be laid bare for all to witness. As the spotlight shifted away and the auctioneer moved on to the next girl, I exhaled slowly, trying to regain some semblance of control over my roiling emotions.
The room grew quieter, the hum of anticipation settling as the next lot was introduced. I remained in my cage, waiting for the inevitable, my mind a storm of conflicted thoughts, my body still trembling from the intensity of the experience.
Five minutes after the last girl was sold—for a mere six million euros, I noted—the cage door swung open with a grating creak, startling me. I had fixed my attention on the left wing, from which other successful bidders had emerged to claim their new human property. The man who had opened the cage door, though, must have come from the right.
I instinctively drew back, my heart pounding in my chest, sure it must be Delacroix. It wasn’t, though: I had never seen Delacroix, but I recognized the man who greeted my gaze. The towering figure who loomed before me was miles Marcus Blackthorne. The unexpectedness of his presence sent a jolt through me, mingling surprise with a thrill of something else, perhaps the interest I had felt about Marcus. Malleus had told me to look out for him, the Guard field agent who had been in deep cover in Delacroix’s chateau for more than a year.
“Come,” he commanded in English, his voice a low rumble that resonated through my very bones.
Struggling to maintain composure, I stepped forward hesitantly, feeling the weight of his piercing blue eyes upon me. His image had been etched into my memory, a constant reminder of the web of intrigue that surrounded us.
“Remember, Sophia,” Malleus had cautioned, his tone both stern and protective, “Marcus is our man inside. Trust him, but never forget your mission. And remember that you will both be under constant surveillance. You cannot tell him who you really are.”
“Step outside,” Marcus instructed, breaking through my reverie. His words carried an undeniable authority, yet there was a subtle softness in his tone that belied the harshness of our surroundings.
I obeyed, feeling the cool air flow over my bare skin as I exited the cage. My senses seemed heightened, every sound and scent registering with vivid intensity. The auctioneer’s lewd commentary still echoed faintly in the background of my mind, a grotesque reminder of the world I now inhabited.
“Monsieur Delacroix will be expecting you at his chateau,” Marcus continued, his gaze unwavering. “As his head of security, it’s my duty to oversee the preparation of all new acquisitions.”
“Preparation?” I repeated, struggling to keep my voice steady. The implications of his words sent a shiver down my spine.
“Discipline and readiness for your master’s bed,” Marcus elaborated, his eyes darkening with intent. “Your obedience will be tested; your submission, refined. It falls upon me to ensure you are adequately prepared for your owner’s desires.”
Despite my training, despite the ironclad control I had honed under Malleus’ tutelage, I felt a surge of conflicting emotions—fear, anticipation, and an undeniable attraction to the man standing before me. His presence was magnetic, drawing me in even as I fought to maintain my equilibrium.
“Understand this, Sophia,” Marcus said, stepping closer until his breath mingled with mine. “You must submit entirely to Delacroix’s will. In every way imaginable. Your… success depends on it.”
My eyes went wide, just as a true innocent’s would have. I felt certain Marcus had almost said life rather than success.
“Oui, Monsieur,” I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. The proximity of his body, the intensity of his gaze, stirred something deep within me—a tumultuous blend of desire and dread.
“Good girl,” he murmured, a flicker of approval in his eyes. I watched with unfeigned trepidation, eyes wide, as he reached into the inside breast pocket of his black suit coat. He pulled his hand out, and I heard a soft clinking just before I saw that he held a black leather collar and a matching leash. The metal fixtures glinted slightly in the low remaining light on the stage—gilt, at least, or perhaps even solid gold.
As he reached the collar towards me, I shied away—this time intentionally, as an attempt to hide my strong reaction to Marcus’ physical presence with play-acted innocence.
“A bit skittish, are we?” Marcus asked, his voice ironic but also stern. “Come here, you naughty little slut. If you have trouble with your collar, you’re going to need a good deal of preparation for the night Monsieur fucks your ass for the first time.”
That shocked me, for real. I felt tears prick at the corners of my eyes, and I felt the color mount to the roots of my hair. With my knees wobbling under me, I took a step forward, into range of Marcus’ long, muscular arms.
“Turn around,” Marcus commanded, and I did, with a deep shudder. “Chin up.”
He had the collar in his left hand. I saw it at the bottom of my vision just before he settled it into place at the front of my neck. Then his right hand brushed against my cheek, a fleeting touch that left my skin tingling with electricity. I couldn’t tell whether he had done it on purpose, and the uncertainty brought another surge of heat to my face. An instant later, I felt him fasten the clasp on my neck, and then I heard the click of the golden lock. The trembling in my limbs, to know how completely I belonged to Anton Delacroix, came from the true depths of my mind and heart.
“Turn around,” Marcus said again.
Feeling like I had left my body, I complied.
He had the leash, now, and he clipped it to the ring at the front of the collar.
“Follow me,” he commanded, turning abruptly, as if I could do anything else. I trailed behind him, my eyes downcast, fixed on the leash to make certain the slack in it remained, so that the collar wouldn’t jerk painfully at my neck. I was terribly conscious of my nakedness as we began to pass through the crowd of gorgeously clad men, whose gazes I felt certain all lingered obscenely on my exposed body.
All the while, my mind raced. Malleus clearly hadn’t known how high his miles had risen in Delacroix’s ranks. I had my own mission, different from Marcus’, more urgent though not more important. How could I possibly navigate this situation, without giving a trained Guard agent any suspicion that I wasn’t the innocent, virginal fucking piece Delacroix thought he had just purchased for his bed?
[divider]Chapter One
Six weeks earlier
Sophia
I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the flickering screen of my outdated laptop. A mixture of excitement and desperation surged through me at what I had just noticed to the side of my social media feed. It was just a few weeks before my nineteenth birthday, and the bleak reality of my future loomed large. With no money for college and the prospect of selling my soul to a megacorp like Selecta hanging over my head, I felt trapped. That’s when I saw it—the ad that seemed almost too good to be true, so good that it practically shimmered on my screen.
Join the Ostia Modeling Agency, it beckoned, and experience a life of high-powered glamour, travel, and luxury.
My friends had always told me I should be a model, but I had dismissed the idea as superficial and beneath me. Yet the lure of high-class travel and an escape from my mundane existence proved irresistible. I clicked on the ad and filled out the application with trembling fingers. To my astonishment, I received a response almost immediately, instructing me to come to New York for an interview.
I spent the next few days preparing meticulously, selecting my best clothes for the occasion—a pink silk blouse that clung to my curves in all the right places, and a black maxi skirt that flowed elegantly with each step. Matching pumps completed the ensemble, their modest heels giving me a slight boost in confidence. As I stood before the mirror, admiring my reflection, I couldn’t help but feel a thrill of anticipation. This could be my ticket out.
The journey to New York seemed a blur of anxious excitement. When I arrived at the address provided, I found myself standing before an imposing skyscraper, its sleek lines and mirrored surface reflecting the bustling city around it.
On the 48th floor, the elevator doors slid open to reveal a lobby that looked like a purposefully awe-inspiring display of modern opulence—polished marble floors, leather-covered couches, and a sea of impeccably dressed women moving about with purpose.
“Welcome to Ostia,” a receptionist greeted me with a warm smile when I emerged from the elevator, my eyes wide as I looked around the stunning space. She too was stunning, her attire a masterpiece of haute couture. Behind her head, in an elegant black script on the white wall, the words Ostia Modeling confirmed that I’d gotten off on the correct floor. “Sophia Larkwood?”
I blinked at her, taken aback that she had recognized me. I’d sent a selfie with my application, true, but how had it made its way to the receptionist’s desk?
“Yes,” I said, not liking the hesitation in my voice. “Yes, I’m Sophia.”
She rose from the long desk. “I’m Gail,” she said. “Please follow me.”
Two other equally beautiful women, in equally gorgeous dresses, sat further down, so the lobby wouldn’t lack for supervision. I felt as if I had entered a different world, with its own rules that applied only to people like Gail and her colleagues.
I trailed behind her, my heart pounding as we navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the agency. Every woman I passed seemed more beautiful than the last, their outfits rivaling those seen on the runways of Milan and Paris—as known to me through hours of time wasted on fashion news online. The air held the subtle scent of expensive perfume and carried a faint hum of whispered conversations and the tap of clicking heels.
“Right this way,” Gail the receptionist said, opening a door to a small, windowless room. “Your interviewer will be with you shortly. I’ll take your purse. It’ll be at the receptionists’ desk when you’re done.”
“Oh, but…” I said. “I can keep my phone, right?”
Gail shook her head. “I’m afraid not. You may be given some proprietary information, and we need to be careful.”
I frowned and considered for a moment, then handed over my little clutch. Gail bestowed a reassuring smile on me.
I stepped inside the little room, the door closing softly behind me. The room was stark in its simplicity—a single table and two chairs, illuminated by the harsh glare of a fluorescent light. I took a seat, smoothing my skirt nervously as I waited.
Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, my mind racing with thoughts of what lay ahead. I tried to go through the answers I had prepared in my head: No, no experience, but I’m a quick learner. Well, frankly, I’m interested in security, but a little luxury wouldn’t hurt. No, I know it’s a hard job, but I like to think I’m artistic, and I can see myself moving up in the industry once I know the ropes. Yes, I’m willing to work hard.
Just as I began to lose hope that they even remembered I was here, the door swung open. To my surprise, a tall man entered. He had on a charcoal gray business suit, his red tie making for a striking contrast against the muted tones. His broad-shouldered presence seemed to command the room. To my confusion, my breath caught in my throat at the sight of him.
Relax. They probably kept you waiting this long just to mess with you, so they could get an idea of what you’re really like. Or something like that.
“My name is Malleus,” he announced, his voice deep and authoritative. He gave no sign of knowing how strange that sounded, as an introduction. “You will call me miles. It’s a title, not a name, and it means I will be your trainer. You are from this moment a columba of the Order of Ostia, under my supervision.”
I stared at him, my mind reeling. Trainer? Columba? What did any of this mean?
“Go ahead and take off your clothes,” he instructed, his tone leaving no room for argument.
A wave of shock, fear, and something else—something darker—washed over me. My body tensed, my heart hammering in my chest as I grappled mentally with the command. The room seemed to close in around me, the air growing thick with an oppressive, sudden sense of the gravity of the moment. I had the frightening but irresistible thought that my life had just changed a good deal more than I had thought I wanted it to.
“Take off your clothes,” he repeated, his eyes boring into mine. “Or I’ll take them off for you.”
I sat frozen in the simple task chair at the simple interview table, my mind a chaotic storm of conflicting emotions. Shock and fear kept coursing through me, icy tendrils wrapping around my heart. That something else, though, it remained present, too. Unwillingly, I identified it as arousal, rising unbidden in response to this man’s—Malleus? Is that what he said?—command.
“Wh-what?” I stammered, my voice barely above a whisper. My hands trembled as I clutched the hem of my blouse, torn between compliance and resistance. A part of me, to my utter horror, considered obeying him, the thought of undressing under his stern gaze sending a shiver down my spine.
“No,” I said finally, mustering what little courage I had left. “I won’t do it. I want to leave.”
Malleus’ expression remained impassive, his gaze never wavering. “You’ve been identified as a prime candidate for sexual service through data mining of your online activity,” he stated matter-of-factly. “The Order of Ostia has recruited you, and you have no choice in the matter. Your family will be told you have been selected for a prestigious but secret corporate program.”
“The… the Order of… of what?” I said. A spark of hope ignited in my chest. “But… oh, wait… I thought… I think the receptionist… Gail? Was that her name? I think she… I’m supposed to be interviewing…”
Malleus let me go on that far, and then he interrupted.
“For the Ostia Modeling Agency,” he said. “Which is the front for the Order of Ostia. You’re in the right place. Take off your clothes.”
“That’s insane!” I protested, pushing my chair back and rising from it. “You can’t do this! Let me go!”
“Strip,” he commanded again, his tone brooking no argument. “Or I’ll take your clothes off for you.”
My pulse quickened, panic flooding my senses. I knew rationally that I had no chance of escape. The room was small, windowless, and the door behind him seemed an insurmountable barrier. Yet, the thought of submitting to his authority, of baring myself before him, filled me with a desperate need to get out of there at all costs.
Without another word, I lunged for the door, my heart pounding in my chest. I knew it was futile, but I couldn’t help the primal urge to flee. My pumps clicked frantically against the polished floor as I reached for the handle, my fingers brushing the cold metal.
In an instant, Malleus was upon me, his strong hand gripping my wrist with effortless precision. He pulled me back, spinning me around to face him. His piercing blue eyes held a mixture of irritation and amusement.
“You’re trying my patience, columba,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “And I don’t mind imposing consequences for misbehavior on lovely young virgins like yourself.”
A wave of helplessness washed over me, mingling with the shame and arousal that his touch evoked. His grip was unyielding, his presence overwhelming. Despite my struggles, I couldn’t deny the traitorous heat seeping between my legs, a mortifying testament to his dominance.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice trembling with a blend of fear and helpless, forbidden desire. “Why are you doing this?”
“Don’t ask useless questions, columba,” Malleus replied, his tone devoid of mercy. “You belong to the Order now, and you will learn to submit.”
Tears welled in my eyes, a mixture of frustration, fear, and the unbearable shame of my own body’s betrayal. My resolve wavered, teetering on the edge of submission. The battle within me raged on, each passing second a tortured eternity.
Malleus’ grip on my wrist tightened as he pushed me back against the cold, unforgiving wall of the interview room. My heart pounded in my chest, a wild drumbeat that seemed to echo in the confined space. His eyes, those piercing blue orbs, locked onto mine with an intensity that made it impossible to look away.
“Since you insist on making this difficult,” he murmured, his voice soft but laced with iron, “I’ll do it for you.”
Before I could react, his hands were on me, moving with a swift, practiced precision. He started with my pumps, stooping to slide them off my feet and tossing them aside with a casual flick. The loss of my shoes left me feeling even more vulnerable, exposed. I tried to kick at him, but he caught my ankle effortlessly, his grip bruising.
“Stop struggling, Sophia,” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “You’re only prolonging the inevitable.”
My breath hitched as his fingers found the buttons of my blouse. Each one slipped free with a soft pop, the sound almost obscene in the tense silence of the room. As the fabric parted, I felt the cool air brush against my skin, raising goosebumps along my arms. My blouse fell away, revealing the sensible beige bra beneath. It seemed a stark contrast to the high-end fashion of Ostia’s office, a reminder of my ordinary, unremarkable life.
“Please,” I whispered, my voice trembling. “Don’t do this.”
He ignored my plea, his focus unwavering. His hands moved to my skirt next, unzipping it and letting it drop around my ankles. I stood before him in nothing but my undergarments, my cheeks burning with humiliation. Despite my fear, the treacherous heat coiled low in my belly, an arousal I couldn’t control.
“Such a lovely girl,” Malleus murmured, almost to himself, as he reached behind me to unclasp my bra. The straps slid down my shoulders, and I crossed my arms over my chest instinctively, trying to preserve some shred of dignity. He clearly had no intention of allowing me that shred of modesty. His hands gripped my wrists, pulling them away and pinning them to my sides.
“Look at you,” he said, his voice a dark caress. “So defiant, yet your body betrays you. Those pretty little nipples are as stiff as my cock.”
His gaze raked over me, taking in the sight of my naked breasts, the tiny nubs hardened to aching peaks. My mortification deepened, knowing he could see how my body responded to his touch.
His hands moved to the waistband of my panties. I struggled again, a futile effort, but he was relentless. With a swift motion, he ripped the legs of my panties, the tearing sound loud in the stillness. The ruined fabric joined the rest of my discarded clothing on the floor.
I stood before him, completely exposed, my body trembling with a mix of fear and unwanted desire. My shame grew as I felt a slick wetness gathering between my thighs.
To my utter horror, Malleus suddenly grabbed my arm and spun me around, then marched me the two steps to the table. He bent me over it, where I had expected to sit for a normal interview. The cold surface pressed against my bare skin, seeming to amplify my vulnerability.
“You’re exactly what we need,” he murmured.
I felt his hand on my bare backside, his fingers probing, parting my folds with ease. I whimpered, trying to twist away, but his other hand, on the small of my back, held me firmly in place. His touch was skilled, exploring me gently but insistently, sending jolts of reluctant pleasure through me.
“That’s what I thought,” he said, his voice smug. “We hardly need the doctor to verify beyond the shadow of a doubt that you’re the kind of girl we’re looking for, columba.” He paused, his fingers curling inside me, eliciting a gasp from my lips. “But your medical exam is important: we need to get precise numbers on you. And the nurse will wax your pussy for me, anyway. Once you’re bare down here, your new life will gain a certain immediacy for you.”
At his words, my pussy clenched involuntarily around his fingers, a reaction that filled me with a fresh wave of shame. How could my body respond this way? How could I find any semblance of arousal in such a degrading situation?
“You’re going to make a fine nupta, Sophia Larkwood, once your virginity is nothing but a memory,” Malleus chuckled, his voice rich with anticipation.
“Wait here,” he commanded, his piercing blue eyes locking onto mine as he collected the remnants of my dignity—my clothes—and turned to leave. “I’ll be back shortly.”
I watched, heart pounding in my chest, as the door clicked shut behind him, sealing me in this small, windowless room that now felt like a cage. The silence was deafening, oppressively emphasizing the rapid thump of my heartbeat.
For a moment, I remained frozen, my mind racing with the implications of what had just happened. My skin still tingled where his hands had roamed, and shame mingled with an unwelcome flicker of arousal deep within me. How could I have responded so traitorously to his touch? My body’s betrayal stoked the fires of my resolve; I had to get out of here.
Testing the door handle cautiously, I found it unlocked. A glimmer of hope sparked inside me. Slowly, I cracked the door open, peering out into the deserted hallway. The sleek, modern opulence of the Ostia offices now seemed stark and menacing, each shadow a potential threat.
I took a deep breath, pushing aside the memory of Malleus’ degrading words and the skilled way his fingers had claimed my body. There was no time to dwell on that now. I had noticed earlier, when walking to this room, that the stairs were only a few feet away. If I could reach them, maybe—just maybe—I could make it to the lobby and call for help.
Steeling myself, I opened the door a little further and slipped out, my bare feet whispering against the cold, polished floor. The air felt cooler against my exposed skin, raising goosebumps along my arms and legs. Each step was a calculated risk, my senses heightened by the fear of being caught.
My rational mind knew the odds were slim. They had undoubtedly designed this place to keep people like me contained. But desperation lent wings to my feet and courage to my heart. As I neared the stairwell door, I felt a fleeting sense of triumph.
But before I could reach it, a voice—deep and authoritative—pierced the silence, freezing me in my tracks.
“The door was unlocked to test you, columba,” Malleus said, his tone laced with grim satisfaction. “And you passed, though I’m afraid you won’t like your reward.”
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