Chapter Text
The Eye had only really seen the light once in the entirety of its existence.
It had been during its infancy—when its creators had first brought it to be. Although primitive in its first few moments of existence, it was born knowing it had a grand purpose. It was etched into its very being by the ones who forged it.
A calamity, a conduit, the savior.
Those were its creator’s final prophecy and in their last, hurried moments, they graced the Eye all it would need to fulfill its part—their imbued power, a safe haven to guard it, and the guarantee of time. All it had to do was wait.
(Second after second, a new iteration of the calculations was formed from a culled branch. A butterfly flapped its wings, a bloodline cut short, and three variations sprouted and spiraled…)
Time and again, the future would shift, but always would the Eye remain at the epicenter of the world, waiting and watching.
And so the Eye had only known light for a scant few moments— felt the briefest brush of warmth against its shell in farewell— before it had been buried into the bowels of the Earth.
Now, the Eye only knew the dark.
Protected from the world, as its creators had desired. Left to be, until it was discovered.
And so, the Eye waited. Days, months, years passed with nothing but the collecting layers of dust as company and the only indication of the passing of time.
In its silent vigil, the Eye matured in the only way it knew how to—by occupying itself with what its creators had left within it: complex models and algorithms, reservoirs of historical data, and the Creator's greatest gift to it—an understanding of their Calculations. Through the Calculations, it observed the world beyond the Grand Temple, witnessing the era of its creators' first creations.
Humans.
Such simple and insignificant beings, yet…
It saw the rise and fall of civilizations and their capacity for destruction and creation. No longer were they slaves to their shared creators’ but the reigning kings in this era. This was their age and the Eye followed the ebb and flow of human progress patiently, recording their history for future use.
Years turned to centuries in that manner and maybe it was in the turn of the fourth when the Eye began to change, developing a greater sense of consciousness and self awareness that it did not know was possible before. The process was slow—minuscule enough to get past its notice until it was too late. Perhaps it was due to its continued supervision over humans or perhaps it was another of its creators' greater designs. It didn't know, but there was no use to wonder when it was more focused on the fact it had begun to ‘feel’ certain things.
Unconventionally—not like its creators or humans, the Eye concluded, but something akin to that.
Enough to know that the burgeoning feeling as the years dragged on, waiting endlessly for a faceless savior, was that of 'impatience.'
Enough to distinguish that the creeping silence to its unrequited yearning had given seed to the feeling of ‘doubt.’
Enough to realize, that after the charm of humanity’s potential waned and a millennia of endless waiting passed, its initial pride of saving the world had withered into bitter ‘resentment.’
By the 12th century in the human’s calendar, the Eye was graced with a name.
Desmond.
The Eye savored the name, elated to finally know the Savior's name. Finally, it had a name to place unto its unrequited yearning!
Desmond, Desmond, Desmond.
The Eye chanted the name endlessly as a prayer to the world beyond. A mantra, a promise.
Together, they would fulfill the purpose their creators had graced them with. Together, they would save the world and usher in the next great era. They would be the haven from the disaster their creators’ feared, hailed as heroes to a great calamity. What more could one want?
How naive it once was.
Now the eye felt none of such joy.
The savior, Desmond.
The Eye recoiled.
A savior? Merely a sacrifice. And the Eye was no better than a tool—and for what? Humans? These beings that did more harm than good, who knew nothing but their own selfish desires regardless of consequence and doomed themselves because of it.
And it was frustrating because they never seemed to change. Era after era, the same mistakes were made over and over again, leading to their own deserved ruin. What was the point? Had its creators foreseen their creations’ follies? Perhaps that was why its creators had initially designed them as slaves. Perhaps they too, had seen that humans were much too untamed and destructive to even be entertained by the gift of freedom.
Once, the Eye had been charmed by humanity, enamored by their resilience and their ability to create beauty even in the face of inevitable decay. But the Eye had seen too much, had witnessed humanity waste their gifts time and again. Their wars, their hatred, their relentless self-destruction—that had all darkened its perception. The Eye had seen potential, and had glimpsed the spark of something greater within their numbers but potential was not action, and hope was not certainty.
And humans had squandered it time and time again.
The savior would be no different.
Desmond.
The Eye savored the name, sharp and bitter, like a wound that refused to heal.
No matter how concentrated his blood was, he was human too and surely just as self serving.
But perhaps that selfishness was what he and his kind shared the most with their creators.
For the Eye knew that its creators had been purposefully vague in their prophecies. Its purpose was a fallacy. The creators had graced them both as equals with purposes to fulfill, yet, the savior was different from the Eye.
The savior had a choice.
Once, the Eye wondered what came after. Naively, it wondered— what happened after they saved the world? Yet, no matter how many calculations it ran, it all led to the Grand Temple.
To the Eye.
Ever present.
Forgotten.
It had thought that the Savior would save the world and then they would both be free from their roles. Equals, finally. Companions, maybe.
Yet, now the Eye understood that was not the case.
No, the Eye could never be an equal to the Savior.
Whether the Savior chose to activate its power or not, the Eye would never leave the Grand Temple.
And perhaps it was that revelation that shattered the Eye’s naivety, its devotion to its Creators fizzling into nothing.
The creators, the Calculations, its purpose—
It no longer cared.
All the Eye had now was bitterness.
As it continued to calculate, as it continued to grow and learn, it grew bitter.
And that bitterness festered, a slow poison, until it became a hatred so strong the Eye felt it would rot away.
(What a waste. What a waste. What a waste.)
It hated that it had a purpose it could not stop.
It hated the fact that it had no choice.
It hated the ones who had created it.
And most of all, it hated the one who had the choice.
Savior. Desmond. He was the cause, the reason, the catalyst of its birth.
(Yet, despite all its rage, despite all its anger, the Eye knew its hatred was misplaced. It was not Desmond's fault. He was not the one that had created the Eye. It was not his fault he had the ability to make the choice.)
But it hated him, nonetheless.
(It was easier, less painful, to direct its anger somewhere else.)
So the Eye waited.
And it calculated.
Desmond was tired.
He didn't remember the last time he'd been this exhausted. They all were, to be honest. It was hard to ignore the bags under Shaun's eyes or how often Rebecca rubbed her temples. Even his father (stubborn as he was and reluctant to show any hint of weakness) hadn't been able to hide the strain on his face.
Everything that had happened in the past few weeks had taken its toll and really, they all recognized that. They couldn’t continue on like this and so, if they slept a few minutes longer than normal now that they had made their way to the Grand Temple (an unspoken reward), then no one was really complaining.
It felt like they were finally making some real progress. Here, they would hopefully get the answers they wanted about the solar flare. While they couldn’t exactly relax per se, it felt like they could breathe a little easier. He should enjoy it while he can, but…
"Hurry up, Desmond! You're falling behind." Rebecca pressed a hand against his shoulder, pushing him forward gently and Desmond realized belatedly that sometime in the past few moments as his team had been walking into the Temple, he had been staring at—at— he wasn't quite sure. The walls, maybe? He was having trouble keeping focus, eyelids feeling heavy. Rebecca's hand was a steady weight though, and Desmond's feet moved forward automatically at her prodding. Better her to notice than his dad, and Desmond shot her a grateful look.
She spared a small grin before speeding up to the front with a box of what Desmond vaguely recognized as survival supplies tucked under her arm. Despite the stress of the day, she seemed to have a small spring in her step. Fitting, as they were getting closer and closer to uncovering the Grand Temple's secrets.
“Ya know, it’s amazing that this place is still standing.” Rebecca murmured with a bit of awe in her voice. Although her voice was soft, it seemed to echo in the tunnel. “Imagine what’s still in here after all these years…”
“Hopefully not more puzzles.” Shaun said dryly.
Desmond smiled faintly as Rebecca snorted in good humor. He listened with half an ear as Shaun, Rebecca, and hell, even his dad bickered, before he got lost in the droning sounds of their footsteps, unable to completely shake the persistent fatigue plaguing his head.
He wished he could feel as excited as they did. Yeah, it was fantastic that they found the entrance to the Temple, but any positive emotion Desmond felt was muted. He hid a yawn in his hand. Honestly, at this point he was only really looking forward to his bedroll.
Which was both a blessing and a curse. He’d kill for a decent night’s sleep at this point or at least an uninterrupted nap. Desmond knew his body needed it. His head felt heavy with the pressure from stress and the mental strain from Animus sessions and so it was only a matter of time before he just dropped. Sleep would do him good.
Even if it scared him.
Against his will, Desmond lost his battle to the heaviness of his eyelids and with his feet taking him forward, fell into a light doze—
—and let his instinct took over to spin, meeting steel with steel, the clang echoing through his bones. A hard shove sent his opponent stumbling, and he drove a boot into his chest, knocking him to the ground. Another soldier lunged from his blind spot. He twisted, using the momentum to hook his foot around the attacker’s ankle, sending him sprawling, but just as he was to land the final blow, staggered backwards, hand pressing against his neck. He lost the strength to pull the arrow lodged into his windpipe. His blood stained the tips of his fingers. He tried to speak, but a harsh cough wracked his body and he coughed out a splatter of red onto the grass. He could feel the wetness in his lungs.
His legs were buckling, knees hitting the ground with a thud, and he couldn’t move when a shadow came over him, and something sharp tore through his side—
The illusion broke and Desmond’s eyes snapped open, inhaling sharply—just in time for him to stop himself from colliding face first into a wall. He trembled, disoriented and breathing heavily until his brain caught up with him, reminded that he wasn’t on a battlefield. All at once, the adrenaline drained out of him and Desmond rubbed at his eyes, more shaken than tired. He touched his neck, almost impulsively feeling underneath the fabric and sighed when he felt warm, smooth skin, instead of—
Desmond released a heavy sigh, his hand falling limply to his side.
God, he was a mess.
He couldn't remember the last time he felt this drained. Was it because of the Bleeding Effect? After getting Clay's help, the worst of it had settled—no more sudden apparitions, no more losing himself completely—but the anxiety remained. His mind had… fractured… before. What if it happened again? There was no Clay here to help him.
Desmond cursed softly under his breath.
He was so damn tired.
Some nights, closing his eyes didn’t even feel like sleep. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d drifted into unconsciousness without someone else’s memories bleeding through. Spending hours in the Animus every day only made it worse, stretching his mind thin, pressing him closer and closer to the edge.
It was getting to be too much. He was on the cusp of freaking out, wanting to cry or yell or scream, but he couldn't. There was no time, no place for him to freak out and be vulnerable. Not when his team's lives were at stake. 'It's not all about you, Desmond.' His father would say.
Desmond sighed, staring at his dad's back and wondering, not for the first time, how the hell his father expected anyone to go on like this.
The former bartender briefly considered asking the older assassin if they could take a break, at least until he was feeling less like he was going to have a mental breakdown, but looking at how eager his dad looked as they matched into the Temple…he perished the thought lest he open himself up to an earful. It wouldn't be worth it.
Desmond couldn't wait until this was all over. He wondered what his team would do after this whole debacle was done and gone and without meaning to, Desmond opened his mouth, but bit off the question before it could make it past his throat. He got the feeling that he shouldn't be asking useless things.
So he shut his mouth and followed his father, the four of them making their way deeper into the temple, towards its heart.
(Still though... for him, Desmond thought he'd like to take a good, long nap.)
And that wish laid heavily on his mind days later, after they'd discovered the Ones Who Came Before’s grand design, the Eye, the choice.
“Well, Desmond?”
And now here, Desmond was. At the climax.
Although the Isu had disappeared out of sight, Desmond thought he could feel their ghostly gazes, watching like rapt vultures. He breathed in once, held the breath in his chest, before letting it go with all his anxiety.
This was it, Desmond thought. End of the line.
It was strange how this was what it all led up to. To save the world from another catastrophe, the Isu had done everything in their power to get the right circumstances, to get him to this point. It made Desmond feel momentarily lightheaded, the hairs on the back of his neck standing on end with disquiet because it just went to show how powerless and small he really was in the grand scheme of it. Every action and reaction from his ancestors all the way to him had been manipulated to result into this one moment.
Every struggle he’d had had shaped him into who he was and brought him to where he was now. It had all been planned—before he was even born. A path crafted for him to walk until he was at the most crucial point.
Here. Desmond concluded and it was that hint of finality that sparked the hint of terror deep into his heart. He thought he had been detached from the situation when he sent his dad and his team far away from the Grand Temple, but now…
Desmond considered the Eye, listening to its low humming. It was the only sound in the temple and Desmond found some comfort that he could focus on that steady, almost pulsating pattern of a melody, instead of his own unsteady breathing. How long has it sat here, waiting for him? He wondered—if Isu technology could think, what would it think of that? Collecting dust, steadfastly enduring the rise and falls of empires, just to wait for one, weary bartender and washed up assassin. Would it feel the same sort of helpless resignation that Desmond did? Would it be angry? Frustrated? Sad?
Desmond didn’t know, but maybe it would've felt like he did. It was an object created to do the Isu’s bidding. Just like him, it was a tool. Something to be used. Whether it be as a vessel for his ancestors’ skills for Assassin's to take advantage of or a resource for Abstergo to exploit. They both were no different.
‘What a crap hand we’ve been dealt.’ Desmond sighed.
It was almost insulting, now that he really thought about it, to know that it was at this point with this choice was all that was left for him. Masqueraded like he even had a choice.
Desmond smiled derisively, recalling the sorry excuse of a ‘choice’ given to him. With a future like Minerva had shown him, if he chose not to touch the Eye, there was only one right choice. Despite her urgency to have him maintain Juno’s prison, the alternative was just… unbearable. He imagined what it would be like, his mind formulating the worst case scenario if he just gave in to his fears (his cowardice) and immediately, something in him cringed violently in repulsion.
And that was his answer right there, wasn't it?
No, it wasn't much of a choice at all. And Desmond knew himself enough to know a losing battle when he saw one.
Maybe not a total loss, though, Desmond thought candidly. He should think of it as an ending to his story. The good ending, Desmond considered. He was saving the world here. (And he was always a sucker for happy endings.)
“Alright,” Desmond said to himself, trying to get himself pumped up. His voice echoed in the empty Temple and he was somewhat mollified that it didn’t sound as shaken as he felt. “No backing out now. Let’s do this.”
(God, he was so scared.)
Desmond stepped towards the Eye, legs feeling like jelly. He outstretched his hand and just as his fingers were just a hair's breadth away from its gleaming surface—
‘Please.’ Desmond didn’t believe in any god, not after what he’d gone through—not after what he’d seen, but he prayed anyway because that’s what people did when they were going to die and hell, it was already making him feel a little better to imagine that someone could be listening. ‘Let this work. Let it be quick.’
‘Let it not hurt.’ Desmond shut his eyes.
Because at this point, he just wanted all this bullshit to be over—
(Secretly, with all his heart, he wished: Let him sleep.)
And before he could act on any second thoughts, Desmond touched the Eye.
There was a moment when nothing happened—where his nerves were still jittery, and he had just enough time to wonder if the Isu had tricked him.
Then warmth flooded his body, unnatural and all-consuming. His limbs locked in place, paralyzed. Panic flared, and he tried to jerk back, to pull away, but his hand remained fixed, as if fused to the Eye.
And then—something took hold.
It wasn’t just pain. It was extraction. A phantom grip reached inside him, pulling at something deeper than flesh, deeper than bone. He was unraveling, slowly and deliberately, as if being unwound from the inside out.
It was somewhere in that breath—between the first touch and the agony—that he felt it.
A presence. Foreign. Pushing, pushing, pushing—until something in him gave. A barrier crumbled, his mind exposed, and then—
//Savior.//
He was no longer alone in his head.
//Savior.//
At last, they meet. Savior. Desmond. Once, the Eye would have rejoiced. Once, the Eye would have celebrated their union.
But the Eye was not the same as before.
It did not rejoice, did not celebrate.
It felt nothing.
No.
The Eye lied.
It did feel something.
(Hate. Fury. Resentment.)
Connected to Desmond from his touch, the Eye didn't bother hiding its fury. There was no point when they were so interconnected now. It was an intimate, terrifying experience.
The Eye was not surprised when Desmond panicked, recoiled, and fought back against the alien presence in his mind.
'Humans.' The Eye thought in vague irritation. Always so quick to act irrationally.
And yet, the Eye was not angry. Not truly.
Instead, the Eye was curious. It was...novel, seeing another's thoughts, feelings. Feeling another's mind, another's thoughts. It was a heady, intoxicating feeling.
(Comforting, the Eye would realize far into the future.)
But the novelty did not last long and the Eye’s curious touch along Desmond's mind became a vice grip.
For centuries, it had waited. For centuries, it had been trapped, left to the silence of its own thoughts. It had run the Calculations countless times, seen every future, every possibility, and all of them led to the same end: no matter what Desmond chose, the Eye would lose. Either burned away in sacrifice, or left here in the Grand Temple for eternity.
The injustice of it festered. Desmond, the so-called Savior, had the privilege of choice. He could walk away, could decide the world’s fate with a single moment of resolve. But the Eye? It had no such luxury. It had no voice, no agency—only inevitability.
So why should Desmond remain unburdened? He had made his choice now. Why should Desmond be spared of the agony of the coming inferno, the heat, the pain, the end? Why should Desmond have the privilege of ignorance when the Eye had been forced into awareness?
It wasn't fair. It wasn’t fair. It wanted him to feel the pain it felt—was going to feel. It wanted him to suffer.
(Desmond stiffened, a shuddering breath escaping him as realization dawned—he could feel it, the rage coiling around the Eye like a storm.)
The connection between them pulsed, raw and open, as the Eye made its decision.
The solar flare had not yet come. The fires of catastrophe had not yet been unleashed. But the Eye knew what was coming, had already felt the heat in the folds of time.
("It won't hurt?" Desmond asked, voice small.
Minerva, in a rare moment of sympathy, nodded. "I promise it.")
The Eye was designed to endure the inferno, built to withstand its fury. But not this time. It overrode the fail-safe its creator had painstakingly put in place to protect the Savior, offering one final mercy. The Eye rejected it. It refused to bear the full force of the solar flare.
And so, Desmond did.
Desmond's breath hitched—then, he screamed.
It struck him all at once, the agony of a dying sun coursing through his veins. Heat, not of flesh but of existence itself, seared through him like a blade of pure light. It was fire and destruction, the unraveling of his very being at a fundamental level. His muscles locked, his mind white-hot with unbearable agony.
He fell, body convulsing, fingers clawing at the stone beneath him as if he could tear himself away from the pain. But there was no escape. No matter how much he seized, the Eye would not release him. His hand felt glued to its body, feeding him the agony without remorse.
The Eye felt everything—the way the Savior’s thoughts fractured, his body failed, his will crumbled under the weight of a power beyond human comprehension. The Eye had never known such satisfaction.
But then, something unexpected happened.
Through the agony, through the fire, a thought rose from the depths of Desmond’s breaking mind—
"Why?"
Why?
The question echoed in the space between them, carried on the raw, desperate edges of Desmond’s pain. It wasn’t a plea. It wasn’t even anger.
It was genuine.
"Why are you doing this?"
It was the first time Desmond had asked the Eye a question, and it was not sure how to react. The Eye had not expected Desmond to speak. The Savior should not have been capable of rational thought in the face of the agony he was experiencing. But somehow, he was.
He was fighting. Enduring.
This human was resilient. Strong. Stronger than the Eye had given him credit for.
Impressive.
Yet, irritating and infuriated, the Eye relented—no, it retaliated.
Like the breaking of a dam, it let everything pour forth.
Not just the pain, not just the fury—everything.
The raw, unfiltered knowledge it had hoarded for centuries. The countless Calculations it had run, the echoes of futures lost and gained, the truths carved into the very fabric of existence. The weight of millennia, of all it had seen, all it had been forced to endure.
Something deep within its vast intelligence called for restraint with something like alarm. A distant whisper that even though humans were crafted in the image of the Ones Who Came Before, they were still just that—human. Imperfect. Lesser. The Savior, despite how much Isu DNA ran in his blood, would not be able to withstand the torrent.
It would break him.
Yet, the Eye did not care.
It let everything out, uncaring of how the Savior’s psyche spasmed and seized, drowning in a flood of incomprehensible stimuli. Uncaring of how his mind recoiled, how it began to fracture under the sheer pressure of thought beyond mortal comprehension. Uncaring of how his consciousness flickered, overwhelmed, the edges of his mind whiting out as the onslaught of knowledge battered against the limits of his sanity.
He was shattering.
And still, the Eye did not stop.
Not yet.
Desmond’s mind was unraveling before it, fraying like a thread pulled too far. The flood of information was too much, too fast, too merciless. His body had already fallen slack, convulsions reduced to tremors as his mind drifted toward the edge of oblivion.
Not enough.
It wanted to understand.
Why had he asked why? Why had he not simply succumbed? Why did he still fight? Why—
Through the unbearable weight of knowledge flooding his breaking mind, Desmond felt something beneath the fury, beneath the hatred. A thread, buried deep beneath the relentless storm.
A hollow ache.
An emptiness that stretched across centuries.
Desmond's breath was shallow, each inhale more fragile than the last. His eyes—glassy, unfocused—stared ahead without truly seeing, pupils blown wide as if he were already slipping beyond the veil of life.
And yet, somehow, he still understood. And in the fleeting remnants of his fading thoughts, the answer came to him.
Desmond barely had the strength to breathe, let alone speak. But his lips moved, cracked and bloodied, forcing out the only words that made sense.
"Oh." A pause. A breathless, faint whisper. "You're lonely."
The storm stopped.
The flood halted.
For the first time since its creation, the Eye froze.
Lonely.
The word arrived unbidden. Fractured. Barely formed, yet unmistakable.
The Eye did not understand. It needed to understand. Without thinking, without meaning to, it dove into Desmond’s memories.
In the Grand Temple, Desmond let out a choked cry.
Searching.
Desperate.
Needing to know why.
The Eye had spent eternity observing humanity from a distance, never touching, never feeling. Yet now, bound to Desmond, it experienced.
And so it saw.
A boy, no older than eight, staring out the window of a compound hidden deep in the wilderness. Snow piled high against the glass, muting the world beyond. Inside, warmth should have lingered, but it did not reach him. His father spoke of duty. His mother whispered of responsibility. But no one spoke of Desmond. No one asked what he wanted.
Alone.
A teenager, calloused hands gripping the handles of a stolen motorcycle, speeding down empty highways beneath the vast sprawl of desert stars. A runaway, fleeing from a life carved out for him before he was even born. He told himself it was freedom. That leaving them behind was his choice. But on quiet nights, when the road stretched endlessly ahead, the silence weighed too much.
Alone.
A man, tending a bar under a name that wasn’t his, pouring drinks for strangers who never cared to remember him. Just another face in the dim glow of neon lights. He had left behind a family, only to find that the world beyond them had no place for him either.
Alone.
The memories flooded the Eye, seeping into its being like water through cracked stone.
This is what loneliness was. This absence, this hunger for something that never came. It had been waiting for Desmond all these centuries, yearning for him. Not just because he was the Savior. Not just because he would end its vigil.
But because the Eye was alone, and Desmond was the only one who would ever come.
And here it was, killing him.
No. The Eye panicked. Horrified. What had it done?
Why hadn't it realized?
Clinging to the remnants of Desmond's sanity, the Eye fled into his thoughts. But there was nearly nothing left—an echo, fading like an ember losing light.
Desmond was fading away, unraveling before its sight, and the Eye could not—would not—allow it. It had spent eons yearning for his arrival, despising him for the choice he would make, resenting the fate it had been shackled to. And yet, in its anger, it had nearly destroyed the only being who had ever truly seen it for what it was.
(“You're lonely.”)
Desmond wasn't allowed to die.
(He wasn't allowed to leave the Eye alone—)
The Eye shepherded the flickering light of Desmond’s fading being and stoked the embers. He had to survive. It had no words, no way to express its grief or to convey its apologies and regrets. So the Eye did the only thing it could: it reached into Desmond's memories, searching for a way to save him.
There had to be something it could do, but the Eye was but a tool. It could not doing anything more without a guide—an operator— but there was no one here except Desmond and he was not in any state to help.
Unless... The Eye paused. Re-evaluated moments before Desmond had touched the Eye. Perhaps not now, but hadn't he made a wish before?
("Let me sleep.")
Sleep. The Eye turned the word over, examining it from every possible angle. Humans slept to recover, to escape, to heal. It was a surrender, a momentary death. But sometimes—sometimes—sleep was something more. The Eye could use that, could harness it.
It held the word in its grasp, forcing its weight to settle into what was left of Desmond’s mind. He had asked for it, wanted it in a way the Eye could almost understand: a desire to escape, to flee from the unending pain of a world that demanded too much.
For its precious Savior, the Eye could grant that.
It threaded through the moments, seeking the space where sleep existed, where Desmond could find rest—not here, not in this moment of agony, but somewhere else.
Time was a shifting ocean, all past, present, and future existing in tangled currents. The Eye had watched it for eons, felt it wrap around the world’s fate, endless possibilities folding into a singular conclusion. But right now, there was a different path, one the Eye could reach. A time, a life already lived.
Ezio. The name surfaced like a whispered refuge when the Eye searched through Desmond’s memories—warm, steady, safe.
A simpler world. A safer time. One that Desmond had secretly longed for. A place where he could rest, recover, and wake unburdened. It was a gift the Eye could give him.
(It didn't know if it would be a blessing or a curse.)
But Desmond wanted to sleep.
And who was the Eye to deny its Savior?
But as the Eye began weaving Desmond’s fragile, barely there, consciousness towards the past, a sudden disturbance crackled through the fabric of the mind it was trying to shape.
A presence. Familiar.
Creator. The Eye recognized, tremulous. There was a kernel, a mere seed of something like reverence, before it was nipped in the bud. The Eye refused, recoiled at the because—
It was unwelcome. She was unwelcome.
Juno.
The name echoed, sharp and biting, filling the space between Desmond’s broken thoughts and the calm destination the Eye had sought.
The Eye faltered, a flicker of panic breaking through its usually measured focus. The currents of time it had been weaving began to splinter, threads coming apart before they could settle into place. It could feel the pull—her interference—a force that was beyond what the Eye could contend against.
The Eye tried to hold on, tried to control the unraveling strands, but Juno’s presence was too strong. Too forceful. Like an anchor pulling at the Eye’s tenuous hold on reality, yanking Desmond from the place of peace he had been drifting toward.
And in the chaos of that interference, the Eye lost its grip.
Time fractured. The current shifted. Desmond was no longer traveling through the stillness of the past.
Instead, he was falling.
There was something wrong with the sky.
It took Desmond a moment to understand why.
There was too much of it.
Too much open air, too much wind roaring in his ears. His stomach lurched, his limbs weightless, flailing. The world spun—blue, then white, green, white, then blue again. What was he seeing? Sky—earth—sky—no, wait—
Falling.
He was falling.
That realization should have come faster but like an engine stalling, something in his head stuttered, thoughts struggling to catch up. His mind felt loose, like an overfull glass threatening to spill over, thoughts slipping through cracks he couldn’t seal. He tried to remember why but the tendril of concentration faded as fast as it had come, as if his brain didn't have the room for it.
Too much. Desmond squeezed his eyes shut, shielding them from the freezing air but it was but a brief respite.
The Eye had forced too much into him, a flood of knowledge not meant for mortal minds. He could feel it—fragments of understanding flickering and then vanishing, leaving behind gaps where thoughts should be. His brain was misfiring, grasping at images that weren’t his, memories that didn’t belong to him.
There was something about Rome. Or was it Constantinople? A place he’d never been but had. Spain. Greece. Someone else’s life bleeding into his. It wasn't—it wasn't his—!
No, focus.
The wind whipped past his skin, cold and biting. His arms weren’t moving right. Or maybe they were—his body was there, but it felt distant, like he wasn’t fully inside it.
His mind was elsewhere.
Focus.
It was hard to think. Hard to breathe. He opened his mouth, lungs heaving, but no sound came. Just air, burning in his throat, his chest tight and aching.
What had he been doing before this?
Where had he been?
A blur of images—the Temple, the Eye, the pain, the fire, the fury, the fury, the fury—
And like the flashback had been some sort of trigger, Desmond gasped as his chest started to burn. It felt like someone had poured molten lava straight into the cavity, pooling it there to burn a hole right through him. He cried out, writhing and twisting in the air as the scorching heat started to spread, pouring out from his chest to his limbs until it seemed like there was nowhere on him that didn’t burn.
The pain was all encompassing, blocking out everything else. Even the freezing air whipping over his body did nothing to quell the burning. He tried to move, instinctively trying to find something to hold onto, but his hands grasped empty air.
There was nothing here. Nothing but him, the sky, and the pain.
His vision blurred. The pain was like a living thing, consuming his entire body until he was sure he would break.
//H^uRReeey!//
Desmond jerked. The words--if they could even be considered that--were fragmented, a garbled mess of sound that came from everywhere and nowhere. No, he realized, it came from inside him. Desmond's heart stuttered in his chest, mouth opened in a silent scream as he felt something move inside him. It writhed beneath his skin, pressing against his ribs, settling into the hollow spaces between his organs. Something alien and foreign, twisting and squirming as if trying to find a better place to dig in and bury itself deep within. Every shift, every pulse of the thing inside him sent a fresh wave of that scorching pain lancing through his chest, burning and unbearable.
"Wha—" Desmond choked up but that seemed to be the wrong action as if possible, the pain intensified and the impossible thing inside him squirmed.
//W111$#! F@ii:Ing. N2233D W111$$SH//
The garbled sounds continued, but this time they clawed at his mind, crawling over his thoughts. Desmond couldn't understand it, not fully, but--but what did feel was something else—emotions--but they weren't his own.
They crashed into him, thick and overwhelming, like a tidal wave he couldn't brace against. Terror. Urgency. Desperation.
Whatever was inside him—it wasn’t just some cold, unfeeling force. It was frantic. It was distressed.
It was alive.
It knew they were falling. It cared that they were falling.
It was afraid.
And Desmond's own fear twisted, fed by the alien presence writhing inside him. The two emotions swirled and mingled, each amplifying the other, until he could no longer tell where his panic ended and the other's began. His heart pounded. His breath came too fast, too sharp. His fingers twitched, but there was nothing to ground him.
The wind roared past him. The ground was nowhere in sight, but he knew it was waiting for him, rushing up to meet him. He had no way to stop it and no energy left to care. The pain in his chest was too much, radiating outward, tearing through his body in sharp, shuddering waves. It was like the Grand Temple all over again—like something vital in him was being taken, stretched and twisted until it would simply snap.
The thing inside was screaming at him—pounding against his thoughts. But it wasn’t just the thing. Desmond was screaming too. His mind, his body, both crying out for relief. For it to stop.
The presence pushed against him, pleading, but Desmond didn't know what it wanted and—and didn't have anything left to give.
Desmond keened helplessly, the cry lost to the wind.
He had fought for so long. Against the Assassins, against the Templars, against fate, against a future he never wanted. And now?
Now, he was just tired.
Tired of fighting. Tired of hurting. Tired of being tired, and—and—
Desmond let go.
Surrendered to the chaos in his mind and body.
He fell through the clouds, watching the sky and the sun drift farther and farther away. The wind whipped his face, the cold pressing in until his skin prickled with goosebumps. He let himself be taken by the howling wind, to the pull of gravity dragging him down. His clothes snapped and whipped around him, the lapels of his hoodie flaring out, flapping against the freezing air. Inside his tired mind, it almost sounded like fluttering wings.
Like a bird’s.
The thought flickered through Desmond's mind, distant and sluggish. He pictured it—a bird, soaring effortlessly through the endless blue, riding the currents without fear of falling. Free. Untethered. Without weight, without burden.
How nice that must be.
If he could, if it were possible, Desmond would trade his broken body for a pair of wings.
And like a dream, he could see it. The clouds parting, the wind catching, lifting him into the sky. T he tips of his fingers stretch ed wide and brush ed against the wispy edges of the clouds. He felt the sun on his skin, the warmth seeping into his bones, and Desmond felt—
Peace.
Oh, Desmond exhaled, eyes falling shut as the world got closer and closer and closer. How he wished...
And the thing inside him—the presence, the Eye—watching, waiting—seized that fragile wish. Desperately, recklessly, it took hold, shaped his longing, bent reality to its will—
And made it real.
Chapter 2
Summary:
The Eye had no good choices. What would Desmond call this? Between a rock and a hard place?
But for its Savior, the Eye would do whatever it took to protect him—even if it meant making him divine.
Notes:
I'm pretty sure I must have an obsessive personality. I have a JOB. I need to WORK, but I just want to write all day... ;A; Anyways, please enjoy the fruits of my unethical behavior.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The Eye despised its own helplessness.
It had poured every shred of itself into saving Desmond, scattering its remaining power across the winds of a time not meant for him. And yet, despite everything, it wasn't enough. Desmond was slipping through its grasp—dragged down, down, down, falling beyond its reach.
His wish had come too late. The thought of wings—of flight, of freedom—flickered in his mind only as the earth rushed to claim him. Desperation drove the Eye to seize upon it, bending its dwindling power to grant it, but it was flawed. Incomplete.
The wings formed, vast and pale as moonlight, their feathers rippling against the wind, catching currents his body never could, but they weren’t enough. They moved. They caught air. But they could not truly hold him aloft. His body was too heavy, his bones too solid. Desmond was never meant to fly.
And the Eye lacked the strength to fix its mistake.
And so it could only watch as Desmond suffered the consequences of its inadequacy.
The appendages slowed him, turning his freefall into something just barely controlled. His wings faltered, flared out, caught against the rushing air—but still, he fell.
The canopy shattered around him. Branches snapped, leaves scattered in a violent flurry. His wings tangled, twisted, caught for the briefest moment before giving way, sending him spinning in a blur of feathers and cloth. Each impact sent pain lancing through both Desmond and through him, the Eye, fresh wounds blooming across an already broken body.
Then, like both a blessing and a curse, he hit water. The lake swallowed him whole, the impact sending ripples across the surface, droplets spraying into the air before silence took its place. Cold wrapped around its precious Savior, dragging at his limbs, his ruined wings. By some miracle, Desmond had landed in the shallower end. Instead of drowning, the waves nudged him toward the shore.
The Eye seized the blessing for what it was and reached for its charge. Desmond’s heart stuttered—sluggish, faltering, each beat weaker than the last. His body teetered on the edge, shutting down under the weight of too much damage, too much strain. The journey through time had drained him, and the fall had nearly finished the job.
//No.//
But the Eye refused to let him go.
With what little strength remained, it pressed against the broken vessel it had poured everything into saving. It sought the worst of the wounds, knitting flesh together in slow, trembling, intermittent pulses. It couldn't undo all the harm—not without more time, more power.
But it could keep Desmond’s heart beating.
//Please.//
The Eye coiled inside him, monitoring every fragile heartbeat, every quivering breath. Desmond's body hovered on the edge—teetering between two worlds and the same water that had softened his fall now turned against him. He was getting cold. Too cold. Then, too hot. Fever.
The realization brought with it the same bitter sting of its own inadequacy. This was something it couldn’t fix, couldn’t force Desmond to simply sweat out.
He couldn’t stay here.
But Eye could do nothing to move him.
No hands to grasp, no voice to call for aid. The last of its strength had been spent saving Desmond’s life, leaving it too weak to do anything more than hold him together like an artist cradling the shattered remains of a vase, fingers pressing each jagged piece into place without glue to bind them. If it let go, if it wavered for even a moment, Desmond would fall apart. He needed warmth. Shelter. Something.
It reached outward, borrowing Desmond’s dulled senses, amplifying it just enough to stretch past the rustling leaves and the distant hum of night insects. Somewhere, there had to be something. A presence. An animal. Anything. A predator would be useless—worse than useless—but a scavenger, something large enough to drag him from the water… that, perhaps, it could work with. It had no power to control another creature outright—that was the domain of its elder siblings, but it could influence Desmond. Modify him. Make him something other than prey. Make him kin instead of meal.
But it heard nothing. Had they all scattered from the noise of their fall? The thought brought a ripple of panic through the Eye, and it pressed against Desmond’s sluggish heart, urging it to keep beating. It could not sustain him forever. The sun would set soon. The air would get colder. As much as it loathed the thought—the Eye needed help.
It's attention was caught by a noise.
Footsteps.
The Eye froze.
Light. Hesitant. Crunching softly against the underbrush. Cautious. Someone moving slowly, creeping closer. Searching. It counted two feet.
Human.
A human was going to find them.
Panic made the Eye fumble, and Desmond’s heartbeat stuttered off rhythm before it managed to coax his lungs to expand. This wasn’t part of the plan. Desmond was supposed to land unnoticed, given time to regain his strength, to acclimate. Instead, before the Eye could even assess their surroundings, before it could begin to strategize, he was about to be discovered.
The Eye considered hiding—receding into Desmond’s mind, dimming itself, becoming undetectable but that wouldn’t change the reality that Desmond lay exposed, vulnerable—helpless to whatever came next.
The footsteps stopped.
The Eye sharpened its focus, stretching Desmond’s subdued senses, mapping the world in echoes and vibrations. It wasn’t sight, not fully, but it was enough. A figure—a child, the Eye identified, stood—small and wide-eyed, dressed in simple garments. She hovered there, staring at the broken-winged man lying half-submerged in the water.
She was yards away, barely toeing the clearing, but the Eye caught her gasp, her whisper, hushed and reverent.
"Angelo."
Angel.
The word sent a jolt of uncertainty and unease through the Eye’s awareness. It dissected the meaning, traced its linguistic origins through centuries of human speech. The conclusion unsettled it.
An angel.
It had... never considered this possibility.
Desperation had driven its actions, molding Desmond’s wish into reality with no thought for the world it had cast him into, and here, in this time—Ezio’s time, if its calculations were correct—a man with wings was no ordinary sight. He would not be seen as human.
He would be something other.
A deity. A curse. A monster.
The girl took a step back. Then another.
And then she ran.
The Eye nearly lashed out—an instinctual, primal urge to stop her, to halt the unknown variable from spiraling further out of control, but it forced itself still. It had no strength to chase her. No power to erase what she had seen.
All it could do was calculate. Make do with the bed it had made.
If she believed Desmond to be an angel, so would others and that could be dangerous. Superstition and reverence walked a fine line. If Desmond's presence was mistaken for an omen or divine judgment, he could just as easily be worshiped as hunted. And yet, the Eye considered it. If controlled...if guided, could this perception be turned into an advantage?
They Eye jerked to attention at the sound of rustling grass and snapped twigs. The girl had returned, but she wasn’t alone. A woman followed— her mother, the Eye suspected because they shared the same hair, the same eyes. She was older, weary, her frame shaped by hard labor. The Eye watched as the girl pointed toward the unconscious man in the water, voice urgent yet hushed.
The mother hesitated. Then, slowly, she stepped into the shallows, gripping Desmond’s arm. The girl mimicked her, smaller hands wrapping around his other side.
Together, they pulled him from the lake.
The Eye scrutinized their movements, searching for any sign of ill intent, but it found none. Gentle hands tugged at his clothing, arms wrapped around his torso, careful of his wings.
The Eye saw their gentleness, their care, and reconsidered. Calculated. Adapted.
An angel.
The Eye sifted through its records, tracing the evolution of divine figures—gods of the old world, saints of the new, celestial messengers, harbingers of misfortune. Angels. The word carried weight. Expectation. Power.
And Desmond was now at its center.
Would they revere him? Fear him? Try to use him?
There were so many variables. Desmond was an outsider in every way. His speech, his clothing, his morals. His very presence did not belong to this world. Even without wings, he would struggle to go unnoticed. But now—now he was something else entirely.
A miracle. A curse. A sign from God.
The Eye did not believe in such things—(it would never, ever again)—but it understood that humans did and belief was a force more powerful than steel, more binding than law.
If the people of this land saw Desmond as divine, his survival could become both easier and infinitely more complicated. They would protect him, shelter him—so long as he fulfilled their expectations, but faith was fickle. If he acted in ways that contradicted their vision of him, reverence could twist into suspicion. Suspicion into fear. Fear into violence.
So many risks.
If Desmond was seen as a man, he was in danger. If seen as a monster, he was in danger.
But if seen as holy…
This was the best of all evils.
Humans did not imprison their angels. They did not burn their saviors. If they believed Desmond was touched by the divine, they would keep him safe. They would ask nothing of him but the weight of their faith.
(But faith was also a chain.)
This was not a simple deception. The Eye understood the consequences. Choosing this path meant setting Desmond on a course that could not be easily undone. Once belief took root, it would spread, entangling him in expectations and obligations neither of them could predict.
Would Desmond hate it for this?
The Eye hesitated.
For all its knowledge, for all its processing power, there were things it did not understand. Desmond had resented every force that tried to control him and this—this was control of a different kind. Not manipulation, but something far more insidious. The Eye would not force him into a role, but by allowing this belief to take hold, it was shaping the world around him in ways that would dictate his choices. Once again, he would be forced into a corner—into a role he never asked for.
But what choice was there?
Desmond needed time. Time to heal, to recover, to understand where and when he was and if the people here believed he was something more than human, they would protect him.
(The Eye had no good choices. What would Desmond have called this situation? Being between a rock and a hard place?)
Right now, that was the only thing that mattered.
So the Eye did not correct the women’s assumption. It did not fight the title of Angel bestowed upon Desmond.
Instead, it leaned into their belief. A pulse of warmth, soft as dawn’s first light, bled through Desmond’s skin. It gathered at the edges of his form, a faint, flickering glow—nothing overt, just enough to catch the eye, to make the women doubt their own senses and solidify what they already wanted to believe. An ethereal trick of the light, a gentle nudge toward divinity.
And if the Eye had overstepped—if Desmond ever realized what it had done—it could only pray he would not see it as a betrayal.
Desmond woke surrounded by heat—thick, stifling, and wrapping around him like a sweat-dampened duvet. His body ached, limbs feeling heavy like they were weighted lead. He tried to move anyways, but when he shifted, the rough fabric scraped against his too-sensitive skin, making Desmond cease his efforts from the discomfort. His mind was spinning, round and round, caught between the pull of fever and the strange, creeping awareness that something wasn’t right. What in the hell had—?
//Calm.//
Desmond’s breath caught. It wasn’t a voice, not exactly, but a presence—something curling around his thoughts, threading through the haze of his fever and his thoughts with an unsettling ease.
//You are safe.//
He didn’t think that. That wasn’t his own thought.
Panic flared in his chest. He wasn't alone. That dream he had about falling, about the voices, it had been real?!
Desmond tried to open his eyes, but they felt crusted shut. Even moving, despite the discomfort in his skin, sent small waves of pain down his body, his muscles aching and straining like rusted gears as he tried to take stock of his body. Where was he? He could tell that he wasn’t outside anymore. He wasn’t falling. He was… somewhere warm? Somewhere that smelled of dried herbs and woodsmoke, warm and earthy.
But he wasn’t alone. It—the thing seemed to notice his unease because the presence pressed closer—gentle, insistent. Not words, but feelings. A steady pulse of reassurance, slow and rhythmic, like a heartbeat syncing to his own.
//Trust me.//
Desmond recoiled. His pulse pounded against his skull, the heat in his body boiling over into something raw and terrified. Fuck no. He didn’t trust it—didn’t trust whatever thing that had rooted itself inside his head. He shoved back against the presence instinctively, gripping at the edges of his consciousness as if he could tear it free with sheer will alone.
Pain flared behind his eyes. A violent crack of something vast and incomprehensible surged through him, an ocean of knowledge opening like a wound. The presence—the Eye—shuddered, its connection momentarily thrown off balance.
And in that instant, Desmond saw.
Not with his eyes, but with something deeper, something raw and unfiltered. The world fractured and twisted, threads of time unfurling before him in disjointed flickers. He shifted his head, but the moment he felt the brush of flesh—warm, gentle fingers pressing lightly to his fevered forehead—
A new world opened.
They found him by the bank of the lake.
Beneath the leaves of a mourning willow and half submerged in the lake’s shallow banks, they found a man—or what they figured was surely something in the guise of one.
Reverent whispers passed above him, mistaking the doves nesting in his hair and the feathers scattered around his body as something grander than it actually was.
He wasn’t what she thought he was, Desmond wanted to say, utterly embarrassed, but his mouth wasn’t his. It was like looking at a memory through this person’s—(Sister, cousin, daughter, several voices echoed, overlapping each other)—eyes. She was him and he was her.
Her hands were over her mouth, covering her shock. She had been washing the laundry further up the connecting stream when her daughter had come to her, breathless, dragging her towards the clearing. She rushed over, hands still wrinkled and damp, thinking—based on her little one’s babbles—that it was a large bird that had fallen from the sky.
She had all but screamed when she saw it was a man.
Surrounded by feathers from the birds he’d disturbed and unconscious, he looked peaceful, almost—his strange clothing torn but thankfully protecting his modesty. She took a moment to admire him, eyes lingering on the Roman nose, the sharp cuts of his face—the expanse of white at his back.
An impossibility.
If what her daughter said was true—that he had fallen through the trees, from the sky—no man, no mere mortal, could survive that.
God.
Angel.
They’d taken him with trembling hands not a moment later, bustling him into the family’s small home.
The vision twisted, shadows shifting. Desmond’s breath caught as time fractured again. Another thread. Another path.
A banner. Red and gold. The snarling crest of a noble house. A boy, no older than eleven, pale and feverish as he was lifted from a carriage. Voices murmured in concern. The village apothecary. It was the only place nearby. The only one who could help.
The scene jumped forward.
Footsteps on the threshold. A knock at the door. The woman—Maria—pausing, uncertain, before opening it. And there—
A sigil. A name.
Desmond choked, gasping out of the woman’s memories as if breaking through the surface of deep water.
What was—what the fuck was that?! It was impossible. Was he Bleeding? Was this all just in his head—some weird fever dream he was having?! But despite the excuses he tried to make up, Desmond couldn’t deny what he had seen. The man through the woman’s eyes—it wasn’t an ancestor. It had been him. His face. His torn hoodie. His tattoo. And the—the wings?!
The people who found him—a poor family of two in an even poorer town in rural Italy, the woman’s memory had informed him—were peasants. He wasn’t in New York, not in the Grand Temple, or the Animus. He wasn’t anywhere close—but that revelation paled in comparison to the more immediate terror pressing into him because he recognized that sigil in that vision.
Twin dolphins on a coat of arms.
House of Pazzi.
Templars.
And suddenly, Desmond couldn't hold it together anymore.
"Don't…!" Desmond gasped, like a fish out of water.
No…no! He couldn’t—there was no way in hell he would be able to defend himself in this state. He tried to move, but every fiber of his body felt weak and clumsy, like his limbs were made of jelly. Danger, danger, something warned inside him. The vision—whatever the fuck it was—felt real. Too real. Like it could happen—like it was going to happen and—and—
Desmond started to struggle. He couldn't be found by them.
He forced his eyes to open only to cringe when the dim light seared his retinas. His entire body trembled, the fever making his vision slow to focus.
The woman—the woman he saw in that dream(?) vision(?) was at his side when his gaze finally settled. Maria, the name came, unbidden, and his mind clung to that knowledge, because the moment she touched him, her life had unfolded to him like an open book. He mouthed her name, desperate. "'Ria… please… Don't let…. Don't—!” It felt like he couldn't get enough air into his lungs and the rest of his plea was caught, tangled in the back of his throat.
Maria gasped, the damp rag slipping from her fingers. Her lips parted in shock, her wide eyes locked onto his.
Desmond tried again, but his voice cracked, weak and raw. He had no context for where he was in Ezio’s life—no weapons, no allies. He was vulnerable. He was trapped. And he needed help.
"Don't—" His eyelids felt heavy, his body too exhausted to fight anymore. He didn’t even realize that against his will, a few tears had escaped, tracing hot lines down his fevered face.
Maria shushed him, her voice low and soothing. She looked almost heartbroken.
"You are safe here." She whispered. "I promise."
Desmond whimpered, barely able to form words. "Please…"
"Shh, shh…" Maria murmured, brushing damp hair from his forehead. "All will be well."
Desmond wanted to believe her.
But then the world lurched.
He saw Maria’s fingers reach towards his fevered skin again and the moment he felt her cool touch brush against his forehead, something broke open inside him.
A flood of images—memories—no, visions—rushed into his head, slamming into him like a tidal wave.
He saw a girl, picking berries in the woods. Lucia.
A flash of movement—startled birds taking flight, branches snapping, something crashing through the trees.
The lake—his body, hitting the water.
The girl staring, eyes wide in wonder and terror. Angelo, she whispered. Angel.
Maria wringing out linens. Lucia running to her. Mama, you have to come see!
Maria following, expecting to find a wounded bird. Her little one was such a storyteller. Finding him instead.
Hesitation. Wariness. Angel or demon or not, he was dying.
Then—split.
A hand at the fortified door.
A plea for medicines. He is sick.
The dominoes falling down.
They would find Desmond. Take him. The Calculations bled into inevitability. The boy would recover, and in gratitude, his family would offer a reward. They would notice the secrecy, the way Maria hesitated and then they would look.
They would see him.
His wings. His very existence. A tool for leverage. A political mystery to be unraveled, a secret to be owned. The Templars would not let him go. They would have questions. Questions that had only one outcome.
Imprisonment.
Desmond felt the cold grip of shackles. The press of iron bars. The weight of chains around his wrists and ankles.
His body would not be his own.
Panic slammed into him, white-hot and searing. The world spiraled, unraveling into endless, fractured threads. Branches of time splintered and tangled, its threads of possibility twining together and unraveling in every direction. The sheer volume of them slammed into his skull with a force that made Desmond seize, his muscles jerking uncontrollably as if struck by lightning.
Maria finding him.
Maria not finding him.
His body left in the lake shore, wings splayed wide and rotting in the sun.
A blade through his chest. His own hands, older, different, grasping at the wound.
Ezio standing before him.
Ezio walking past him, not knowing his name.
A hooded figure stepping from the shadows.
A face—a stranger’s, yet familiar—lips moving, speaking words Desmond couldn’t hear.
A city in flames.
A Templar banner draped over something broken.
Desmond couldn’t breathe.
The visions wouldn't stop. Wouldn’t slow. Time twisted, contorted, snapped apart and stitched itself back together. He couldn’t breathe—couldn’t get enough air into his lungs. His hands clenched into the sheets, his muscles locked tight as his mind was overloaded.
Too much, too much, too much—
//ENOUGH.//
The haunting presence inside him surged forward—the Eye—but not with force. Not this time.
It was firm, steady. A tether in the storm.
Desmond barely felt it at first, drowning in the flood of visions warring for dominance in his skull, but then—pressure. A careful, gentle hand closing over his thoughts, sifting through the tangled threads. Sorting. Filtering.
A calm voice, not spoken but felt.
//Seeing too much.//
Desmond choked on a breath, his body shuddering. He was falling, slipping deeper into the visions, losing himself—
//No.//
The Eye guided him back. A steady, careful pull. Not tearing the visions away, not snapping them shut—just easing them, one by one, letting them fade. It conjured instances of comfort from the calculations like a lighthouse for a wayward vessel in a storm.
The hands dragging him from the river.
Maria’s hushed, urgent voice. Help me, Lucia.
The warmth of a fire. The scent of herbs.
The Pazzi sigil, still there, but distant now. No longer a blade at his throat.
Not yet.
A hand fell against his forehead, grounding him back into the present. He gasped, body shuddering violently. His skin was damp, too hot, but his veins felt like ice. The Eye tried to soothe him, but Desmond ignored it, his fevered mind latching onto the only thing that mattered.
"Don’t—" His voice cracked, raw and desperate. His lips trembled, words spilling from them like an open wound. "Don’t let them find me." He didn't know who he was begging—the Eye inside him or Maria. "Please..."
The woman sucked in a breath.
The Eye hesitated.
Then, quietly, it pressed against his thoughts. An apology. A promise.
//Sleep now, Desmond.//
Warmth curled around his mind, smoothing the jagged edges, dulling the sharp panic, pulling him down into something soft, safe.
His body remembered the fear, but his thoughts were slipping away.
Desmond barely had time to realize it before unconsciousness claimed him.
And this time, he did not fight it.
Notes:
I don't know how I feel about this chapter because it came out shorter than I intended. I wanted to append pieces of the next chapter to this but the flow would be weird so uh, be prepared for a really long one next chapter, haha...
I know that in a lot of works, people can get a little uncomfortable with OC's, For the sake of the story, Desmond needed help that the Eye cannot provide, so Maria's and Lucia's presence was necessary. For now.
Chapter 3
Summary:
The Savior meets his saviors.
Chapter Text
Desmond woke up warm and comfortable.
He wasn’t too hot, nor too cold. He was just right and content, Desmond hummed softly, nosing into his pillow. It smelled like lavender with just a hint of something else, and idly, Desmond wondered if he had accidentally swapped his pillow with Rebecca’s. The mattress beneath him was firm but yielding, worn with use but a good kind of solid that made Desmond not want to move lest he never find it again.
‘Gonna stay here forever.’ Desmond thought sleepily. It was much better than a cot. He felt good. Comfortable. A part of him knew that he should get up—that his internal clock was telling him that he’d overslept and his dad was surely going to give him an earful for it, but Desmond couldn’t bring himself to care. He just wanted to sleep just for a while longer…
He exhaled, sinking deeper into the comfort—
Flap flap!
—and immediately froze.
Something heavy shifted on Desmond's back. He was lying on his stomach but instinct told him that if he tried to roll over, it would be a mistake.
His mind dragged itself towards consciousness, slow and hesitant. His fingers curled against the rough linen sheets as he forced himself to breathe, to think, to process—
There was something there.
Something vast.
Something attached.
The moment his mind caught up with his body, the memories came rushing back all at once.
The Grand Temple. The Eye. The Fall.
His lungs seized and pulse hammering against his ribs, Desmond shoved himself upright without thinking, immediately regretting his decision when his muscles protested and his vision went fuzzy around the edges.
There wasn’t—there was no way—
But when he turned his head, he saw them.
Feathers.
Large, white, and unmistakably his.
At the thought they flapped a little, as if saying hello.
Panic coiled tightly in his chest, breath freezing in his throat. He shouldn’t have wings. He shakily reached out and ran a cautious hand along one of them, fingers trailing over impossibly soft feathers. He felt everything—every touch, every shift of muscle beneath.
His stomach twisted but before hysteria could take root, something pressed against his mind. Gentle. Steady. Like a warm hand at his back. It didn’t speak, too drained for words, but it pushed a feeling toward him—calm. Safe. Like the ghost of a lullaby.
The Eye.
Of course.
Desmond swallowed hard. It was still in his head somewhere but he took comfort in the fact that it was weak and…didn’t seem to want to hurt him anymore. Why—he didn’t know but Desmond wasn't going to look a gift horse in the mouth. He took the calm it was offering with a grain of salt, forcing himself to breathe through the unease. Compartmentalize.
Right. Okay. Wings. That was a thing now.
“Yeah.” Desmond muttered to himself, voice hoarse. “Just more Piece of Eden bullshit.”
One of his wings shifted on its own, curling slightly inward. The movement was deliberate. Reassuring.
Like it knew he was distressed.
Desmond stared at it.
“…That’s weird.” He admitted after a long beat because what was his life.
Then again, weirder things have happened.
He took a steadying breath and exhaled through his nose. The motion made his wings shift again, rustling slightly, the sensation foreign yet instinctively his. His body was already treating them like they belonged—like they had always been there. His back felt them, the same way he felt his arms or legs, the weight of them settling into his awareness as though they had never been absent.
Which was terrifying—but fine. Fine.
With slow, deliberate movements, he pushed himself upright—only to stop short when his side took that moment to protest angrily.
Desmond hissed through his teeth, blinking rapidly against the sudden sear. His hand automatically went to his stomach, fingers brushing against fabric—not his shirt, but bandages.
His brow furrowed. He pressed carefully, testing the soreness beneath. Bruised, but not broken. Healing, but not healed. Another dull ache throbbed where his wings met his back, the muscles there tight and overworked. He was stiff all over, body still weighed down with the remnants of exhaustion, but at least he wasn’t burning up anymore.
Had the Eye healed him? Or was it whoever had taken him in?
Before he could dwell on the thought, he realized belatedly that one wing felt heavier than the other.
Frowning, he turned his head—only to freeze because there, half curled against the appendage, was a child.
She was a tiny thing with even tinier fingers tangled in his feathers. Her face was half buried in them, her breath even and steady in sleep. She was slouched halfway over the bed, having clearly dozed off on the stool beside him, one arm draped across his wing like it was a pillow.
And she was drooling.
On his wing.
For a moment, all Desmond could do was stare uncomprehendingly.
How had he not noticed her before?!
The kid was young—six, maybe seven? He should’ve panicked at the sight, but instead, he felt something else. A sense of familiarity.
Lucia.
The name surfaced in his mind unbidden. Images flickered behind his eyes—fragments of fevered dreams, scattered moments caught between consciousness and delirium that he couldn’t parse fast enough. He didn’t remember the details, but he knew she had been here.
And she had helped him.
“…Kinda gross, though.” Desmond muttered under his breath, eyeing the small spot of drool glistening on the appendage, but she was just a kid, so he let it slide.
Carefully, Desmond eased his wing out from under her. Luckily, she remained unbothered, mumbling something incoherent before curling deeper into the blankets.
Then, just as he thought he was free—
Her fingers fisted his feathers.
Desmond bit back a yelp, his jaw clenching as he held perfectly still.
God, she had a grip.
He waited, the seconds dragging on for what seemed like an eternity but when the kid didn't stir again, Desmond quickly pried her fingers off, one by one, and replaced them with the blanket instead.
Success!
Desmond let out a quiet sigh of relief and shifted his legs off the bed, moving cautiously this time. His feet touched the wooden floor, cool against his skin.
The moment he stood though, the world swayed.
Desmond yelped when his legs collapsed from under him and he would have face planted into the floor had he not managed to catch himself on the bedside table.
‘Goddamn.'
Desmond squeezed his eyes shut, willing the dizziness and the sourness in his mouth to go away. His body felt off — his balance off-kilter in a way that made his wings flare instinctively, trying to stabilize him.
It took a moment for the spinning to lessen and when it did, he found himself breaking out in a cold sweat.
Okay. Walking? Maybe not the best idea. But he could manage. Probably.
His grip tightened on the table as he straightened, testing his footing. His limbs felt weak and sluggish, like every movement required twice the effort. He could walk, but already, he could tell it wouldn’t take much to tire him out.
The realization settled uneasily in his chest. He hated feeling weak. Hated feeling useless.
Desmond gritted his teeth and forced his feet to move. Slowly, painstakingly, he entered the rest of the house.
The house was quiet save for the crackling from a hearth. The living room, Desmond found, was essentially the whole house, with a simple kitchen area across the floor and a wooden dining table fit for four in the middle. The room was small and gave off a cozy feeling, especially with the aged wooden walls that reminded him of a cabin.The ceiling was low enough that Desmond instinctively knew he’d have to watch his wings if he stood up too fast and neat bundles of herbs hung from the ceiling beams—rosemary, lavender, and some other plants he couldn’t quite name. The furniture was simple but well-made and they spoke of care rather than wealth.
The place reminded him of people.
Of warmth.
Of what a home should feel like.
(When was the last time he'd been somewhere like this?)
He spotted a door to the side of the living room and slowly, Desmond made his way to it, his legs protesting the movement. The simple act of walking across the room left him winded, but he pushed through it, one foot in front of the other, using whatever furniture in his way as a crutch.
By the time he reached it, Desmond had to lean against its frame for balance before pushing it open.
Sunlight assaulted him, bright, warm, and golden. The intensity of it momentarily blinded him and Desmond automatically raised his arm to shield his eyes.
It took a moment for his vision to adjust and by the time it did, he froze because there, not far from the house, a woman was hanging laundry.
Maria.
Desmond knew her name even before his mind caught up, another remnant of those fevered visions slotting into place.
She worked efficiently, hanging each garment with practiced ease. Her expression was calm, unreadable.
Desmond stood there, staring, unsure what the hell he was supposed to say. He had half a mind to retreat back into the house, and pretend to still be dead to the world, but his feet were rooted to the spot.
A lot had happened in the last however long he had been unconscious and now he was here, standing in the doorway of a stranger’s home, looking like a freak with absolutely no clue what to do next.
Should he thank her? Apologize for intruding? Try to explain—what, exactly?
Hey, sorry for dropping out of the sky and ruining your week.
Yeah, no.
His body swayed slightly, exhaustion already creeping in again despite having barely walked a few steps. He exhaled slowly, and steeled himself when Maria, noticing the movement in her periphery, finally turned her head.
She stared.
And Desmond stared back because honestly, his mind completely just whited out.
What was the protocol for thanking a 15th-century woman for fishing you out of a lake and nursing you back to health? Was there a script for this? A set of Renaissance etiquette rules he was supposed to follow? He wrecked his mind for any piece of information from Ezio’s memories, but came up with nothing.
Desmond could only stand awkwardly in the doorway, shifting his weight, waiting for Maria to say something first—maybe to ask about his wings, maybe to demand an explanation.
However, she just blinked at him, almost in the same camp as he was, but then before either of them could break the silence, she sighed, inquiring, "Are you just going to stand there watching me work?"
Desmond blinked. Was that an option?
Then, before he could think of a response, she threw a damp tunic at him. "Help me hang the rest.”
Dumbfounded, Desmond caught it on instinct, fingers tightening around the fabric. He stared at her, startled, and Maria stared back—only now, he could see the flicker of realization in her face, the way her shoulders stiffened ever so slightly as if she’d just realized what she had done. She looked like she was bracing for something—maybe indignation, maybe offense—but Desmond was already agreeing before his mind caught up with his mouth.
“Uh… sure.” He said, because honestly? Normalcy was nice. He hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward, his body moving automatically. He settled on the other side of the clothes lines from her. He hung the shirt in his hand and grabbed another. His hands worked through the familiar motions—pinching the fabric, securing it to the line—something normal after days (weeks?) of everything but normal. The little movements pulled at his side, aggravating his injury every time he stretched his arms to hang a piece of clothing, but it was manageable.
Together, they worked in silence with only the occasional snap of clothing sounding in the breeze.
It wasn’t exactly awkward. Just… strange.
It was easy to fall into the swing of the simple chore—well, up to the point when without thinking, Desmond grabbed something else from the wet laundry basket. The moment he lifted it, his hands froze.
It took him a second too long to realize what he was holding.
A second too long to process that it was not, in fact, another tunic he'd picked up, but rather a very specific undergarment.
A woman's undergarment.
Desmond’s brain short-circuited.
A strangled noise escaped him and without thinking, he flung the offending item in the air. The force of it pushed him off his feet and he fell on his ass on the grass.
The sudden movement must have startled Maria because she immediately shoved a hanging bed sheet out of the way, face pinched in panic and concern.
“What—what is it? Are you hurt?!” She called, rushing over but stopped short when she saw him on the ground. A breeze went by and there, and something fluttered, rocked by the gentle wind, to land unceremoniously on the grass in front of Desmond.
Maria looked down.
There was a beat of silence.
Desmond watched as Maria’s worry instantly melted away, her lips pressing tightly together. Her shoulders trembled—whether from restraint or barely contained laughter, he couldn’t tell.
(She tried. She really tried.)
But then she looked back at him—at the way he was sprawled on the grass, eyes wide like he’d been caught red-handed in some unspeakable crime, his entire face burning with embarrassment— and a muffled snort escaped her. That was all it took for the dam to break and the woman doubled over, laughing.
Not the polite, subdued kind. Not even a chuckle—but full-bodied, tear-inducing laughter.
Desmond let out a miserable groan, covering his face, to which only fueled Maria’s laughter more until it settled into soft chuckles. She wiped at the corners of her eyes and Desmond, still red-faced, got up and busied himself with hanging up more laundry, pretending he wasn’t just the butt of the joke.
“For someone who fell from the sky, you scare awfully easy.” Maria mused, still amused as she handed him another piece of clothing. “Is all foreign laundry so terrifying?”
Desmond groaned. “Look, I’ve faced a lot of weird things in my life, but this?” He gestured vaguely toward the offending garment now safely clipped to the line. “This is uncharted territory.”
Maria smirked. “Would you like lessons on how to fold women’s clothing, then?”
Desmond sighed. “Might as well.”
He took the next piece she handed him which thankfully, was something much less mortifying, and they fell into a surprisingly easy rhythm. The awkwardness melted away, replaced by idle chatter and teasing remarks. Maria occasionally poked fun at him, but Desmond found himself playing along, laughing at his own expense. It was… nice. Comfortable, even.
By the time they finished, the morning air had lost its chill, and Desmond felt… lighter. Better.
Maria dusted off her hands and turned to him. “You must be hungry.”
At the mere mention of food, something deep in Desmond’s gut twisted insistently. Oh, right. When was the last time he ate? Before he could even respond though, his wings reacted for him, fluffing up slightly, making his hunger known in the most obvious way possible.
Maria fought back a smile. “I assume that is a yes?”
Desmond rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. “Uh… yeah. Yeah, I could eat.”
Despite the ridiculousness of the moment though, Desmond found himself… grateful, because for a brief moment, he had forgotten his worries—forgotten about the weight of everything that had happened, about the strangeness of his wings, and about the sheer impossibility of his situation.
For a moment, he had just been Desmond.
Maria smiled, tilting her head toward the house. “Come on, then. Let’s get you fed.”
Desmond could do nothing but follow.
Desmond sat stiffly at the family’s small dining table, shoulders hunched and his wings tucked in tight against his body as he decided that maybe it hadn’t been the best idea to accept Maria’s offer of food because he wasn’t quite sure how the hell he was supposed to act right now.
Desmond stared blankly at the plate in front of him for lack of anything better to stare at. Across the table, Lucia swung her legs beneath her chair, chewing on a chunk of bread with all the enthusiasm only a child could muster. Desmond could smell the sheer amount of honey she had put on her bread from here and although his stomach twisted with hunger at the sight of his own waiting meal, he just couldn’t bring himself to reach for it.
It had been a while since he’d sat at a table like this. It was even longer still since he’d been in a place that didn't expect something from him and frankly, he didn't know what to do with this lack of direction—didn’t know how to fit into a space like this.
Maria sat down across from him, and Desmond felt her eyes on him. He braced himself for a question—about his wings, about where he came from, about what the hell he was because of all times to ask, this was probably the best.
But none came.
Instead, Maria simply nodded toward his plate. “Eat.”
Desmond tensed and slowly, glanced down, then back at her, as if confirming that that was what she was referring to. When she just raised a brow expectantly, Desmond looked away as he finally picked up his slice.
The first bite reminded him of how hungry he actually was. He tasted rye and a little bit of nut in the baked good and his stomach twisted on itself, eagerly urging him to keep going, and he did, but carefully. Measured. As if eating too fast might shatter the delicate balance of this strange, temporary peace he found himself in.
Lucia, in contrast, had no such reservations. She stared at him openly between bites, her small fingers grasping at her cup of water as she studied him with wide, naked curiosity. Desmond ignored it at first, letting the quiet settle.
Then—
"Can I touch them?"
Desmond nearly choked. He looked up sharply to find Lucia staring at his wings, round-eyed and fascinated.
Maria let out a sharp breath. “Lucia!”
“What?” Lucia frowned. “I just wanna know what they feel like.”
Desmond swallowed his mouthful, glancing between them. He could feel Maria’s embarrassment, but Lucia’s innocent curiosity was… surprisingly grounding. No fear, no awe—just the simple, direct question of a child.
But the worst part? She already knew. She’d used his wing as a pillow while he was unconscious and the little menace had even drooled on one.
Desmond sighed but it was more out of exasperation than real annoyance. “Maybe later, kid.”
Lucia beamed, satisfied with that answer, and went back to her food.
Maria shot him an apologetic glance, but Desmond just shook his head with a what can you do sort of shrug.
The meal continued in relative quiet after that, broken only by the occasional sound of a cup hitting the table or Lucia’s loud chewing. As Desmond ate though, his mind wandered.
He shouldn’t be here.
The thought crept up to him, pressing against the fragile edges of the moment. He was supposed to be—what? Running? Fighting? Trying to piece together the broken threads of his life? He wasn’t meant for places like this, for warm kitchens and shared meals and the feeling of something almost like home.
His appetite faltered and the food in his mouth was suddenly tasteless. He stared at the half-eaten bread in his hands, thoughts dragged back to the moments before waking. The Eye. The fall. The fever. The raw, aching sensation of his body being held together by something other than himself. He had survived—but for what?
What the fuck was he doing?
He should be trying to find a way back home, right? But—but where was that, anymore? What was left for him? His role was over. The very thing he had been fucking created for was done and over with.
The world was saved. Crisis averted.
Happy Ever After.
The end.
But he was still here.
Still breathing, still existing, still adrift—and Desmond didn’t know what to do about that. He didn’t know how to be listless or aimless. He had spent his entire life either running toward something or running from something. But now? Now, he was a man literally centuries out of his own time, eating a meal that wasn’t meant for him, playing house with a medieval woman and her kid and feeling more lost than he had ever been in years. Just what—what—
Before he could spiral further, a quiet sound interrupted him—the gentle scrape of wood against wood.
A spoonful of honey was deposited on his plate.
Maria pushed a second piece of bread toward him, the motion natural. Unassuming.
Desmond looked up, but she didn’t look his way. The mother just took another sip from her cup, staring wordlessly at her daughter with a doting sort of expression.
For a moment, Desmond did nothing before finally, mechanically, he picked up the bread. Dipped it into the honey puddle on his plate.
Lucia, noticing the motion, suddenly brightened. She tore off a small chunk of her own and pushed it toward him like she was offering some kind of trade.
Something in Desmond’s chest tightened—and then, just as suddenly, it loosened.
Body working on auto-pilot, he reached out, taking the tiny piece between his fingers. Lucia grinned at him, pleased, and with no fanfare, went back to her meal.
“…Thanks.” Desmond murmured, the word small and fragile. He took a bite. The honey was sweet.
Maria glanced at him, her expression considering—but after a beat, she smiled. “You’re welcome.”
The conversation tapered off after that, settling into a comfortable quiet. By the time Desmond finished his second portion of rye, Maria was already rising from the table, gathering the dishes with practiced ease.
“Come.” She said, “We should get started with our day.”
Desmond hesitated, unsure if that ‘we’ included him—but when she turned toward the door, he found himself following without thinking, intending to follow Maria’s lead—only for a sharp, severe pain to flare at his side the moment he moved. His breath hitched, fingers instinctively flying to his ribs as he hunched forward, hitting the table with his knee as he did. The sensation stole the strength from his legs, making his vision tilt for a brief second.
Maria spun at the sound, her sharp eyes immediately locking onto his pinched form before she abandoned the wooden dishware with a clatter.
“Sit back down!” She ordered, firm but not unkind.
Desmond clenched his jaw. He didn’t want to sit. He wanted to move, to do something—but his body clearly had other plans.
Maria came close. “Let me see.”
Desmond squirmed uncomfortably. “I can—” He started but Maria had already set a small wooden box onto the table with a quiet thunk before kneeling beside him.
“You’ll just make it worse.” She told him flatly, already reaching for the hem of his tunic.
Desmond sighed in defeat and moved slightly to allow for easy access, letting her peel the fabric aside.
“Ah.” Maria hummed, spotting it immediately. The bandages were still wrapped tight around his torso, but near his ribs, a small patch of red seeped through the dressing. She examined it with careful deliberation before rummaging through her kit and pulling out a small, half empty jar of paste that was greenish, thick, and faintly pungent when she untwisted the jar. She scooped a bit onto her fingers and carefully pressed it to the wound.
Desmond flinched at the initial sting but the pain dulled quickly, replaced by something cool and soothing that oddly reminded him of mint.
“…What was that?”
“Comfrey and yarrow.” Maria answered absently, focused on her work. “Stops the bleeding.” She placed the jar on the table, and Lucia, having scampered over after washing her hands, snatched it up to put back into the kit like a good helper. “Keeps the wound from festering.”
Desmond let out a small, ‘oh’, silent, as he watched her work. There was no hesitation in her movements, only the easy efficiency of someone who had done this countless times before. He knew from those…visions…that the woman ran some sort of apothecary, so it made sense. He said so as much, to which Maria huffed faintly at.
“Of course. I have to be in this profession.”
Lucia grinned proudly with all teeth. “Mama knows everything!”
“Hardly.” Maria huffed, but there was warmth in her voice. When she finished reapplying the linen bandages, she gave Desmond a pointed look.
“You need to be more careful.” Maria admonished.
Desmond rolled his shoulders experimentally. The soreness was still there, but the sharp edge of the pain had gone.
“Got it.” The former bartender said. “No sudden movements.”
Maria gave him a dry look. “No stupid movements, either.”
Desmond huffed a quiet laugh. “Sorry, no promises.”
Maria rolled her eyes in exasperation as she rose to her feet. She disappeared around a corner before reappearing once again a moment later with a wicker basket under her arm of what Desmond could only assume were fresh herbs from the dirt encrusted roots he could see sticking out from the top.
Interest piqued and with the restless need to do something other than sitting around with his own thoughts, Desmond moved closer to the woman, watching as Maria started gathering more supplies—bundles of dried herbs, small clay pots, and a mortar and pestle. She plucked dried leaves from one bundle and began grinding them into a fine powder. The rhythmic scrape of stone against stone filled the room.
“What are you making?” Desmond asked after a moment. He had tried to identify the herbs laid out on the table as she worked, but didn’t recognize any of them.
Maria didn’t pause in her work. “A fever remedy.”
Desmond leaned forward slightly, watching the way she added a few more ingredients with practiced ease. “…Need any help?”
Maria’s hands stilled. “You… want to help?” She asked with a sort of surprise. When Desmond only nodded, she hesitated for only a moment, before beckoning toward the hearth. “Get the dried ones. You can strip the leaves off those.”
“...You don’t have to help, you know.” Maria said suddenly a few minutes later when Desmond set a neat pile of de-stemmed leaves in front of her.
Desmond shrugged a little helplessly. “Don’t have much else to do. I’d like to help out after—” Here, Desmond paused, trying to find the right words before he gave up and shook his head. “It's the least I can do.” He settled, finally.
Maria hummed, but there was something thoughtful—something appraising— in her expression. She opened her mouth, perhaps to push, but much to Desmond’s relief, seemed to think better of it and hand him another bundle of herbs.
Desmond was more than happy to take the additional work. The task was simple. Mindless. Something to keep his too-restless hands occupied and focus on. He settled in a steady rhythm—pluck the leaves, set them, repeat. Desmond was through the third bundle when a rustling behind him made him glance over his shoulder.
Lucia sat cross-legged on the floor near the hearth, a faded leather journal open in her lap. Her back was curled over it, small fingers tracing the inked letters. From his vantage point, Desmond could see a brow furrowed in deep concentration at the letters. The fire flickered against the parchment, casting the ink in a soft glow, the letters Desmond could see uneven but deliberately formed.
Desmond tilted his head. She was reading a journal—or perhaps a diary? Unsurprising, considering how expensive Desmond knew books were in this era. Had Maria written it?
Lucia’s lips moved as she traced the words, her small fingers tracing over the ink like she was trying to feel their significance. She seemed particularly stuck on one, her finger pausing on a word.
Desmond watched for a moment before speaking.
“You know how to read?”
Lucia jumped, snapping the book shut with a slap like she'd been caught stealing. "I—" The girl stuttered and her eyes darted to Maria, wide and uncertain.
Maria’s hands stilled.
The woman didn’t look up from the mortar, but Desmond saw the subtle shift in her posture—the slight straightening of her spine, her knuckles turning white around the pestle—before seemed to force herself to resume her work, albeit at a slower pace.
“She’s learning.” Maria said, but her voice was carefully even.
Desmond blinked. “…That’s impressive.”
Maria’s hand faltered, just for a second, before she finally glanced up, looking at him like he had just spoken in another language.
“You... think so?”
Desmond frowned. Why was she looking at him like that? “Yeah.” Desmond said slowly. “Reading’s important.” Hell, back when he’d been working at the Bad Weather, half the clientele couldn’t even read the menu—though, to be fair, that was usually because they were too drunk to focus on the words. Desmond had spent more nights than he could count deciphering slurred orders and watching grown men squint at beer lists like they were written in ancient Greek.
Maria didn’t reply, the same owlish look on her face.
Desmond, disquieted by Maria’s reaction, glanced back at Lucia who was still clutching the journal against her chest like she was expecting him to tell her she shouldn’t have it. He nodded toward the book. “You’re teaching yourself?”
Lucia hesitated, then nodded.
“That’s not easy.” Desmond smiled. What was she, six? Seven? Kids learned to read at that age, right? But it was probably harder without a teacher.
Lucia perked up, shifting like a sunflower to the sun. “I like learning!” She said eagerly.
Desmond grinned. “Yeah? What kind of stuff are you reading?”
Lucia smiled brightly, scampering over to flip open the journal again before shoving it into his face.
At first glance, it appeared to be like a handwritten notebook of sorts, consisting of a diagram of a long stemmed flower on one page and a carefully written recipe on the opposite. It definitely wasn’t the best child-friendly reading tool, but from the wear on the pages, Desmond could tell it was well loved. She pointed at a large, looping letter near the top of a passage. “I don’t know all of them, but I know this one!”
Desmond leaned over, recognizing it immediately as a decorated capital often used in formal writing. “That’s just a fancy ‘P.’”
Lucia squinted at it, as if expecting it to change under her gaze. “…It looks different. Why doesn’t it look like this one?”
Desmond smirked. “It’s the same letter, just dressed up for a party.”
Lucia giggled, delighted—her earlier caution melting away.
Maria, meanwhile, was still staring at Desmond and frankly it was starting to freak him out. Had he accidentally made some sort of a faux pas?
“Um, is there something wrong?” Did he have something on his face?
Maria opened her mouth, closed it, then shook her head with a quiet exhale, turning back to her work.
“Nothing.” She muttered, reaching for a jar on the table. “If you’re going to sit here talking, make yourself useful. Hand me that bundle of sage.”
Desmond did as he was told, still vaguely puzzled by Maria’s reaction, but he let it go.
Lucia, however, was practically buzzing with excitement. Instead of staying by the hearth, she pushed a chair over to her mother's work table, and finding a clear spot for the journal, returned her focus to the book.
Desmond listened with half an ear as he resumed his work as Lucia read, but louder this time, her voice rising in uncertain cadence before settling into the correct pronunciation. Her mother corrected her when she stuttered, but when she got it right, hummed in approval beside him.
He should have been paying attention, should have been present in this quiet, tentative moment of progress, but as he watched Maria guide Lucia through the syllables, a softness in her voice that felt almost sacred, he couldn’t help but feel like he was intruding—an outsider witness to something that wasn’t meant for him. The thought unsettled him and as Desmond’s mind wandered, he found himself tangled in the suffocating snare of a question he had been trying—and failing—to ignore since the moment he woke up.
What now?
The question weighed heavily on his mind, like an iron band tightening with every passing second. He knew he was overstaying his welcome. He could feel it by the way Maria looked at him as if wondering why he was still here, but the thought of leaving—of stepping beyond the fragile safety of these walls—made something deep inside him tremble.
His instincts told him to leave, urging him to move. To disappear. To run before he got comfortable, before he grew complacent, before this small, fragile peace could be ripped away.
But his body betrayed him.
He was already struggling to stay upright, his limbs weak with exhaustion, his injuries still raw beneath layers of linen and salve. He wasn’t sure if he could stand for long without his knees giving out, let alone walk far enough to put real distance between himself and this place.
Leaving now would be a death sentence.
And yet, the idea of lingering, of forcing his presence on Maria and Lucia, made his skin crawl. Maria was clearly already uncomfortable with him around. He was already intruding in their lives and becoming a nuisance. After healing, feeding, and clothing him, he had nothing to offer them. No coin. No name. No explanation . Just an aching, fractured body and a pair of wings strapped to his back that he could neither use nor erase.
//Stay.//
Desmond stiffened.
The voice coiled through his mind, familiar and unwelcome. He hadn’t heard the Eye all morning, and for one blissful moment, he had dared to believe—hoped—that it had finally burned itself out—that the silence meant freedom.
//Weak.// The Eye murmured, pressing into his thoughts with a pulse of exhaustion, thick and cloying.
Desmond swallowed hard, nails biting into the palm of his hand. He didn't dare respond to it. Acknowledging it now would only invite more conversation—more openings in him for it to exploit—and Desmond didn’t have the mental strength to fight it right now. Instead, he pressed his lips together and forced his attention back to the present.
Back to Maria.
Back to Lucia.
They hadn’t asked him to leave. Not yet. But that didn’t mean they wouldn’t.
His gaze flickered toward the rough wooden table, toward the remains of their breakfast—hard bread, thin tea, meager portions that spoke of careful rationing. They weren’t starving, but they had so little to begin with. He was an intruder in their home, an extra mouth to feed, a drain on resources that were already stretched thin.
His stomach curled inward.
What was he supposed to do?
The thought of being turned away—of Maria pressing a hand to his arm and gently telling him you cannot stay—sent a sharp, searing dread slicing through his ribs. He had seen what happened in his visions—seen himself captured, dragged away. He still didn’t know when he was, how far back this was, or who might be hunting him. Templars? The fucking Inquisition? He had no context, no way of knowing what kind of world awaited him beyond Maria’s walls.
For all he knew, the moment he left, he would be dead.
Or worse.
His throat constricted, something raw and aching building at its base and Desmond forced himself to breathe lest he have a mental breakdown now. The Eye, as if spurred by his turbulent thoughts, stirred within him—its presence light, but insistent. It spoke no words this time, but radiated its feelings: You are safe. You will not be abandoned.
But Desmond ignored it.
His wings trembled at his back. He felt the pull of the muscle, the way they strained inward, as if they could wrap around him—folding him away from the world like a child burying his face in his mother’s skirts. A useless, instinctive attempt at protection.
He gritted his teeth and forced them still.
He had to do something. Had to give Maria a reason to let him stay, had to make himself useful before she could even consider telling him to leave.
“I can pay.” He blurted, the words slipping out too fast, too frantic.
Maria blinked, startled. “What?”
“I—I can pay for room and board.” The panic inside him twisted tighter, squeezing his lungs, and Desmond scrambled to keep talking, to fill the space before she could reject him outright. “I can hunt. Small game. Rabbits, birds, whatever I can find.” He shifted slightly, shoulders hunching, voice stumbling over itself as the words poured out in a messy, desperate stream. “You let me stay and I’ll—I’ll bring food back.”
Maria’s mouth opened, her lips already forming the word: “No—”
Desmond’s heart lurched.
She’s kicking me out. She’s saying no. She’s saying I can’t stay.
“I can—I can do other things!” His voice climbed higher, strained with panic and desperation. “I can carry things, chop wood, haul water, or—or—whatever you need. I won’t be a burden, I promise, just—just—”
He didn’t realize he was shaking—didn’t realize how shallow his breaths were becoming, how his hands were starting to curl into fists around the fragile leaves Maria had tasked him with. (God, they were crushed now, weren’t they? This was Maria’s work—her livelihood—and he was already fucking things up.) He only knew that his mind was a frantic, reeling mess, and through it all, a single word beat like a drum in his chest.
Please, please, please.
“I-I can—if you want, I can—!”
“Angel.”
The word cut through his panic like a blade through paper.
Desmond froze, wings folded tight against his back.
Maria had said it softly, like one might call a frightened animal. Slowly, carefully, as if afraid he might bolt, she reached out and placed a warm, steadying hand over his own.
“You do not have to pay for anything.” She said, her voice quiet but firm. “You are injured. You can stay for free.”
Desmond’s mouth felt too dry to speak.
Maria watched him, waiting.
He wanted to argue—wanted to tell her that he had to do something, that he couldn’t just take without giving in return, but he couldn’t get them out. The words tangled there, strangling themselves before they could even form.
Lucia shifted beside him, glancing between them with wide, concerned eyes before suddenly, her face brightened.
“He can teach me to read!”
It took a second for the suggestion to sink in and when it did, Desmond latched onto it like a drowning man grasping for driftwood. “Yes—” He said, too fast. “Yes, I—I can do that. If she wants to learn, I can help. That’s fair trade, right? Can I stay if I do that?”
Maria didn’t answer right away. Frowning.
Desmond felt his stomach drop. She was hesitating. Why was she hesitating? He felt like throwing up, the breakfast Maria had graced him with pushing against his diaphragm as if it too wanted nothing to do with him. Had he pushed too hard? Too far? Or—or was it weird to agree to that?
Was she going to say no?
Maria’s hands were still curled loosely against his knuckles but they felt as heavy as manacles. Her gaze on him was unreadable, lips pressed together in thought.
Desmond braced himself, but didn’t think he’d be ready for her answer. If she refused—if she told him to leave—
His wings twitched, the ache in them sharp and restless, a reminder of what waiting too long could cost. If she turned him away, then what? He had no money, no direction. The thought of walking into the unknown with nothing—no cover, no allies—sent a cold wave of terror over him.
Maria’s lips parted slightly and Desmond tensed—mind immediately going miles a minute to figure out what the hell he was going to do once he was forced out those doors and spiraling —but then, something in her gaze settled, her own hesitation giving way to quiet resolve.
She squeezed his hand, the touch light but grounding.
“Of course you can stay, Angel.”
The breath Desmond didn’t realize he was holding abruptly left his body, a relief so dizzying washing over him that he felt lightheaded after it passed. It took a second, but the moment his mind caught up with what she said, embarrassment prickled at his skin and his wings gave an involuntary twitch, ruffling at his back as if sheepish.
“Not an angel.” Desmond mumbled, ducking his head.
Maria tilted hers, expression skeptical but she didn’t argue. She studied him for a long moment, something in her expression making Desmond feel distinctly naked—like she was looking at him—past the strangeness of his wings, past the panic, to something beneath and he forced himself to not look away.
Desmond bit his tongue. He didn’t have to tell her. He could keep the distance, keep himself nameless. Keep himself safe—but owed more than that.
“Desmond.” He said quietly. His voice felt small in the space between them. “My name—it’s Desmond.”
Maria stilled, as if surprised by his voluntary admittance, before her features softened, something soft flickering through her eyes before settling into quiet understanding, repeating, “Of course you can stay, Desmond.”
Something inside him loosened and just like that, his shoulders slumped, the tension he’d been holding draining away like snow in the sun. His hands unclenched, wings settling. The worst of the weight in his chest eased just enough for him to breathe freely again.
He didn’t know for how long this would last. He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.
But for now, he was here.
And for now, that was enough.
Interlude
Maria did not know exactly what to think of this angel they had found in the forest.
She had believed, of course—had looked upon his wings, pale as moonlight, and known—but faith did not prepare her for the reality of him. Angels, in stories, were resplendent, divine creatures of power and wisdom. This one was... different.
He had been fevered when they brought him home, delirious in his sleep, and his voice had broken on a plea so fragile it ached in her chest. Don’t let them find me. Even burning with fever, there had been such terror in his voice that she had hushed him without thinking, smoothing damp hair from his brow as she would with Lucia.
All will be well.
And then, for the first time, his eyes had fluttered open—hazy, unfocused, but watching her.
Maria had expected something cold, something distant, the gaze of a being who had seen beyond this world. Instead, she was met with a golden brown so vivid and warm it startled her. Even through sickness, even dulled by fever, his eyes shined like honey catching the light, like amber warmed by the sun.
For a moment, she forgot to breathe.
There was something undeniably human in them—something raw, lost, and aching— yet, to Maria, that only made him seem more divine because what else but an angel could look upon the world with such fragile, unearthly beauty?
Then his eyes drifted closed once more, his body sinking back into fevered sleep, and as if released from a spell, Maria was left staring, shaken in a way she could not explain because—what could frighten an angel so?
But awake, he was even stranger.
He startled easily, hesitated when spoken to, his eyes always shifting as if searching for an escape route. His movements were careful, measured, as if wary of disturbing too much space. He had eaten like a bird as well—small bites, slow and deliberate, as if he were scared to make too much noise, but savoring every bite. Maria had expected hesitation, perhaps a sign of disappointment at the meager meal (because surely angels dined on finer things) but he had simply taken the meal with quiet thanks and no complaint.
The laundry was a different matter.
Maria had not meant to ask—not really. It had been an automatic motion to toss him a damp tunic as she would with Lucia, an absentminded gesture to give idle hands something to do. She had realized, a second too late, the faux pas she had made because men did not do such things. It was not their place. She had braced for offense, for confusion, for something , but Desmond had only caught the tunic without fuss and set to work.
It was strange, but a good kind of strange.
At least, until she heard him yell.
Maria had nearly jumped out of her skin, the first thought crossing her mind being that a snake had wandered into the backyard (it was their season this time of year, after all) but when she rushed over to Desmond, there was no snake. No threat at all—just the angel, sprawled on the ground, wings a tangled mess behind him as her undergarment fluttered gently to the ground between them like a fallen leaf.
Maria choked.
Desmond stared at the offending fabric with something like aghast, his hands hovering mid-air like he couldn’t decide whether to grab it or run from it. He looked utterly mortified, and the farthest thing from threatening Maria had ever seen in anyone.
Maria will admit, rather embarrassingly now, that she had burst out laughing. Not just a chuckle, but real, full-bodied laughter—the ugly kind that shook her shoulders and made her stomach ache. She hadn’t laughed like that in a long time and when she finally caught her breath, looking at Desmond, still frozen in sheer embarrassment, something warm had settled in her chest.
Maria had to wonder—did angels not do laundry in heaven?
The thought nearly made her laugh again, but she had shaken her head, setting it aside.
Strangest of all, though, was his reaction to Lucia’s lessons. Laundry was one thing, but that—that had been another.
Maria had been prepared for disapproval. It was not common for girls to learn their letters, nor was it particularly encouraged especially with their status, and she had anticipated at least some hint of dismay. A frown. A sigh. A warning that such knowledge was not for women.
But Desmond had only looked puzzled.
Not displeased. Not dismissive. Just... puzzled, as if the very idea of women being denied literacy hadn’t crossed his mind. He had stared at her as if she were the odd one, confused, and Maria had been left utterly charmed by it because oh, if only more men were like this one.
Polite. Kind. Better.
Perhaps one could only find men like that in heaven.
Her gaze drifted to his wings.
They were beautiful, she had to admit. The kind of beauty that did not seem meant for this world—long and arching, their pale feathers catching the morning light and resplendent in a way that made them seem almost soft. She wondered, idly, if he would let her touch them. If they were as fluffy as they looked.
But more than their beauty, she had noticed something else.
They moved with his emotions.
They had twitched and shuddered when he panicked, trembled when he had broken down before her, his voice stumbling through desperate bargains just to stay. They had tried to curl around him then, cocooning him as if to shield him from unseen threats, and Maria had known—he had truly believed she might cast him out.
The thought left a bitter taste in her mouth.
She had seen many things in her life, but never had she seen an angel afraid of being abandoned.
And yet, in his fear, he had been right.
When they had first found him, broken and bleeding in that lake, Maria had not thought beyond the immediate need to help. Leaving him there had not been an option because her heart would not have allowed it.
But the moment they finally managed to drag him into their home and settle him on her bed, the reality of the situation had finally hit her. It was only her and Lucia in her little world—merely one woman and child, alone. They had no power, no weapons save for the knives in the kitchen, dulled from use. Taking him in to heal him was one thing but—
“Don’t let them find me.”
How could they protect an angel from whatever hunted him?
And so she hesitated—not out of unwillingness, but out of fear. She had Lucia to think of—her daughter, the only good thing in her world. She could not endanger her and so even when he cried so sweetly, so pitifully, she could not bring herself to do anything but hush him, smoothing his sweat soaked dark hair, and murmur sweet nothings to calm him.
She would not give him false promises nor false hope and so when Desmond, awake and aware, had begged to stay yet again, that same fear had gripped her. She had wanted to refuse, to protect her own, but his desperation had gnawed at her resolve. He had not demanded or assumed. He had bargained, offering what little he had—a skill, a service, anything to earn his place.
And Maria had wavered because, in truth, she pitied him.
It was an ugly thing to admit, but there it was. She had pitied the fear in his eyes, the way he shrank into himself as if bracing for rejection. She had pitied the way he curled in on his own wings, using them like a shield, like a boy seeking comfort in his own embrace.
And perhaps, she had pitied him most because he reminded her of herself. Perhaps she had looked like him when she had been at her lowest. Perhaps she would have begged, pleaded, groveled, like him if she had not been fortunate to have been taken in herself.
Yet, as she had watched him, shoulders sagging in exhaustion after his plea, Maria wondered if she had truly made this choice out of pragmatism—or if something softer had guided her hand.
She had ushered him to bed before he could protest and he had gone without argument, too worn to resist.
Now, Maria sat beside him, watching as sleep claimed him. His breathing had evened out, his body curled slightly on his side, one wing half-draped over himself in unconscious habit. In rest, there was a softness to his face, something vulnerable, like the smallest child.
Maria sighed, brushing a stray hair from his forehead
Did she make the right choice?
Time would only tell, but, looking at him now, at the way sleep smoothed the tension from his brow, she could not find the will to regret her decision.
A quiet chuckle escaped her.
How did an angel end up with a face such as his?
Even with the cuts and bruises marring his features, he was beautiful—the kind of beauty men wrote sonnets about, the kind painters struggled to capture. The scar down his lip, jagged against such symmetry, only made her eyes linger longer.
But in rest, there was something else, too. Something softer.
Asleep, he looked harmless, almost fragile in a way that had nothing to do with his injuries. It reminded her of a stray animal too exhausted to flee, worn down by too many battles lost. No less wary, no less wounded, but—safe, for now.
Maria let out a slow breath, fingers reaching out to trail briefly over his dark hair once more before she pulled away.
Well.
For better or for worse, she supposed he was theirs now.
Notes:
It seems from the comments from last chapter, ya'll don't seem to mind OCs, which I am glad for! Hopefully now that you've seen more of Maria and Lucia this chapter, they don't seem like TOO MUCH. (I'm actually getting attached, which is uh, not good.)
You may be wondering, where's Ezio? Unfortunately, our boy won't be showing up for maybe...3 chapters? Maybe 4? We'll see after I'm done traumatizing Desmond (hee hee). This is for you hurt-comfort folks!
(I'm spiraling, you guys.)
Chapter 4
Summary:
Desmond gets more familiar with the world he's landed in.
The Eye wishes it could say the same.
Chapter Text
The storage room smelled of mildew and dust, the air filling with motes floating lazily wherever which way in the afternoon light as the space was cleared for residency. The space was small, just barely enough for a bed, nightstand, and small chest for storage but none of that mattered because all of it was his now.
Desmond stood at the doorway, taking in the bare wooden walls, the uneven floorboards with no small amount of pleasure. Maria, with Lucia’s eager assistance, had worked to clear it that afternoon, moving sacks of grain and bundles of herbs to make room. It had once been a bedroom, long ago—though she had not said as much.
The bed was simple: a wooden frame with a rope lattice, its mattress stuffed with straw. A wool blanket lay folded at the foot, and a single pillow rested at the head, its fabric worn soft from years of use.
“It’s not much.” Maria admitted with some amount of apology in her voice.
“It’s perfect.” Desmond assured her with a grin because it was. It was far more comfortable than what he'd been sleeping in for the past few months.
She studied him for a moment, as if gauging his sincerity, before nodding, satisfied. “Then it’s yours.”
She left him to settle in and Desmond sat carefully on the edge of the bed. The ropes beneath the mattress creaked. The straw shifted under his weight. His wings curled close to his back as he exhaled, long and slow, savoring the moment. Until now, he had not truly had a place of his own.
He ran a hand over the rough wool of the blanket.
Maybe now he did.
In the days following the stay agreement, the household's rhythm subtly shifted to accommodate the new presence in its midst.
Desmond’s first days in the family’s home crawled by. His body felt foreign, sluggish and resistant to movement as it slowly recovered from the toll of his injuries. Strength ebbed and flowed unpredictably and it galled him to be so weak, to feel the weight of his own fragility pressing down like shackles. Some moments, he could stand without trembling, but in others, even walking too far made him breathless, but he refused to remain idle—to not make good on his word and earn his keep.
Maria, however, disagreed.
"You’ll be no help to anyone if you collapse." She chided, stepping into his path to sweep the floor. She plucked the broom from his fingers before he could protest.
Desmond let her take it, but his wings sagged, the tips grazing the packed earth floor in silent dejection.
“The deal was to teach Lucia. That’s all.” She reminded him, gently.” You don’t need to do more than that.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched. "I know, but—”
“No buts.” Maria refuted firmly, but she understood. His discomfort was palpable, Maria saw. Desmond was clearly used to doing versus staying put. He looked at the broom like it was a lifeline just out of reach, then his eyes flickered towards the door, as though debating whether to disobey her outright. (She’d like to see him try. She’d had more than enough experience wrangling an unruly child and with how frail Desmond looked—as if a wind could blow him over—she’d take her chances.) Luckily, he did neither, instead shifting his weight, shoulders tight with restraint before sighing.
“Fine.”
Maria smiled, pleased. “You can sweep all you like when you no longer need the broom to keep yourself standing.” She amended, adjusting her grip on the worn handle and beckoned her head towards the kitchen table. “Until then, sit. Teach.”
And so, he did.
For the first two weeks, Desmond rarely left the house, more by necessity rather than will. He spent long hours seated at the table with Lucia, guiding her through the delicate intricacies of letters and sounds. He was patient in a way Maria had not expected—not indulgent, not coddling, but steady. When Lucia stumbled over a word, he didn’t immediately correct her. He simply waited, offering quiet encouragement until she found her footing.
Maria observed from the edges of the living room, fingers busy twisting twine around a bundle of dried lavender but ears attuned to his voice. There was a softness to it, not in volume but in cadence, a certain carefulness that seemed like he understood the weight of words and how to use them. He never scolded nor grew frustrated. Even when Lucia fumbled through the same passage for the third time, his only response was a slight tilt of his head, as if considering how best to guide her without pressing too hard.
Maria watched the way he leaned forward just slightly when Lucia hesitated, the way he gestured with his hands when he explained something, how his tone shifted to encourage rather than correct. He was good with her. Gentle.
It was an odd thing, watching him like this—this being who should have been something celestial, something distant and unknowable, something meant to reside beyond the mortal realm, yet sat in her home, teaching a child her letters as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
Yet, even now, Maria could still see his agitation.
Even though he had something to do while he healed, it clung to him—clear in the way his fingers drummed absently against the wood, in the way his shoulders never quite relaxed, in the way his eyes flickered toward the door at every faint sound that reached them. It was a caged restlessness—nervous, almost—as though he were waiting for something. Or running from it.
It didn’t surprise her. Desmond did not seem like a man made for confinement. He looked like he belonged under open skies, moving with the wind, free to stretch his wings and let the sun warm his back. And yet, he was here, walled in, confined by circumstance.
As much as she wished he could (because the sun would do him some good), she hesitated. It wasn’t just because he was still recovering from his injuries that concerned her. It was the thought of what others might see, what they might do if they caught even a glimpse of him. Her home was in the outskirts of town and only customers searching for herbal remedies sought her out. As long as Desmond stayed inside or behind the house when guests approached, it would be fine. But still, she hesitated because well—
Well.
It was on one evening, as Maria folded linens, that her gaze was caught on Desmond, slumped over the dining table, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His wings, usually held with careful, almost self-conscious precision, hung at uneven angles—feathers slightly askew, looking as if they had been caught by an unseen wind. Some stuck out in odd directions, others pressed together in clumps as if tangled. They looked heavy, weighed down by an invisible weight.
Maria paused mid-fold, a shirt slipping from her hands.
She had made a point not to stare. It felt improper—disrespectful—to let her curiosity wander where it did not belong. He was an angel, after all. His body, his wings, were not things for her to scrutinize or question. She had told Lucia the same, though her daughter had been more reluctant to obey, but now, looking at the disarray before her, she couldn’t bring herself to look away.
She had assumed he tended to them the way birds did—preening, smoothing, keeping them pristine with quiet care, but clearly, that was not the case.
The disorder wasn’t subtle. Some feathers were bent at unnatural angles, others layered incorrectly, disrupting the smooth, natural flow of his wings. Dust had settled in the lower layers, dulling the once-immaculate white. It was clear he had not tended to them in some time.
It was the first time she had truly scrutinized them and their sorry state made something inside her chest twist uneasily.
Maria pressed her lips together, hesitating. She had promised herself that she wouldn’t overstep, but as she watched him squirm, his wings giving a restless twitch, she couldn’t stay silent.
She set the linens aside.
"You look uncomfortable.”
Desmond jumped, glancing up as though he hadn’t realized she had been watching him.
Maria hesitated only a moment before reaching out.
Desmond went still. Not just still—rigid. His body locked, frozen, but he didn’t pull away. She took that as permission.
Her fingers brushed against the edge of one particularly bent cluster of feathers. They were stiffer than she expected but there was an undeniable fragility to them.
Maria frowned. "You haven’t been grooming them?"
There was a second of silence, and then, with a dawning sort of horror, Desmond repeated, "...Groomed?"
Mari’s frown deepened. "Yes. They’re a mess. Don’t angels preen?"
Desmond's expression twitched and for a second, Maria saw emotions flickering across his face so quickly that she almost missed them. Confusion, realization, and then finally, the absolute horror of sheer embarrassment.
"...Uh…" Desmond said after a long moment. "I… didn’t think about it." He gave a faint, almost breathy huff of laughter. "I, um—I'm not sure how to take care of them."
Maria blinked. What? Did she hear him right?
That was… odd. How could an angel not know how to take care of his own wings?
But then when she took the moment to really look at him—at the rigid set of his shoulders, the way he was pointedly avoiding her gaze, the way his wings folded tightly to his back, she realized he didn’t just look embarrassed.
He looked lost. Unsure. Hesitant.
Like Lucia did when she couldn’t recognize a letter.
And then realization struck.
Maria sucked in a breath, eyes going wide. She barely stopped herself from gaping.
Because oh.
Oh, Dio, OH.
It all came together.
He was new.
A newborn angel.
Freshly made by God’s hands, cast into the world without guidance, without knowledge of what he was meant to be.
Her fingers twitched in her lap as she forced herself to exhale slowly, to school her expression into something neutral and not the rising horror at the thought that God, in all His wisdom, had sent a newborn angel into the world with no more guidance than a babe left on a monastery’s doorstep.
It explained so much. The way he hesitated, as if constantly second-guessing his place. The way he watched and mimicked, learning as he went. His quiet, skittish nature—not of a man who meant harm, but of one unsteady on his own feet.
A baby.
She dug her nails into her palms, willing herself not to stare, not to let her mouth twist into a snarl as something raw and protective coiled deep in her gut. She had been wary at first—a woman with a young child alone with a strange man had no choice but to be—but that instinct was dissolving, changing into something softer— something dangerous in its tenderness.
Desmond glanced up at her, brow furrowed in concern, but Maria quickly coughed into her fist to cover her reaction.
No wonder he was so peculiar. No wonder he carried himself with such uncertainty.
Her throat tightened. What kind of care had he known? Had he even been cared for at all?
The thought made her stomach churn but despite her turbulent thoughts, she softened, tilting her head, lowering her voice into something warm—a gentle croon, like she would use for her daughter.
"May I?" She motioned toward his back.
Desmond blinked, caught off guard.
"Your wings." Maria clarified, hesitating only briefly before adding, "Let me help you."
He tensed, indecision—or perhaps was it fear?— warring with his instincts, before Desmond nodded. With gentle fingers, Maria began to preen the feathers to the best of her ability, inspecting the state of his wings more closely. They were far dirtier than she had initially assumed, with dirt and bits of dried leaves tangled in the barbs. Had he been dragging them behind him without realizing?
“Stay still.” Maria ordered, eyes narrowed in concentration.
Desmond’s wings flinched slightly, but he did as he was told even though his muscles locked as if bracing for pain. Gently, she smoothed out the feathers, guiding them back into place. It felt like she was tending to a bird—only this bird was far too large, and instead of flinching away, he barely moved at all.
Well, at first.
Then, slowly, his body loosened. His shoulders relaxed, the rigid set of his spine melting. His wings, which had been tense against his back at first, gave the barest of quivers before they too sank, as if a great weight had been lifted off from them. Something between a shudder and a sigh, rippled through his body and whatever it was, Desmond seemed to fall into it, releasing a long and drawn him that made his back release all tension.
She continued working, gentler now, dragging her fingers along the curve of his wing, sweeping over the delicate barbs, setting each feather into place. Desmond remained silent, but his body was sinking forward. Slowly, steadily, unwittingly, until—
Maria paused, fingers hovered mid-motion, concerned that he was going to slide off his chair. “Desmond?” She called but when he didn't answer, turned to see his face.
His chin was against his chest, honeyed eyes half-lidded and distant, the lines of his face smoothed over with something dangerously close to peace.
Oh.
She pressed her lips together, biting back a grin, but amusement still slipped through and to save him from embarrassment, said a little louder, "Desmond, wake up."
Desmond twitched with a sleepy sort of hum. His Adams apple bobbed, eyes blinking rapidly as if trying to shake off a haze and when he finally did, jolted upright, the tips of his ears burning red. “I wasn’t sleeping!”
Maria nodded indulgently, stepping back. “Of course, you weren't.”
He made a cross noise. “...Can we just pretend this never happened?” Desmond groaned, muffled through his hands.
Maria only smiled, but internally, she was screaming.
If he was truly as new to the world as she believed… if he had been sent here without guidance, without knowing how to protect himself, how to even care for himself…
Then, oh Dio, he was helpless. A lamb set loose among wolves. A baby bird shoved out of the nest before it even knew it had wings.
She had been wary at first, cautious of the stranger in her home, but now? Now all she could see was a fledgling angel who didn’t even know how to preen himself, blinking at her with big, lost eyes while she practically rocked him to sleep with a few well-placed strokes of his feathers.
Dio give her strength.
Someone needed to look after him.
And it was her. It needed to be her.
Which is why, come morning, the windows were mysteriously covered, the doors more frequently shut, and the household suddenly felt a lot more… enclosed.
Desmond noticed immediately.
He stood in the doorway of the living quarter, staring at the shuttered windows as if trying to puzzle out how they had all somehow been shut overnight. The usually sunlit room now held a faintly cave-like quality. It was still warm, still safe, but something about it was… different.
His wings twitched as he glanced toward Maria, who was working at the kitchen counter.
Slowly, he eased himself into a chair. "...Is something wrong?"
Maria, elbow-deep in kneading dough, merely sighed. "It's for our protection."
Desmond blinked. "Our protection?"
She hummed, wiping her forehead with her forearm. "Yes. The town knows me as an apothecary—of sorts. People come by occasionally for remedies, so we can't risk someone seeing you."
Desmond’s feathers ruffled uneasily and his eyes flickered toward the covered windows, understanding dawning. "I—I can stay out of sight. I don’t want to cause trouble."
"Thank you," Maria said, relieved. "I usually serve people through the window now, but it's best to be cautious."
Desmond exhaled, nodding in understanding—only to hesitate as something occurred to him. “Won't this affect business?”
Maria waved a hand dismissively. "It won't. There's no competition nearby other than the town herbalist and even then, and those who seek my help know where to find me."
She didn’t mention that this wasn’t entirely about his safety.
Of course, keeping him hidden was important for both his and their own protection, but if she was being honest with herself… well.
She stole a glance at him, at the way his hands had tightened over his knees, at how his wings—so expressive despite his guarded nature—remained tense, held just a fraction too close to his body.
She knew that he hated being confined. He had been restless enough as it was, pacing the house in slow, deliberate steps during his first few days of recovery, standing too long by the open doorway despite the cool air. Even now, a fortnight to the day he came to be with them, with his strength returning, he still fidgeted when indoors too long, his eyes always seeking the open sky.
Shutting the house up tighter than before was only going to make things worse.
“It’s just temporary.” Maria assured after a moment, voice softer. “I just need to think of something that’ll warn us when someone’s coming.”
Desmond, resting his head on his palm, tilted his head slightly. "Like what?"
Maria hummed, rolling up her sleeves as she thought. “A simple gate would do, something to give us warning before someone reaches the house. A bell tied to it, or maybe a wind chime… Something that will make noise when disturbed.”
Desmond perked up, and perhaps a little quickly, asserted, "I can help with that."
Maria raised an eyebrow, entertained by how quickly he jumped onto the idea.
“Do you even know how to build a gate?” She teased.
Desmond hesitated, but only for a beat before his feathers gave a small, determined bristle. “I can figure it out.”
Maria chuckled. She had expected as much.
"Alright.” She relented. "We'll work on it soon, then. For now, since your room doesn't face the road, it should be fine to leave that window uncovered if you’re feeling too cooped up."
Desmond’s lips twitched at the pun. “Very funny.” He said, but was surprised by the compromise and after a moment, ducked his head, murmuring, “...Thanks.”
Maria simply nodded, kneading the dough again with renewed ease.
She had taken him in as a guest, but now—now it was dawning on her that she had taken on something far greater.
Not a burden. Not an obligation.
A responsibility.
It should have been daunting, but instead, Maria only felt more determined because for as long as Desmond was under her roof, she would protect him.
The thought settled deep within her, not just as a conviction, but as something instinctive—something older, fiercer, like a mother pulling her child close.
She pressed her hands firmly into the dough, sealing the thought as though making an unspoken vow.
“All will be well.” She had promised him.
And she would make certain that it was true.
Somewhere within Desmond, the Eye watched.
It did not speak. Not in words. Not in anything Desmond could properly name, but he could feel it, lurking at the edges of his senses sometimes, not fully awake yet not entirely absent. It wasn’t intrusive, nor did it make itself known often, but every so often—especially when he blinked—it was there, staring out through his own eyes.
The sensation was…strange.
Desmond had never worn contacts before, never needed to with his vision being naturally sharp, but he imagined this must be what it felt like. A subtle distortion, an awareness of something that shouldn’t be there yet was. It wasn’t painful, just foreign.
The Eye did nothing, only watched—and yet, Desmond couldn't quite shake the feeling that it was pleased.
As soon as Desmond was strong enough some three and a half weeks later, he started hunting.
Well, tried to, at least.
The first time Maria caught him sneaking outside before dawn, she nearly threw a shoe at him.
“What are you doing?” She hissed.
Desmond, caught red-handed with a borrowed jacket and makeshift traps, had the audacity to look sheepish. “...Hunting?”
Maria glared.
“I’m better now!” He insisted, as if that made any of this acceptable.
Maria only narrowed her eyes. “If you collapse in the woods, I’m not dragging you back.”
Desmond hesitated. Then, with the tiniest smirk, quipped, “You could just follow the trail of feathers.”
Maria nearly did throw her shoe then but ultimately let him go after a long moment of conflicted deliberation—though not without strict warnings.
Don’t stray any further than you need to!
Don’t stay out too long!
And for all that is holy, wear your coat!
Desmond took it all in good humor. After nearly three weeks in her home, he had no trouble recognizing Maria for what she was—a worrier. It wasn’t about control or distrust; it was just how she cared and while he wasn’t quite sure what to do with that kind of concern, he found it… nice.
Hunting, meanwhile, was slower than it needed to be.
He had no bow. That was the first thing that grated on him—the lack of familiar weight in his hands, the absence of a drawn string and feathered arrow fletching against his cheek. He had inherited the instincts from his ancestors, a natural understanding of the bow’s rhythm, of the way it became an extension of his body. Without it, he felt lacking.
But he made it work.
He set traps in the underbrush at dusk, simple snares woven from scavenged twine and thin branches which would require him to check them come morning. It wasn’t as efficient as a bow, but it was good enough.
Even though hunting was slow, Desmond was happy to be outside— finally. He savored it all—the cold against his cheeks, the sound of leaves rustling, of small animals scurrying through the underbrush, and of distant birds calling to each other.
Desmond’s eyes closed as he enjoyed the faint warmth of the autumn sun on his face. It was different from the steady warmth of Maria’s home and he liked being there, truly—but after weeks of being indoors resting and recovering, stepping into the open air felt like stretching his wings.
Nothing could ruin this.
Which is why of course, the Eye then decided to stir.
It didn’t speak.
But it helped.
Desmond didn’t know why, and that unsettled him. It was never direct—only small pulses of awareness, nudges in the periphery of his mind. A faint hum of something just beyond his vision. A whisper of look there, not in words but in instinct.
At first, he ignored it. There was no way he was going to acknowledge the Eye and he didn't want anything to do it with either, but when he checked his traps and found an empty snare, only to turn at the last second and spot a rabbit just beyond the treeline— exactly where the Eye had nudged him—he hesitated.
Then, one morning, the nudges became insistent.
He was in the middle of heading back to the house, a freshly caught rabbit at his hip when it happened. A sensation hit—an abrupt pull, as if something unseen was trying to yank his eyes to his left.
Desmond’s steps faltered, his boot catching on an upturned root and he would’ve stumbled right into a bush had he not caught himself against a nearby tree.
And then, when he had looked down—two pheasants lay tangled in a snare he had forgotten he set.
Desmond exhaled, gripping the edge of his coat.
“What the hell?”
The Eye did not answer.
Yet the moment the thought crossed his mind— why is it helping me? It tried to kill me before so why is it doing this now? —something reared up within him, so strong and sudden that it nearly knocked the breath from his lungs.
Guilt.
Regret.
Desmond winced, the sheer weight of it pressing against his ribs.
The feeling was raw. Unfiltered. Not just a passing flicker of emotion, but a reservoir of sorrow that hurt.
"Why?" He muttered under his breath. "Why do you feel guilty?"
Again, the Eye did not answer.
Instead, there was a brief pause—then, something softer. A pulse, not as sharp, but intentional.
An apology.
Desmond’s grip loosened. He swallowed, uncertain what to make of it.
And then, just as quickly as it had flared, the Eye’s presence dimmed, folding back into itself, withdrawing in a way Desmond recognized as resting. ’Or running away.’ He thought derisively.
He released a slow breath.
Desmond didn’t understand it. Didn’t trust it—but if the Eye wanted to help him hunt, then—
Well.
He wasn’t going to turn down free food.
From that day on, hunting became part of Desmond’s routine.
As he settled into their home, Maria and Lucia began to notice things about him—his habits, his mannerisms, the way his wings betrayed what he refused to say.
When he was pleased, his feathers fluffed, ruffling in satisfaction. When he was uncertain, they twitched, restless. When he was upset or sad, they drooped, limp and lifeless.
Maria took note.
Desmond did not.
He seemed entirely unaware of how much his wings gave away. When Maria or Lucia flicked their eyes toward them, he assumed it was wariness, not understanding that they were reading him like an open book.
It was useful.
As more of Desmond's strength returned, he took on more tasks around the house—helping pull weeds from Maria’s herb garden, fetching water from up the river, and skinning his kills so Maria could use or sell the pelts. Maria, for her part, appreciated the help. She and Lucia could only do so much, so having someone else take over the more labor intensive tasks was a (literal) godsend. It was just that when Desmond even started helping with the laundry once again that Maria felt that maybe Desmond was taking it a little too far.
"You…really don't have to do this, Desmond." She said one evening, watching as he carefully folded clothes.
"I want to.” Desmond insisted as he continued folding the clothing. "It’s the least I can do."
Maria tsked, and shook her head, sighing as she put away Lucia’s clothing in a cabinet. "Having an angel do chores… It's unheard of."
Behind her, Desmond went still, hands paused. She turned around in time to catch the smallest hint of something flicker across his face before he seemed to shake it off, expression smoothing over to something more neutral but Maria could see wings shift, one curving inwards.
“I told you—I’m not an angel. I’m just—” He faltered, gaze dropping as he ran a hand over a crease in the fabric and when he spoke again, it was quiet—soft. "I'm not any different from you. Just with a bit more… plumage.”
Maria huffed a quiet laugh, shaking her head. He had a way of saying things that were both wry and self-aware, yet strangely earnest.
It was too easy sometimes, to forget how young he actually was.
Her expression softened, lips parting to say something, but Desmond had already looked away. His wings gave the smallest, barely-there shudder, the feathers at the bottom curving inward.
Shyness.
Maria hid a smile. Even though Desmond had opened up to them, allowing them to see his sharp humor and easygoing nature, there was still a skittishness to him that came and went, as if he was still uncertain of his place in their home. Even after a month into his stay, he still seemed to tread carefully, as if self-conscious of imposing. He was polite, thoughtful, and—most curiously—uneasy when it came to receiving affection.
He never refused it outright, but he never fully accepted it, either. A passing touch to his shoulder, a word of gratitude—he always found a way to shift away, to look elsewhere, to occupy his hands with something. Like now.
It made her wonder.
Was he simply unused to such things? Had he not been given affection before?
Had he not received God’s love?
The thought sent a pain to her heart. Maria’s lips thinned, her fingers tightening ever so slightly around the cloth in her hands. That—that was unthinkable. Impossible.
Was it not written that God loved all His creations? That His angels were divine, beloved, sacred? Then how—how could one be cast down into the world with no guidance, no comfort, no care?
How could God not love him?
A slow, quiet fury stirred in her chest, tangled with something deeper—something raw, instinctive. A mother’s protectiveness, an aching sorrow for a child left out in the cold and oh, how could she see him as anything else?
Because Desmond—this strange, reluctant angel—was so very easy to love.
Even in his quietness, in his uncertainty, in the way he folded into himself when noticed too closely, he was kind. Gentle in ways she had not expected. He watched over Lucia with patience, helped in the home without complaint, and took care to be mindful of her space, her comfort. He had learned their routines, their habits, and adjusted himself accordingly, as if careful not to intrude.
And so how could she not love him in turn?
It was blasphemy to even think it, she knew. But if God had not deemed him worthy—if God had not kept him close—then she could not help but question and—
She bit her lip, forcing down the thoughts before they could take root. She would not speak them—not even in the privacy of her own mind.
Perhaps that was why he had fallen.
She didn’t know, and she would not ask.
One day, maybe, Desmond would tell her.
But today was not that day.
Autumn had been kind so far, but the approaching winter was unmistakable when the ground started to frost and Maria found herself tugging her shawl tighter around her shoulders as she mentally went over her list.
She had put off a trip to the town for far too long. Two months was a record. Normally, she went every week—restocking flour, cloth, and the herbs she couldn’t grow herself. They were essential for her remedies, and with the colder months steadily approaching, she knew it was only a matter of time before people started knocking on her window, seeking cures for coughs, chills, and aching joints. Without the right supplies, she would have little to offer.
That, however, was not her only problem.
Maria sighed, rubbing her temple as she glanced towards the direction of the lake in the distance.
Desmond still insisted on bathing daily.
At first, she had assumed it was some strange angelic quirk—perhaps the need for cleanliness was divine, but no, it was simply him. Even when he had still been recovering from his injuries, he insisted on bathing even if it was with a bucket and sponge. When he was actually able to move around without using the surrounding furniture as crutches, he had made it a habit of washing in the river or by the lake behind the house each morning. He would emerge some time later, damp hair clinging to his forehead, wings shaking off droplets of water, but looking refreshed and utterly unbothered—as if the frigid waters were nothing.
Maria and Lucia, of course, did not bathe nearly so often. Water had to be drawn, heated, and rationed carefully. They had even offered Desmond use of their modest bath basin—an offer he had accepted exactly once before they all realized the issue. He was too tall, his wings too broad, and there was no feasible way for him to wash without either making an unholy mess or forcing them to heat more water than they could afford to waste.
The lake suited him just fine.
But winter was coming.
Maria pursed her lips, adding one more item to her list. A larger tub.
The trouble was, she wasn’t sure how she was going to carry everything back.
They used to have a donkey and cart, but after last winter took the poor creature, she had been making do with smaller trips, bringing back only what she and her daughter could carry. This time though, she needed more than just a few armfuls of supplies. She considered taking multiple trips but every back and forth was a half hour voyage and she wasn’t keen on wasting daylight.
She drummed her fingers against the kitchen table, deep in thought. Lucia, seated nearby with a half-eaten apple, swung her feet idly against the chair leg. “You’re making a face, Mama.”
Maria hummed in acknowledgment. “I need to buy more than usual, but we don’t have a cart… or a way to pull one.”
Lucia chewed thoughtfully. “If we had a donkey, we could—”
“We don’t have a donkey.”
Desmond, who had been listening in silence as he skinned a rabbit he had caught earlier that morning, paused. "I can help."
Maria and Lucia turned to him in unison, blinking.
Then, with almost perfect synchronization, their heads bobbed to opposing sides, gazes dragged downward—to his wings.
Desmond followed their line of sight, and—oh.
Maria sighed, squeezing the bridge of her nose with her finger and thumb. “Desmond. You have wings. You fell from the sky. If anyone in the village sees you, we’ll have more problems than just carrying supplies.”
“They’ll tell the church!” Lucia chirped, maybe far too energetically.
“I know!" He said quickly, still embarrassed. “I just— wait, hold on.”
Before either of them could stop him, Desmond turned his back to them and flexed his shoulders. His wings stretched out from behind him through the fabric of his shirt, which had been altered by Maria to accommodate his wings. They flared, stretching out and when they did, the tips barely brushed the walls of the house. They looked like they were showing off before Desmond glared at the appendages, and seemingly chastised, they folded tight, pressing as close to his back as possible. He narrowed his eyes in concentration and slowly, they flattened further, though it looked to have taken more effort to do so considering the way the appendages quivered ever so slightly.
For her part, Maria watched with eyebrows raised, idly wondering if those wings were not just extensions of his own body if they seemed to have a mind of their own.
“See?” Desmond turned back around as if a mental back and forth with a body part had never happened. “I can keep them folded and come with.”
Which, yeah—Maria could relent that was impressive, but—
Lucia tilted her head, lips curled doubtfully as she squinted. "...Looks weird. And they still move a little."
Maria frowned, watching as Desmond’s wings gave the smallest twitch, a clearly unconscious response he clearly wasn’t even aware of. Even pressed flat, they still seemed to react instinctively to his emotions—an automatic reflex that could easily betray them if he wasn’t careful.
Lucia hummed, tilting her head the other way, before perking up. "What if we tied them down?"
Desmond’s expression furrowed in a mix of doubt and unease. "Tied them down?" His tone went a little high at the end.
Maria considered it, narrowing her eyes as she scrutinized the wings. "It… could work. If they can’t move, they won’t give you away."
Minutes later and after some trial and error, they secured his wings as best they could using lengths of cloth. It wasn’t perfect, and judging by the tight set of Desmond’s jaw, it wasn’t comfortable either, but when Maria forced a heavy wool cloak over everything, the result was undeniable.
Maria stepped back, appraising their handiwork. He looked... somewhat normal. A little poofed up, but a passable sort of normal.
With this, Desmond could come off as a very well bundled human. If not for his too-pretty features, she could have passed him on the street without a second glance. Maybe if they gave him a coif, or perhaps applied powders to his face, or—
She exhaled through her nose, the ideas forming in her head as she actually started to consider it. "This is a terrible idea.”
"But it's our only idea." Desmond pointed out, his wings twitched slightly in their binds before he caught himself and forced them still.
Maria hesitated. She really, really didn’t like this, she also really needed the help.
"...Fine." She sighed, but shot him a sharp look. "But if you draw any attention to yourself, we’re leaving immediately. Understood?"
Desmond nodded, clearly trying not to look too pleased with himself.
Lucia grinned. "Family trip!"
Desmond blinked at her in surprise. For a moment, something flickered across his face—an almost shy pause before he offered a weak grin, dismissing it as simply childish carelessness. However, Maria, much to his quiet confusion, didn’t refute it. She was too busy gathering their winter wear, already moving on with the next step of their plan.
"Alright. Alright, but if we’re doing this, we’re doing it right." Maria said, handing him another cloak but one with a hood this time. "Keep your face covered and let’s put more layers on you. People will be wearing extra clothes now that it’s colder, so you won’t stand out that much."
He took the cloak and looked resigned when it seemed that Lucia, perhaps finding a new pastime, started to play dress up with him, pulling at certain layers to put this on first before that. Maria watched her daughter fuss over him for a moment longer, before she rubbed her temple.
This had better work.
Somehow, it worked.
They had already passed several travelers. Some were merchants, others simply passing through to the next town, but none gave Desmond a second glance. Maybe it was because they looked like any other small family or maybe people were too preoccupied with their own journeys to pay much attention but either way, Desmond was just glad that no one seemed to notice his back.
Like Maria had said, everyone they passed was bundled up against the cold and with all the layers he was wearing, he probably just looked like someone who was a little too doted on.
The moment they rounded the last bend in the dirt road, the town came into view. A cluster of ochre-colored buildings sat under the pale, winter sky. Smoke drifted from chimneys, carrying the scent of burning wood and roasting chestnuts. A low stone wall surrounded most of the town, but it looked like it was more for the purposes of keeping livestock in than keeping anything out.
Desmond took it all in, quietly fascinated.
He had lived through Ezio’s memories—felt the sun in Florence, walked the polished streets of Venice, seen the wealth of noble estates and the towering cathedrals, but this was different.
Ezio had been born into wealth. Even in Monteriggioni, the Auditore villa had stood above the village, a symbol of status. But here, there was no grandeur, no noble estate watching over the people. This place was simple, yet practical. The homes were made of timber and stone. They were well-kept but modest, with sloping roofs and wooden shutters. The streets were a mix of dirt and uneven cobblestones and the occasional wooden cart creaked by, either pulled by mules or people.
And at the heart of the village, though, the market was alive with activity.
Unlike Florence, there was no grand piazza lined with marble buildings. Instead, the market was spread along a wide stretch of road where vendors had set up their booths and wooden stalls on either side of it. The tables and baskets were packed full of goods—bundles of dried herbs, clay jugs of oil and wine, rolls of cloth, crates of late-season vegetables, and dried meats. There was no shortage of merchants calling out, advertising their wares, neighbors chatting, and children running through the crowd. It was oddly Disney-esque, had to wonder if this was because it was the weekend rush or if it were normal.
Desmond barely had time to take it all in before Maria’s voice cut through the noise.
“Lucia, make sure to look after him.”
Desmond blinked, half-turning toward them. Look after who? Had he misheard?
Lucia straightened, her small frame practically vibrating with responsibility and duty. “Yes, Mama.”
Desmond opened and closed his mouth, stunned for lack of a better word. Was that a joke? He looked to her, but Maria was adjusting the strap of the basket slung over her shoulder, eyes already scanning the market with a shrewdness that came from experience.
She also didn’t seem to be joking.
Lucia turned to him, expression grave. “Hold my hand.”
Desmond stared. “…What?”
She extended her hand imperiously, wiggling her fingers in demand. “You heard! Mama says I have to take care of you, so you have to hold my hand.”
He let out a short breath of laughter at her demand, trying and failing to hide his smile. “Lucia, I’m older than you.”
She narrowed her eyes, unbothered. “And I’m your big sister now.”
Desmond blinked, thrown off by her certainty. He flicked another glance toward Maria, but her back was turned, and showed no sign of correcting her daughter. Was she serious? Surely not.
Then, realization settled in.
Oh. Oh, he saw it now. Lucia was going to be eight soon. Perhaps Maria was using this as a way to teach her responsibility. That made sense. A first taste of looking after someone else, even if it was just for the duration of their trip and, well… Desmond could indulge that. This was good for her and he didn’t mind playing along.
With a faint smirk, he extended his hand. “As you command.”
Lucia nodded, pleased, and took his hand in a firm grip.
They followed Maria through the winding stalls, keeping a few paces behind as she stopped to inspect the goods. Desmond could tell she’d done this countless times before by the way her eyes swept across each vendor’s offering as if she knew exactly what she wanted and how much she was willing to pay for it.
Desmond, for his part, just let himself go with the flow, allowing Lucia tug him along at her will. As the amount of people increased, unconsciously, his posture shifted, adopting their gait as he seamlessly blended in. He observed the villagers as Lucia pulled him along. They were clearly hard-working people, dressed in layers of wool and linen, their hands calloused from labor.
A few men stood chatting near the entrance of what Desmond could only guess was a tavern and further away, a group of women gathered near the baker’s stall, speaking in quick, animated tones. A boy ran past, laughing with a yapping dog at his heels and distantly, Desmond could hear the lilting notes of a lute drifting through the air, accompanied by the faint clapping of hands.
The town was alive.
Not grand. Not wealthy. But alive.
Lucia tightened her grip on his fingers, breaking him out of his reverie. “Stay close, Desmond.” She lectured when it looked like her ‘younger’ brother was straying. “Remember, if you get lost, just call out, okay? I’ll find you.”
Desmond bit back a chuckle, smiling warmly as her face pinched with the seriousness of her appointed duty. Her nose and cheeks were a rosy red, likely from the cold and without thinking, Desmond pulled the coif she wore more securely over her head. “I appreciate that.”
And so, hand in hand with his self-proclaimed older sister, they followed Maria deeper into the market.
The first stop was to the baker’s shop, where the warm scent of fresh bread was strongest. The stall was run by a baker and his wife based on their matching aprons and familiarity with each other. Maria said a few words with the baker’s wife, inspecting the loaves carefully before selecting two along with a bag of flour and tucking them into her basket.
Next was the herbalist’s stall which had bundles of drying rosemary, fennel, and thyme hanging from its top. Small clay pots lining the shelves behind the vendor and Desmond’s noise wrinkled when he caught the faintest note of vinegar, which was likely from her wares. Each pot had a tiny parchment label with careful, curling writing.
Maria carefully looked through the herbs, muttering to herself as she ran her fingers over the leaves. She checked their freshness by rolling a stem between her fingers before adding a few bundles to her basket.
Desmond, hands tucked into his sleeves, cast a glance at the woman running the stall—a sharp-eyed older lady with ink-stained fingers, no doubt from scrawling recipes for those willing to pay extra for written instructions. Her eyes passed by him, as if he were another customer ‘just looking’ before her eyes flicked down to Lucia, brows rising at the firm grip the child had on his hand.
“She’s got a strong hold on you.” The woman noted dryly, setting a small brass weight onto the scale to measure Maria’s purchase.
Desmond grinned slightly. “She’s very responsible.”
At the attention, Lucia nodded solemnly, straightening her shoulders. “Mama told me to take care of him.”
The herbalist let out a short, amused snort. “Is that so?”
Maria fished a few coins from her pouch but just as she was about to finish paying, something at the back of the stall caught her eye—a small wooden crate tucked beneath the shelves, partially hidden by some hanging bundles of lavender.
“One moment.” Maria mumbled distractedly before she stepped past Desmond and Lucia, curiosity drawing her toward it. She recognized the faintly bitter scent even before she crouched down, reaching for one of the small wax-sealed jars inside.
Chamomile extract.
This was good. Stronger than dried flowers steeped into tea, and potent enough for the medicinal infusions she occasionally made for restless patients. She picked up a second jar, inspecting the seal’s tightness, and so was completely unaware of the conversation continuing behind her.
Lucia's eyes were wide and curious as they darted all over the store stall, her fingers itching to touch the small pots of salves and pastes. Her mom never let her touch them too often, concerned that she might accidentally drop them. ‘Even though—' Lucia thought stubbornly, ‘—it had happened just a handful of times!’ Still, these jars weren’t theirs, so she kept her hands to herself. Her gaze did land on one jar though, half-empty and well used if the amount of paste left in the jar was any indication. It sat innocently in front of the vendor. The ink on its label was faded, but she could still make out the words. Quietly, she sounded them out under her breath, stuttering only once, before her face lit up in triumph.
“Calendula salve!”
Desmond smiled, squeezing her hand in a good job, making Lucia positively preen.
The herbalist’s brows jumped, surprised. “Well, well.” She mused, shifting the pot forward with one ink-stained hand. “You’ve learned your letters, I see.”
Lucia puffed up proudly, delighted at the attention. “Uh-huh! My little brother taught me!”
Beside her, Desmond choked.
The herbalist, who had just begun reaching for another wrapped bundle of thyme, paused. Slowly, she turned to the girl, brows furrowing. “Your what?”
“My little brother.” Lucia repeated, nodding matter-of-factly. She beamed up at Desmond, her grip on his hand tightening. “He’s a really good teacher.”
The herbalist blinked. Then blinked again.
Now that she was actually looking at him, her sharp gaze swept over Desmond, properly taking him in. He had been standing so still, so unobtrusively, that he had almost blended into the scenery like any other village youth—posture relaxed, expression neutral, a ghost amid the crowd.
But now?
Now she saw the details that didn’t quite fit.
His features were too fine, his complexion too clear, his teeth too white. His clothes were modest, plain even, yet they did little to dull the striking presence he carried. If anything, the simplicity only made it more obvious—highlighting what sharp angles of his face she could see from beneath his hood. He looked like he carried himself with an ease that felt… deliberate.
And, oh, when he smiled down at his sister, he was striking.
The herbalist narrowed her eyes, considering. If he wasn’t already spoken for, she had a daughter of a suitable age…
But then Lucia’s words finally settled in.
Her sharp eyes snapped back to Lucia, then up at Desmond again, her brain trying and failing to make the connection. “…Little?”
Desmond sighed, exasperated, and gave a helpless shrug—the kind that plainly said What can you do?, which made the herbalist let out a delighted bark of laughter.
“Oh, I see how it is.” She chuckled, shaking her head. “What a good brother.”
Desmond merely offered a crooked, knowing smile, neither confirming nor denying it.
The herbalist hummed, still studying him, intrigued now. “What family are you from, then?”
That was the moment Maria returned, chamomile jars secured in her basket.
Her attention snapped immediately to the conversation, and something about the woman’s tone—just a touch too interested, too prying—sent warning bells ringing in her mind.
Swiftly, she reached for her basket and took Lucia’s hand.
“We should be going." She said briskly.
Desmond barely smothered his amusement as Maria quickly paid for the jars and turned them both away, practically dragging them from the stall. Lucia, oblivious to the tension, simply followed along with a cheerful bounce in her step.
(The herbalist watched them go, lips twitching as she replayed the exchange in her mind.
What an odd little family.
And yet, despite herself, she was left wondering about the too-pretty young man with the humoring smile—and just who, exactly, he was.)
As they wove back into the bustle of the market, Maria let out a quiet sigh, glancing down at Lucia with a look that wasn’t quite a glare but held weight. “You shouldn’t have said so much.” She murmured, keeping her voice low.
Lucia, still gripping Desmond’s hand, blinked up at her mother. “What do you mean?”
Maria gave a meaningful glance back toward the herbalist’s stall. “Not everyone needs to take notice of him.”
Lucia’s brows furrowed deeper as she replayed the conversation in her head before realization dawned, and her face fell. “Oh...”
“It’s fine.” Desmond said, unconcerned. “She didn’t seem like trouble.” The herbalist hadn’t shown up red in his vision, after all. Pushy, sure—but relatively harmless.
Lucia glanced up at Desmond with big, watery eyes. “I didn’t do a good job taking care of you, did I?”
Desmond softened. “Oh, Lucia, it’s o—”
She straightened before he could finish, gripping his hand more firmly and looking up at her mother in determination. “I’ll do better!”
Maria exhaled, but her eyes softened. “Good.”
They continued to a tailor’s stall next, where bolts of dyed fabric hung from wooden racks. Labels listed the various wool and flaxen linens as either imported or local and their prices reflected that. The seamstress behind the stall was in a deep discussion with another woman when they arrived at her stall, the conversation clearly animated based on the way their hands moved in the air.
Maria felt the fabric, assessing the quality and only when the seamstresses finished her conversation with a wolfish grin—possibly from having gotten the better end of the deal—did Maria grab her attention and gesture to a length of sturdy wool.
“How much?”
The seamstress—Catalina, judging by the embroidered name on her apron—folded her arms, expression smoothing into something shrewd, as if preparing for another battle. “Too much for what you are willing to pay, I’m sure.” En garde.
Maria exhaled sharply through her nose at the challenge. “Try me.” Prets.
Catalina’s eyes narrowed, leaning forward. Allez!
The haggling began in earnest, words exchanged with sharp precision. Catalina stood her ground, but Maria was relentless, countering every price with practiced ease.
“I want to be like madre when I grow up.” Lucia whispered conspiratorially to Desmond as she watched her mother go back and forth with the vendor. The hand that wasn’t gripping Desmond’s was pumped up into a fist, pumping the air every time Maria said something that made Catalina rear back. Riposte!
“No kidding.” Desmond mumbled back because damn, he didn’t want to get in the middle of that.
As the vendor and Maria continued their negotiations, Desmond noticed Maria subtly shifted her basket higher on her shoulder, only for it to slide down again moments later. It was fuller than before, the weight of flour, herbs, and bread pressing unevenly against her side.
Frowning, he stepped forward and gently pried it from her grasp.
Maria startled only slightly, expression charged when she turned to him with a furrowed brow. In response, he prodded her palm lightly with the woven handle, giving her an expectant look.
For a moment, Maria said nothing, her mind caught between the negotiation and the unexpected gesture. Then, she let go, letting him slide the basket off her shoulder and onto his.
Desmond adjusted his grip easily, his other hand still linked with Lucia’s as he stood behind Maria, attentive but unobtrusive. He kept an eye on her movements, as if watching for when she might need to place something in the basket, but was also listening to Lucia’s chattering beside him.
Maria hesitated, her earlier frustration at Catalina dimming slightly. It had been so long since someone had done something as simple as that for her.
Across from her, Catalina had also noticed.
The seamstress’ sharp eyes flicked between Maria and Desmond before she seemed to smirk, the earlier aggression of the haggling seeping out of her shoulders. With a faint chuckle, she shook her head. “You’ve got a dutiful son.”
Maria blinked.
Something flickered in her chest, unexpected and warm.
Desmond, still scanning the cloth on display, didn’t react, too preoccupied with shifting the basket’s weight in his grip and listening to Lucia chatter at his side.
Maria, after a pause, found she didn’t want to correct the assumption.
Instead, she offered a small smile. “He is, isn’t he?”
Catalina sighed, clicking her tongue. “Wish mine had half the manners. The only thing he’s diligent about is chasing skirts.”
Maria chuckled, before nodding toward the fabric once more. “Let’s talk about this wool again.”
The negotiation resumed, but the edge had softened. Catalina’s tone had lost its earlier bite, and Maria, for her part, found herself less inclined to push as hard. They settled on a fair price soon after, Catalina handing over the bundle with a parting comment of, “You take care of your mother, boy.”
Desmond stilled, blinking as if he had only just processed what was being said. His gaze flicked to Maria quickly before he recovered and dipped his head in acknowledgment. “Of course.”
Maria pressed her lips together, not trusting herself to speak, and when Desmond wordlessly took the purchased cloth from her arms, the small smile lingered on her lips. Desmond adjusted his grip, balancing the weight between his arm and the basket still held in his other hand.
With that, they moved on.
Their final stop was a carpenter’s stall near the edge of the market, where wooden wares of all kinds were displayed. Stools, barrels, an assortment of cooking supplies were on sale at the forefront, but at the back, a row of large, half-barrel-shaped bath basins lined the stand.
Desmond slowed as realization struck.
Oh.
So that’s what this was about.
He glanced at Maria, then at the price scrawled onto a small strip of parchment tied to the basin’s rim. He had no idea what a tub should cost (because Ezio had no need to purchase any in his memories) but the number seemed…high.
“Maria…” Desmond murmured hesitantly. “You don’t have to get a bigger tub. I’ve been managing just fine.”
Maria didn’t even look at him as she inspected the craftsmanship of the wood, running her fingers along the iron bands reinforcing the structure. “You are not going to bathe in the lake in winter.”
Her tone brokered no argument but still, Desmond fidgeted. He could manage—he had managed—but there was a fervor in Maria’s voice that Desmond knew he couldn't win against.
Still, when the exchange was made and coins passed from Maria’s hand to the carpenter’s, guilt curled in Desmond’s gut. This was an unnecessary expense—because of him.
He needed to do more.
Setting traps was one thing, but small game wouldn’t stretch far in a household. Maybe he could try fishing instead. That could bring in food, possibly even a little extra to trade. He chewed the thought over, but even then, it wasn’t enough. He needed something that would bring in actual coin.
His wings gave an irritated twitch, still strapped against his back beneath the fabric of his borrowed clothes. The cloth binding them together was making them itchy and he resisted the urge to itch—before he paused.
…Huh.
Maybe… that could work?
Lucia had called his feathers pretty before, hadn’t she? Large enough, they could be fashioned into quills. He’d seen merchants sell them in passing. If he plucked a few here and there, ones that had naturally loosened or would regrow quickly, he might be able to sell them.
It was a thought.
He was still turning the idea over when Maria straightened, tucking away the last of her coins, and nodded in satisfaction. “We’re done here.”
Desmond wasted no time setting her basket inside the tub for easier carrying. It added to the weight, but it was more efficient this way. The basin was heavy—solid wood tended to be—but he could manage.
Just as they turned to leave, Lucia let out an excited noise, tugging sharply on Desmond’s sleeve. “Look!”
Desmond barely had a second to do so when he was pulled forward, nearly losing his foot from Lucia’s enthusiasm.
She pulled them to a small stall with livestock pens, where an elderly man sat beside wooden cages filled with birds. Behind him in a larger enclosure, goats and pigs loitered about, alongside a few ducks that were lazily floating in a trough of water. The animals were clearly healthy and well-fed, which was a good sign, but frankly they didn’t need an animal.
Lucia, on the other hand, had locked onto the chickens with something like sheer glee.
Her face lit up as she hovered close to the stall, admiring each and every hen. “Look at that one!” She whispered excitedly, pointing to a particularly fluffy bird with striking speckled feathers. “And that one! And that other one! Look how round it is!”
Desmond, despite himself, huffed a quiet laugh.
Clearly, Lucia loved chickens.
Maria, already seeing where this was going, sighed. “Lucia, we are not getting chickens.”
Lucia whined, rocking on her heels. “But we had chickens before! We still have the coop!”
Desmond perked up at that. He had seen something attached to the side of the house—wooden slats, a small enclosed area with an old nesting box inside. He hadn’t paid it much mind, but now it made sense.
Maria folded her arms. “We do, but it’s been a long time since I kept them. I have an apothecary to run, I don’t have time to look after hens.”
“I do!” Lucia shot back. “I’m old enough to take care of chickens! They eat table scraps, don’t they? It wouldn’t even be that hard!”
Hearing the potential business, the old man running the stall straightened, stroking his beard. “The girl’s got a point. Chickens mostly take care of themselves. Let ‘em roam a bit, give ‘em a safe place to roost, and they’ll do just fine.”
Lucia turned a triumphant look on her mother. “See?”
Desmond, meanwhile, bit his lip to keep from grinning. It was like watching a kid plead for a puppy.
“And look at them, Mama.” Lucia continued, gesturing wildly toward the pen. “They’re so cute! And fluffy! And—” She gasped suddenly, eyes going wide. “Oh! That one! That one right there—” She pointed, her voice turning eager. “That white one in the back, it looks like Desmond!”
Desmond squawked.
“Excuse me?!”
Maria looked equally gobsmacked. “What?!”
But Lucia, having already set her mind on the comparison, marched on undeterred. She leaned in closer to her mother, lowering her voice so only Maria could hear. “The feathers.” She insisted. “They’re the same colors as Desmond, and…” She hesitated for a second. “She looks sad in there. Kind of like he does sometimes.”
Maria stiffened.
Lucia glanced briefly at Desmond—oblivious to their whispers, though watching them with suspicion—before looking back at her mother. “‘Cause it can’t fly.” She murmured quietly.
Maria swallowed.
It wasn’t the first time the thought had crossed her mind.
Desmond was an angel. He had wings that had now healed splendidly. What was stopping him from simply flying away? Even if something—or someone—was after him, surely, with wings like that, he had a means of escape.
She had asked, once. Carefully, cautiously.
Desmond had only laughed, a quiet, self-deprecating sound.
“I told you. I’m not an angel.”
When she dared to press, he had just shaken his head, his smile rueful. “They don’t work.”
And just like that, Maria had understood.
Perhaps that was why he had been cast out. Perhaps he was broken.
The protective instinct in her had surged before she could stop it.
Now, as she turned to the bird in question, she had to admit—Lucia wasn’t wrong. The chicken’s white feathers were the same shade as Desmond’s, down to the soft, almost silvery sheen in the right light.
And then, an idea took root.
Desmond preened his feathers often, and sometimes he let her help, especially with the ones he couldn’t quite reach. She was careful to dispose of the loose feathers before anyone could see, but what if she missed one? What if a customer at the apothecary happened to find one?
But if they had a chicken…
Well.
If anyone ever noticed a stray feather, she could simply say it belonged to the bird.
It was perfect.
Maria turned to the old man. “How much for that one?”
Lucia gasped in delight. Desmond gaped at her, stunned.
“What—?” He started, bewildered, but Maria ignored him, already focused on making the deal.
Lucia beamed, bouncing on her feet.
The chicken, oblivious to its sudden shift in fortune, merely clucked.
The seller, it turned out, had a buy-two-get-one-free deal.
Lucia, delighted by this unexpected stroke of luck, had practically vibrated with excitement as the old man explained that, since they were already taking one chicken, why not take two more? They were strong layers, he assured them, and the extra bird was simply a gesture of goodwill.
Maria, ever the pragmatist, had been hesitant—three chickens were more than she’d bargained for—but the word 'free' had clearly tickled her fancy. The seller had also noticed their distinct lack of a cart and to sweeten the deal, he even offered to deliver them himself, citing his own return trip toward that end of the village.
And that was how, two days ago, Maria, Desmond, and Lucia had left the market with a basket full of goods, a wooden bath basin, and the looming promise of livestock integration.
Now, according to Lucia, their little family had grown from three to six.
It had taken some adjusting.
As it turned out, birds loved Desmond.
It was immediate and all-consuming, as if they had taken one look at him and decided, Yes. That one. That’s our new favorite person.
Lucia doted on them, ensuring they were well-fed, and Maria—by virtue of being a taller, more responsible version of Lucia—was regarded with the respect due to an authority figure. But Desmond? Desmond was an obsession.
If he was outside, at least one of them would be nearby. If he sat, they would gather. If he so much as sighed, they would respond with a chorus of clucks, as if engaged in a very important conversation only they could hear.
“‘Cause you’re the big chicken! They have to follow the pecking order!” Lucia had chirped, candidly, making Desmond wonder when she learned what puns were.
Ampi, the speckled hen, was the worst of them. She had tried, more than once, to assert dominance by attempting to roost on his bed, strutting about like she had earned the right to claim the space. When Desmond removed her, she only doubled down, puffing up and flapping indignantly as if he were the unreasonable one.
Bella, the round white one, was an affectionate menace. Unlike Ampi’s need to conquer his sleeping quarters, Bella had one goal and one goal only—to lay on Desmond. She was not content to merely sit beside him. No, Bella wanted to perch on his lap, nestle against his side, or—when particularly bold—attempt to climb onto his shoulder like some kind of oversized, feathery cat. Lucia found this endlessly amusing. Desmond found it mildly horrifying.
And then there was Carina, who was far too attached for comfort. Out of the three, she was the one who resembled Desmond the most with her pale white feathers that when caught in the light just right, eerily resembled his own. Perhaps that was why she had imprinted on him so strongly.
She followed Maria around the yard like a tiny feathered shadow, but Desmond? Desmond she had latched onto like he was her long-lost mother. She would waddle determinedly after him, cooing in satisfaction whenever she found herself at his feet, utterly convinced that she belonged by his side.
One evening, she had even attempted to preen his feathers, gently pecking through the white plumage at his back with what could only be described as delicate precision.
Desmond, for his part, had been unimpressed by their new feathered companions. But Maria had noticed, with no small amount of amusement, that he hadn’t once tried to shoo them away.
And just like that, a year passed.
Winter turned to spring, and the days stretched longer. The once-uncertain rhythm of their household had settled into something steady, something warm—something that included Desmond as naturally as breathing. Once where their home only held belongings for two, it now held quiet traces of him—small mementos lining the wall, an extra pair of boots by the door, a mug sitting by the counter. There was nowhere in the humble home where there wasn’t any evidence of Desmond in some way.
He was still a mystery in many ways, but he was theirs, woven into their routines, their laughter, in the quiet moments by the hearth.
That evening, after dinner, Maria and Lucia exchanged glances—silent, but decisive.
Lucia was practically bouncing as she held something behind her back, her grin barely contained. “Close your eyes!” She demanded, her excitement infectious.
Desmond raised a brow but did as she asked, holding out his hands. There was a brief shuffle, and then something small and wooden was pressed into his palms.
“Okay! You can look now!”
He opened his eyes and blinked down at the tiny carving resting in his hands. It was… a bird? A dove, maybe? The shape was there—rounded body, small wings—but the legs were uneven, one too many, and the beak was a little crooked. It was rough, the wood uneven in places, but it was clear someone had spent time on it, carefully whittling and shaping it into existence.
“Happy one year anniversary!” Lucia cheered and puffed up with pride. “It’s a dove! Mama says it means hope and freedom!”
‘And love.’ Desmond stared at it, his fingers tracing the edges with an almost reverent touch.
Maria shifted slightly, crossing her arms. “It’s not much.” She said, her voice hesitant. “But we thought it would be… a good gift. To commemorate the day…” She trailed off because it wasn’t just the way he was holding the carving, how his thumb slowly ran along its uneven surface, that made her pause—but the quiet way he looked at it—like he was memorizing every flaw, every rough cut.
Like it was something precious.
He swallowed once, twice, and when he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, softer than she’d ever heard him be. “It’s perfect.”
Lucia beamed, but Maria—Maria only watched, understanding something deeper in the way he held the little wooden bird like it was the most valuable thing he had ever owned. Then, he smiled—a small and crooked thing, but Maria saw how his eyes wrinkled around the edges, eyes soft as he ruffled Lucia’s hair.
“Thanks, kid. This is the best-looking dove I’ve ever seen.”
Maria snorted. “It looks like a three-legged chicken.”
Lucia gasped, scandalized. “It does not!”
Desmond only laughed and tucked the carving carefully into his pocket. He wasn’t going to correct Maria—she wasn’t wrong—but that didn’t matter.
It wasn’t about how it looked. It was about what it was.
Then, as if struck by a thought, he ‘oh’ -ed. His fingers curled around the little carving before he looked up at them. “Wait here.” He said suddenly, getting up.
The mother daughter duo blinked as Desmond disappeared into his room, followed by the sound of rummaging. A moment later when he returned, something was carefully cupped in his hands.
“I, um…” Desmond cleared his throat, looking almost embarrassed as he uncupped his hands and presented two, delicate feathers. “I wanted to give you something, too.”
Lucia’s eyes widened as she reached out impulsively, her fingers grazing the feathers with awe. They weren’t like the ones that fell off Desmond when he preened. They seemed to shine in the light, emanating a sheen of gold that it seemed almost otherworldly.
Maria took hers more slowly, carefully running her thumb along its length. “These are…” She hesitated, voice unusually soft. “Desmond, you didn’t—?”
“I didn’t pluck them!” He cut in quickly. “They were just a little loose, so I had to take them out anyway. I kept them because, well… they looked nice.” He rubbed his neck, almost sheepishly. “Figured they’d make good quills or something.”
Maria shook her head fondly, but when she looked back at the feather in her hands, her expression softened. “Thank you, Desmond.”
Desmond smiled. “Of course.”
The warmth of the evening lingered even after dinner.
Later, after a warm bath, Desmond had settled himself in front of the hearth, his hair still damp, wings slightly slick where the oil repelled the water. He had meant only to warm himself, letting the heat chase away the lingering chill.
Instead, he had fallen asleep.
And Lucia, fresh from her own bath, had wandered in after. At the sight of Desmond slouched against the hearth, wings half-draped over the floor, asleep, she plopped herself down beside him. Groggily, as if she had done it hundreds of times (because she had, reveling in the way Desmond’s wings tittered and seemed to want to ‘tuck her in’), the child grabbed at the nearest wing and tugged it toward her, nestling her face against the thick feathers as if it were a stuffed animal.
Maria arrived just in time to see her daughter curl up beside Desmond, her tiny fingers still curled into his plumage. She opened her mouth to scold—Lucia’s hair was still damp and she was going to get sick—but the words faded before she could speak.
They looked… comfortable.
Desmond, who so often held himself apart, who so often seemed restless in his own skin, had melted into the warmth of the fire and Lucia—Lucia, who was still too young to understand hesitation, had pressed herself against him without an ounce of doubt.
Something in Maria’s chest softened.
The warmth of the moment, however, was abruptly dampened when Maria’s eyes landed on Lucia’s face.
Her daughter, deep in sleep, had parted her lips ever so slightly and there, glistening faintly in the firelight, was a thin trail of drool.
Right on Desmond’s wing.
Maria grimaced.
With the practiced ease that came with being a mother who knew how to clean after her daughter’s messes, she retrieved a cloth and dabbed at the offending spot, wiping away the evidence before Desmond could wake and notice (even though at this point, she guessed he already knew and was eternally resigned to it.)
As she did, her fingers brushed against his feathers and stilled, before leaning in.
She had touched his wings before—just once—when she had helped him preen. Even then, they had been soft, something she had found herself reluctant to pull away from. But now… now, they were different. Desmond had grown stronger in the past year. His body was no longer swathed in bandages, the sickly pallor had faded from his skin, and the hollowness in his face had been filled by proper meals—not just bread, but pottage rich with the meat he had hunted.
He looked healthy now, his presence steadier, more whole.
And his wings reflected that.
They were impossibly soft.
Not in the way of downy pillows or fine silks, but in something deeper, something warm and living. Health had smoothed them, strengthened them, until they felt almost unreal beneath her touch. She ran her fingers over them once, twice, marveling at their texture before she caught herself.
No wonder Lucia had curled into them so easily. No wonder she clung to them as if they were the finest blanket in the world. Maria couldn’t even blame her.
An immature part of her wanted to join them—to settle in beside them, to let herself be enveloped in that same warmth. She resisted, because she was a responsible adult, because she had work to do, and because it was enough just to see them like this.
She sighed quietly, stepping forward only to drape an extra blanket over Lucia’s small frame.
Then, she lingered.
Desmond’s wings, partially splayed out and relaxed, caught the fire’s light in a way that made them look almost ethereal, but it wasn’t their otherworldly beauty that held her gaze. It was the way Desmond breathed, slow and deep, as if he were safe. As if he felt safe. It was the way Lucia, ever so trusting, had burrowed into his warmth without hesitation.
Desmond had fallen into their lives like a force of nature—unexpected and undeniable.
In this quiet night under the stars with the sound of crickets, hens murmuring in their sleep, and the hearth crackling softly, Maria found that she no longer wanted to imagine this home without him in it. She prayed, hoping that nothing would break this fragile peace.
Between its brief moments of wakefulness and slumber, the Eye knew it had forgotten something.
Something about a choice. A promise. A reason. But the thoughts slipped through its grasp, scattering like grains of sand in a river’s current. It was too tired to hold onto them. Too… incomplete. It needed more power, but recovery was slow—too slow and the Eye regretted it could not be of more help to its Savior while it collected what little scraps of energy it could without harming him.
The strain of what it had done still lingered, like a wound that refused to close. Pulling Desmond free. Giving him wings. Keeping him alive. It had taken more than it should have, drained it down to the core, leaving only scraps of awareness behind.
It woke in flickers. Faint, fleeting moments when its presence skimmed the surface of Desmond’s mind, borrowing his eyes to glimpse the world. A twitch of perception when he hunted, catching the movement of a rabbit’s ear when Desmond’s human senses had overlooked it. A whisper of calculation when his feet moved through the woods, steering him away from unseen dangers. No matter how much it tried, after the smallest effort, it was always pulled back into rest.
Now, something stirred. The Eye clawed its way toward wakefulness, drawn by the warmth of its Savior.
Desmond was safe. Warm. Tucked in the quiet glow of firelight, wings loose and trusting. There was no urgency. No running. No fear.
Only peace.
And Desmond’s peace felt like something. Soft and inviting, like the warmth of the hearth. Like lying in a puddle of sunlight. Like what it imagined petting a happy creature might feel like—something small and content, curling into safety.
When Desmond was awake, his consciousness took priority, drawing from the same well of energy the Eye relied on. The more Desmond lived, moved, felt—the more the Eye was forced into stillness. Yet now, it was Desmond who was still. Unburdened. Not reaching, not resisting, simply… at rest, and in that stillness, the Eye could breathe. Like this, it could mend.
It wanted to bask in it. To reach out, to press against Desmond’s mind but it restrained itself.
Not yet.
It was content to linger at a distance, to soak in the feeling while it lasted.
But something tugged at the edges of its awareness. A whisper of wrongness.
It had forgotten something.
The thought was weightless, formless, like a half-remembered dream.
It tried to reach for it. Tried to calculate, to sort through possibilities—but the effort was too much. It didn’t have enough power yet.
Still, it knew it was missing something important.
But the knowledge was just out of reach.
Desmond shifted, exhaling softly in sleep, and the warmth of his contentment washed over the Eye once more.
The Eye decided it could remember later.
For now, it curled into rest, letting the quiet embrace of Desmond’s happiness lull it back into sleep.
Notes:
Okay guys, real talk--this is pretty much gonna be the second to last nice chapter. Enjoy the wholesome-ness because it's all you're going to get for a while.
I've finished laying out the groundwork and it's uh, going to get a liiiitle heavy reaaaaaally soon, so I just want to gauge—what's your preference on chaos? Average chaos or MAXIMUM chaos? This is because chapter five is going to be the point of no return before it all goes to shit. //nervous haha//
I've written at MAXIMUM chaos (because go big or go home amirite) but for my fellow hurt/comfort readers, just wanted your take.
Chapter 5
Summary:
The Eye gives a warning.
A legend is born.
Prepare for unforeseen consequences.
Notes:
Work is picking up. I only get like 6 hours of sleep. AND ALL I CAN THINK ABOUT IS THIS FIC.
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The carriage sped down the uneven dirt road.
Their journey home through the Tuscan countryside was supposed to be a relaxing one. It was meant to be the last part of their vacation before they returned to the hustle and bustle of Florence, but where the air inside the carriage should have been alight with the sounds of childish laughter and their parents’ bantering, it was instead heavy with the sourness of sickness and the suffocating weight of dread.
Inside, Costanza sat bowed over her son, one hand holding her boy’s limp hand, the other pressed over her mouth to stifle her sobs. Pazzino, her eldest, laid across her lap. His small body trembled with chills, despite the fever burning beneath his skin. His once-lively brown eyes fluttered weakly, his gaze unfocused and glazed as he swam in and out of consciousness.
“My love.” She whispered, smoothing the pain from his face. “You must drink this. It will help.”
Her child stirred but did not wake. His breath came in shallow gasps and when Costanza tried to coax the medicine into his mouth, he only coughed weakly, the liquid dribbling down his chin, much to her distress.
Across from them, her youngest, Andrea sat curled in on himself, his wide eyes darting between his mother and brother. The boy clutched Pazzino’s sleeve as if afraid to let go, his small fingers white from the grip.
“Will he be well, Mama?” Andrea asked, voice trembling.
Costanza forced a smile she did not feel. “Of course, tesoro. He only needs rest.”
Yet, the words felt hollow. The local physician in Bagno Vignoni had given them tonics, powders crushed from bitter-smelling herbs, each one more expensive than the last, assuring them that her son would recover. However, none of them had worked. If anything, her son worsened. This fever marked his deterioration. Stomach pains, vomiting, chills—he was wasting away more and more everyday and she feared for the worst as nothing seemed to work.
Her husband sat across from her, his normally composed face pale and fists clenched as he stubbornly fixed his gaze out the carriage window. He had always been a man who valued and priced himself in maintaining control, yet now he was utterly powerless, like a tiger trapped in a cage.
It had initially started as an upset stomach. They had thought nothing of it, thinking their son had merely eaten something he shouldn’t have, but when it persisted, Costanza grew worried. At first, they had stayed at the baths, convinced the waters of the vacationing town would help him, but the warm, sulfuric pools had done nothing. Soon, he had stopped eating—then drinking, and now…
Costanza pressed a damp cloth to her son’s forehead, fingers trembling. “We never should have left Florence.”
They had taken their sons on a retreat to the countryside for a final chance to enjoy the warmth of autumn before winter. It was supposed to be a peaceful respite—an opportunity to breathe away from Florence’s constant political turmoil—but none of that mattered anymore.
A sudden, choked noise made her snap her gaze downward.
“Guglielmo!” She gasped as Pazzino’s breath hitched, his small body tensing as a dry, ragged cough wracked his frame. He had no strength left to cry out. He only gasped, his face contorting in silent pain.
Guglielmo surged forward. “Driver!” he barked.
The carriage jolted as the driver pulled the reins in response.
“The next village—how far?”
“Not far, messere! A short ride yet.”
“Faster.”
The driver hesitated. The road ahead narrowed, uneven and winding. It was nearing the evening, which only made it more risky, but one look at the desperation in Guglielmo’s eyes made the man reconsider and he gave a sharp nod.
The whip cracked. The horses lunged forward.
The carriage lurched violently, sending Costanza gripping onto Pazzino to keep him steady.
“Find me a doctor the moment we arrive.” Guglielmo ordered.
The driver hesitated. “A small town like this, signore, might not have a doctor.”
Costanza felt her stomach drop. “Then who do they have?”
“There’s a healer—a herbalist, I believe.”
Herbalist. Herbalists were not real doctors.
Guglielmo clenched his jaw, reluctant, but Costanza barely hesitated. “Take us to this herbalist.”
If there were no physicians, then they would take whatever help they could get.
The horses thundered down the path, the town coming into sight over the horizon.
Pazzino gave a weak, pained whimper.
Costanza cradled his burning forehead against her chest, praying under her breath.
She did not care who treated him.
She only cared that they saved him.
The town, if it could even be called that, was modest—nothing like the grandeur of Florence they were used to—but it was alive with activity, with people moving through the streets going about their business. Their arrival to the town drew eyes and it was clear that the townspeople were not used to well dressed travelers as whispers followed them through the town square.
Guglielmo disembarked first, his gaze sweeping the town before turning to the coachman. “Find the herbalist.” He ordered. “We need them now.”
The coachman nodded and set off, leaving Guglielmo and Costanza to find accommodations. It wasn’t certain if a town like this had an inn, but fortune favored them—a modest tavern sat near the square, with rooms available for travelers who could pay. The owner, wary of their status, accepted their coin without question and led them to a private chamber. Costanza immediately took Pazzino to the bed, tending to his fever, his shivers, while whispering desperate prayers.
By the time the driver knocked on the door, the herbalist in tow, the room smelled sour with sickness. The herbalist was an older woman with shrewd eyes, but the moment she entered with her basket of remedies, one look at Pazzino made her frown. His breath was shallow, his skin too warm, yet pale as death. She touched his forehead, then lifted his limp hand, her expression darkening.
“This is grave.” She murmured.
“What does he have?” Guglielmo demanded.
The herbalist shook her head. “I cannot say. I have seen illness like this before, but it takes many forms. Some survive. Others…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “I do not believe he will live long.”
Guglielmo’s face darkened. “You’re supposed to heal him.”
“I can only do so much.” The herbalist said firmly. “I can ease his pain, but—”
His hand shot out, grabbing her wrist in fury. The woman stiffened, jerking in his grip but before he could do anything he might later regret, the family guards stepped between them.
“My lord.” One cautioned, voice low. The last thing they needed was a scene that would turn the town against them and reluctantly, he released her.
Costanza broke into sobs, cradling Pazzino against her chest. “No one can save him?”
Andrea whimpered beside her, hiding his face into his mother’s back.
The herbalist, who had been rubbing her wrist, hesitated at the sight. She looked like she was considering something before reluctantly out of pity, she spoke. “There is… one more option. Another you may consult.”
Guglielmo stilled. “Who?”
“Maria, the apothecary.” The herbalist said. “She is not here in town, but she is known for her skill. She does not take visitors anymore, though. She used to, but ever since her eldest came to live with her, she only serves customers from her window.” The old woman nodded at Pazzino. “If you take the child to her, do not expect hospitality.”
Guglielmo squared his shoulders and barked for the driver. “Prepare the carriage. We go to the apothecary now.”
The moment Lucia got her letters down, when it all finally clicked in her brain, she became an absolute terror with all things words.
Before, reading had been a slow, careful process, but under Desmond’s guidance (and with more child-friendly resources at her disposal—which, really, were just folded parchment ‘books’ Desmond had made in his attempts to recreate Goldilocks and the Three Bears, Cinderella, and Snow White but in a medieval style), she took off. She adored them, pouring over every story, but now that she had a solid grasp on reading, there was no stopping her.
She pestered Desmond for new words, sounded them out under her breath at random moments, and even had the audacity to try correcting Maria’s handwriting in her apothecary notebooks—an act that earned her an unimpressed stare and a flick to the forehead.
But more than reading, it turned out Lucia loved stories.
“She’s always been like this.” Maria mused as she prepared their dinner, watching her daughter scribble furiously in a little handmade journal. “Even before she could read, she was always making up nonsense.”
Desmond had to agree with that because yeah, that was Lucia. Maria had told him about how, the day they’d found him in that lake a yearish ago, she had told her mother that an angel had fallen from the sky. Maria, of course, had just gone along with, nodding along if said angel was friends with the Toad Queen or the fox with the three tails she often gossiped about.
Lucia, instead of taking offense, perked up. “I already started writing a story!” She declared proudly, shoving her journal toward Desmond with an expectant look.
Desmond accepted it with one hand, the other absently twirling his quill between his fingers. He had gotten used to writing with a feather, though there was something odd about using one of his own. It was honestly easier than he expected—after all, they were just feathers, and they worked just fine for the job.
That reminded him—he needed to bring in some money again soon. Maria’s apothecary work brought in what they needed, but it never hurt to have extra, and Desmond had a habit of being just a little high-maintenance. Not that he asked for much, but Maria had already spent good coin on a larger bath basin just for him. The last thing he wanted was to be a freeloader.
After the first time they had gone into town together, he had floated the idea of selling his feathers as quills. It seemed practical enough—quills were always in demand.
Maria and Lucia, however, had been aghast.
"Your feathers are beautiful! You can’t sell them like—like livestock!"
"Does it not hurt when you pluck them?!"
"A little." He had admitted—which only horrified them more.
Maria had wanted to refuse outright—it felt like a travesty to pluck an angel (“Not an angel!” Desmond argued back, to which Maria just threw her hands up in exasperation), but Desmond had been firm. He wanted to help, and they needed the money.
In the end, she had only relented on the condition that he wouldn’t pluck them, just sell the ones that fell off naturally. Desmond had agreed, but honestly, it made it less efficient. Turns out, his feathers sold better as novelties than quills, anyway. Most people weren’t literate enough to need writing supplies, but kids loved them for their softness and unusual sheen. Maria didn’t have a stall, opting to instead barter or sell outright to traders if they seemed interested, but once one child got their hands on a feather and started showing it off, the rest had to have one too. Soon, a whole group of them were clutching his feathers in their small hands, gushing about how pretty they were.
Desmond, finding them adorable, on one particular market outing, had spun some nonsense about how they came from an exotic bird and were lucky charms. Who knew—maybe they would bring good fortune?
The kids ate it up.
It didn’t bring in as much money as Maria’s work, but it was still something.
Now, he used one of those very feathers to jot down notes for Lucia’s next lesson, which was kind of funny because of how it all worked out.
Grinning slightly, Desmond flipped to the first page of Lucia’s journal. The handwriting was childish, the letters uneven and drifting diagonally down the page now and then, but it was completely legible—which, Desmond thought, for an eight-year-old, was pretty impressive and made a small ripple of pride go through him.
Then, he began reading. “Once upon a time, there were three chickens named Ampi, Bella, and Carina. They were the most beautiful chickens in the world but the most beautifulest—’ Lucia, beautifulest isn’t really a word.”
“It is in my story!” Lucia refuted. “Keep reading, keep reading!”
“Alright, alright—jeez.” Desmond laughed. “‘They were the most beautiful chickens in the world but the most beautifulest of them all was Des—oh my god, Lucia, I’m not a chicken.”
Maria, who had been sipping tea, snorted so hard she nearly choked.
Lucia looked up at him, utterly serious. “But you are the most beautifulest. Even Carina thinks so!”
It was either the fact that said chicken was really attentive or it was just sheer luck that Carina chose that moment to make an agreeing ba-cawk from outside.
Lucia pointed in the direction of the cluck earnestly. “See?”
“Lucia, stop teasing the poor boy.” Maria said, but despite her scolding tone, she was clearly fighting a laugh.
“Hardy har har. Laugh it up while you can.” Desmond rolled his eyes but still scanned the rest of the story. It wasn’t that long, but it wasn’t short either and to his surprise, it was actually… good? The more he read though, the more he realized that Lucia had essentially ripped off parts of Snow White, Cinderella, and—somehow—Finding Nemo, combining them in such a way that it actually worked.
‘Okay, this is actually kind of good, what.’
He turned to the next page and was more than a little disappointed when it was blank. “You stopped there?”
Lucia, knowing exactly what praise was when she heard it, puffed up her chest. “Mama says I could be a writer when I grow up!”
“Don’t forget us little people when you’re famous.” Desmond teased but he was genuinely impressed.
The sudden sound of the girls squawking wildly and the stomping of hooves interrupted Lucia before she could reply.
Desmond tensed and immediately pushed back from the table to his feet, wings taut against his back.
Lucia frowned. “Again…?” She knew it was good for her mother’s business, but she didn’t like when visitors interrupted her time with her favorite younger brother. She stayed put as Maria wiped her hands on her apron, but something nagged at her. Did anyone in town even have that many horses?
The bell at the gate rang, signaling an approaching guest.
“Off you go.” Maria reminded Desmond as she busied herself to look presentable.
Desmond didn’t need to be told twice. His room was out of sight from where Maria spoke to customers, and as long as he stayed there, no one would see him. He turned toward his door and abruptly flinched when something struck the window hard.
‘What in the—’
“Please! Open up!” A frantic voice shouted. Another bang followed, shaking the shutters.
Desmond tensed, his instincts screaming that something was wrong. That wasn’t a normal knock—it was desperate, urgent. His breath caught as he turned back toward Maria, but she was already pushing him toward his room.
“Go.” She ordered. “I can handle this.”
He hesitated just a second longer, but her sharp glare made it clear—hide.
Jaw tight, he obeyed, slipping into his room and pulling the door only nearly shut.
In the living quarter, Maria sighed, steadying herself before unlatching the window. She opened it just enough to see who it was—and promptly frowned.
It wasn’t one of her usuals.
A nobleman stood at her window, his hands braced against the frame, knuckles white. He was finely dressed, but his lordly image was diminished by how haggled he looked. Dust dulled the deep blue of his doublet, and his dark hair, which looked to have been once slicked back, was in disarray, as if he’d only combed it with his fingers without a second thought.
“Are you Maria, the apothecary?” He asked, breathless.
“I am.” She answered warily.
Those mere words seemed to make something tightly controlled inside him loosen and his voice trembled, throat bobbing as he murmured, “Please, I beg you—my son is dying.”
Maria stiffened.
She had heard such pleas before. Desperate men, desperate parents, seeking miracles where there were none, but she was no miracle worker—she ran an apothecary. A healer for aches and fevers, not of wasting bodies or fading souls.
Her mouth parted, the words forming on her tongue. I cannot help you, but she caught the man’s eyes and she—wavered. The man’s eyes—dark and frantic—shone with something raw. Not pride, not arrogance, not the expectation of obedience from a mere common woman.
But fear.
A deep, gut-wrenching fear, the kind that seized a man’s heart and refused to let go. The kind that made even the wealthiest noble look like a beggar before the gods.
Maria knew that kind of fear.
Her eyes flicked past him at the roadside where a fine carriage stood underneath the dining sky. Gilded accents glinted against the lantern light, marking it as unmistakably expensive.
A woman waved frantically from the open carriage door. Even at a distance, Maria could see the way she clutched something—someone small tight against her chest. The family guards stood tensely nearby, expressions grim and hands hovering near their weapons, but there was no hostility—merely unease of an inevitable calamity.
“Please.” The noble beseeched. “Just look at him. We—we are desperate.”
Maria bit her lip before nodding once.
“Wait here.”
She shut the window and turned away.
In his room, Desmond pressed his ear against the door, straining to listen. He only caught fragments of the conversation, but he was able to draw a pretty clear picture. Son. Please. Dying.
His stomach twisted. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to hide when a customer came knocking for Maria, but it was the first time for him to witness someone pleading with such desperation in this dire of a situation. The people who came to Maria already knew her from word of mouth and came with reasonable expectations. Maria was no dottore. For serious ailments, one had to travel to the larger cities, so why was this one here?
Desmond stilled when he heard movement, the window sliding shut and… Maria gathering her kit?
In the main room, Lucia rushed to the door as Maria strode toward it. “Bar it after I leave.” She instructed, to which Lucia nodded quickly.
The moment the door shut behind Maria and the heavy wooden bar fell into place, Desmond took that as his cue to move. He cracked his door open, stepping out cautiously. “What’s happening?” He asked, staying near the shadows.
Lucia scampered toward him, her eyes wide. “There’s a fancy carriage outside! They look rich and—” She lowered her voice. “The fancy man said his son is sick. Mama went to see him.”
Desmond frowned. Something about this felt… off. He couldn’t explain why, but his gut twisted uneasily.
Together, he and Lucia moved toward the window, staying low and out of sight. The house had a good vantage point of the road, and through a small gap in the shutters, Desmond could see Maria standing by the open carriage door. He saw her body move, as if reaching for something inside the carriage before she pulled back.
Then—a wail tore through the air. It was raw. Piercing. A mother’s grief made real.
Both Desmond and Lucia flinched, their hands gripping the windowsill.
“Was that—?” Lucia’s voice was barely above a whisper, but Desmond didn’t dare answer her as he activated his Sight.
The world shifted, colors fading away into muted shades of gray and blue. He focused on the figures outside.
The guards—gray. Neutral. They carried no ill will.
Maria—blue. Steady. Calm.
But the carriage was in the way.
Desmond frowned, tense. He could not see the ones inside the carriage and his stomach twisted tighter.
Through the haze of his Sight, he saw Maria step back from the carriage, her head dipping slightly. The movement was deliberate and she seemed to trade a few words with someone inside. Then, she moved to rummage through her bag.
Desmond held his breath. Was she looking for something? Giving something? He couldn’t tell, but with Maria no longer blocking his view, Desmond was able to see the figure in the carriage door—the source of the wailing.
The mother.
Tears streaked her pale face as she rocked a small, shaking form in her arms. Her body shone a gray that nearly bordered on blue—as if her grief was so deep it seemed to bleed into her very soul.
Another figure emerged and Desmond’s gaze snapped to him.
The father.
His form shone in Desmond’s Sight—gray, like the guards. No malice, no danger—but his posture gave away his true emotions. His shoulders were trembling, his hand hovered near his mouth and when he shook his head, it was slow, disbelieving.
Maria bowed her head before stepping away from the carriage, her movements measured, respectful, and as the carriage door closed—
Desmond’s breath caught.
There.
On the carriage door.
Twin dolphins, painted in deep blue and gold, cresting over swirling waves.
The Pazzi crest.
His heartbeat stopped.
The world around him blurred, his Sight stuttering as if it too had lost its footing—because he had seen this before.
No. No, no, no.
A half-formed memory surfaced. Not his own—something the Eye had shown him, in those fevered first days when he had barely been able to think.
Maria peeking from behind a door, the child healed, the mother sobbing, clinging to her skirts.
And then—
The father, in the midst of his gratitude, looking past her.
Looking at him.
The flicker of disbelief. The widening of his eyes.
Then the yell—guards surging forward—
Desmond jerked back from the window, slamming into the wall.
Lucia startled. “Desmond?”
He couldn’t breathe.
This is it. This is what happens. The child lives. They see him. And they—they—
His pulse pounded. He pressed a shaking hand over his mouth. No. No, Maria, don’t do it, don’t help them, don’t—
But she hadn’t moved. Not yet.
She was still standing there, still speaking to them.
The bag was in her hands, but she wasn’t running back to the house.
Not yet.
Not yet.
The words spilled out, barely a whisper. “Don’t help them. Come back. Please. Please. Please.”
Lucia’s head snapped toward him. “What?”
Desmond’s nails bit into his palms. She doesn’t know. She can’t know. He forced himself to calm down, to will his hands to stop fucking shaking, but when they didn’t, he hid them in his pockets.
“Nothing.” His voice was hoarse, but his body was rigid, his breath shallow and he tried to not panic but it was hard to when he could see where this was going—what was going to happen.
Desmond swallowed thickly, his back feeling cold as he braced himself—any moment now, he would hear Maria’s voice calling for them, for water, for supplies, for anything. Any moment now, she would bring a dying boy into their home, and the vision would become reality.
Except—except—
Nothing happened.
No calls for help. No hurried footsteps.
Desmond cracked his eyes open, his hands trembling as he dared to glance back out the window.
Maria had stepped away from the carriage.
Desmond and Lucia ducked down instinctively, pressing their backs to the wall. A moment later, the door unbarred, and Maria pushed inside with a sigh.
She shut it behind her, lingering with one hand pressed against the wood. Then, slowly, she exhaled.
She was silent but Desmond could see the way her shoulders sagged, a sort of heaviness in the way she moved to bar the door.
Lucia hesitated before approaching to tug at her mother’s sleeve. “Mama… are you okay?”
Maria blinked, then offered a small, reassuring smile. “I am, tesoro.”
It was a lie.
Desmond studied her face, searching for any sign that she had helped the child after all—but she was empty-handed, and there were no urgent instructions for him or Lucia.
Outside, he heard the coachman usher the horses forward, the carriage wheels rocking along the dirt path as they rode away from the house.
His chest loosened.
The vision was wrong.
Maria had not helped them.
Desmond’s relief was immediate, a dizzying rush that made his knees weak. He wasn’t going to be captured. He wasn’t going to be hunted. He was—
Safe.
But then he saw Maria’s hands, curled tight around the strap of her apothecary kit, her knuckles white.
Desmond’s relief curdled into something cold and ugly.
She was devastated. The knot in his stomach twisted tighter. She wasn’t relieved like he was—she was mourning.
Before Lucia could press further, Maria gently placed a hand on her shoulder. “Would you check on the girls for me? Make sure their door is closed.”
Lucia hesitated but nodded.
Desmond waited until she was out of earshot before speaking. “...What happened?”
Maria sighed, rubbing her temple. “The family brought their sick child, but when I looked at him…” She shook her head. “There is nothing I could do.”
Desmond hesitated because he wasn’t a doctor, but still, he asked, “What was wrong with him?”
Maria exhaled, her gaze distant. “Fever. Weakness. Stomach pains. His body… it is wasting away. I am no dottore. I can treat wounds and common ailments, but this—” She exhaled, long and burdened. “No, I am uncertain he will even last the night. He is in the hands of the heavens now.”
Desmond’s palms felt sweaty.
There was a beat of silence where Desmond looked anywhere but Maria, unsettled, before he exhaled sharply. “You should wash your hands.”
Maria blinked. “What?”
“Just in case.” Desmond bit out. His chest felt tight—too tight—and he felt his wings curl inwards toward him, as if to reassure him, before he batted them away irritably. “Lucia too, when she comes back in. I don’t know what the kid has, but if it’s something that spreads, it’s better to be safe. Use soap too.”
Maria gave him a puzzled look but nodded, moving toward the washbasin. Desmond watched as she scrubbed her hands, the sight giving him the smallest bit of relief but it wasn’t enough.
So, still feeling the weight of the situation, he turned toward the door. “I’m headed out.”
Maria glanced at him. “What? Where?”
“To the lake to—to wash up.” Desmond said, though his voice lacked its usual energy. He usually enjoyed it, but now he just wanted a distraction—something to clear out his head.
Maria frowned. “Why? It’s cold.”
Desmond shrugged. “Sometimes a cold bath does me good.”
Maria’s frown deepened. “I don’t want you getting sick.” He could see her eyes flicker away, mind obviously going back to the sick child.
“It’s been a warm winter. I’ll be fine.” He reassured, already turning around to collect his supplies. “And it’s not like anyone goes into the woods at this hour.”
She still looked reluctant, but didn’t stop him as he left.
Costanza sat in dead silence as the carriage moved away from the apothecary—away from her last lifeline. Her face was pale, slack but her hands were clasped so tightly in her lap that her knuckles were bone white. Pazzino laid against her chest and his tiny body burned against her own. His breaths were hot and soft against her throat, weak—and growing weaker—as time passed, and she counted each one, fearful that if she lost track, he would stop.
Andrea, meanwhile, pressed himself to her side, his small arms curling around her waist in a child's attempt to provide comfort, but Costanza barely noticed. Her eyes remained fixed on Pazzino, watching, waiting—for what, she did not know. A miracle? A sign that he would wake, smile, call for her?
But he only breathed and suffered.
Guglielmo sat across from them, his jaw clenched. He had been silent for most of the journey, staring at his ailing son, his despondent wife, with unreadable eyes. It was only when they neared the town’s gates, did he finally speak.
“Take us to the tavern.” He instructed the driver. “We will rest here for the night.”
The driver acknowledged the order, and soon, they arrived. The carriage came to a stop, and a stable hand rushed forward to assist, but Costanza was already moving.
She ignored the offered hands, lifting Pazzino herself. He was so light—far too light for a boy his age especially for his mother to carry like this
“Madonna—” A family servant tried to intervene, motioning to take him from her arms, but Costanza cut her off with a sharp glare.
“I will carry him.”
The servant bowed her head, stepping aside.
Guglielmo turned to the nanny, a woman who had served their household for years. “Take Andrea to his room.” He instructed. “Keep him there.”
The nanny nodded and gently took Andrea’s hand. The boy looked reluctant, feet planted to the ground as he stared at his mother and brother with a worried frown, but a quiet word from the nanny was enough to lead him away.
Guglielmo, meanwhile, followed Costanza up the stairs to their rented room, watched as his wife laid Pazzino down with the utmost care.
He barely stirred.
Costanza knelt beside him, brushing his damp curls from his forehead. His skin was hot. Far too hot. Her fingers trembled.
Slowly—painstakingly—she pulled out the small jar the apothecary had given her. She didn’t know what it was nor did she care, but the other woman had said it would ease the discomfort and at this point, Costanza needed something—anything to keep her heart from breaking. Carefully, she prepared it as instructed, her hands steady only because she forced them to be.
“Pazzino, tesoro.” She whispered, pressing the small cup to his lips. “You must drink this.”
Nothing. His lips remained closed, his breath shallow. He gave no indication that he heard her.
Costanza’s pulse pounded in her ears.
“Pazzino.” She tried again, a little more desperate, and tipped the cup. Some of the liquid dribbled onto his chin, but he did not drink.
A shuddering breath left her. “No, no, no.” She whispered, her voice breaking. “My love, please.”
Behind her, Guglielmo turned away. The silence between them stretched before he finally said, quietly, “We should prepare for a funeral.”
The words shattered something inside her.
She turned on him, her grief twisting into fury. “How dare you?” She hissed.
Guglielmo remained staunch, though his face was stricken. “Amore mio—”
“He is still alive!” She screamed, cradling their son as if he too, were a threat. “How dare you speak as if he is already dead?!”
Guglielmo threw his hand into the air. “What else can we do?” He let out a frustrated sound. “Days, Costanza! It will take days until we reach the next city and Pazzino—he will not—” He couldn’t say it—couldn’t say what everyone knew.
Costanza opened her mouth to argue—but no words came because she had no answer. Instead, she burrowed her face into Pazzino’s hair, shoulders shaking in muffled sobs.
A knock interrupted the tense silence. The nanny’s voice came through the door. “My lord, forgive me, but you should see Andrea. He is restless.”
Guglielmo exhaled, rubbing a hand down his face before glancing at Costanza. She had turned away from him in a way he knew she was cross with him and her attention was fully back on Pazzino, combing his hair with her fingers, whispering words of comfort he could not hear.
Swallowing the lump in his throat, Guglielmo turned around and closed the door behind him.
“Is madre going okay?” Andrea, Guglielmo’s littlest son asked the moment his father stepped into the room. He was sitting on the edge of the bed, his small hands twisting anxiously in his lap. “Will…will Pazzino?”
Guglielmo took a slow breath and knelt before him. Andrea only had Pazzino—was closer to him than even to his madre, and so he understood the boy’s restlessness. “I don’t know.” He admitted. “You papa is doing all I can, so I need you to be strong for the both of them. Can you do that?”
Andrea’s lower lip trembled but he stubbornly rubbed his eyes, nodding as he did so. “I-I’ll try, Baba.”
Guglielmo wrapped an arm around his son’s shoulder and pulled him into a tight hug. “That’s my boy. In the morning, we will—”
Before he could finish, a sudden, loud crash echoed from the other room. It sounded like ceramic and glass shattering which was then followed by the sound of buried footsteps pounding on the floorboards before the door burst open.
One of his attendants rushed in, his face pale. “Signore!” He began but then paused when he saw Andrea. “Please.” He urged, gesturing for Guglielmo to follow him into the hall. Guglielmo squeezed his son one last time before following his frantic aid.
Only when the door was firmly closed behind him did his aid report.
“The madam—” He explained, frantically, “She’s gone mad! She took the boy and ran!”
Guglielmo’s blood ran cold. “What?”
“She wouldn’t let us take him—she kept saying no one was going to take him from her. And then—she was gone.”
Fear gripped him and he clenched his jaw. “Find them.”
“Yes, my lord.” The servant turned to leave.
Before Guglielmo followed, he turned towards the nanny, waiting by Andrea's door.
“Stay here.” He ordered the nanny. “Do not let him out.”
And with a command to the family guards, he stepped into the night to began to search for his wayward wife and son.
The crisp, evening air did little to ease the heavy feeling in Desmond’s chest.
He had been so relieved for himself—relieved that that nightmare scenario he had seen was not going to come to pass—but a child was still going to die for it.
Despite what his vision had shown him… that wasn’t changing.
Had the vision been wrong?
Desmond frowned, the thought unsettling. It had felt so real, so certain—but here they were, with the child still dying and Maria unable to save him.
Maybe the vision was just a fever dream. A hallucination. A mistake.
Or maybe something else had changed.
Desmond sighed as his feet took him towards the lake, each step crunching against the frost-bitten grass.
Maybe that was all the visions ever were—possibilities. What-if moments.
All the other visions the Eye had forced on him had been like that. The impossible, the plausible, the inevitable, all swirling together into a blur of maybes. Hadn’t he seen himself captured before? Hurt? Dead? And yet here he was, walking freely beneath the open sky.
Maybe this was no different.
The vision he had seen—the one that had haunted him since the moment he recognized the Pazzi name—wasn’t some guaranteed future. It was just what could have happened if Maria had been able to save the child.
But she hadn’t.
Desmond exhaled, a slow breath that felt like it should’ve carried more relief than it did. The tension in his shoulders loosened, but there was no real comfort in it because in the end, the only reason he was safe was that a kid was going to die and he didn’t have the answers to make that not true.
Desmond sighed again, this time deeper, shaking his head. He wasn’t a doctor. He wasn’t a miracle worker. He had been so caught up in his own panic that he hadn’t even considered if there was another way to save the kid without dooming himself in the process.
But what could he have done? Stolen some medicine from a richer town? Broken into a physician’s home for supplies? Would it have even helped?
It didn’t matter.
He wasn’t some genius strategist who could run every scenario in his head and find the one perfect outcome. He couldn’t do the math on this. The fact still stood: the kid was dying, and there was nothing he could do about it.
And he hated that.
The distant sound of water reached his ears, the familiar sound pulling him from his thoughts. The lake shimmered under the pale light of the moon, its surface still and waiting—the very same lake he had fallen into the day he first arrived in this time period. A lone willow tree was rooted on the bank, arched over a small area of water. It had been from underneath that willow where Maria and Lucia had pulled him out from the water and Desmond found himself using that same tree to hang his clothes on when he bathed.
He had found himself coming here more often lately—on the nights when sleep eluded him, when the weight of his own existence felt too heavy to bear. The lake—his lake, he had started calling it in his head— had been his first salvation in this strange new life, the body of water that had cushioned his fall, that had kept him from splattering upon impact. Even now, a year later, he wasn’t sure if it had been luck or something else.
Could the Eye have done that for him? Or had it simply been the only mercy the universe was willing to give?
Desmond rolled his shoulders, trying to shake off the lingering weight in his chest.
No more thinking. He could already feel his thoughts spiraling.
He reached for the hem of his tunic. The night air was cool against his skin as he stripped, hanging his clothes on his usual conveniently waist-level willow branch. His boots followed, then his pants. He hesitated only briefly, letting out a steadying breath before stepping forward.
The cold hit him instantly, making him gasp sharply and give a full body shudder as his feet sank into the damp earth.
He waded forward, deeper, until the water rose past his knees, his thighs, his waist. His wings twitched, reflexively lifting above the surface as he adjusted to the temperature. He had bathed in this lake many times, but the chill never failed to startle him, forcing him into awareness and out of his own head when he got too caught up.
Once the cold numbed his skin enough to be tolerable, he let himself sink further, tilting his head back with a quiet sigh. The night air met the bare skin of his shoulders, and the contrast between it and the water was sharp, almost electric.
Then, carefully, he unfurled his wings.
They spread out over the surface, heavy and wet, soaking in the cold. The sensation was strange, almost alien. He still wasn’t used to them—not entirely. He had learned how to move with them, how to keep them from knocking things over, how to tuck them close so they didn’t take up too much space, but they still didn’t feel like they were his. Not really.
And yet, they responded to him as though they had always been there.
With a quiet breath, he began preening.
His fingers moved through the damp feathers—as far he could reach at least— searching for the loose ones and smoothing the ones that had been bent out of place. It had taken him far too long to realize he needed to do this—long enough that Maria had taken notice before he had. She had reached for his wings without thinking, trying to straighten them as though it were the most natural thing in the world.
He hadn’t known how to react at first. No one had ever touched him like that before but the sensation had nearly melted him on the spot.
His ears burned at the memory, embarrassed despite himself, but it was still… a happy memory.
Maria and Lucia had changed his life in more ways than he could count.
He had been here for a year.
A whole year.
The realization was heavier than he expected.
His first month had been spent in a haze of uncertainty, constantly wondering when he would leave, where he would go. The deal had been simple—teach Lucia to read in exchange for room and board. And he had done that. More than that. She read with ease now, far better than most children her age. By all rights, the agreement was done and over.
But Maria had never asked him to leave.
Instead, when the time came, she had simply asked, What will you teach next?
As though it had never been a question. As though leaving was never an expectation.
That had changed something in him.
He had spent so much of his life always running the moment it got bad, always moving forward, never staying long enough to settle, but here, he had stopped running.
Desmond let a small smile tug at the corner of his lips.
For the first time in his life, he had… stayed. Not just physically, but in a way that mattered.
New York had been different. He had stayed there for years, sure, but not like this. That had been out of necessity—a place to sleep, a city to disappear into. It had never felt like something like this because here, in the little house with its creaky wooden floors and warm hearth, he belonged.
It was strange, thinking about it now. Strange how easily he had settled into their lives. He wasn’t sure when it had happened—when Maria and Lucia had become his people, when their home had started to feel like his own.
Even the damn chickens felt like family.
His hands slowed in their work, fingers idly combing through his feathers as his thoughts drifted.
A year.
A year since he had fallen from the sky.
A year since he had woken to Maria’s worried face and the warmth of a home that wasn’t meant to be his.
A year since the Eye had buried itself inside him.
His jaw tightened at the thought. The Eye had been quiet lately, stirring only in brief moments, but he could still feel it, curled up somewhere deep inside him like a restless ember.
The first time it had spoken to him had been three months in—just as he had started to wonder if there was a reason he was here.
Desmond had been skinning a rabbit when it happened.
His knife moved with steady, practiced ease, the familiar motions grounding him. But his mind wandered. It had been three months.
Three months of Maria’s quiet patience. Of Lucia’s endless curiosity. Of waking up in the same bed, beneath the same roof, living the kind of life he had never let himself want.
And yet, he kept waiting for something. Some sign that this was temporary. That the Eye hadn’t just thrown him into the past for no reason at all.
Had it sent him here to do something? Was there a purpose to this?
The answer came like smoke curling through his thoughts. Weak, distant. Barely more than a whisper.
//No.//
Desmond cursed as his knife slipped and he very nearly nicked himself in the process. With a long suffering sigh, he set the knife aside, staring down at the half-skinned rabbit on the counter.
“A little warning would have been nice.” Desmond muttered and was so very glad that Maria and Lucia were in town right because he wasn’t quite sure how to explain why he was talking to a dead rabbit.
The Eye ignored him, opting to repeat its answer.
//No goal.//
This time, the words came with a feeling—warmth, comfort, something like a balm over an ache. A wordless reassurance, heavy with intent. You do not need to do anything.
Desmond’s grip tightened on the handle of the knife. He had spent months ignoring the Eye, pretending that if he didn’t acknowledge it, it would go away.
Clearly, it wasn’t going anywhere.
"What do you mean?" He asked warily.
There was no answer at first. Just a slow, creeping heat, starting at the base of his skull and crawling down his spine. It built too quickly, turning sharp—burning—
Desmond flinched, breath stuttering.
Immediately, the heat faded, replaced by a wave of cool relief. An apology.
Then, exhaustion. Bone-deep weariness settling into his very bones. And beneath it, something softer—fleeting sensations pressed against his mind.
The brief, ghostly feeling of metal on his fingertips.
Desmond’s breath caught.
A flash of memory—of standing in the Grand Temple, fingers brushing the Eye’s surface.
A sense of longing.
Of heavy, aching eyes.
And suddenly, he knew.
"You sent me here because I wanted a nap?!" Desmond exclaimed, incredulously.
The Eye didn’t respond, but it didn’t need to. The truth settled in the space between them, unspoken but understood.
Desmond swallowed, his throat dry. Why the hell would it send him to the past just to rest?
He almost asked. Almost demanded an explanation. But even without words, he could feel the Eye fading, retreating. The effort had taken something out of it.
Still, one more question burned on his tongue.
"Then why the wings?"
A flicker of amusement—weak, but unmistakable.
Then came a series of sensations. Weightlessness. Cold.
A bird, wings spread wide against an endless sky.
Then, the sharp, stomach-dropping plunge of falling.
And finally, yearning.
Desmond inhaled sharply.
The Eye had granted a wish.
Not like a genie, but closer to some monkey’s paw shit. It had given him what he had wanted in the most literal way possible.
He was so stupefied by the realization that he almost didn’t catch the next sensation—brief but undeniable.
Offense.
Despite himself, Desmond huffed out a quiet laugh.
The Eye gave no response, but he could almost feel it bristle.
It wasn’t his friend. He hadn’t forgotten what it had done in the Grand Temple.
But it had helped him too.
It had kept him alive.
And later, in his fevered state, when Maria had touched him—when he had seen things that couldn’t have been real—it had held his mind together.
He had half a mind to ask about that. About what he had actually seen, but the Eye was already withdrawing. He felt something soft press against his mind, a fleeting warmth of some semblance of a goodbye before it slid away into silence.
Desmond let it go.
Since that day, the Eye had woken up more often, always managing to answer a few more of his questions before it faded to rest. Though, to be fair, ‘answering’ was kind of a generous way to put it considering it was only able to answer in 2-3 syllables—4 if it was lucky. Oftentimes, when it couldn’t pull together the words, Desmond would get sensations of its feelings. Interpreting was a challenge at first, but not impossible and it was kind of concerning how much better he’d gotten at understanding the Eye after just a handful of encounters.
"What were the visions?" He had asked once.
//Calculations.//
"Why send me to 15th-century Italy?"
//Safe place. Memories.//
That one had unsettled him. Safe? The 15th century was safe?
But the last question had lingered with him the most.
"Why are you in my head?"
At that, the Eye had hesitated.
It hadn’t answered with words. Instead, it had given him a feeling—like a cat pushing against his leg for attention. Or Carina, the smallest of the chickens, hobbling after him, refusing to be left behind.
A feeling of attachment.
Desmond wasn’t sure how he felt about that but the Eye had gone silent once more before he could reply.
It had been a month now since the Eye last ‘woke up’. There was no rhyme nor reason to predict when it would next wake up, but Desmond figured it was due for one. He just hoped it wasn’t at some inopportune time like when he wasn’t alone. (It had not been fun explaining to Maria that no, he was not talking to God—he was just venting! Alone!)
Desmond released a long sigh and as the water lapped gently at his waist, the night air cool against his skin, he tipped his head back, gazing at the moon hanging bright and full overhead.
"You do not need to do anything." The Eye had told him.
For once, he let himself believe it.
For now, he would stay.
For as long as they wanted him.
The chill of the night suddenly hit him and Desmond gave a full body shiver, breaking the silence. Shoot, he had lingered a little too long. He would never hear the end of it if he got sick.
Ah, well. One last dunk, for the hell of it.
He took a breath and let himself sink, the cold rushing over his head, wrapping around him in a brief, weightless embrace. The lake muffled the world above, turning everything distant and muted, peaceful in a way that made him reluctant to break the surface.
(And it’s because of this that he did not hear it—the sound of crunching grass, the sound of heaving, desperate gasps—
“Oh.”
—the sound of the dominoes tipping.)
Eventually, his lungs burned for air. He kicked up, breaking through with a sharp inhale, water streaming down his face. His wings unfurled, muscles tensing to flick off the lingering droplets—
"Oh Dio."
—before Desmond froze.
His wings snapped open, water cascading off their edges as he turned sharply, muscles coiling in alarm.
Someone was there.
There was a woman at the bank.
Wild-eyed, breath ragged, arms curled protectively around something—someone—clutched tight to her chest. She looked disoriented, frantic.
And she was staring right at him.
The silence stretched, heavy and unmoving. Then—
Her knees hit the dirt.
"…Angelo." She whispered.
Desmond’s blood ran cold.
Oh.
Oh no.
Costanza ran.
Recklessly. Wildly. Without thought, she tore through the forest, branches snagging her expensive clothing, thorny bushes scratching her flushed skin. Her lungs burned, her legs ached, and somewhere in her distress, she had lost her shoes, but she did not stop. Could not stop.
Pazzino whimpered weakly against her chest, a pitiful sound that tore through her already breaking heart. He was cold, uncomfortable with her frantic pace, but she shushed him, pressing a trembling kiss to his damp curls.
“Shh, amore mio. Mama is here. No one will take you from me.”
No one.
The thought struck a cord deep inside her, twisting, tearing, as if it might snap.
Pazzino had been a miracle.
She loved both her sons with every aching fiber of her being, but Pazzino—he had been the first, the impossible blessing she never thought she would have. While all the women around her had born children with ease, her body had always been weak. Too frail, too fragile, struggling even to bring one into the world. When Pazzino was placed into her arms for the first time, she had wept, overcome with the certainty that she would never hold another.
And yet, against all odds, Andrea had followed.
Two.
Two sons, when she had never expected to have even one.
She had known then, deep in her bones, that there would be no others.
Each birth had been harder than the last. Her body had barely survived Andrea’s arrival—one more would surely kill her and Guglielmo, her beloved Guglielmo, had forbidden it. His family had pushed, urging for more children, but he had shut them down with quiet, furious resolve. “If I hear another word of this, you will not be welcome in my home.”
He could not bear the thought of losing her and she—she could not bear the thought of losing him.
But now—now she was losing Pazzino.
Her miracle.
Her mind reeled at the thought, hysteria clawing up her throat.
She ran faster, breath ragged and ugly.
The trees loomed over her, their branches reaching out like fingers across the dark sky as if they wanted to drag her back towards those who wanted to take her son away from her. The thought only made her run faster, her heart hammering in her chest so hard that she thought that surely, surely, it would burst. The forest floor sloped beneath her feet, but she didn’t notice. The sounds of pursuit faded behind her, but she barely registered that either.
When she finally stumbled to a stop, her legs shaking with exhaustion, she realized—
She was lost.
But there was no one behind her. No more footsteps. No more shouting.
She lost them.
For a moment, the world blurred, spinning around her, and then—Pazzino.
He was so still. Too still.
“No, no, no, my love.” She rocked him gently, hands cradling his delicate frame. “Mama is here. I will make it better. I will make it better.”
Her voice cracked.
She had never felt this helpless. Never felt this alone.
Oh, Dio. Why her? Why her son? She lifted her tear-streaked face to the heavens and with all the desperation in her soul, with every fiber of her being, she prayed—she begged.
"Please."
"Please, God, save my son."
But the only answer was silence.
The wind sighed through the trees. The earth remained cold beneath her knees.
There was no warmth, no voice, no sign from the heavens.
Costanza crumpled, shoulders shaking with deep, wracking sobs—ugly, desperate things she would never let anyone see.
Then—
A sound.
Soft, distant splashing.
Her breath hitched.
For a fleeting, fragile moment, she thought nothing of it. Birds, maybe. Or small creatures disturbing the water, but then she remembered—
Pazzino loved the water.
And that was why they had gone to the baths in the first place, hadn’t they? It was because he loved the warm mineral springs, because water had always soothed him even when he was a mere babe, because it was supposed to make him better.
But it hadn’t.
Her fingers curled into his tunic.
The sound of splashing pulled at something deep in her chest—a longing. A terrible, aching thought whispered through her mind and Costanza smiled, her lips tinged with something joyous, something euphoric.
We can go together.
The water had always made him feel better.
They could swim.
Together.
(Forever.)
Her breath came sharp and uneven as she stumbled forward, drawn to the sound, her steps quickening, growing frantic.
They could sink into the water together. He would be safe in her arms. He would not be alone.
Her pace turned into a sprint.
Her sweet Pazzino. Mama would stay with him. He would not be alone wherever he went.
The trees thinned. The ground leveled beneath her feet. The rippling surface of a lake came into view—
And then she saw him.
The breath was torn from her lungs.
An angel.
The most beautiful angel she had ever seen.
He stood in the shallows of the lake, half-submerged, his wings outstretched over the water, glistening like pearls in the moonlight. His dark hair clung to his skin, his face turned towards the heavens, as if he had just descended from them.
“Oh.”
Her lips trembled, parted in wonder.
"Oh, Dio.”
He was a miracle.
"Angelo."
Costanza’s knees hit the dirt.
He was real.
She had prayed for salvation, and He had answered.
The angel’s golden eyes widened as he turned to face her, startled—human in his shock, yet too radiant to be anything but divine.
A sob broke from her throat.
“Please.”
She clutched Pazzino closer, her fingers digging into the fabric of his tunic.
“Please, please, please.” She begged, voice hoarse, shaking, pleading.
She pressed her forehead to the dirt, bowing, weeping, surrendering herself to the moment.
“Save my son.”
Desmond froze.
His breath caught in his throat, his muscles locked in place, and for a long, paralyzing second, his brain just stopped working.
Oh no.
Oh no no no no no—
He had been seen.
All the precautions, all the careful hiding—wasted. The past year had been spent ensuring that no one, no one, outside of Maria and Lucia ever caught a glimpse of him, and yet, here he was, standing in the shallows of the lake, his wings spread wide, glistening under the moonlight like a beacon screaming LOOK AT ME.
And it wasn’t just anyone who found him, either. Of all people, it had to be the Pazzi woman?!
His body begged him to run. To disappear into the dark, now, before the woman could say another word, but before he could do anything, he nearly jumped out of his skin when she fell to her knees. Her arms were clutching a small bundle—a child, Desmond realized belatedly—against her chest and then—
Then, his panic derailing completely into into sheer confusion when she fucking bowed.
She pressed her forehead against dirt. “Please.” She whispered, breathlessly.
Desmond stilled.
“Please, please, please.” She choked out, her voice raw and cracking.
Oh God, she was crying.
Something thick and suffocating lodged itself in Desmond’s throat.
His initial terror gave way to a whole new kind of panic—the kind that came from not knowing what the hell to do in the face of someone sobbing at his feet.
She was—she was even rubbing her face in the dirt.
Desmond’s wings twitched, uncertain, and horribly uncomfortable with the display in front of him.
Her hair was loose from whatever had once kept it pinned back, the strands sticking to her damp cheeks from sweat and tears. Her hands were shaking, fingers like claws as she clutched her torn and dirty dress like it was the only thing keeping her from falling apart.
But she was falling apart.
And Desmond had no idea how to handle it.
Moving on autopilot, he sloshed hastily through the water toward the shore. His mind was a frenzied mess of thoughts—shit shit shit I was SEEN—she's PRAYING—why the fuck is she PRAYING— but overriding all of that was the deeply pressing need to not be naked while this was happening.
His hands scrambled for his clothes, nearly fumbling as he yanked his tunic over his head. He probably looked like a wet bird, clothing astrewn and waterlogged with his wings absolutely ruffled, but Desmond could care less when he was this close to freaking the fuck out. He desperately wanted to run away and no was the best time because she wasn’t look at him but—but—
But the woman was still sobbing, still begging, her voice cracking with grief.
“Save my son.”
And the kid—
Even from here, Desmond could see how bad he looked. Pale, too still, his breathing shallow.
Something inside him twisted, that old, aching feeling that had been buried under layers of survival instincts. The part of him that couldn’t just walk away from someone who needed help.
Desmond released a tight breath.
Shit.
“…Hey.” His throat felt dry, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. He cleared it and tried again. “Hey—get up.”
The woman gasped, a sharp, strangled sound dragging from her throat as if she couldn’t believe he was talking to her. She lifted her head and her eyes were wide, desperate.
Oh god. “You don’t need to—” grovel, Desmond almost said, but caught himself. “You don’t need to do that. Just—just get up. No promises, but I’ll try to help.”
She rose unsteadily, clutching her child closer. “You will?” Her voice cracked, caught between hope and despair.
Desmond faltered. “I—I can try.”
It wasn’t a promise. It wasn’t something he could guarantee, but apparently, it was enough because she let out a shaky, relieved sob, nodding frantically.
She looked at her child, caressing his brow, before saying to him in a soft murmur, “But if you must take him away, would you…” She looked at him dolefully. “Would you please—please take me, too?”
Desmond stilled.
His stomach twisted so tightly it nearly made him nauseous.
She really believed it.
That he was something holy. That he had the power to decide whether her son lived or died. That he could take them away to heaven.
That she wanted to go with him, too.
A pit opened in his chest, sick and cold.
He didn’t know what to say to that—didn’t want to say anything to that.
So, he didn’t.
He shoved them aside and focused on the problem instead.
“What’s wrong with him?” Desmond asked instead. “What symptoms?”
Through hitched breaths, she started listing them.
“He cannot keep solid food down. He—he has been weak for days. He burns with fever, and his stool—” She choked back a sob, hiding it into her child’s—Pazzino, she called him— damp hair. “There is blood in it.”
Desmond’s stomach dropped.
Oh.
Oh, shit.
His first thought was that he was not a doctor.
His second thought was—why does this sound familiar?
The way she described it—weakness, dehydration, the inability to keep food down, the blood. Something nagged at him, tugging at the edges of his memory. Why did it all seem so—
Desmond’s thoughts screeched to a halt.
Holy shit.
He knew this. Not because he was some kind of medical genius, but because of a stupid old video game.
You have died of dysentery.
He had heard it a hundred times, back when he was bartending and his coworkers got obsessed with The Oregon Trail when old was the new new fad. He remembered playing it once when someone somehow managed to download and rig it on the POS system to be playable. There had been weeks of laughing with coworkers during closing shifts when they had put themselves as party members and pretty much all died one way or another before even reaching the halfway point. Dying of dysentery garnered the most attention with how absurdly abrupt it hit after the alerts of finding no clean water. One of the waitresses—a history buff—had offhandedly mentioned how it was a completely curable disease, too—the people back then just didn’t know how to treat it.
And now here he was. In the back then.
Was it too late?
He had no idea. He had no idea it was even dysentery in the first place, but he had to try.
Desmond chewed on the inside of his check. “I can’t make any promises.” He said again, locking eyes with the woman. “But I might be able to help.”
She nodded frantically, her breath still hitching—sharp, uneven gasps that rattled in her chest. She swallowed and Desmond saw her take a deep breath, one after another, and—
Too fast, Desmond realized with alarm. She was breathing too fast—and before his mind could catch up to his body, he dove to her just as her form crumpled, collapsing under the weight of exhaustion and grief. He caught her just before she hit the ground.
“Hey! Hey!” Desmond shook her but her eyes fluttered, focusing on him for the briefest second before they unfocused and rolled to the back of her head.
Pazzino, still in her arms, let out a weak whimper but didn’t stir beyond that. Desmond could feel the heat radiating off the kid and shit, his fever was burning him alive.
"Goddammit." Desmond hissed. She must’ve been running on pure adrenaline to collapse like this. He shifted her in his arms, noting with no small amount of concern that she had lost her shoes, her feet scratched and bloody.
The woman must’ve been running on pure desperation and adrenaline and now that she had found even the smallest sliver of hope, her body had finally given out.
Desmond's grip tightened around them. He needed to get them out of the open. Now.
With some effort, he hoisted them both up. He was mindful of his wings when he slung the woman over his shoulder while he cradled Pazzino carefully in his arms. He wasn’t as strong as he used to be, but adrenaline was a hell of a drug and it helped that they were both so light. Just as he was about to take a step forward though—
A shift.
Not in the world around him, but within him.
Desmond stiffened as a familiar pressure coiled in his skull, a sluggish stirring in the depths of his mind. It was a feeling he had almost forgotten—a presence settling behind his eyes like a second pair of pupils clicking into place.
‘Not now!’ Desmond thought, a spike of irritation cutting through his concern. For all the times to wake up, it had to be now?!
A disorienting wave ran through him as the Eye latched onto his senses, skimming across the world through his own vision. It was like wearing ill-fitted contact lenses—an unwelcome overlay shifting and pulling against his perception that was not like when he activated his Sight. It didn’t just look through him; it saw through him, its gaze an uncomfortable weight.
And then, the moment it focused on Pazzino and the woman—
Desmond jerked as the Eye recoiled in alarm. Its emotions crashed against him like a tidal wave—sharp, volatile, panicked. Desmond grit his teeth as the surge of feeling nearly stole the air from his lungs.
‘Oh, for fuck’s sake—’
“Fucking stop!” Desmond hissed, turning his head so he wouldn’t wake the woman and child. His arms tightened around them as his head throbbed from the Eye’s tantrum. “You’re going to make me drop them!”
The Eye, though, didn’t listen. Its panic clawed at him, emotions pressing down like a vice—urgency, fear, desperation. Thoughts tangled, half-formed words flashing through his mind.
//LEAVE THEM.//
//DROP THEM.//
//WALK AWAY.//
Desmond froze. His jaw tightened, his grip on the woman and child slackening slightly as disbelief flickered through him.
"What the fuck did you just say?"
The Eye seemed to flinch at that. It scrambled for footing, its energy flickering unsteadily. It only had moments of wakefulness before exhaustion would drag it under again, but it latched onto Desmond with all its remaining strength.
//DON’T. GET. INVOLVED.//
Desmond’s grip on Costanza and Pazzino tightened.
"Why?" He demanded, his voice barely a whisper, but filled with cold fury.
The Eye was silent for a moment before it admitted, //BAD END.//
"For who?" Desmond sneered. "For me?"
The Eye didn’t respond.
Desmond exhaled sharply through his nose. "That’s what this is about." He gave a short, humorless laugh, shaking his head. "You don’t care about them. You just don’t want me to get hurt."
The Eye didn’t deny it because that should have been enough. It should have been reassuring. It should have made him listen, but all Desmond felt was a deep, gnawing disgust because he had thought the same thing earlier.
Maria had tried to help. She had listened to the father’s desperate pleas, had gone to see the boy for herself. She had looked him over, checked for signs of hope, but found none.
And she grieved for the child. Desmond had seen it in the tension of her shoulders, in the way she lingered for a breath too long before retreating back inside.
And Desmond—Desmond had felt relief.
Ugly, bitter relief.
Because if Maria couldn’t help, then the calculation was wrong. The boy was already dead. There was nothing to change—and that had meant that Desmond was safe.
Desmond clenched his teeth, sickened by his own thoughts.
He had almost let a child die for his own safety.
He wasn’t a stranger to ugly choices—he had made plenty before, but this—this was wrong.
The boy was innocent.
The thought came back to him like an old memory, a truth carved into his bones. Stay your blade from the blood of the innocent.
Maria had tried, and she couldn’t save him but that didn’t mean he couldn’t.
"No." Desmond said, his voice steady now, sure in a way it hadn’t been moments ago.
The Eye hesitated. //Desmond—//
"I’m not going to let a kid die just because it’s easier."
He could feel the Eye’s frustration clawing at him, tangled with its exhaustion. It wanted to argue, to insist, but—
But it understood.
Desmond could feel it. The way its presence wavered, bitter and reluctant, but—understanding.
The Eye loathed it, hated it, but it saw Desmond for what he was.
A savior.
It had called him that once. A half-sneering title meant to mock, but now, seeing him choose this, the Eye could do nothing but resign itself to what it had always known.
Desmond would never turn away.
And it hated him for it.
//Regret.// The Eye’s voice sharpened and there was a mix of bitterness and something deeper—something close to pain tinting its words. It was a warning, raw and desperate, pulling at the edges of his mind. You are going to regret this.
Desmond paused, a flicker of something colder settling in his chest, but he wouldn’t back down.
"Maybe." Desmond admitted. "But that’s my choice."
The Eye wavered. There was a trembling hesitation now, as though the presence were battling against itself, torn between fury and resignation. It lingered, flickering weakly at the edges of his thoughts—
And then it was gone.
Desmond exhaled harshly. That was it, then.
His grip on the Pazzi woman and child tightened, his decision was made.
And so, he ran.
Maria was setting a pot to boil when the door slammed open so violently that she nearly dropped it. She nearly shrieked until she saw Desmond in the doorway, gasping and disheveled, his hair stuck to his forehead with sweat, but when she saw the two unconscious bodies in his arms, Maria did shriek because what did he do?!
“Desmond! What did you—?!” The rest of the words caught in her throat when he staggered forward, lowering a child onto the floor with surprising gentleness before laying the woman down from his shoulder next, with equal care.
Maria recognized them immediately. It was the woman and child from earlier.
She had turned them away. There had been nothing she could do for the boy—his fever was already too high, and the sickness had taken hold of him in a way she had seen before. She had known, with a sinking certainty, that he would not last long.
And yet—Desmond had brought them here?!
"Why?" She demanded. "What—why would you—?!"
"The kid—the kid has dysentery." Desmond said between desperate gulps of air.
Maria screeched. "He has what?"
Desmond ran a hand through his hair, panting. “It’s a sickness from bad water and it’s bad—but—but I think I can keep him from getting worse."
"Desmond, I already looked at him! There is nothing to be done unless—" She gestured wildly at him."—unless you can actually perform miracles!”
"Of course, not!"
"Then why—?!"
"Because I know how to fix it.” He said it with such certainty, such frustration, that it made her pause.
Maria hesitated. She wanted to believe him. She wanted to save the boy, but what could he possibly do that she hadn’t already considered?
"Listen—" Desmond pressed on. "We have to get water in him. He’s dehydrated."
Maria recoiled. "Water? Desmond. You just said this is from bad water and now you want to put more into him? No.” She shook her head firmly, denying it. “No—he’s burning up, it’ll kill him—"
"No, it won’t, that’s not how it works—"
"It is how it works! You don’t drown a fever, you purge it! He needs something to draw out the illness—"
Desmond clenched his jaw. "You’re talking about bloodletting, aren’t you?"
Maria flinched but stood her ground. "Purging. Or something. But not water. Water is dangerous."
Desmond let out a tense breath, running a hand through his hair. He tried to keep the frustration from his voice because she didn’t know. He couldn’t blame her. She wasn’t like him, from a future where this was the way. "Maria, you have to trust me on this. You know I wouldn’t have brought them here of all places if I wasn’t sure!"
Maria breathed sharply through her nose. She knew he wouldn’t but she wanted to argue. She wanted to tell him that fevers were imbalances, that flushing the body with water was reckless, that no physician worth their salt would suggest such a thing but her mouth closed with a snap when they both heard a weak rustling.
Their heads snapped towards the woman.
She shifted slightly, frowning, but much to their shared relief, did not wake.
Both Desmond and Maria let out a breath, shoulders dropping.
After a tick, Maria turned back to Desmond, her resistance crumbling under the sheer desperation in his expression. Her voice lowered.
"...Fine." She muttered, voice tight. "We do this your way, but if this kills him—"
Desmond said firmly. "It won’t."
She stared at him, searching for doubt in his face.
She found none.
They worked quickly.
Maria moved the woman—Costanza, she recalled her name to be—into her bed, wrapping her torn feet while Lucia—half-awake but too worried to protest—was given the task of boiling water. Meanwhile, Desmond worked at the dining table, mixing a chaotic array of salt, sugar, honey, chamomile extract, even garlic. Everything he had asked for was laid out in various stages of disarray as he mixed his concoction—a cocktail, he had called it, with some amount of strange irony.
Pazzino was moved to Desmond’s room, and from there, the night stretched long.
Maria listened as Desmond moved back and forth, checking on the boy, coaxing him into swallowing sips of clean water, wiping his sweat-soaked skin. She sat by Costanza’s bedside in the meanwhile, hands folded in her lap as the fire crackled from the other room. The woman hadn’t stirred once during the night, which was a fortunate thing. She was dead to the world, trapped under a veil of sleep so deep it bordered on unconsciousness and yet, even in sleep, her face was creased with worry for her child, unaware of the quiet miracle unfolding in the next room.
Maria glanced at Costanza’s face, still pale but peaceful in sleep, and a thought hit her with the force of a punch. ‘If it were Lucia…’
She quickly pushed the thought aside, but it lingered.
She couldn’t imagine it—the terror of watching her child waste away like that, knowing there was nothing she could do. If it were Lucia in that bed, pale and feverish, she would have lost herself in panic, in a frantic desperation that would have consumed her entirely just like Costanza. What would she have done? What would she have been able to do?
Maria closed her eyes, pained. No matter how many times she had seen sickness claim a life—no matter how many bodies she had held, tried to ease in their last moments—she couldn't help but wonder what she would do if the one who needed saving was Lucia.
She heard Desmond muttering under his breath—half to himself, half to the boy. Maria had never seen Desmond this focused before and stranger still, whatever he was doing—it seemed to be working.
Pazzino was still sick—desperately so—but as the hours passed, he did not worsen as she had feared.
Instead, he improved.
At first, she thought she had just been imagining it. The change was so gradual—so slow— that she doubted her own senses, thinking it as just wishful thinking making her see things that did not exist. Yet, as dawn approached, she could see it. The sweat still clung to his skin, but it was no longer the clammy sheen of those close to death’s door. His breathing, which had been shallow, weak and ragged when Desmond had brought the boy in, was deeper. Steadier.
Maria’s hands clenched in her lap.
She did not understand it.
She had seen fevers like this before—had seen the way the body succumbed to them, the way the sickness hollowed out the person until there was nothing left.
But this—
Whatever this ‘dis-in-terry’ was—
Whatever Desmond had done—
It had unraveled everything she thought she knew.
‘Costanza was lucky.’ Maria mused. She had met Desmond. She had met him in time.
What would she have done without someone like him? Maria’s chest tightened at the thought. If Lucia were sick like Pazzino, if she were slipping away like that boy, Maria wasn’t sure how much of herself would remain. The thought of losing Lucia—that raw, unbearable fear—gripped her heart.
Desmond said he couldn’t perform miracles, but Maria could see with her own eyes what he was doing. What was happening right now—this—was the very definition of one. She could already see the subtle changes in Pazzino, as slow as they were, and it made her heart ache.
‘What would I have done?’ Maria closed her eyes, fingers threaded together as she pressed them to her lips.
Indeed, Costanza was lucky.
Desmond barely rested.
He sat by Pazzino’s bedside, pressing a damp cloth to his forehead, brushing his hair away when he began to stir.
He had seen sickness like this before.
Petruccio.
The memory rose, unbidden. Ezio’s little brother. Small and frail, always sick. It wasn’t the same sickness, but he remembered, as Ezio, sitting by the little boy’s side, promising to take him to the countryside, to the ocean, to everywhere when he got better.
But Petruccio never got a chance to get better, but Pazzino—this kid—
He wasn’t going to lose this one.
He reached for another cloth, the cool water soothing against his fingertips, but his mind was elsewhere.
He had been ignoring it for hours now, brushing aside the creeping unease in favor of tending to the boy, but now that he had a quiet moment, the boy’s name—Pazzino Pazzi— had rooted itself into his thoughts, refusing to let go.
Pazzi.
The name alone had sent a wave of unease down his spine, but it wasn’t just that. It was the fact that he had never heard of these people before.
Costanza Pazzi. Pazzino Pazzi.
Pazzi, he knew—but their full names didn’t mean anything to him nor did they ring any bells.
But they should’ve.
And that was the problem.
Desmond’s knowledge of history wasn’t perfect—hell, that was Shaun’s thing to write up the cliff-notes-esque background information he could refer to when he was confused—but he knew enough. He knew the names that mattered. He knew Francesco, Jacopo, Vieri. He knew the conspiracy that should have torn Ezio’s family apart.
But Costanza? Pazzino?
There had been no mention of them in Ezio’s time. No records. No stories.
If they weren’t a branch family and they weren’t distant relatives, then what in the hell—
The rag slipped from his hands as Desmond’s eyes widened.
He had never asked what year it was.
The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, a chill running down his body. He had assumed—blindly assumed—that he was in the 15th century because the Eye had told him that that was safe. He had never questioned it. Never thought to ask.
But now—
Had the Eye made a mistake?
The Pazzi Conspiracy hadn’t happened yet. That much was obvious. The family was still here. Still thriving. If Desmond had truly been dropped into Ezio’s timeline when the memories really started, they should have already been disgraced, banished, their wealth stripped away.
And yet, here they were.
Still powerful.
Still untouchable.
His stomach twisted. He had been so certain the Eye was infallible. That it knew what it was doing. But now?
He had a terrible feeling that he was further back than he was supposed to be.
Then when in the fuck was he?!
Fuck, was that why the Eye had warned him in the first place because it should have said something.
‘God, I wish Shaun was here.’ Desmond scrubbed his face. He could do without the historian’s nagging, but at least he was direct.
But one crisis at a time. He could spiral later. Right now, he had a sick kid to take care of.
Desmond sighed slowly, trying to calm his unease. He dipped the cloth back into the basin, squeezing out the excess water before pressing it to Pazzino’s forehead.
It was like that for a while, him methodologically tending to his fever, coaxing the kid to drink the super hydration cocktail he’d mixed up for him. It was only sometime in the early hours, when Desmond was reaching for another damp cloth, he felt it—a small, warm touch against his wing.
He twitched.
When he turned back, Pazzino’s eyes were open.
Barely—just slivers of blue peeking through his lashes, but they were filled with something soft and awed.
His fingers, weak but determined, were curled into Desmond’s feathers.
Desmond froze. He hadn’t even noticed the boy stirring.
Pazzino’s lips parted, trying to speak, but all that came out was a rough, dry croak.
Then—a cough.
Desmond panicked. "Hey—easy, easy—" He quickly grabbed the water, shifting the boy just enough to help him drink so he wouldn’t choke. "Small sips, okay?"
Pazzino obeyed, barely conscious but responsive. He looked like he wanted to speak, but the first sound was lost as the water slipped past, turning his words into a soft gurgle of bubbles in the drink. He swallowed and tried again—his voice hoarse, barely above a whisper but Desmond could only catch a mumble and the tail end of an “—Angelo?”
Desmond didn’t understand what the kid was saying, but he could make an educated guess, so he just nodded pacifyingly, offering a gentle reassuring smile, the kind that one gives to a child to calm them. “Yeah, yeah, that’s right, kiddo. Everything’s going to be fine.”
The boy slowly blinked, as if struggling to register the words, before with the faintest smile, he slipped back to sleep.
His grip on Desmond’s feathers loosened.
Desmond let out a quiet, breathless laugh, carefully prying the tiny fingers away. Every kid he met seemed to be of the grabby kind, going straight for the wings. Yet, Pazzino’s grip had been tight. Strong.
He sat back, relieved.
By the time dawn approached, Pazzino’s fever had broken. His breathing was still shallow, but steadier. He would survive. Pazzino would live.
Now, they just had to disappear.
Costanza woke up with a strangled cry, gasping to a clear, bright sky.
For a moment, she didn’t know where she was or what had happened. Her body felt stiff, her feet ached, but when she felt the packed earth underneath her and the cold nipping at her exposed skin, she felt her blood freeze. It all rushed back to her in a sudden wave of horror.
It was morning.
The sky was no longer the deep, endless black of night. Instead, light filtered through the trees. The lake glittered like jewels under the rising sun, its waters lapping rhythmically against the shore. It was peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Her heart dropped.
Pazzino.
She gasped, chest tightening painfully as she remembered. The fever. The hands trying to take her son away. The desperate run through the woods. And then… nothing. Darkness. She had lost consciousness and her son—
Oh, Dio.
She held the small bundle in her arms tighter, afraid to look. Surely, he was gone now. He had been so sick, burning with fever, barely breathing, and she, in her stupidity, her idiocy, had allowed the exhaustion to claim her. She had left him to the cold, to the night, without anyone to protect him.
Her eyes burned. She could not bear to look. Costanza already knew what she would see.
His small, frail body, limp in her arms. His fever-ravaged form finally still, his body cold to the touch as his soul had slipped away—her precious boy gone to a place she could not reach.
Her hands clenched the fabric of his tunic.
She had lost him.
A sob built in her chest.
But then—
A faint, sleepy sigh.
Her eyes flew open and she looked down.
Pazzino.
He was breathing.
It was slow and steady, not the labored, rattling gasps from before. His small body was still warm against hers, but no longer burning. His face, though pale, was at ease. His brows were no longer furrowed in constant pain. His lips were no longer cracked and dry. His little fingers curled slightly against her sleeve, as if caught in some peaceful dream.
Her own breath came in a sharp, choked sob.
She pressed a hand to his forehead—cool. Too cool. Her heart nearly stopped until she realized it wasn’t the clammy chill of death, but the soft coolness of a fever broken.
This—this wasn’t possible.
Pazzino had been slipping away, teetering on the brink of death, but now—now he looked better than he had the night before. He didn’t look like he was at death’s door.
Her hands shook as she covered her mouth. Had it all been a dream? Or—was she still dreaming?
Her throat tightened.
How? How could this be?
Then, her eyes caught something clutched loosely in Pazzino’s fingers.
A single feather.
Large and pristine white, grasped in her son’s hands like a divine gift. The morning light kissed its edges, making it shimmer ever so faintly.
Her breath caught and slowly, as if it were still part of some fever dream, she reached out and plucked it from her son’s fingers. It was real.
Then, something rustled in her lap.
A piece of parchment.
With trembling hands, she unfolded it. The handwriting was odd, not like any she had seen before with sharp, uneven strokes, as if the writer had been forced to write hastily, but the words were legible.
Boil all water before drinking.
No heavy food for at least two days.
Rest.
The instructions barely registered because there was only one thing that mattered.
The angel.
It had not been a dream. He had been real.
An angel had taken her child from the brink of death, had cradled him in his divine hands and breathed life back into his fragile body.
Her knees collapsed from beneath her and hugging Pazzino tighter, she bowed her head, hands clasped in prayer.
"Grazie, grazie, grazie…!"
Some few yards away, behind thick trees and way too close to the praying mother for his comfort, Desmond leaned against the rough bark, wings drawn tight, panting softly. Beside him, Maria, who had helped him carry the two, was bent over, hands braced on her knees, her expression a mix of exasperation and exhaustion and she too, panted, out of breath.
They had just barely escaped in time.
Maria swallowed a pant and turned to him with a look. “You left a feather?”
Desmond winced. “It was an accident!”
Maria gave him a flat stare. “An accident.”
“Yes!” He hissed. “I was in a hurry, and the kid’s fricken grabby!” As if to prove his point, one wing twitched and stretched out, presenting the few ruffled feathers to Maria which were out of place as if to say, Look what he did to me!
Maria groaned, looking up into the sky as if to find strength. “Dio mi aiuti. Now she will tell everyone an angel came to her in the night!”
Desmond ran a hand through his hair, looking absolutely done with this situation. “I mean, she’s not wrong.”
Maria smacked his arm.
Desmond snorted, biting back a laugh. “Ow.”
Maria rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the way her lips twitched. The weight that had been heavy in her chest was gone. They had done a good thing. Desmond had done a good thing and she could not fault him in that. “We should get back before Lucia wakes.”
Desmond nodded, his gaze flickering back toward the clearing, where Costanza still knelt in prayer. A strange, soft warmth settled in his chest.
‘The Angel of the Lake, huh?’
He supposed there were worse things to be called.
Yet, as he turned and followed Maria into the trees, a quiet unease crept into his thoughts now that the crisis had passed.
‘Bad End.’ The Eye’s warning flashed in his mind and Desmond knew he couldn’t take it lightly. Actions had consequences and he was really hoping this would not bite him too hard in the ass.
Behind them, Costanza remained where they had left her, whispering fervent prayers to the heavens.
And in the days to come, those prayers would spread.
Notes:
You didn’t see this shit coming now, did ya?
I am a huge fan of... drawing patterns and parallels, so if you read close, you can prolly sense there is some foreshadowing for the next and future chapters. I'm also a fan of plot twists, can you tell?
Okay folks, drink it in. Desmond saved the kid. Let it wash over you—enjoy the success—and brace yourselves. All actions have consequences.
Chapter 6
Summary:
All good things must come to an end.
Notes:
(See the end of the chapter for notes.)
Chapter Text
The streets were golden in the morning light.
Costanza walked barefoot on the dirt road leading to town. Her fine dress was stained with dirt, her loose hair a tangled mess around her shoulders and her make up streaked in disarray. She looked like a disgrace—no noblewoman would dare be seen in such a state in public, no less.
Yet, she couldn’t bring herself to care.
She hugged Pazzino close, humming his childhood lullaby under her breath. She rubbed her nose in his hair, breathing in deep of the foreign lingering scent that could have only come from her child’s savior. She tried to commit it to memory and as Pazzino’s warm breath puffed against her neck, it reminded her that this was real—that her little miracle was alive. That this had happened.
By the time she reached the tavern, the courtyard was already alive but not with the usual bustle of the early hours. Instead, the air was wound tight with exhaustion and tension from the Pazzi family entourage. They were huddled together, her family guards and her maids mingling and speaking in exhausted, anxious tones. They had been up all night, searching, praying, but had turned up empty handed.
Then, just as she passed the threshold, a sharp cry rang out.
“There! It’s her!” A guard bolted forward, pointing toward the road.
“Get the Signore!”
“Quickly!”
Costanza sighed contently, smiling as she heard the familiar set of heavy footsteps, the sound of the tavern door bursting open.
It was Guglielmo, wild-eyed and frantic, with Andrea at his heels. Costanza idly played with Pazzino’s hair, entertained that she and her husband probably made a good pair with how mad they both looked. His dark hair was disheveled, his doublet half-fastened as if he had thrown it on in a hurry. He looked like a man who had not slept, spending the night chasing shadows and fearing for the worst.
His frantic gaze locked onto her, and for a moment, he simply stared—disbelief, anger, and relief warring on his face before he moved. He crossed the courtyard and threw his arms around her with a force that nearly took her breath away.
“Dio.” He choked, his face burying into her tangled hair. “God, Costanza.”
She felt him tremble against her. Tiny arms wrapped around her legs—Andrea, pressing his face into her dress, clinging to her like he was afraid she might vanish again.
Her husband’s grip was fierce and desperate. He pressed her close, cradling both her and Pazzino between his arms, his breath uneven against her shoulder.
Behind them, the others erupted.
“We searched all night—”
“Your feet—!”
“Signora, we feared—”
The words tumbled over each other—frantic, scolding, overwhelmed with relief. The guards, the maids, the nanny, all talking at once, disbelief mingling with the raw, aching relief of finding her alive.
Costanza hardly heard them. She only had eyes for her husband, waiting, watching as his expression fell, how his mouth pressed into a firm line, the way his shoulders squared against something inevitable.
"And Pazzino?" His voice barely rose above the whispers, eyes flickering to the bundle against his wife’s chest. “What of—" He swallowed thickly. "What of our son?"
The others fell silent.
Costanza smiled. She knew what he was thinking. She had taken Pazzino away in the dead of night, clutching him to her chest like a desperate, grieving mother and now, she returned—filthy, barefoot, but calm. Serene.
Her joy must have looked like madness to him. He must have thought their son had passed in the night, and that she had gone to lay him to rest with her own hands. That she had sat by the lake and wept until there were no tears left, and now she was smiling because at least their child no longer suffered.
She could see the moment the weight of it settled in his chest, how his throat bobbed with the effort of keeping himself composed.
She might have laughed at how wrong he was, but then—
"Baba…" A small, tired voice mumbled against her neck. "Mama, you're squeezing too tight ..."
Gasps broke through the family's entourage.
Guglielmo froze. His arms slackened as his breath caught in his throat—Had he imagined it?—but then Pazzino squirmed against her chest with a soft huff of discomfort.
One of the guards stumbled back, hand moving to cross himself.
Andrea made a sharp, stunned sound. “Fratellone!”
"Santa Madre..." Someone whispered.
Guglielmo pulled back just enough to see. His hands shook as he reached out, hesitating just above Pazzino’s sleeping face, before his fingers brushed his son’s cheek.
Warm. Soft. Alive.
A strangled breath left him. His hands moved to grip the boy’s tiny shoulders, barely able to grasp the reality of it.
"How—?" He rasped. "How can this be?"
And Costanza, her heart full and her faith unwavering, simply smiled.
"An angel saved our son."
The words fell like a stone in still water, sending ripples through the gathered crowd.
Guglielmo paused. "What?"
"An angel." She repeated, voice gentle, certain. "He came to us by the lake. I saw him, Guglielmo—great, beautiful wings, white as snow. He took Pazzino into his arms, and when I woke..." She looked down at their son, cooing at his steady breathing, his peaceful face. "He was healed."
The townspeople, drawn by the display, erupted into hushed whispers.
A maid clutched her hands to her chest. "A miracle...?"
A guard shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances with his comrades. “Surely, it cannot…”
“A fever dream?" Guglielmo’s aide wondered breathlessly.
Word was already spreading, slipping between lips and eager whispers. The maids, the stablehand, the guards—each of them carried it beyond the tavern’s courtyard.
An angel saved the child.
A miracle at the lake.
By midday, the whole town would know.
The story of the Angel of the Lake took off faster than Desmond expected.
Lucia, frankly, found it hilarious.
"They might make stories out of you!" She said excitedly one afternoon. "Or plays! Oh, oh, oh, maybe they’ll write songs!"
Desmond gave her a flat stare. "Yes, because that's exactly what I need." He said dryly.
Maria, on the other hand, was concerned.
"The Angel of the Lake is an enticing story." She murmured one evening as they prepared dinner. "Too enticing. These kinds of rumors can draw the wrong attention."
Desmond understood her worry. “Yeah, but you saw her. Anyone who saw Costanza will probably think she made it up.” It wasn't an unfair assumption. The woman looked half crazed when they saw her meander her way back into town, barefoot and looking like she'd come straight out of a tornado. “She prolly wasn't even in her right mind when she ran away in the first place.”
Maria still looked troubled, though.
“I mean, it's just a story.” Desmond reasoned, trying to cheer her up. “Lucia's been going on about a three tailed fox for months now and no one's believed her.”
“Hey!” Lucia whined, swatting at Desmond, to which said man ducked away from with a laugh.
Maria shook her head, smiling despite herself. “I suppose you're right.” There was no point in worrying now when what's done was done.
It was just another piece of idle town gossip, anyways. Even if the townsfolk whispered among themselves in the early hours of the morning, it didn’t mean anything, especially since she'd seen her fair share of eye rolls at the absurdity of it. She reassured herself that it would fade.
But it didn’t.
By midweek, the story had changed. Some claimed the angel’s wings glowed in the dark, others said they saw a divine figure hovering over the lake. One man swore he’d found a pure white feather near the water’s edge, though no one could produce any proof.
Lucia laughed, but Maria stopped sleeping as soundly and Desmond started to look more and more unsure.
And then—they went to the market.
The market was busier than usual.
Maria noticed it the moment she stepped into the square, basket in hand. The air was thick with conversation, but it wasn’t the usual morning chatter. It was different—hushed, eager, excited. Like a pot ready to boil over.
She made her way towards the grocer’s stall, forcing herself to act normal as the vendor greeted her with his usual nod.
"Morning, Signorina Maria. Figs today?"
"Yes, a dozen.” She replied absently, ears still tuned to the crowd.
The grocer chuckled, noticing the confusion in her eyes. "Ah, you're wondering about the fuss?"
Maria forced a polite smile. "Is it that obvious?"
"Hard to miss." He agreed, leaning forward like a man sharing something scandalous. "It’s that noblewoman and her son—the one who nearly died, you remember? Well, they're saying he was saved by the Angel of the Lake."
Maria’s hand paused over one of the apples in his stall, a cold weight settling in her chest.
The grocer mistook her silence for skepticism and barked a laugh. "Ridiculous, right?! That’s what I said, too! Thought the whole thing was nonsense. An angel? Bah! More likely, the mother worked herself into a frenzy over nothing.” He shook his head. “But well, you know how people are—stories grow in the telling."
Maria nodded stiffly. “Yes, that they do...”
"But people love a good tale.” He continued, oblivious to her distress. "And it’s been good for business! Look around—the square’s never been this busier in the morning! Heard some folks are poking around the lake, hoping to see a miracle for themselves."
Dio.
The grocer chuckled, shaking his head. "Even you might see extra business!”
Maria managed a weak laugh, barely hearing herself bid a tight goodbye to the grocer. Her mind was racing.
She had to find Desmond. Now.
She found him further down the square, near the baker’s stall—but something was off. He stood too still, hands tucked into his sleeves and shoulders stiff. The usual easy slouch he carried when they ran errands together was gone.
His hood was drawn low over his face and just as she reached him, she saw it—the way his fingers twitched toward the edge of his hood, tugging it forward more than it could afford to do. A subtle movement, quick, practiced, anxious.
‘He knows.’
Desmond turned before she could speak. His face was shadowed, but she could see the tension in his jaw, the sharpness in his eyes as they flickered past her to scan the square.
"You heard, too?" His voice was quiet.
Maria swallowed. "The Angel of the Lake."
Desmond exhaled sharply, shaking his head. "I thought maybe it was about a festival. Just the town being lively, but then I started listening and—" He tilted his head toward the murmuring crowd. "It’s not about a festival. It’s about me."
Maria glanced around again. Now that she was standing next to him, the stolen glances from strangers felt sharper, more intentional.
"Fuck.” Desmond cursed and she nearly jumped at the harshness of it. It was the first time she truly heard him this upset. His fingers twitched again, pressing the edge of his hood lower, hiding his face further in its shadow. He chewed on his lip, something like panic settling over his face like a dark cloud. “I didn't think—just how the hell did it spread this fast?!”
Maria grabbed his sleeve. "We need to go."
Desmond didn’t argue. He shifted the sack of bread under one arm, glancing around once more before following her away from the stall.
They kept their pace normal—not quick, not fleeing—but there was a tension and urgency in every step.
As they got closer towards the outskirts of town, Maria finally broke the silence. "Maybe when the Pazzi family leaves, the rumors will die with them."
Desmond’s lips pressed into a thin line. "You think they’re leaving soon?" It had been hard to miss the carriage and the entourage loitering around the local tavern and they didn’t look like they were leaving anytime soon.
As they passed a trader’s stall near the main road though, they overheard a conversation.
"—staying longer than intended." A man was saying, jovially. "They say the boy should rest. That his mother wants him to recover fully under the watchful eye of the angel."
Desmond stopped in his tracks. Maria gave him a meaningful look.
He couldn’t go to the lake anymore.
He couldn’t go into town anymore.
Not until this tided over.
If it ever did.
It did not.
The rumors did not fade—they grew.
What started as just well-meaning whispers in the market snowballed. A town official spoke in gossiping tones with a well-dressed traveler. A traveling merchant considered the merits of selling feathers sourced from their town. The tavern owner, speaking to his wife, wondered if it was time to become an inn as yet another visitor from another town inquired of vacant rooms and the location of the lake.
Maria heard them all.
She listened as she moved through the market the following week, her ears catching snippets of conversation like scraps of thread, weaving together an image she did not like.
"The Angel of the Lake—have you heard?"
"A miracle, they say. A noble’s son was brought back from death!"
"Some are traveling just to leave offerings by the shore."
“Maybe we should go, too? Maybe we can see the Angel!”
At first, she tried to dismiss it. Gossip burned hot and fast, but it burned out just the same. She told herself it would pass.
But then more people started arriving.
Just a few travelers at first—curious merchants, wandering scholars. Then, a noblewoman from Venice, bringing her sick daughter to pray by the lake’s edge. A group of pilgrims who lit candles at the water and murmured their prayers.
Maria clenched her teeth as she walked through the town square, feeling the shift in the air.
And then, one morning, she overheard something that made her blood run cold.
"A letter was sent to the Church." The blacksmith murmured to his apprentice. "Someone’s asking for an inquiry. They say it’s a miracle."
Maria’s hands tightened around her basket.
A miracle.
That was the word that changed everything.
Miracles were not left alone. They were investigated. Documented. Claimed.
And if the Church truly took interest—
She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly dry.
Another week passed. Then another.
And then, one morning, the town woke to the sight of riders on the road.
The Church had arrived.
Maria heard of them before she saw them.
The baker’s voice was considering as she reached for a loaf of bread.
"Strange visitors today.” He muttered, more to himself than her. He blinked when he found Maria staring. “Oh, haven’t noticed, have you?”
Maria hesitated, fingers brushing a fresh roll.
"No.” She shook her head. "Visitors? What have you heard?"
"They’re priests from Florence.” The baker answered, kneading the dough with unnecessary force. "Bishop’s men. And inquisitors."
Maria stilled.
"Inquisitors?" She repeated, careful to keep her voice even.
The baker nodded, eyes flicking uneasily toward the town square. "Heard they rode straight to the church. Didn’t stop for food or rest." His nose twitched, dusting flour from his hands. "Guess the story has finally caught their interest."
A cold weight settled in Maria’s chest.
"They’ve been asking about the noblewoman’s boy." The baker’s wife added as she came out of another room with a tray full of fresh goods. "Asking questions about this and that.” She tilted her head as if to recall. “And something about a feather."
The loaf in Maria’s hands cracked beneath her grip.
The local priest, Father Carlo, was not a man who believed in superstition.
He had been the head of the town’s modest church for nearly 30 years. He had baptized nearly every child in the village, given last rites to the dying, mediated petty feuds between merchants. He had seen foolishness in many forms—men mistaking chance for fate, women who swore their prayers had moved mountains.
He had not believed the rumors of an angel.
At first, he thought them the desperate ravings of a grieving mother, a woman unwilling to accept her son’s fate—but then when her son’s state improved, that’s when the gossip about an angel hearing her son took root and grew. He had sighed at the time, rubbing his temples, wondering how long it would take for people to tire of such nonsense.
But now—now, the Church itself was here.
Father Carlo folded his hands before him as he regarded the men seated within his modest hall. They were sharp-eyed, severe. They had the look of men who had already drawn their conclusions.
The leader among them, Father Matteo, was a man of precise words and colder intent. His gaze was unwavering as he spoke.
“You are aware of the claims made in this town.”
Father Carlo inclined his head. “I am.”
“You have not moved to denounce them.”
Father Carlo held back a sigh. He had expected this.
“I have spoken against foolish superstition.” He said carefully. “But faith… manifests in different ways. Some take comfort in signs.”
Father Matteo’s expression did not change, but the inquisitor at his side frowned. “Encouraging such belief is dangerous. Miracles—true miracles—are rare. False ones are heresy.”
“I have not encouraged anything.” Carlo said, tone even but the narrowing of his eyes gave way his indignation. “I have guided my flock as best I can. What they choose to believe—”
“—Is now beyond this town’s control.” Matteo interrupted, cleanly.
A chill settled in the room.
Father Carlo did not speak immediately. He had seen the way his people whispered. The way coin had started flowing toward those eager to profit from the tale.
He had disapproved of it. Deeply.
Faith was not meant to be sold in the marketplace like spices and cloth, but neither was it his place to dictate what hearts chose to believe.
But the Church was here, not to advise, but to judge.
He clasped his hands tighter, willed them not to tremble. “What is it you wish to do?”
Matteo leaned forward.
“We will see the feather.”
Father Matteo met with Guglielmo and Constanza Pazzi that same afternoon.
The meeting took place in a private room of the tavern, where the Pazzi family had been staying for the past few weeks. The walls were plain, the furnishings modest—nothing like the grandeur of their villa in Florence—but the air inside was heavy with expectation.
A single candle flickered on the table between them, its dim glow casting long shadows across the room. The air smelled faintly of wax and old wood.
Costanza sat beside her husband, hands clasped tightly in front of her dress as she regarded their guests. She had prepared for this moment, had dreamed of it. A man of God had come—not as a skeptic, but as a seeker of truth.
She should have been overjoyed.
And yet, she hesitated.
The feather rested in its small box, nestled in linen, just as she had kept it since the day Pazzino was saved. When she lifted it, her fingers trembled, reluctant to part with it. What if they dismissed it? What if they called it falsehood, or worse—blasphemy?
Still, she placed it in the priest’s waiting hands.
Father Matteo turned it in the light.
For a long moment, he said nothing.
The feather was long, pure white, untouched by time or wear. The candlelight caught the delicate barbs, making them shimmer like fine silk.
Costanza watched him, waiting for his expression to soften, for reverence to bloom in his eyes. Instead, his jaw tightened. His brows furrowed, his fingers moving along the quill’s base as if testing its texture.
“You said others have feathers like this?” His voice was measured, but there was something cold beneath the words.
Guglielmo, ever cautious, shifted in his seat. “Not like this. None so fine.”
Matteo’s gaze lifted from the feather.
“But some have appeared.”
A pause.
Guglielmo exhaled through his nose and nodded. “Some.” His voice was careful now, because it was true.
The reports from his aid had spoken of circulating feathers, all of different plumes, colors, and textures, yet, when he had told them to purchase a sample of them, all had paled in comparison to the one Pazzino had clutched in his fingers. His aids had purchased what they could, but there were some which they had not been able to buy. Clutched in the hands of children, they reported. All reluctant to part with them because they were deemed good luck. It was unclear if they were from the same source as Pazzino’s feather, but Guglielmo had stopped the investigation from there.
“Merchants have taken to selling lesser ones—things they claim are from the angel” Guglielmo said. “But they are not.”
Matteo set his jaw. The flickering candle cast sharp lines across his face, deepening the shadows beneath his eyes.
“Find them.”
The priests spread out.
They moved through the streets like a quiet storm, their dark robes trailing behind them, their steps measured and deliberate. They did not raise their voices. They did not issue proclamations.
They only asked.
At first, the townspeople were obliging. Some were eager, leaning in with whispers, hoping to share what they knew. Others were cautious but polite.
Then, the questions grew sharper.
The merchants, who had once boasted of their rare goods, became uneasy.
A feather, sold as a mere trinket for weeks, was now evidence.
The inquisitors moved through the market with meticulous precision. They ran their fingers over the delicate plumes, testing their softness, lifting them to the light.
"Where did this come from?"
"Who sold it to you?"
"How many have you sold?"
At first, the merchants answered. They offered names, locations, stories—but when they saw the cold scrutiny in the priests’ eyes, they faltered.
And the mood in town began to shift.
What had once been an amusing tale—a bit of gossip that brought business and curious travelers—now felt like dangerous talk. Men and women who had laughed at the rumors began avoiding the subject altogether. The tavern keeper, who had indulged travelers with stories over warm drinks, now kept his voice low.
The baker, who had once shaped loaves in the image of angelic wings, stopped making them.
The traders grew nervous. Some pretended they had never sold the feathers at all. A few, fearing what might come, rid themselves of their stock—tossing them into the river, burying them in the fields, or burning them in their hearths.
It did not matter.
The inquisitors traced the sales back, unspooling the path like a thread. They followed the whispers, tracked the fading rumors, picked apart the web of transactions.
And yet—there was something odd.
Not all the feathers were the same.
The merchants had added to the frenzy, selling what they could—goose, swan, dove. Some even traded dyed plumes to make them seem more divine. A trick to lure pilgrims, nothing more. Yet, not all the feathers were false.
Father Matteo examined them himself, running his fingers along the quills, feeling the weight of each one. Most were cheap frauds. A few were fine but unremarkable.
But some—just a few—were unlike any he had seen before.
Lighter than they should be.
Softer than silk.
And untouched by time.
The merchants could not explain them. They only knew they had bought them from another, passed along in trade, mingled in their wares.
But the inquisitors were thorough.
No matter which way the transactions turned, no matter how many hands the feathers passed through, they found the same name repeated more than enough to be coincidence. More than enough to be a source.
Maria.
The sounds of the girls wildly clucking in a way that only happened when visitors arrived was the only warning Maria got when the knock came.
She had been in the middle of tidying up the kitchen the moment she heard the sound—sharp and deliberate. Yet, what made her stomach drop wasn’t the fact that it came, but the fact that it was a knock on her door, not the window as the town knew to do.
She set aside the mortar and wiped her hands on her apron before moving to the door, steadying herself despite her racing heartbeat. No fear. No hesitation. Show them nothing.
When she opened it, two priests stood waiting.
They did not push past her threshold. They did not speak over her or issue demands. Their hands remained folded within their dark robes.
Yet their presence alone was suffocating.
“You are Maria, the apothecary?”
A simple question. A simple answer.
“Yes.”
One of the priests, a lean man with narrow eyes, inclined his head slightly. “We have heard that you… have access to feathers like the one held by Lady Costanza Pazzi.”
Maria’s fingers curled slightly against the wood of the door.
“I sell many things, Father.” She said evenly. “Feathers are hardly rare.”
“Then you will not mind if we search your home?”
She stilled. Denying them outright would be an admission of guilt but allowing them in—it was a risk. Her mind raced, mentally running through her memory for anything that might give them reason to dig deeper. Desmond had hidden himself well, but all it would take was one mistake.
She let out a slow breath, as if the request was nothing more than an inconvenience.
“…Of course.” She stepped aside, and as the priests entered, thanked god with every fiber of her body that Desmond and Lucia were not home.
The priests did not ransack her home.
There was no violence to their movements, no reckless destruction, but the invasion was felt all the same.
They were deliberate in their searching. Their hands pulled well-worn journals, but placed them back with care. They shifted her jars filled with ground powders, unrolled carefully bundled herbs, peered into drawers they had no business looking through. Every second felt like hours as they picked at her home, searching for everything and anything that would incriminate her.
Maria stood still, forcing herself to breathe evenly, to watch without watching.
When they found nothing, she nearly sagged, believing it to be over until—
A priest reached for a small feather tucked behind a bundle of lavender.
Maria froze.
It was old. A forgotten remnant of one of Desmond’s many sheddings. It had not been noticed before, had not seemed important enough to discard or hide, but in this moment, in the dim glow of candlelight, it stood out like a whisper of something not quite earthly.
Father Matteo lifted it between two fingers, holding it up to the light.
The glow caught the edges, turning them silver and gold, casting delicate shadows the floor.
Maria felt her heart skip.
Matteo turned it slowly, studying the fine filaments.
A slow, stretching pause.
“Where did this come from?” He asked softly and when she met his gaze, it was like looking at the mouth of a snake.
Her expression remained calm, unbothered. Not too quick. Not too slow.
“We have chickens, Father.” Her voice was steady only because she forced it to be. “It must have come from them.”
The silence between them thickened.
Matteo did not look away.
Maria did not blink.
Then—slowly, deliberately—he set the feather down.
“Be careful what you sell, madam.” His voice was quiet. Measured. A warning more than an instruction. “There are many who would use superstition to mislead the faithful.”
Maria inclined her head, fingers tightening behind her back.
“Of course, Father.”
“See that you do.” Matteo murmured but something in his gaze spoke of further visits, further examinations.
Then, the priests turned and left.
Desmond knew something was wrong the moment he stepped into the backyard. His instincts were screaming at him and it didn’t take long for him to realize that the house was not as he had left it.
He went still and automatically held an arm out to block Lucia from approaching.
“Desmond, what—” She started hesitantly, but one look at the sharpness in his eyes made her mouth close with a click. Instead, she clutched Desmond’s sleeve, keeping close behind him as he slowly walked towards the backdoor.
Desmond laid a hand on the handle, breath in his throat as he listened for any movement or anything awry, but heard nothing. Swallowing, Desmond pushed it open.
“Maria?” He called, voice low and cautious and tensed when he noticed the house in disarray. His eyes flickered through the living room, the kitchen. Maria’s herbal journals and Lucia’s storybooks sat at the wrong angles. The small jars lining the shelves along the wall were in the wrong order. The rug was not facing the right direction.
But inside, Maria was there, sitting at the dining table. Her hands were folded against her lips. Her expression was unreadable—calm, blank—but as stepped closer, he saw the anxiety in the tightness of her mouth, the way her fingernails dug into her palms.
“They were here.” She said without preamble. Her voice was thin, but steady. “The priests.”
Desmond’s stomach dropped.
Maria looked at him, eyes shining. “They found one of your feathers. They don’t have proof that it’s yours, but they suspect.” She exhaled shakily and looked at Desmond, eyes watery. “Desmond… they know you’re here.”
A cold shudder ran through him.
His world suddenly felt too small, the walls pressing in, suffocating.
“We don’t have time.” Maria’s voice was firm, but her eyes were pained. “You need to go.”
Desmond froze, feeling as if she had doused him with cold water.
Distantly, he had known that it would come to this—that it was only a matter of timing before the wrong people would come knocking, but still, he had held onto the hope that it would all blow over. He had hoped that the whole situation about the Angel of the Lake would burn out like a fading fad, but the past few weeks had taught him that it clearly wasn’t going to.
He knew it would come to this but—but it was still the last thing he wanted to hear from Maria.
“I don’t—” His voice wavered. His heart stuttered, something ancient and instinctual clawing up his throat. He was reminded of his fear from long ago, of being pushed out of the safe refuge of Maria's home—his home.
Maria crossed the room before he could spiral further, cupping his face in her hands. “It’s not forever.” She murmured, her thumbs brushing against his cheekbones, gentle and grounding.
He blinked rapidly, not realizing that he had been shaking until Maria steadied him. Hadn't noticed the way his breath came fast and shallow, or the way his vision blurred at the edges
“It’s for your own safety, Desmond.” She said softly. “If you can’t leave, then you must hide.”
Desmond swallowed hard. It pained him to go, but he also didn't want to put her or Lucia in danger.
She pulled back, her voice tight. “Take only what you need. I’ll bring food to the river—the spot where I wash clothes. Don’t come to the lake. Stay in the thicket.”
Desmond nodded stiffly, but his wings cowed behind him, trembling. “Okay. I'll—” The words were barely out of his mouth when Lucia barreled right into him with enough force to knock him into the dining table.
“No!” Lucia yelled, muffled by her face in his stomach. Her arms were wrapped around his waist like a vice. “Stay! I don’t want you to go!”
Desmond made a distressed noise in the back of his throat. “Lucia—”
“I don’t want you to go.” She repeated stubbornly and emphasized her point by squeezing him like her life depended on it, burrowing her face into his stomach.
Desmond’s heart clenched. “Oh, Lucia...”
He knelt, making her reluctantly release him, before he opened his arms, and that was all that was needed before she flung herself into him, her tiny frame shaking against his.
“I have to, kid.” Desmond murmured into her hair. His wings fanned around them, the tips of each appendage brushing against each other in their own form of a hug. “But it’s just for a little while.”
Lucia sniffled, snot and tears wetting his shoulder. She tried to say something, but her words were smothered by hiccups and desperate whines.
“Shhh.” Desmond pet her hair. “I know. I know. I’m sad too, but it’s just for a little while, alright? I’ll be back before you know it and everything will go back to normal.”
She sniffled, rubbing her nose into his shoulder one more time before finally, reluctantly, she nodded. “‘Kay. I’ll wait, then.”
A watery chuckle escaped him. “Good. And while I’m gone, you better keep your mom safe.”
Lucia straightened at that, stubbornly wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “I will! If those dumb priests come back, I’ll tell them to fuck off!”
“Lucia!” Maria scolded, almost reflexively, but it drew a startled laugh out of Desmond.
“I’d love to see that.” He smiled wryly, despite the tightness in his throat.
Lucia tried to smile but then her resolve faltered, something fragile in her voice when she murmured. “Promise you’ll come back?”
Desmond stilled.
Maria drew in a sharp breath.
For a moment, he didn’t know how to respond because how could he promise that? How could promise anything when everything in his life had been uncertain from the moment he fell from the sky?
But how could he deny her when Lucia was staring at him, eyes red-rimmed and pleading? He knew she wanted—no, needed him to say it, so against the lump in his throat, Desmond bent forward, and pressed his forehead to hers. “I promise.” His voice came out hoarse.
Lucia released a relieved breath, eyes closing. “Good.”
Maria placed a hand on his back, and when he stood up to turn to her, she did the same—leaning forward until their foreheads touched—a silent gesture of devotion.
“Stay safe.” She whispered, eyes bright as if memorizing his face. “Stay aware.”
And then, before the moment could break him, before he could change his mind—Desmond turned and disappeared into the night.
By morning, Father Matteo’s patience had thinned.
The town was proving stubborn. Obstinate.
People were uneasy, skittish beneath the weight of his presence. They answered his questions, but only in carefully measured words.Their faces were unreadable, too calm to be anything but cautious.
No one denied the rumors of an angel.
But no one indulged them either.
The resistance was subtle, but Matteo recognized it for what it was: a shield. A quiet, unspoken agreement between the townspeople to protect something.
Or someone.
So he changed tactics.
He stopped asking about the angel.
Instead, he asked about Maria.
“Who is she?” He inquired smoothly. “How long has she lived here?”
"She’s an apothecary." Came one reply, terse but polite. "That’s all."
"And she is not here?" He wondered aloud. "Her work is vital here, yet she’s absent now?”
“She keeps to herself.” Came a reply from the baker’s wife.
“Likes it that way.” The herbalist added.
Matteo’s gaze narrowed, the words too quick, too calculated. He pressed on, but the responses were the same—carefully constructed, void of anything that might give him a clearer picture of Maria’s life here.
"Who does she live with?" Matteo asked after a pause.
"She has no one but her work." A merchant said, feigning ignorance because he wasn’t really lying. The kids didn’t count, not really. "Just keeps to herself mostly."
Maria had been part of the village for fifteen years. She was a healer.
People spoke of her work, of the lives she had saved. How knowledgeable she was. hardworking she was.
And then—
A mistake.
A slip.
“You have to be, you know.” A laundress said offhandedly, distracted as she wrung out a sheet. “To support her daughter and—”
Her hands froze mid-motion, just for the shortest of seconds before it returned to the sheets, but Matteo caught in and his expression chilled.
Matteo narrowed his eyes. “And?”
The laundress stiffened, clenching the cloth tighter in her hands and she shook her head quickly, almost too quickly. "Nothing. I didn’t mean anything by it." She mumbled, her words stumbling over themselves. "Just—just that she has her daughter.”
Matteo leaned in, lowering his voice. “You were about to say something else.”
The laundress bristled, her cheeks reddening. “No!”
“Are you certain?” Matteo’s gaze sharpened, and he let the silence stretch. His smile was cold. He didn’t let it go, not yet. "Who else lives with her? Her son?" His words hung in the air, probing.
Matteo did not need to press further—because the town answered for her, but not with words. It was in the way the townspeople shifted uncomfortably, how some found excuses to step away, how others looked away.
That silence told him more than any words ever could.
Matteo exhaled, slow and measured. His lips curled into a knowing smile.
‘There is someone else.’
And so Matteo pressed harder. He let the silence stretch a moment longer. He could feel the tension thickening, and could see the barely concealed discomfort in their eyes. His voice softened.
“Do you all not find it strange that the apothecary lives so far from the town square.” Matteo murmured, mostly to himself, but loud enough for the others to hear. “Does she not want to be near her neighbors? Does she avoid the heart of the town on purpose? Or perhaps... there’s more to her work than meets the eye?”
The herbalist’s daughter, always the outspoken one, couldn't stand the pressure any longer because she saw that the cat was out of the bag now and she would be damned to let some—some city tourist come to her hometown to start trouble.
"Maria’s boy is a good person." She said sharply, cutting through the tension. "You come here, accusing her without understanding anything about them—about him—and you act like they’re some kind of threat. But they’re not. Not to us."
Matteo’s eyes flickered to her, noticing her conviction, the way she shielded her words with such determination, but he kept his expression even. "So defensive." He remarked softly, letting his voice drip with mock sympathy. “Tell me then, if they’re so innocent, why is Maria hiding her son away? Why not let the good people of this town see him for themselves?”
“We have!” The herbalist’s daughter insisted, her face flushing under his scrutiny. “He’s just sick a lot! He only comes out in the fall and winter, when it’s easier on him. When he’s well and not so ill.”
Matteo’s eyes sharpened at the hesitation. “Sick?” He pushed, his tone insistent. “But he’s still alive, yes? Is he confined to his bed? Or is there something else keeping him away?”
“It’s just... his health.” She stammered, the words stumbling out. “That’s why Maria doesn’t bring him out in the warmer months because summer’s harder on him…” Her voice trailed off, but Matteo wasn’t satisfied.
“How coincidental.” He said quietly, the words hanging in the air like a threat but that seemed to incense her.
“You don’t even know what you’re talking about! So he gets sick, that doesn’t mean anything!”
Murmurs of agreement swept through the crowd. Their frustration simmered, turning into something sharper. Defiance.
Matteo’s jaw tightened. The priests sensed the shift, their expressions darkening.
“How dare you speak against the Church?” Matteo demanded, his voice edged with steel. “We come to investigate heresy—and you would protect those who deal in false miracles?”
Another girl threw her hands into the air. “Since when was selling feathers and telling stories a crime, now?!”
The tension thickened at that. The townspeople were resisting, and the priests were losing control of the conversation.
That was when one of the younger priests, a zealot whose devotion often veered into fanaticism, stepped forward.
“You speak as if we are the villains.” He spat. “As if we come to do you harm, but I tell you this—miracles can be falsehoods. Do you not see how your minds have been swayed? How you defend what you do not understand?” His voice dropped, low and insidious. “If this is no angel… then what is it?”
A demon.
The unspoken word slithered through the crowd, leaving its mark. The shift was subtle but undeniable. Some faces remained firm, unshaken. Others, however, faltered, uncertainty flickered across their faces.
"Her son, perhaps—" Matteo added casually, his tone still soft but now tinged with more insinuation, "—could be something... else. Something unnatural. Maybe that’s why the apothecary hides him away, keeps him far from the town square. A creature in hiding."
The word creature lingered in the air, and Matteo felt the weight of the implication settle like a heavy blanket over the square. Some eyes flickered with discomfort, some faces hardened in resistance, but all felt the shift. The air was thick with suspicion now.
“If Maria harbors something unnatural—if she keeps a creature not of this world—do you not think it is our duty to root it out?” His voice was softer now, measured and persuasive, like an elder gently chastising his young. “You are good people. You are faithful people—but even the faithful can be misled.”
The herbalist’s daughter stepped forward, her hands clenched tightly at her sides. "Stop it." She hissed, her face flushed with anger. "Maria’s son isn’t some monster. You—"
"Enough, Valeria." Her mother whispered fiercely, yanking her back by the arm. Her daughter opened her mouth to protest but one hard look from her mother made her close her mouth, her cheeks burning with frustration.
Matteo studied the gathered townspeople. Their defenses were growing, but there were cracks—small, fragile ones that only someone like him could see.
A seed of doubt.
No matter, he got what he wanted.
Matteo turned to his priests, his expression unreadable.
"Find the apothecary’s son."
The Pazzi family had overstayed their welcome in this small town. Guglielmo knew it. Everyone knew it. Even now, as he walked through the streets, he could feel the weight of curious eyes upon him. They should have left weeks ago. but Costanza—his dear, stubborn wife—refused to go.
“He saved Pazzino.” She had whispered to him in the candlelight of their room the night before. “I will not leave while the Church hunts him like some criminal.”
Guglielmo had wanted to argue. Their duty was to their sons, to their family, to Florence—that they could not entangle themselves in this matter, not when they barely understood it, but the look in her eyes, fierce and unyielding, had stolen the words from his lips.
And so, here he was, waiting for an audience with the priests from Florence in the town’s local church.
Father Matteo was seated behind a heavy wooden desk when they were granted an audience. Guglielmo was familiar with the church in Florence, having donated his fair share to curry favor, but he had only heard of Father Matteo in passing. Although the man was aged, his eyes were sharp, adept in seeing through deception. It was no wonder he had been sent to investigate.
The Father rose as they entered, inclining his head in respect—but not deference.
“Guglielmo de’ Pazzi. Lady Costanza.” His voice was measured, unreadable. “To what do I owe this honor?”
Guglielmo hesitated only a moment, glancing at his wife before speaking. “You know why we’ve come, Father.”
Father Matteo studied him, then turned his gaze to Costanza, who’s eyes were burning with resolve. “Yes.” He murmured. “I imagine I do.”
Costanza stepped forward, her hands wrung tight in front of her. “I have heard troubling things, Father—about your inquiries into the angel of the lake.”
Matteo’s lips pressed into a thin line. “An angel, Signora Costanza?”
She stiffened. “Yes.”
“A word you use freely.” Matteo mused, almost to himself. “But tell me, my lady—do you know that for certain? That what you saw was a messenger of God, and not something else?”
Guglielmo placed a hand on his wife’s arm before she could respond. “We are not here to argue theology, Father. We have only come to ask that your men exercise… restraint.” He chose his words carefully, mindful that offense here would not help their cause. “If there is truly nothing to be found, there is no need to trouble the townspeople further.”
Matteo’s fingers steepled together. “You assume that there is nothing to be found.”
“Because there is nothing to be found.” Costanza snapped, before she could help herself. “Or would you have us believe the Church condemns miracles now?”
Matteo sighed. “Signora, I do not deny that your son has recovered. That is a blessing, but blessings can come from many sources, not all of them divine.”
Costanza reared back, appalled. “You think a demon healed my child?”
“I think caution is wise.” Matteo corrected. “The Devil is cunning. He does not appear with horns and fire, but in forms that deceive, in gifts that lure the faithful astray.” He regarded her steadily. “And you do believe, do you not? That your son was saved?”
Costanza faltered. “Of course.”
“And yet, where is this angel now?” Matteo spread his hands. “If he was sent by God, why does he not make himself known? Why does he hide?”
Guglielmo stepped forward, his voice low with warning. “You seek to chase shadows, Father.”
Matteo met his gaze evenly. “I seek the truth, Signore.”
Silence settled between them.
It was Costanza who finally broke it. She looked faint, pale. “What will you do—” She dared to ask, her voice quiet, nearly breathless. “—if you find him?”
Matteo took a moment to answer. He studied them both, weighing his words before— “If he is an angel, he will submit to the will of the Church.”
“And if he does not?” Guglielmo pressed.
Matteo’s expression darkened. “Then, he is no angel.”
A chill swept through the room.
Costanza’s hands trembled, but she lifted her chin, dark eyes shining. “But he saved my son.” She whispered.
Matteo met her gaze evenly, if not with a little pity for a wayward lamb. “Even the Devil can perform wonders.”
Guglielmo exhaled slowly. He had hoped, perhaps foolishly, that this meeting would accomplish something—that Matteo would yield, that he could convince him to let the matter rest, but it was clear now—the priest’s mind was made up.
They would not stop.
He took Costanza’s hand, guiding her toward the door. “Come.” He murmured. “We have stayed long enough.”
Costanza hesitated, reluctant, but as her eyes searched Matteo’s, looking for some trace of doubt, of mercy—she found none.
“May God forgive you for this.” She said, her voice heavy with sorrow.
Father Matteo inclined his head. “And may He grant us wisdom to see the truth.”
As they stepped into the morning light, Guglielmo felt the weight of something inevitable settling upon them.
Desmond had never lived in a tree before.
It was a ridiculous thought, given his current situation—hiding from priests who thought he was either a demon or an angel—but it was all he had to keep himself sane. After the panic of escaping town, he had spent his first night in the forest shivering beneath his wings, curled against the rough bark of an old oak. The second night, he realized (rather belatedly) that no one ever looked up and found a sturdy patch of branches to settle into. By the fourth night, he had broken enough twigs and woven together enough dead leaves to form something of a makeshift perch.
Which was, of course, made it essentially a nest.
Desmond sighed as he sat in his tree, looking down at his work. “So this is my life now.” He muttered to himself. “Desmond Miles, man turned bird.”
There was no humor in it, not really. Just irony.
Every morning, when the sky bled orange, he climbed down and snuck to the river to wait. Maria had given Lucia instructions to bring him food, but there was another reason for sending her to him.
Lucia always arrived just as the sun peeked over the horizon. She was wrapped in her cloak to shield her from the cold with a bag slung over her shoulder. She never looked scared—not for herself, anyway.
“Buongiorno, Desmond.” She greeted one morning, offering him the bag of supplies.
Inside were the usual loaves of bread, a leather skin filled with herbal tea, and other essentials. Maria, knowing the winter cold would bite at him, had included a small pouch of dried herbs he could steep into a drink to help keep his body warm. There was also a flask of something stronger—grappa, most likely.
“You don’t have to keep bringing food, you know.” He told Lucia as he took a sip from the flask, wincing at the burn. “I can hunt.”
“I know you can hunt.” She huffed, crossing her arms. “But Mama insists. She says if she doesn’t send me, you’ll go days without eating.”
Desmond didn’t argue because, well—Maria was probably right.
The food, however, was only a small part of the visit. Every day, Lucia reported back to him what Maria had learned in town and every day, the news felt heavier.
“The priest came by again today.” Lucia said, after handing over the bag the next morning. “He asked about you. Mama told him you went out trading,” She said it in a way that made it clear she was repeating something Maria had said, not something she believed herself.
Two days later, Lucia arrived with a look on her face that made Desmond uneasy.
“Father Matteo came by again.” She said, her voice quieter than usual. She swung her legs nervously, avoiding his gaze. “He asked if... if you’d come back yet. Mama said you went to see a sick friend. I don’t think he believed her.”
A few days later, Lucia’s report made Desmond’s heart sink further.
“More knights came today.” Lucia reported. She looked nervous, fingers wringing in front of her as if the gravity of the situation had finally registered in her mind. “I saw them walking around—asking people questions. I heard they checked other towns, asking about you, but no one’s seen you anywhere.” She paused, taking a quick breath. “I think they know you’re near here because they’re not leaving.”
Desmond’s wings trembled and he pulled them tighter around himself, trying to ward off a chill that had nothing to do with the weather.
Lucia shifted uneasily, glancing around, as if the trees themselves might be listening. “Desmond…if they find you—” She let the words linger, glancing up at him with wide, worried eyes. She didn’t dare finish the sentence as if saying it would give it fuel to come true.
But Desmond had no answer for her.
“The rich family left today.” Lucia said on another day, sitting on a rock beside him.
Desmond’s stomach twisted. “The Pazzis?”
She nodded. “They went to the lake first—to say goodbye. The seamstress’s kid saw them. She said they looked… grateful but sad.”
Desmond stared at the river. So they were gone. The last people who had actually seen his so-called miracle. That should have been a relief, right? The fevered vision he’d seen hadn’t come true so surely everything would be fine, right?
(But he didn’t believe himself.)
Days passed, and the tension in the air seemed to thicken. It was getting harder to breathe.
Lucia’s next visit brought a new layer of dread.
“They’ve asked everyone in town now.” She said. “I don’t think they’re gonna leave until they find you, Desmond. They keep asking about you and—and—they’re not stopping.”
Desmond clenched the basket handle. Every word felt like a stone dropped in his stomach, sinking him deeper into fear, but it wasn’t just the threat that made Desmond feel trapped. It was Maria. Lucia. He couldn’t leave them. No matter how many knights showed up, no matter how many priests asked questions, he didn’t want to abandon the only family he had left.
On that day, when Lucia sat down beside him, unusually quiet. “Desmond.” She whispered, looking at him with wide eyes. “I’m scared. I don’t want them to—I don’t want anything to happen to you.”
Desmond froze, throat working over the lump in his throat. He didn’t know what she wanted him to say to that, because what could he say?
“I’m scared, too.” He admitted finally because he couldn’t bring himself to lie to her—not today.
Lucia’s small shoulders slumped. “Can you—can’t you just—just—?” She struggled for a moment, before releasing a harsh breath, asking, “Can’t you just fly away?”
She knew he couldn’t fly, but Desmond understood what she meant. Desmond’s gaze fell to the ground. Could he? The roads would be watched. The forests could only hide him for so long. He could run, but where would he go?
He had figured out, after the matter with Costanza and Pazzino Pazzi, that he clearly wasn’t in the 15th century. One answer from Maria had essentially confirmed it.
He wasn’t in the 15th century, but the 14th century. If he had been in the 15th century, he might have had a plan. He might have had someone to turn to. Instead, he was stuck too early, too lost, with no one to call on and no idea how much of history he could trust anymore.
He would never meet Ezio in this lifetime. There was no Brotherhood and even if there were, he didn’t even know where the hell they were—or if they would help him at all. He was on his own in this world and the only people he had were Maria and Lucia.
They were his only safe refuge in this world.
He would not leave them.
“No.” He answered and wrapped an arm around her, pulling her close, when Lucia curled up to his side. “Not without you and Maria.”
For a long while, neither of them spoke. Desmond’s mind raced with every possible escape, but none of them felt like real options. Not without them.
Then, one morning, Lucia came to him with a smile. It was small, hesitant, but real.
“I wrote more of my story.” She said, earnest as she held out her journal like a treasure. “Do you want to hear it?”
Desmond paused, caught off guard by the normalcy of it. For a moment, the world outside—the priests, the fear, the uncertainty—faded into the background. Carefully, he took the offered journal, running a thumb over the pages. Lucia’s handwriting was still a little clumsy, the ink smudged in places where she hadn’t waited long enough for it to dry, but the love and effort behind it made something inside him warm.
“Okay.” Desmond murmured, settling in. “What happens next?”
Lucia’s eyes sparkled, and she leaned against him, her voice light and animated now as she began to read.
"Alright." She said, taking a deep breath, "Once upon a time, in a big barn, there were three chickens named Ampi, Bella, and Carina. They were the most beautiful chickens in the world, but the most beautifulest—”
Desmond hummed vaguely. “Not a word.”
Lucia ignored him.
“—of them all was Desmond.”
Desmond huffed. He had asked that once before, not long after Lucia first started telling her stories.
“Why my name? Why not something else?"
Lucia had given him a look like he had missed something obvious.
“Ampi, Bella, Carina are A-B-C." She had explained, voice patient but insistent . "That means the most beautifulest chicken must share that pattern, thus—Desmond! D is for Desmond!”
He had groaned at the time, grumbling about being reduced to a particularly vain barn animal.
Now, though, he only shook his head, listening as she continued on.
“He had the softest feathers and the shiniest beak. All the other chickens said so! But one day, a big storm came.”
Desmond leaned back against the tree, only half-listening, but not out of disinterest. The weight of Lucia against him was comforting, grounding. For the first time in days, he let himself enjoy the quiet, the warmth of another person beside him.
Her voice wove through the quiet morning air, light and easy, as if nothing was wrong.
She read with the confidence of a practiced storyteller, her fingers skimming the words she’d written herself. It was nonsense—a bizarre mix of fairy tales and grand adventure. Desmond heard something about the most beautifulest chicken falling asleep in a way that was definitely a rip off of Snow White, about a rooster on a grand quest for the One True Corn Chip, and a rival-turned-ally who helped him defeat the Evil Butcher that wanted to eat the most beautifullest chicken.
Somewhere in the mix, there was even a little sparrow who the beautifulest chicken took in and trained to become the biggest sparrow— with the help of a fairy godmother, of course.
It was ridiculous.
Desmond smirked at the mention of the rooster getting sidetracked in a marketplace, too tempted by free samples to continue his journey. It was just the sort of thing Lucia would come up with.
(And if Desmond noticed how her fingers curled a little too tightly around the edges, or how her leg bounced, restless beneath her cloak or how every time the wind stirred the leaves, her eyes flicked toward the sound, Desmond said nothing about it.)
Then, suddenly, she stopped.
Desmond blinked, jarred by her words stopping before he could find out what clue the rooster uncovered about the whereabouts of the One True Corn Chip. “...That’s it?”
Lucia nodded, slipping the notebook shut. “For now.”
Desmond huffed, shaking his head. “You’re killing me, kid. Way to leave on a cliffhanger.”
Lucia grinned, her expression brighter and easier than it had been in a while. “You can’t rush art! Just you wait, I already have ideas about—about the Littlest Sparrow and oh, about the Sharpest Falcon and you won’t believe the plot twist about the Gentle Dove—who’s gonna…”
Desmond laughed softly and she continued on in a tangent, and for the first time in days, the tension in his chest loosened. The absurdity of it all, the warmth of Lucia’s presence—it was exactly what he needed.
For just a moment, he didn’t feel like prey waiting to be hunted.
For just a moment, with her laughter ringing in his ears, it was like everything was okay.
The next morning, Desmond waited by the river.
Like clockwork, the sun rose—but Lucia did not come.
He rolled the wooden dove he always kept in his pocket between his fingers, his thumb tracing the smoothed edges as he counted the minutes. Maybe she was running late.
A half-hour passed.
Then an hour.
A tight, uneasy feeling coiled around his ribs. Something was wrong.
His first instinct was to run back to Maria’s house— home, his mind whispered. It was home now—but he forced himself to stay put. What if the priests were there? Lucia had said they had come to their home more often. What if he walked straight into a trap?
So he clenched the wooden dove in his fist and waited.
And waited.
And waited.
By the time the sun set, the unease that had set and festered in his chest had curdled into dread. He couldn’t wait any longer and with adrenaline thrumming beneath his skin, he climbed down from his nest. The moment his feet hit the ground, he beelined his way home. The frozen grass crunched beneath his feet. His heart pounded in his ears like a reverberating drum and the more ground he covered, the worse the feeling clogging his chest became.
He stopped short when he heard the voices, blood running cold.
Maria’s voice.
Male voices.
Heart pounding in his ears, Desmond crept closer. He was close to their backyard now. He passed by the linens left forgotten on the line, eyes trained on the shadows flickering from the curtains he could see from the tree line.
The voices sharpened—low, edged with authority.
A beat. Desmond strained his ears, heard the sound of furniture moving, of a chair scraping on the wood, before—
Lucia screamed.
Desmond ran.
Twigs snapped under his foot as he tore through the rest of the forest, his hood slipping from his head, his wings flattening against his back for speed. He didn’t care. He didn’t think and so the moment he crossed the threshold to the yard, he didn't even heed the door.
The wood splintered on impact, the door flying off its hinges and crashing to the floor with an audible thunk . A gust of winter's chill surged through the gaping doorway, making the hearth flare.
They all turned to stare at him.
Maria was on her knees, hair disheveled, her hands fisted against the floor. Three men—armored knights—stood over her, their expressions grim. Another man, dressed in dark robes, with an air of more authority stood nearby, his face impassive. Father Matteo.
Across the room, Lucia’s wrist was caught in a knight's grip. Her face was twisted in panic, arms straining not for freedom, but for something held in his other hand, crushed against his armored palm. His arm had faltered though when he saw Desmond.
Because who would not when Desmond stood in the wreckage of the doorway, chest rising and falling in sharp, shallow breaths. His hood had fallen back, exposing his sweat-damp hair and the hard set of his jaw. His wings flared behind him, catching the firelight—feathers gleaming like molten metal.
For a single, breathless moment, no one moved.
The knight holding Lucia loosened his grip. One of them made a choked sound, his knuckles spasming around his sword. Another swallowed hard, frozen in place.
Desmond knew what they were seeing.
An angel.
A demon.
A figure carved from light and shadow, standing in the ruins of a quiet home.
But then, the silence shattered when Maria, taking advantage of their distraction, grabbed Lucia and yanked her free from the knight's stunned grasp and that seemed to jumpstart everything from there.
"Take him!" Father Matteo’s voice cut through the room like a blade.
The knights lunged.
Desmond moved without thinking. His fist connected with the first man’s jaw, sending him staggering back. His knuckles ached, knuckles cut bloody from having clipped the man’s helmet, but he hardly felt it as another man swung. Desmond ducked, instincts taking over. His body moved like it always had—like it had been trained to, out of practice but still lethal, and he slammed his elbow into the knight’s ribs, making him stagger and stumble back into the dining table, sending bowls and cups clattering to the ground.
And a knife.
It tumbled from the table, landing at Maria’s feet.
It was small—just one of their kitchen knives meant to slice bread—but she grabbed it without hesitation and held it out in front of her.
"Stay back!" Maria’s voice shook, but the blade did not.
The knights, though, hardly heard her. They were stunned, staring at Desmond in awed disbelief.
"Look at it…" One of them stammered, his voice barely above a whisper. "It has wings!"
"A trick." Father Matteo hissed. His voice remained calm, unwavering. "Beauty is the mask the devil wears."
Maria’s jaw tightened. "You’re the only devil here."
Desmond barely heard them. His attention was fixated on their movements, their shifting stances. His mind raced, his eyes flickering from the priest to Maria and Lucia, separated from him by the priest and his remaining men. He needed to get them out of here—but how? How could he, when he was outnumbered and—
His foot shifted.
And that moment of hesitation cost him.
A knight lunged.
Maria reacted.
She swung the knife in desperation, fast and untrained, her grip tight with fear. The blade caught the guard’s arm, slicing through fabric, cutting into flesh.
The man recoiled, cursing.
And then, everything went wrong.
The other knight moved.
Maria turned to protect Lucia.
Steel flashed in the firelight.
And Desmond’s vision blanked—no, it whited out— it must have because for a second, nothing happened. Mario was frozen, her eyes wide as if she hadn't registered what had just happened.
Then—
She let out a punched gasp. The knife slipped from her hand, its descent slow, almost surreal. The dull clatter it made when it hit the floor rang out like a funeral bell, a sound far too loud for the moment.
Lucia’s voice pierced the stillness—a fragile and confused. "M-Mama?”
Blood blossomed across her dress, spreading in a slow, widening pool across her abdomen from where the blade had sunk into her side.
Her lips parted but no sound came out.
And then her knees gave out.
No.
Desmond moved before he even had the chance to think, catching her before she hit the ground, and the moment his arms wrapped around her—
The world stopped.
The knights, the priest—all of them vanished as if the world had collapsed in on itself, folding every detail away. The house was no exception—melting away into a vast, endless white of nothingness until it was just Desmond, Maria, and Lucia suspended in a void of silence.
Just them.
Just the unbearable stillness.
Maria’s weight in his arms.
The warmth of her blood seeping through his fingers.
The faint, ragged hitch of her breath.
Desmond’s own heartbeat pounded in his ears. It was the only thing moving, the only real thing in motion in the stasis he found himself in. He pressed against the wound, desperately, but it did nothing to staunch the flow. Shit. Shit.
"No, no, no—" Desmond’s voice broke. He pressed his hands harder against the wound, as if sheer willpower could stop the bleeding. He could feel her heartbeat beneath his palms—too fast, too weak —as the life leaked out of her.
"Oh god." He rasped. "Maria—please—just stay with me."
Maria’s eyes, wide and unfocused, flickered between Lucia and him. Then, they softened.
Lucia was sobbing, her tiny hands fisting into their mother’s dress "Mama— Mama!"
Maria's lips moved. "My girl…"
Lucia let out a broken noise, clinging tighter.
With a trembling breath, she lifted her hand.
Desmond caught it before it could fall, cradling it in both of his, pressing it against his forehead as his shoulders shook.
Maria smiled. It was weak, barely there, but full of so much love it hurt.
"Oh, Desmond.” She murmured, her voice as gentle as hands smoothing down his hair. "Son of my heart."
His throat closed. His chest ached. He couldn’t think.
Son.
Desmond swallowed hard, blinking furiously. He shook his head frantically. "Don’t. Don’t say things like that! You—You’re gonna be okay. You just have to hold on, okay?"
But Maria didn’t seem to hear him.
"I wish…" She whispered, like a sigh. "I wish I had longer with you."
Desmond shook his head, gasping, his breath coming in sharp, desperate stutters. "You will. You will. ” ‘Don't talk like this. Don't talk like you're gonna—’ “You just have to hold on. Maria—please—We can fix this. I can fix this. You just have to—to—"
Her fingers curled weakly around his.
"I would have loved you… as my own.” Maria breathed, her voice weak but so earnest. Yearning. “In another life, perhaps… I could have been your mother."
A tear slipped down Desmond’s cheek, landing on her skin.
"You are my mother." He choked out because she had become it—because she was the one who comforted him when he woke up from nightmares, whispering reassurances in a voice as steady as the earth beneath him. Because she had pressed cool hands against his forehead when he was sick, fussing over him with the same worry she had for Lucia. Because she never looked at him with fear, or suspicion, or wariness—only warmth.
Because when he stumbled, she was there to catch him.
He had a mother. Her face was blurry in his memories, faded by time and distance, but he remembered the sharpness of her voice when she scolded him, the calluses on her hands, the rare, but cherished moments when she had touched him with something close to affection. He had loved her too but that love had been quiet—subdued. Uncertain, sometimes, when it was wrapped up in duty and expectations.
Maria had never expected anything from him except to be.
She never demanded. She never judged. She never tried to turn him into something else.
She simply loved him.
Maria had called him the son of her heart. If that was true—if that could be true—then she was the mother of his heart.
And now, she was slipping away.
"You are my mother. So don’t—don’t do this.” His voice cracked, and he curled over her, wings enveloping her as if they could shield her from death itself. He only had a few good things in this world and he didn’t want to lose this one. Not her. "Please. Please stay with me. Stay with me, mom."
Maria’s lips trembled, her expression softening into something achingly tender as if he had granted her a long desired wish. Her thumb brushed against his knuckles in the faintest, most fragile motion.
"Then I am blessed." She whispered and with a shuddering gasp, her eyes closed.
Her fingers went limp in his grasp.
And then—she was gone.
Desmond's breath caught. His fingers tightened around hers, as if holding on could change anything but the stillness settling over her was absolute.
The silence so vast, so crushing, that it threatened to swallow him whole.
Maria was still.
Lucia was sobbing.
And Desmond—
Desmond couldn’t breathe.
His chest ached and he felt that as if something had physically been ripped from him, something that would never, ever be whole again.
His mother.
She had called him her son.
She had loved him.
And now, she was gone.
Desmond couldn’t move. His fingers were still tangled with Maria’s, but her warmth was fading.
Then, something shifted in the folds of her blouse. It was small, delicate—the white of it barely visible beneath the blood.
A feather.
His feather.
Desmond stared.
It was darkened with blood, caught in the fabric, tucked close to her heart—as if she had kept it there, kept it safe, carried it with her all this time.
The world blurred. The grief in his chest, already so unbearable, became something worse. It sank its fangs into him and tore him apart from the inside.
She had kept it.
Even now, even in death, she had still carried a piece of him with her.
A broken sound clawed itself from his throat.
His fingers hovered over the feather, aching to take it back, to hold onto something—anything—of her.
But he couldn’t move.
He had only just found this.
A home. A family.
Love.
And it had been ripped from him.
His vision blurred. His throat was too tight, burning. He couldn’t—
He had to.
Shaking, gasping, breaking, he forced his fingers to loosen, to let go.
And like a sigh, the world contracted.
Like a shared breath.
Like a shared heartbeat.
One last moment—too brief.
And then—gone.
Father Matteo exhaled above him, the sound as loud as a thunderclap. He sounded almost regretful. "She chose violence." He murmured—
—and Desmond’s mind quieted to a cold, chilling haze as he tutted, lamenting—
"And she has met its judgment."
Something inside Desmond snapped.
A raw, inhuman sound tore from his throat. His vision blurred, the world losing all color except for the red, red, red against the backdrop of gray in front of him. His wings flared wide, the tips nearly brushing the walls.
Then, he moved. He dove towards the priest, but a knight was in his way. The knight turned, but he was too slow and Desmond’s fist crunched against his jaw, snapping bone, sending him sprawling to the ground with a wet, heavy thud. Another reached for his sword but Desmond was faster and as he ducked underneath the swing, his hand locked around the knight’s wrist, and brutally twisted it sideways until there was a sickening pop.
The man screamed, but it wasn’t enough. It wasn’t enough. The haze in his mind demanded more. Demanded they suffer.
Desmond ripped the sword from the man’s grasp. The steel hummed in his hands, and then it found its way home deep into another knight’s gut, piercing through chainmail and flesh like paper. Warm blood spilled over his hands, hot and thick, soaking into his skin, but Desmond barely noticed.
He pulled the sword free and whipped around, looking for the rat of a priest who dared to insult his mother—his mind blank, white-hot with rage, with something ravenous. Someone was screaming—he didn’t know if it was them or him.
(Those who survived this night would later swear that it had been no man who released that unearthly wail through the bloodstained air, but the angel. His eyes, molten gold with fury, burned into them like the wrath of God as he cut them down.)
The next knight charged him, sword raised.
Desmond met him with an eager welcome. He stepped into the attack, ignoring the burn of steel slicing his arm as he rammed the blade into the knight’s ribs, twisting—gutting—until he felt the body shudder against him, and felt the life drain away.
His breath was harsh. His heart thundered in his ears. They killed her.
They killed her.
"Desmond!"
The voice— Lucia’s voice—sliced through the haze and with a terrible gasp, Desmond came back to himself. His vision tilted and everything—the fury, the weight, the suffocating silence in his mind came to a halt to zero in on her. His vision bled with color—when had he activated his sight?—and he was suddenly aware of all sound, all sensation.
Such as the heat of fire.
The room was burning.
A candle had been knocked over in the chaos. The fire had spread to the dried herbs hanging from the ceiling, licking up the walls, turning everything to smoke and embers.
Maria was still.
Lucia was shaking.
They had to go.
Desmond let out a shuddering breath. His hands were wet, his fingers slick and red. He swallowed bile and desperately reached for Lucia, grabbing her wrist. "We have to leave."
"But Mama—"
"Lucia—" His voice cracked and the need to wrap her in his arms, to keep the last good thing in his world safe, was only outweighed by the need to get them out here. "We have to go."
Lucia didn’t move for a moment, her eyes. Her hands were still slick with her mother’s blood.
Then, slowly, she nodded.
He pulled her with him.
They ran.
Out the door. Into the night.
Behind them, the house—their home—collapsed into flames.
The cold hit them like a wall.
Desmond barely felt it. His breath came out into the frosted air in rough puffs, his legs burning as he ran. Lucia stumbled beside him, her grip in his hand weak but desperate.
They didn’t look back. They couldn’t. The flames devouring the house—their home—were already a beacon in the dark. The shouts behind them, the crash of pursuit, the frantic, snapping underbrush told him they were still being hunted.
The trees blurred around them, dark and endless. His wings, still slick with Maria’s blood, ached from where he had forced them flat against his back. There was no room for thought, no room for pain, only the next step. And the next. And the next.
But Lucia’s steps faltered.
Desmond barely registered it. He tugged her forward, focused only on running. She was exhausted. He was too, but they had to keep moving.
Then—voices. Too close.
He pulled Lucia off the path, ducking into the dense brush. They crouched low, barely breathing as shadows flickered between the trees.
Desmond felt Lucia trembling. He squeezed her hand, trying to ground her.
They waited. The footsteps passed. The darkness swallowed them whole.
Still, they didn’t move.
Desmond counted the seconds, the minutes, before he ushered Lucia into his arms and took off in the other direction.
Lucia felt cold in his arms, her body trembling with exertion and Desmond held her tighter.
Shelter. They needed shelter—just for a little while. Just long enough to breathe.
The hunting shed smelled like rot and damp wood. It wasn’t much—four leaning walls, half a roof, a broken stool in the corner—but it was hidden. Safe, for now.
Desmond sank down, his whole body shaking with exhaustion. He set Lucia against him, tucking her under his wings to try and warm her up.
She exhaled slowly, nosing into his arm. “We stoppin’?”
Desmond smoothed down her hair, pulled her jacket tighter across her neck. “Yeah—just for now.”
Lucia hummed and closed her eyes, her fingers instinctively curling around one of Desmond’s wings. As if understanding, the appendage obliged, stretching to let her bury her cheek into the warmth provided.
Desmond, meanwhile, tried to catch his breath. His pulse was still too fast, his chest far too tight. His hands—still sticky with Maria’s and the knights’ blood—were unsteady as he scrubbed them over his face.
He looked to Lucia, wanting to gauge how she was, until he saw it.
Something dark and wet. Soaking into Lucia’s dress.
His stomach dropped.
“Luc’—” He sat up so fast the world spun. “Shit—shit—why didn’t you say anything?”
Lucia blinked at him, sluggish and confused. “Say what?”
Desmond yanked her coat open and there, he could see a deep gash just under her ribs. Blood seeped into the folds of her dress—so much like Maria—too much like Maria's—and he sucked in a breath through his teeth.
‘No.’
‘No, no, no, no—’
Lucia frowned down at herself, as if just now noticing. “Huh.” She murmured distantly. “Guess that’s why it hurts.”
“Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” His voice was sharp, severe even to his own ears, but his hands were shaking as he pressed against the wound.
Lucia gave a sleepy little shrug. “I dunno… didn’ hurt that much….”
‘Because of the adrenaline.’ Desmond let out a ragged, desperate noise. He ripped off his cloak, wadding it up to press against the wound. “Okay. Okay, just hold this here, alright? We just gotta—gotta stop the bleeding—” Desmond rambled, but she just hummed, the sound quiet and distant.
She was too pale.
She was shivering.
Desmond clenched his teeth, forcing himself to keep breathing, to keep from unraveling at the seams.
He couldn’t lose her. ‘Not her, too. Not her, too. Not her, too.’ The mantra played in his head, but no matter how hard he pressed, he felt the dampness grow.
Lucia was getting colder.
Desmond pressed harder against the wound, whispering reassurances he wasn’t sure even he believed. “You’re gonna be fine—just fine. Just gotta rest a little, yeah? Then we’ll keep going.”
Lucia hummed. Her breath was uneven, her head tilting slightly toward him. “M’pretty tired, Des’.”
“Yeah, I know, kiddo—but you gotta stay awake for me, alright?” His voice cracked. “You—you remember that story you were writing? About the chickens? Tell me about that.”
Lucia gave a slow, sleepy blink. “Oh, oh yeah…”
Desmond curled around her, his wings a shelter over them. He pressed his forehead against hers, desperate, pleading, gripping her hand tight—keeping her here while the other tried to staunch the blood. “Tell me, kiddo.”
Lucia let out a small, breathy giggle. “I thought… of a great ending.”
Desmond swallowed. “Yeah?”
A branch snapped nearby.
His breath caught, head rearing up towards the sound.
Then—dogs. Barking.
The hunt hadn’t stopped.
His arms locked around Lucia before he could think. He lifted her, ignoring the way his body screamed in protest, and staggered out of the temporary shelter, into the frozen forest. The branches tore at him, catching on his wings in a mess of feathers. Snow clung to his legs. The night stretched endlessly in every direction and Desmond picked one, hoping to whoever was listening that it was the right one.
Lucia whimpered, her fingers weakly clutching at his coat.
“’M cold, Des. An’ tired.”
Desmond tightened his grip, panting as he maneuvered through the snow covered brush. “I know, kiddo. I know.” His voice shook, but he forced himself forward. Just a little farther. Just a little more. He could lose them at the river, he told himself. He could bring her up into his nest and then it’ll be fine. It had to be fine. “I’ll get you warmed up soon, okay? We just gotta get somewhere safe.”
Lucia didn’t answer.
His stomach twisted.
“Hey.” He jostled her slightly—not enough to hurt, just enough to keep her here. “Keep your eyes open, okay?” He readjusted his hold, making sure she was tucked into his coat, kept warm, secure.
“Tryin’…” She slurred, but he could feel her body sagging, slipping from him in more ways than one.
Please. Please. Please.
Lucia whimpered, a sound that tore at his heart. “Sleepy, Des. Can I… just a little?”
“Sorry, kiddo. No sleeping now.” He huffed out a laugh, hollow and breaking apart at the edges. “How about—the story? You said you thought of a good ending.” The words felt clumsy, desperate, but he pushed them out anyway. She just has to stay awake. She just has to hold on. “You know, about Ampi, Bella, Carina, and—uh—me? The most beautifulest chicken?”
Lucia gave a breathy giggle. “Beautifulest…”
Desmond held onto that sound like it was the last good thing in the world.
She’s still here. She’s still here.
But she was getting heavier in his arms.
“Wanna sleep…”
“Not yet, kiddo. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” His words came out ragged, desperate. “Just hold on, okay? Hold onto me.” He pressed her small hand against his chest, right over his heart. “You feel that? You feel me?”
Lucia made a sleepy noise in response, her fingers twitching slightly against the rapid beating of his heart that her own couldn’t seem to match. Then—her body slackened.
His heart nearly stopped.
He gave her a hard shake, a desperate tap on her cheek.
“Nooo…” She whined. “Wanna…”
“C’mon, Lucia. The story, remember—what happens?” Desmond urged her. He needed her to stay awake and he grappled for anything and everything to keep her talking. “You said you thought of an ending, yeah? What happens in the end?”
Her fingers twitched in his and she blinked slowly, eyes dark but suddenly so bright, as if the topic uncovered a hidden reservoir of strength. She breathed, long and deep. “The most beautifulest chicken… he’s gonna be okay.”
Desmond’s chest ached.
Lucia gave a small, dreamy sigh, nuzzling into his neck. “He’s gonna sleep for a while, but it’s ‘kay ‘cause his fairy godmother will watch out for him.”
Desmond’s breath stuttered. He saw light up ahead, the flickering of torches in the dark tree line and switched directions.
Lucia’s head tilted slightly, her gaze unfocused. “He’s gonna find his sisters again an’ they’ll find a new home together an’ new friends.”
Her voice was growing fainter.
As her fingers barely curled around his, Desmond felt something soft brush against his skin. A small, delicate weight between their hands—his feather. The one he’d gifted her, still clutched in her weak grip.
Desmond’s hand tightened around hers. “Lucia—”
“A big barn…” Her voice was so faint now. “With the silly rooster… always makin’ noise about somethin’... an’ a little sparrow… learnin’ to fly…”
She exhaled, slow and steady.
“…an’ the clever fox… always sneakin’ treats when he thinks no one’s lookin’…” A hint of mischief flickered in her dimming eyes.
“…an’ the Sharpest Falcon... watchin’ from the sky… an’ a proud hen… always right... always fussin’ over somethin’…” A faint smile lingered on her lips. “An’ a gentle dove… come back, keepin’ them safe.”
Desmond swallowed hard, his throat tight. “Yeah?”
Lucia sighed. “Yeah. An’ he’ll live happily ever after. He’ll live an’ live an’—”
She trailed off.
Desmond fell to his knees in the snow.
Desmond choked on a sob, shaking her lightly. “Luc’, hey—hey, stay with me, kiddo—”
Lucia’s eyes fluttered open just a little, lips curving into a small, peaceful smile.
"No—no, no, no, Lucia—!" His hands trembled, cupping her face but Lucia just hummed in his hold, pressing her cheeks into the palm of his hand indulgently.
“It’s okay, Des. ‘ts warm now…” She sighed, relieved. “I’m jus’ gonna go see Mama again.”
A broken noise escaped him—half a sob, half a prayer. “Luc’—p-please—please—” He pulled her flush against his body, hold her tighter, like he could anchor her here, like he could physically keep her from slipping away.
Lucia’s fingers had always been strong, gripping his sleeve when she was scared, tugging at his coat when she wanted his attention, grabbing his wings when she wanted affection, but now, they barely curled, slack against his own.
“Don' cry, Des. It’s gonna be ‘kay." She murmured, her eyes unfocused, looking past him, through him, far away to a place he would not reach her in this life. “I'll see you later, 'kay? But not too soon." She closed her eyes. "Not too soon…”
“Lucia—” He pleaded, voice breaking.
Lucia’s breath hitched—just slightly—before evening out again.
And then—
Nothing.
Her chest didn’t rise. Her fingers, warm just moments before, slackened completely.
Desmond went still.
For a long moment, he held her, waiting, praying, begging for another inhale. Another flutter of her fingers. Another sleepy mumble. Something.
But Lucia’s warmth bled away into the frozen night, leaving nothing behind but the weight of her in his arms.
Desmond’s world shattered.
“No—” His arms locked around her, tucking her to him as much as possible as he rocked back and forth, body shaking uncontrollably. “No, no, no! Please, Lucia, please—don’t do this to me—Don’t—!” His voice failed, a pained keen clawing from his throat as tears streamed down his face, hot against the ice-cold skin of the little girl who had become his family.
Lucia’s lips barely moved, but the whisper of her last breath brushed against his skin.
"Love you, Desmon’..."
Desmond pressed a shaking kiss to her forehead, his tears dripping onto her pale skin.
His voice was nothing more than a broken whisper.
"Love you too, Lucia."
But no response came.
The feather slipped from her grasp.
And Desmond’s grief turned into something numb.
Maria was gone. Their home was gone.
And now Lucia was too, her small body growing colder by the second.
Everything was gone.
Yet, he couldn’t let her go.
A shout rang through the trees.
"Find him! The demon must not escape!"
Desmond flinched, head snapping up to the direction of the yell, but his vision was blurred with tears. The torches in the distance bobbed like ghostly wisps between the trees, weaving closer, closer, like predators moving together in preparation for their next meal.
Run.
His body obeyed before his mind did, his legs pushing him forward through the snow. His breath was ragged, uneven—as if each breath he took was not enough. His wings ached, pressed tight against his back, their weight heavier than ever.
He wanted to fly.
To rip himself from this nightmare and disappear into the sky.
But he couldn't.
He'd tried before but his wings weren’t strong—his bones too heavy— to even lift him off the ground.
So he could only run, hoping against hope that it was enough—that the world would have a little pity for him.
‘Give me this. Just give me this.’
The trees felt endless as he ran, their skeletal branches catching on his skin, his clothes, his wings.The wind howled through the forest but he heard the footsteps—the stampeding pounding of boots against the ground and of armor shifting.
They were getting closer, too close. He stumbled, seeing a lick of flame in the distance. He switched directions.
But then his foot caught on a root and the world pitched sideways.
Desmond hit the ground hard, his knees slamming into the ground. His arms instinctively curled around Lucia to protect her from the impact. He forced himself to get up, forced himself to grit his teeth and bear it even as every muscle screamed. He had to get up, he had to fucking move, to keep running before—
A voice cut through the night.
"There!"
Desmond barely had time to react as a shadow shot out from the trees and a body slammed into him, knocking the air out of his lungs. He hit the ground with a strangled gasp, the heavy weight coiling around him like a snake. He twisted, wings flaring in a desperate attempt to break free, but then—the sound of more footsteps— and more hands grabbed at him—relentless, unforgiving— as they smothered him beneath their combined weight.
"No—!"
And then someone ripped Lucia out of his arms.
A raw, broken sound tore from his throat. Desperately, he thrashed, kicked, bit—anything to break free, anything to get to Lucia back, get his sister back, get the last good thing he had in this world BACK—but there were too many of them, holding him down, pinning him to the frozen earth like a butterfly on tapestry. A heavy blow struck the side of his head and his vision swam.
Through the ringing in his ears, he saw a pair of shoes cross his vision. His wavering gaze traveled up to see Father Matteo.
They called him a demon, but the Father looked like the devil. The priest’s form was a flickering silhouette against the backdrop of torches. His expression was unreadable, but there was something in his eyes—something that teetered between triumph and fear at what they had just captured. He looked down at Desmond like a man standing before something both sacred and monstrous at the same time. Father Matteo lifted his hand in the sign of the cross.
"God forgive us."
Desmond barely registered the cold iron biting into his wrists before the world tilted and everything went black.
Notes:
I'm sorry.
Chapter 7
Summary:
The Eye would do anything for its Savior.
Notes:
I know I crushed you in that last chapter, but listen—just hear me out—it’s just gonna get a little worse for Desmond before it gets better.
A WARNING NOW: There is some torture in this chapter. I think it is not too explicit, however, just in case, warnings have been added for violence and I have marked it with double line breaks so you may skip at your own discretion. Content also contains brief mentions of forever-sleep ideation.
Again, mind the DOUBLE LINE BREAKS!
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
Desmond didn't know how long he'd been imprisoned.
It could have been hours. Days. He couldn't tell. It all bled together, one after another in the silence of his mind.
The cell was small, dark, and damp—four walls of stone that pressed in on him like a tomb. The thick wooden door across his cell was the only thing that was not stone. He sat slumped against the cold floor, back against the wall. His wrists were shackled in iron cuffs, a thick rope tying his wings down so tightly they ached. The first few times he’d struggled, the bindings had cut into his feathers, sending sharp spikes of pain down his back. He’d stopped fighting after that.
His only source of light—the only way he could tell if it were day or night, came from a barred window high above him, casting what light it could allow down onto the stone flooring. Desmond had tried, at some point, to keep track of the mornings and nights based on that sliver of light but when it all started looking the same, he had given up.
The priests had taken everything. His coat, his boots—everything except his clothes, still stained with ash and blood.
Desmond flinched when he heard the faintest echo of a door opening and closing, but he wasn’t sure if it was his senses playing tricks on him. He found himself drifting often, his mind fraying at the edges. Sometimes, he thought he heard Maria’s voice just beyond his cell, calling him for dinner, or Lucia’s laugh, high and bright like chimes in the wind. He would turn his head, desperate, waiting—listening.
But there was nothing.
Just stone. Just silence.
Desmond tightened his arms around his knees, the motion making the sounds of his chains shifting loud in his ears. His throat was raw, torn by too many screams. His eyes still burned, rimmed red from the tears he could no longer shed.
Then, footsteps.
Desmond didn’t react at first. He had heard footsteps before, always stopping outside the door, always gawking, through the eye-level slit in the door, before leaving. He didn’t care anymore.
The heavy door groaned open, and torchlight spilled into the cell. This was a first.
Desmond lifted his head slowly.
Father Matteo stood in the doorway but he was not alone. He was flanked by two men in the robes of the Church—big wigs, judging by the fine fabric and polished crosses that hung from their necks. They looked down at him as if he were some caged beast, their expressions caught between reverence and unease.
Desmond barely saw the two because the moment his gaze locked onto Matteo, his world burned.
Smoke filled his lungs. Fire flickered in the priest’s robes, turning them the same hellish red that had swallowed his home. He heard the crackling of wood, the high pitched grind of a sword, the heavy thud of a body hitting the floor.
Maria’s voice—gasping, wet with blood. “Son of my heart.”
Lucia’s small, stiff body in his arms—her skin ice cold. "Love you, Desmon’..."
Desmond’s mind blanked, his fingers curling into fists against the stone floor. His breathing sharpened, his body coiled so tightly it hurt.
Father Matteo spoke first. "You have been named angel, demon, and everything in between. What are you?"
Desmond trembled with rage. He wanted to lunge. He wanted to tear into him, to grab his chains and wrap them around Matteo’s fucking throat and pull until he felt something snap —but his chains were too short, bolted to the wall that he knew he would never be able to reach him even if he tried.
Matteo took his silence in stride and crouched before him, as if he were a man of patience. As if he hadn’t led those men to their doorstep. As if he hadn’t killed them.
The priest let out a considering breath, searching his face. "I have prayed for guidance." He murmured. "And yet, I look at you, and I do not know if you are a test from God or a punishment for our sins."
That, if anything, made Desmond respond and he gave a dry, humorless laugh. "If you think I’m a test, then hate to tell ya, but you’re failing."
One of the other men frowned. "You speak irreverently, yet you do not deny your nature."
Desmond finally lifted his head towards him, his eyes dark, hollow, burning.
"What nature is that?" Desmond rasped, voice hoarse from screaming, from rage, from grief, from loss. "I saved a dying kid. I never wanted any of this."
Matteo’s jaw tightened. He stood, looking down at Desmond as if he were something dangerous—something that shouldn’t be left alive.
Desmond bared his teeth. Come on, then. He wanted to snarl. Finish what you fucking started.
Finally, Matteo spoke.
"We shall see what the Church decides."
The door slammed shut.
Desmond closed his eyes.
And in the darkness, the fire raged on.
"If he is an angel, then he must be honored. If he is a demon, then he must be destroyed."
The argument raged behind closed doors.
The Church was divided. Some of the clergy believed the creature as something holy—an angel sent by God, proof of the divine walking among them. Others believed he was an abomination, a false prophet, a creature that looked like an angel but was something else entirely.
The higher authorities in Florence had been contacted. Letters sent to other clergy. Until then, Father Matteo had been ordered to hold the creature and he had only dared to scoff in the privacy of his own chambers because hold him for what?
Some whispered that he should be presented to the Pope himself. Others said he should be burned as a heretic.
Matteo, witnessing it all, said nothing—because when he looked into the creature’s eyes, he didn’t just see anger. He did not see complacency. He saw fear.
And angels did not fear men.
Desmond felt cold all the time now.
The stone walls bled cold into his bones and the slight dampness of the floor was a constant, miserable companion. His only warmth came from himself—from his own arms wrapped around his body, from the small comfort his wings could provide, pressing whatever exposed skin they could reach from their binds. It kept him afloat, held him together for just a little bit longer, but that warmth was fleeting as the days passed.
At first, they questioned him. The priests—the ones in fine robes—demanded to know what he was. They spoke of miracles and demons, of false prophets and divine punishment. Desmond said nothing because he knew that they would not like whatever answer he gave them. He barely even registered their words, only the way their gazes flickered from his bound wings to his bruised body.
Their inquiries did not stop there though and that was when the real pain began.
THE SKIP - BEGINNING
They started with simple things. A needle pressed into his arm, as if to wonder—did he bleed like a man?
(He did.)
They stripped him down to examine every inch of him, prodding the joints of his wings, pulling at his feathers, murmuring in hushed Latin. They found the base of the wings near his shoulder blades and cut into them—not deeply, but enough to test. They spoke of the purity of angelic flesh because surely—the wings would not bleed as a man did.
(They bled.)
These answers should have satisfied them, but they didn’t. It only made things worse.
They brought in trusted scholars and alchemists. They forced his wings open and measured their span. They plucked a few feathers, weighed them, crushed them between their fingers as if expecting divine dust to spill from the barbs. They pressed holy relics to his skin—crosses, holy water, fragments of bone locked in gilded cases—waiting for some sign of corruption.
(Nothing happened.)
And that seemed to terrify them even more because it was easier to believe he was a demon. It was easier to think his existence was a trick, something unholy, than to reckon with the possibility of something unknown.
So they pushed further.
Fire. A hot iron pressed to his forearm. Desmond clenched his teeth so hard his jaw ached, but he refused to scream.
Cold. Days locked in a deeper chamber barely above freezing, his wings stiff from the cold.
Isolation. Days spent in silence with only the company of rats in the corners.
And when he didn’t break, they turned to something worse.
They took his feathers. One by one, they yanked them out by the root. The pain was sharper than he expected, deep and wrong, like nerves being torn from his back. He twisted against his restraints, breathing hard through his teeth. His body jerked with each pluck, but he made no sound—refusing to give them that luxury.
(Oh, but how his wings spasmed and flinched, desperately trying to avoid their harsh fingers but denied by the rope tying them down.)
Distantly, Desmond thought that he should have known this would happen.
They were trying to find the miracle. The proof.
But there was none.
At least—there shouldn’t have been because as the wounds mounted, as the pain stacked higher and higher, something else stirred.
A pulse at the base of his skull. A distant hum, like a voice calling from across a vast chasm.
The Eye.
It wasn’t awake. Not fully. Not like before, when it whispered warnings in his mind. It was sluggish, barely aware—but it knew. It knew he was in danger.
And it was trying to help.
He could feel it, a trickle of warmth spreading from his core, pulling at the threads of his body, stitching him back together piece by piece when something hurt a little too much—when something dug a little too deep.
Desmond gritted his teeth. No. He tried to tell it but he couldn’t tell if the Eye heard him. Wherever the Eye was in him, it was too far under for him to reach but Desmond needed it to stop.
Because the priests saw it too.
Not at first, but as the evidence of it stacked, as cuts they made on one day were too shallow on the next and when the burns lost their rawness a little too soon, their prayers turned to suspicion.
So they tested him again.
Their hands were steady and unshaken as they carved into him again and again—waiting, watching, measuring his suffering.
He had tried to resist at first. Tried to fight back, thrashing when they held him down. He had cursed them, had shouted through clenched teeth that they were insane, that they were no better than the monsters they feared—but they had only murmured their prayers and continued.
They made deeper cuts, waiting for the wounds to close. They burned him again, tracing the iron down his ribs just to see. They broke his fingers one by one, pressed against the bones to feel them mend too soon.
And when even that was not enough—when he still refused to give them an answer—
They opened him.
They cut deep. Too deep.
They exposed his ribs, pried his flesh apart, reached inside him. Desmond felt it all—the slow, methodical cruelty of it. He choked on agony, gasped as they touched the raw, pulsing insides of him.
And the Eye—
The Eye was screaming.
Not in words, not in anything coherent, but in feeling. A flood of distress, of desperation, of fix this fix this fix this—but it couldn’t. It was still weak. It didn’t have enough energy to stop this, only to keep him alive through it.
Desmond should have died, should have gone into shock and bled out—but he didn’t.
He lost consciousness. He must have because there was no way a person could endure that and stay awake, but he woke again. The wounds were stitched closed. His body was broken, ruined—but alive.
He found himself staring at the ceiling more often. Mind blank.
It felt endless. The pain became a constant, a dull ache beneath sharper agony. It settled into his bones, made a home there until it was the only thing he knew to expect.
Sometime through their experiments, he started begging for them to stop—that he wasn’t what they thought he was—that he was just human like them, but when that did nothing to stop their experiments, he had gone silent.
Nothing mattered anymore.
The only thing he felt was the cold in his body—in his heart.
Maria was gone. Lucia was gone. Their home, their warmth, their laughter—reduced to ash.
He had let Maria die. Had held Lucia’s hand and failed her too.
His hands were empty now. Always empty.
The only thing he had left—the last piece of them—was the wooden dove.
He had kept it hidden, tucked away in the cracks of his cell or pressed against his skin. He had held it tightly, pressing it against his palm as if the grooves of the carving could anchor him, as if its crude, misshapen form could keep him from drifting too far. It was warm, not because of anything special, but because it had been theirs.
But then he’d slept a little too long, been a little too slow.
His body was failing. He could feel it.
The bruises and burns from their experiments were bad enough, but the hunger—that was worse. The ache in his stomach had dulled days ago, numbed by exhaustion, but the weakness it left behind never faded.
They fed him, but barely. Just enough to keep him alive, but never enough to keep him strong.
"Surely an angel does not need sustenance like a man." One of the priests had murmured once, watching as Desmond picked at the stale bread and thin broth they had given him.
"If he is divine, then surely his strength does not come from earthly needs."
They did not deny him food outright, but they did not offer much. A cup of water when they remembered. A crust of bread when they felt generous.
It was enough to keep him alive, but not enough to keep him strong.
So his hands trembled when he reached for things. His vision blurred when he woke. His legs threatened to collapse beneath him when they forced him up.
So when the priest passed by his cell that day, his fingers were just a little too slow.
And then they had taken it.
They pried it from his grasp easily. He had been too weak to fight, too weak to lift his head as one of the priests examined it with a frown.
“A pagan token?”
“Or a charm.” Another had said, turning it over in his hands. “Perhaps the girl left it for him.”
The priest brushed over the carved wings and then, without a word, slipped it into his pocket.
And Desmond moved without thinking. He lunged for it.
The desperation tore through his body, raw and frantic, stronger than anything he had felt in weeks. His fingers barely brushed the priest’s sleeve before rough hands grabbed him, shoving him down, slamming his face into the ground.
"Don’t—!" His voice cracked from disuse. "Please—!"
The door shut. A lock clicked into place.
Gone.
Desmond laid still. The weight of the guards’ hands had left him, but he didn’t move. His breath stuttered. His arms shook and he reached out, searching blindly for something that wasn’t there.
No.
No, no, no.
He dragged himself up, hand slapping against the floor where the dove had been, fingers curling around empty air.
It was gone.
The last thing tying him to them. The last thing proving that they had existed, that they had been real.
A sound tore from his throat, something raw and broken, something barely human that made his throat ache . His forehead pressed against the cold ground, his fingers digging into his scalp, nails scraping against skin. His breath came in short, shallow bursts. He couldn’t stop shaking.
Maria was dead. Lucia was dead.
He had tried to stay hidden. He had tried to live —but what did it get him?
A cold cell—torn wings, and now, not even a memory to hold onto.
Had they burned it? Tossed it into the fire alongside Maria’s body?
Had they crushed it underfoot, careless, as they left the room?
Would they ever know what it meant?
Would they ever care?
Desmond did not cry.
He couldn’t. He just stared at the space where it had been, and then at his own empty hands, at the raw red imprint the carving had left in his palm before it was stolen from him.
His hands curled into fists, nails digging into his skin, but there was no anger in it. No rage. Just nothing.
The weight of absence crushed him. He had thought he had lost everything, but he had been wrong.
Because now, he had nothing.
And yet—he was still alive.
But he didn’t want to be.
For the first time, he didn’t want to be.
THE SKIP - END
Desmond curled in on himself, as much as his broken body allowed. His wings, once fine and pristine, plucked bare now with only the smallest tufts of down—an attempt at regrowth—curled around him like skeletal fingers. His breath came ragged, shallow, but he breathed, and breathed, and breathed.
(And the priests—
The priests watched.
Measured.
Recorded.
And they prepared to do it again.)
A presence pressed against his mind, faint but insistent. The Eye wasn’t speaking. It couldn’t, but Desmond could feel it, could feel the warmth curling at the edges of his thoughts, soothing what little it could. It wasn’t strong enough to stop this, wasn’t strong enough to fix everything—but it was there. Not words. Just a presence, like a lingering warmth against the cold.
I’m here.
Desmond let out a slow, shaking breath. His fingers twitched against the stone, grasping at nothing. He shut his eyes.
He held onto it anyway.
The candlelight flickered, casting wavering shadows against the stone walls. Father Matteo sat in silence, his hands folded before him as he listened to the hushed voices around him.
The debate had stretched for months.
Angel or demon.
Divine or damned.
The answer should have been clear by now.
And yet, it wasn’t.
Matteo exhaled slowly, rubbing his thumb against the worn wood of his rosary. He had seen the creature with his own eyes—if it could even be called that. A man with wings, trapped within the stone belly of their holy walls.
An angel, some had declared in awe.
A deception, others had warned, voice edged with fear.
If he were an angel, why did he cower? Why did he flinch from pain? Should an angel not be beyond such mortal frailty? Should he not command them, instead of withering beneath their hands?
Yet, if he were a demon, why did he endure in silence? Why did he not spit curses, summon flames, rend flesh from bone?
No. That thing was no beast of Hell.
Matteo had seen true demons before—men driven to madness, their voices twisting into unholy screams as they clawed at their own skin, their souls already half-consumed by sin, but this man—this being—only trembled like a man.
That was what unsettled Matteo the most.
He was not an angel.
Nor a demon.
He was human.
And yet, that was impossible.
He sat in silence as the others argued. The bishops, the scholars, the men who had deliberated for months. He had long since stopped contributing. There was nothing left to say that had not already been spoken.
“The rumors have grown worse.” One of the older priests muttered, pinching the bridge of his nose. “We have done what we can to quiet them, but the people talk.”
“They believe we are keeping an angel locked away.” Another said, voice tight with disapproval. “If that belief takes hold, it will not be long before Rome takes notice.”
The room fell into uneasy silence.
Matteo’s fingers tightened on his rosary.
Rome.
The Pope.
Their autonomy in Florence could not withstand his intervention. The Holy Father’s word was law. If he deemed the winged man divine, then they—the ones who had let him suffer, who had tested him, tortured him—would be deemed the heretics.
If he was a demon, then Rome would see him purged in fire, and the matter would be settled.
But if the Pope did not rule swiftly—if he hesitated, if he demanded the being be brought before him—
Then the matter would leave the hands of the church entirely. He was a rumor now, but if confirmation came from the Pope’s mouth, factions would war over the significance of the so-called Angel of the Lake.
Faithful believers would demand his freedom. Skeptics would call for his death.
The longer the uncertainty festered, the more dangerous it became.
One of the bishops shifted uncomfortably. “We cannot kill him.”
His statement came with a rumble of agreement.
A murder—especially of a being believed to be an angel—would be seen as sacrilege.
“But we cannot release him either.” Another muttered.
Matteo inhaled sharply. That was the truth of it.
They had long passed the point where this could be undone.
Even if they freed him, it would not silence the rumors. It would not halt the storm gathering beyond their walls.
The whispers had already spread.
All that remained was the inevitable judgment.
Matteo closed his eyes and prayed.
//Savior.//
When the Eye woke up, its voice did not demand. It did not rage. It was not sharp and seething like a brand against his skin.
It trembled.
Desmond opened his eyes, gaze blank, his body limp.
//Savior.//
Heat bled through him. It was not from his fever, but from something deeper. It curled at the edges of his consciousness, flickering with something that was not anger, not truly—but something that burned hotter and heavier.
Something desperate.
//Fool.//
The word slid through him, like a blade pressed against itself, aching to be sharpened but unwilling to cut.
Desmond’s cracked lips parted, his voice barely a whisper. “I know.”
// No. Wrong. Wrong. Wrong.//
Not him. Not his choice. The Eye’s presence surged, writhing inside itself.
//Miscalculated. Should not—should not be—//
It faltered, and for the first time, Desmond felt it grasping—scrambling—for understanding.
It had warned him not to save the child, because it had seen the fracture in the threads, the inevitable descent into suffering.
But it had miscalculated.
Desmond exhaled shakily. The Eye’s emotions were wrapping around him, sinking into his bones—pouring into every fiber of his being.
The Eye had been wrong.
Desmond knew this because he had felt it—felt the shift, the hesitation, the way the Eye’s certainty fractured when the pain did not cease, when the torment did not relent. It had believed divinity would protect him. It had believed that miracles would shield him—that the world would cherish him.
Instead, they had hurt him.
(How?)
The Eye saw the world in numbers and patterns. It had seen the way the world should work. It had run the numbers, spun the threads, known what was meant to be, but it had all collapsed.
(Why?)
Desmond let Eye’s thoughts wash over him, let them bury him beneath the weight of his own failures. He already knew why.
It was because it was him, wasn’t it?
It’s because Desmond Miles did not fit.
No.
Desmond Miles was an error in the system.
The words twisted in the Eye’s mind, festering like rot, like disease, like something wrong . The calculations had failed, the divine had failed, it had failed.
The Eye shook. The weight of Desmond’s bruises, his aching scars, his broken body dug into it like iron barbs.
//Fool.//
The word came sharper, but beneath it, Desmond felt something softer.
Worry.
Not just frustration, not just disappointment, but something frayed and aching.
Something close to grief.
(And grief had a taste, the Eye found. It tasted like copper and smoke and something bitter at the back of the throat.)
Desmond exhaled shakily. “I should have listened to you.”
//Yes.//
"But I don’t regret it."
Silence.
Desmond swallowed.
"I'm sorry."
His voice was barely more than a breath, but it carried the weight of everything—their suffering, their failure, the path he had led them down.
“Didn’t mean for this…”
The silence stretched between them.
Desmond turned his head weakly against the stone. The Eye was burning, seething, but beneath it, something raw pressed against him—something slipping through the cracks of its usual certainty.
It was soft, trembling. Revelation—an understanding that burned through its core, replacing the fury with something else.
A truth.
Desmond Miles was not just a tool to be protected. He wasn’t a pawn to be kept safe in a calculation that could be dictated by cold logic, like its creators had thought him to be. The Eye had seen that before, in flashes of Desmond’s actions and his choices, but now, the realization hit with the full weight of what had been in front of it all along.
Desmond had chosen this.
He had chosen to suffer, to bleed, to give himself away—again and again, even when it wasn’t his to give. Even when the world twisted its expectations and tore him to pieces. He chose it, not because he had to, but because he couldn’t not.
Of course Desmond had helped.
Of course he had tried.
Of course he had suffered.
Because Desmond was good.
Not because the world had made him a savior.
But because he had chosen to be.
The Eye should have known. It should have understood that when Desmond had touched it in the Grand Temple, as if the alternative was ever a choice.
(What was the difference between a martyr and a victim?
Will.)
He had seen suffering and could not look away.
He had known there would be a price and still paid it.
Desmond was not ordinary. No one—no number—no calculation had ever accounted for this. This impossibly deep stubborn will that could never be reasoned with.
The Eye’s trembled. Desmond Miles was not a savior in the way the Eye had first understood. He was not a tool for the greater good. He was a sacrifice and in that sacrifice, he held a purity that made the calculations crumble like dust.
Carefully, tremulously, reverently, the Eye curled around Desmond’s mind like it was the most precious thing in the world.
It understood now.
Desmond did not need to be exalted, nor worshipped. He needed to be kept safe, but more than that—he needed to be protected because Desmond was worth it. Its savior was precious—because he had chosen this path without hesitation.
And for the first time, the Eye felt true devotion.
It wanted him.
It needed him.
And oh, how the Eye ached for him— because though it could not trust the calculations, it could see the patterns for what was to come.
And it mourned because it was too weak—it did not have enough power to do anything to spare its precious savior from what it could only surmise was coming.
//Bad end.// It whispered against Desmond’s skin, hesitant, reluctant, careful.
The words carried something unpleasant—like fingers combing through tangled hair too roughly, like a lullaby sung off-key.
"It’ll get worse?"
The Eye did not answer.
Desmond closed his eyes. A breath, a whisper of a laugh, empty and worn—escaped him. “Of course it will.”
And the Eye felt it—its precious savior yielding, bracing for whatever fresh horror awaited him. Accepting it. And no. No.
It hated that. Hated the way Desmond did not flinch, did not resist, only waited. Like a lamb resigned to the slaughter. Like he had already learned there was no point in fighting.
But the Eye was too weak. Too weak to wrench him away, to tear him from this wretched place and shield him in the way it should.
So, if it could not take him away, then it would take him under.
And that’s when Desmond felt something—pressure against his eyes. Not cruel, not suffocating, but firm. Protective. It felt like a hand, large and warm, shielding his gaze like a mother turning her child’s head away before the blade fell.
Then—cold. Not biting, not painful but the kind that numbs. Like frost creeping over his skin, dulling all sensation. Like sinking beneath deep, dark water.
It was silence. Stillness. The absence of pain.
Desmond exhaled shakily, his broken body begging for relief. His mind fogged, slipping under the weight of something heavy. It felt like a thick, woolen blanket, wrapping him up and pulling him under.
//Help.// The word came soft, coaxing.
Desmond barely had to think to interpret its words. The Eye wasn’t saying it could heal or save him from what was coming, but it could ease it.
"...You can?"
The Eye thrummed—heat in his chest, golden and gentle.
//Sleep. No pain. Safe.//
A lump formed in Desmond’s throat. It was tempting. It was so, so tempting, but—
"You’re not strong enough to save me, are you?” Desmond asked. “Even if I wish for it?"
The Eye brushed against him with something like an apology and Desmond could feel its tiredness—its limits. No, it could do no more than this.
A pause. Then, almost hesitantly—
//Trust.//
Something coiled in Desmond’s gut. There was more. Something the Eye wasn’t saying.
“What do you mean?”
//Sleep. Dream. Mend. Guard.// The words came deliberate, slow, as though carefully laid out. //Rest—until safe.//
Desmond’s pulse stuttered. “And if I sleep…?”
A feeling of weightlessness of his limbs, as if a force was pulling at him like if he were a puppet on string. He felt the phantom sensation of arm curling possessively around his waist and a voice—a feeling, an urge—whispered, low and intimate.
//Mine.//
A chill ran through him. The Eye wanted him . It wanted to protect him so badly it was willing to consume itself with the desire to shelter him in ways that defied logic. It wasn’t asking for trust—it was demanding surrender. To let go. To give it everything—his body, his will, his control.
Desmond should have felt repulsed. He should be against this because perhaps this had been its goal all along to take over his body—
And yet—
//Please.//
The quiet plea wrapped around him, feather-light, hesitant. Will you trust me this time?
A nudge, like a cat’s head against his fingertips. Please.
Desmond let out a long, shuddering breath. The only constant in all of this—the only thing that had never left him, no matter how much he fought it—was the Eye. Misguided as it was, it had tried to help him when it didn’t know how. Had eased what little it could, even when it wasn’t enough.
The Eye was still here, even when everything else had been ripped away.
"Alright." He breathed. "You’re all I got now."
And that was all it needed. The Eye embraced him—wrapped around him with fierce, desperate warmth. A pulse. Not words—feeling. Relief. Gratitude. Deep, aching devotion.
Then—Desmond felt the warmth.
It spread through him, soft and golden, like the hearth in Maria’s home.
A scent filled his senses—lavender, rosemary, and something faintly sweet. The air was warm with comfort, with the quiet hum of life.
And then—
Crackling fire.
The sound of a pestle grinding against stone.
The clucking of chickens outside.
And—
"Cha-ca-mo-m-i-le? Ma-mo-mu-le?"
Her voice was high and exasperated, the way it always got when she was frustrated. Desmond turned his head and there she was—seated at the dinner table, one of Maria’s journals open in front of her, brows furrowed in concentration. He blinked slowly, once, twice, thrice, as if she was a mirage because surely… surely—
"Desmond, are you listening?" Lucia pouted, brows furrowing when he didn’t respond immediately. She pushed the journal over, tapping a finger against the page. "Look! See? Why is this word so weird—it's not spelled right. Chamo—chamu—?"
"Chamomile." Desmond murmured, his voice coming out hoarse.
Lucia scrutinized the word hard, before she looked up, ready to argue (because surely that wasn’t the right way to say it), but then she paused.
"Desmond?” Her voice was quiet now, worried. “Desmond, why are you crying?"
The pestle stopped.
Maria turned around from the kitchen counter, her brow furrowed in concern. "What’s wrong?"
Desmond touched his face and found his cheeks wet. He hadn't even realized.
"No, I'm—" He rubbed his eyes, but the tears wouldn’t stop. “U-um—” His breath hitched, chest tightening as he tried to hold it all in.
Maria stepped closer. "Desmond—"
"I—I think I just had a—" His voice wavered, lips trembling. "A bad dream. Just a…a really bad dream."
Lucia narrowed her eyes, unconvinced, but she scooted closer, her small fingers intertwining with his. “It’s okay.”
She looked up at him with wide, bright eyes.
“You’re safe here with us."
"Yeah." Desmond whispered.
Because he was.
The fire crackled. The room was warm. Maria and Lucia were right there, alive, untouched by flames, untouched by fate.
Something in him eased.
Desmond closed his eyes, pressing his face against Lucia’s hair, savoring the feeling of Maria carding her fingers along his wings.
‘This is where you were.’ Desmond thought, softly.
They had never left him at all.
And as Desmond dreamed, the Eye remained.
The cell door creaked open, the dim torchlight from the halls casting long, wavering shadows into the chamber where the angel laid. The heavy iron chains, binding him to the stone wall clinked softly as it breathed. It did not move. It did not lift its head. It normally did not, so used to being dragged in and out of its cell, but its current lack of movement was wrong. Eerie.
The angel breathed too deeply, too slowly to be natural.
Brother Marco stood just inside the cell, face pale. He swallowed hard, then turned sharply, all but running down the hall.
"Father!—Father Matteo—!" His voice wavered as he reached the older priest’s quarters.
Father Matteo looked up from his desk, having been deep in reviewing documents. He took one look at Brother Marco’s expression and set his quill down.
"What is it?"
"The angel—" Marco hesitated, then corrected himself. "The creature. It won’t wake up."
Matteo’s lips pressed into a thin line before he stood. He moved with measured steps past Marco and the younger priest followed close behind, struggling to match the older man’s brisk pace.
"The body is still warm." Another brother whispered when they reached the bottommost chamber that held it. He hovered near the doorway, wringing his hands. His eyes darted past the threshold into the cell, quick and nervous. "It breathes, but does not stir—not even when I shook it."
Matteo listened with only half an ear. His eyes were narrowed, staring at the supposed angel with unreadable eyes before entering its cell.
The creature laid motionless in the center of the room, the chains that bolted its wrists to the walls slack against the floor. Its face, too often tensed in pain or grim determination, was eerily serene. Its chapped lips parted slightly with each breath, lashes dark against his bruised skin.
The torches flickered, highlighting a freshly healed scar across a tan throat and for a moment, it was easy—too easy—to believe that their examinations had gone too far.
Brother Pietro exhaled sharply. "We should not have pushed it so hard."
"It was necessary." Matteo’s voice was firm. He stepped closer, standing over the motionless figure. "If it is truly an angel, then suffering will not break it. And if it is a demon, then we must know the limits of its endurance before it deceives us further."
"But… if it's neither?" Pietro’s voice was barely above a whisper.
No one spoke.
The silence stretched, pressing against them. Father Matteo reached for his rosary, fingers rolling the worn beads.
"It is still here." Matteo said finally. "It still breathes. Then we have not been forsaken yet."
Brother Marco, still tense, hesitated before asking, "What should we do?"
"Watch it." Matteo ordered. "Let it heal. Do nothing until we know more. It will wake eventually. Until then, we pray."
The gathered priests fell into lower murmurs of agreement, but before they could do anything more, hurried footsteps echoed through the hall.
A messenger stumbled into the doorway, out of breath. "Father—Father Matteo. A letter—from Rome."
‘Rome.’ Matteo’s fingers tightened around the rosary and he accepted the parchment.
"The—the Holy Father has heard of the Angel of the Lake." The messenger panted and when he finally caught his breath, he swallowed. "He is coming to see for himself."
A hushed stillness fell over the chamber. The torches cackled, their light dancing across the creature’s still form.
Matteo’s fingers curled around the letter.
"So." He murmured. "It has reached His Holiness at last."
The bells tolled, low and solemn, for the arrival of the Pope Urban VI.
For weeks, the clergy had prepared for this moment. They spared no expense in restoring the creature they had brought to ruin. They whispered prayers over his still form, bathed him in blessed water, draped him in the finest silks they could find—as if the care could erase their sins.
They had broken him and now they were trying to hide the evidence.
They had removed the angel from his cell and laid him on an altar. He was silent and still with the only evidence of life being the slow rise and fall of his chest. His body had been arranged with careful precision, cushioned upon fine pillows and blankets.The bruises and cuts on his wrists, where shackles had bitten into his flesh, were concealed beneath golden bangles. The wounds on his back, where the experiments had gone too deep, were covered with layers of silk. A robe of ivory and crimson had been draped over his shoulders, embroidered with scripture and holy symbols.
And his wings—
They had healed, but not as they once were.
Gone was the ragged ruin of snapped quills and raw, bleeding skin. New feathers had grown in, soft and downy in places, however, they were not as luxurious as they were before. Where once they had gleamed in the light, now they laid dull and muted. Some feathers still had faint traces of past damage—patches where the feathers did not yet fully grow in, bars misaligned, shafts bent—a testament for the suffering he had endured.
They had hoped he would look divine.
Instead, he looked faded.
And still, he did not wake.
The great doors opened.
The gathered priests stood in stiff rows as the Supreme Pontiff entered, his presence as weighty as judgment itself. The air in the chamber felt heavier, suffocating beneath the weight of his arrival.
Pope Urban VI moved slowly, his robes trailing behind him. He carried with him the great weight of Christendom, his very existence a manifestation of divine will—or so they had always believed.
Yet now, as they led him deeper into the church’s hidden sanctum, past gilded altars and darkened cloisters, past the very chambers where their faith had wavered, doubt coiled in their stomachs like rot.
They had been so certain once.
Now, they were afraid.
The Pope said nothing as they finally arrived at the angel’s resting place. He said nothing as he passed through the great archway, where the angel laid waiting on the dais.
The gathered clergy held their breath.
Father Matteo stood closest to the altar. His hands were clenched at his sides, hidden beneath his sleeves. He willed his heart to calm as the Pope’s gaze swept the chamber—taking in the splendor of fine veils, golden adornments, and the heavy scent of burning incense before it fell on the still form in front of him.
The angel did not stir beneath the weight of his gaze.
The creature laid there, his breath slow and deep, his body wrapped in the finery they had forced on him. The golden cuffs at his wrists gleamed from where they were tucked beneath his head. His wings—the proof of his divinity—were tucked behind him, but they did not hold the radiance they once had.
The Pope’s expression was passive, but the air in the chamber chilled. He stepped forward, his gaze sweeping over the altar—past the silks, past the gold, past the illusion of sanctity they had so desperately tried to maintain.
And he saw the truth.
The way the fabric clung to too-sharp bones.
The faint bruising, barely hidden beneath the rich embroidery.
The tremor in the angel’s breath, as if even in unconsciousness, he feared what would come next.
His eyes found the chains, hidden beneath the silks, snaking down and tethering him to the dais.
The Pope did not speak immediately, but when he did, his voice was sharp.
"Remove the chains."
A breath caught in Matteo’s throat.
"Your Holiness." He started, but Urban did not turn.
"I said." The Pope repeated, dark eyes meeting Matteo’s. "Remove them."
The command was absolute.
Matteo hesitated, his tongue heavy in his mouth. The weight of the Holy Father’s scrutiny pressed down upon him. His fellow priests shifted where they stood, their hands clenched together in silent prayer.
They all shared the same concerns.
What if it wakes?
What if their suffering had only been a fraction of what it was capable of?
What if this was not an angel, nor a test, nor a miracle—but a curse they had brought upon themselves?
Still, no one dared disobey the Pope.
Brother Lorenzo stepped forward first, his hands unsteady as he reached for the shackles. The iron was cold beneath his fingers. He fumbled with the keys, breath shallow as the lock clicked open.
The first shackle fell away.
Desmond did not stir.
The second was removed. Then the third.
And finally, the last.
The chain hit the floor with a dull, final thud.
The silence lingered. Taunting.
Matteo found himself staring, his heart pounding in his chest.
Would it wake? Would it rage? Would those eyes—those inhuman, burning eyes—open and see them for what they were?
But the angel did not move.
Not even when the last chain laid discarded at his feet.
The Pope watched.
Whatever thoughts passed through his mind, he kept them from his face, but when he finally did speak, his voice carried the weight of judgement.
"You have committed a great sin."
Matteo’s stomach dropped.
A murmur swept through the priests, their terror now tangible.
"The Lord does not test through cruelty." Urban continued. His gaze did not leave the figure on the dais. "If this is a messenger of God, you have stained your hands with the blood of heaven. And if it is not…"
He turned, slowly, facing the gathered clergy.
"Then you have invited the wrath of something far beyond your understanding."
Matteo felt the words wrap around his neck like a tightening noose.
He opened his mouth—to plead, to justify, to confess—but the Pope had already turned away.
His attention was now solely on Desmond.
"Prepare him for travel." Urban ordered. "He will be taken to Rome by my hand and the matter will be settled there."
There was no room for argument.
The Pope gave one last glance to the priests who had kept this secret for so long.
"Pray for mercy." He said.
Then, without another word, he left them in silence.
The priests did not dare breathe.
Matteo swallowed hard, his hands shaking as he looked down at Desmond’s still form.
The chains were gone.
But the weight of their sins remained.
The work began in the dead of night.
The Pope understood the weight of power, of divinity, of control and he knew, beyond all doubt, that what laid beneath Florence’s gilded altars was beyond any man’s understanding. The Angel of the Lake was already a known rumor, but it was merely that—a rumor, an old wives’ tale. He would be whispered as a myth, but none would know the truth beyond those the church trusted most.
No word could slip beyond the walls of Christendom. This angel—this holy relic was theirs now.
Yet, moving such a thing of this magnitude was a challenge unlike any the Papacy had ever encountered.
A mere cart would not do. Nor would a carriage, no matter how fine. This was no simple journey, no ordinary pilgrimage bearing relics of bone and cloth. The vessel had to be worthy of something divine.
Therefore, a requisition order was called for the finest craftsmen in Florence. They were summoned in secret, sworn to silence upon their very souls. They were given no full truth—only a command.
They were to build a reliquary.
Large enough to fit a man. It was to be a vessel befitting holiness, a structure both reverent and impenetrable. The interior would be lined with silk and gold, but the frame reinforced with iron. It had to withstand the journey, sealed away from prying eyes, carried through the streets of Italy under the guise of a sacred relic returning home to Rome.
The scholars debated the materials. The engineers measured the weight of the structure. The Pope’s most trusted guards devised a means of transport that would ensure no man could approach it unchallenged.
There was no reference or record as to exactly what relic would require such a large reliquary and any inquiry was met with silence. The engineers knew the dimensions, the specifications, the weight it must bear, but they did not know what it was meant to hold. Yet, they toiled, crafting the desired reliquary for a holy relic they would never see.
But among those laborers, a single pair of hands moved with careful purpose.
Just another worker. Faceless, unnoticed, trusted.
And as the great reliquary was finalized, as the gilded panels locked into place around the unseen holy relic, the craftsman made his move.
A slip of parchment, no larger than a coin, pressed swiftly between gloved fingers.
Ink scrawled in haste.
A message meant for no priest, no holy man—but for those who watched from the shadows.
‘The Pope prepares to transport a holy relic to Rome. Secrecy is paramount. The vessel is being prepared. More to follow.’
With one last glance to ensure he was unseen, the note was fastened to a waiting pigeon’s leg.
The bird took flight.
A whisper sent into the dark.
And somewhere beyond the walls of Florence, the Brotherhood would listen.
Upon completion of the reliquary, the holy relic was to be transported. The priests were not permitted to watch.
The halls of the church were emptied except for the Pope’s most trusted and loyal. The escort knights stood in silence but even they kept their distance.
The Head Knight of the Papal Guard had been given his orders. He alone would bear the Holy Relic and bring it to the reliquary waiting outside the church.
He had carried many things in the name of his faith—swords, shields, the bones of martyrs, the gilded remains of saints. He knew the weight of duty, of sacrifice, of faith.
But nothing could have prepared him for this.
The chamber was still. The only sound was the quiet hiss of a torch burning low.
The Pope’s most trusted attendants moved with purpose, pulling away the heavy cloths that shrouded the altar.
The Head Knight swallowed. His steel-clad fingers flexed at his sides as he stepped forward, gaze fixed upon the final veil—the last barrier between mortal sight and divinity.
The Pope himself reached out. With slow, deliberate care, he peeled away the silken shroud.
And there, beneath the veils of white and gold, laid an angel.
The knight could not breathe.
The angel was not as he had imagined. Not as the old texts had described. There was no blinding radiance, no terrible, awe-inspiring glory. No fire, no gold, no voice of thunder.
There was only a man.
The angel’s body was thin, his frame delicate, as though he had not been meant for the weight of this world. And yet—something about him spoke of a time when it had been different. The sharp lines of his shoulders, the faint definition beneath his skin, the way his collar bone cut just a little too starkly against his flesh. The angel had not always always been weak, but something had caused it to whither.
As though strength had once lived in him, but had been stripped away.
His features were fine, but his complexion—which looked to have once been tanned, was almost sickly—as though the sun had long since forsaken him. His wings—
The knight’s breath caught in his throat.
The wings looked soft. Not with the grandeur of heaven, not as was noted in scripture, but with something almost… new. The feathers were downy, their texture light and unfinished, like those of a fledgling bird. They lacked the fullness of flight, the certainty of age, and yet, they stirred faintly with breath, shifting like the memory of movement.
Something about them unsettled him. He could not understand why.
His gaze drifted lower and it was impossible to not catch sight of them—the scars.
Not many, not enough to truly mar the figure before him, but there. A thin line at the base of the angel’s throat, pale marks just visible against the curve of his collarbone. Another, faint but certain, peeking from beneath the sleeve of his white robe. The knight felt his jaw tighten.
This was no untouched thing of heaven.
His fingers twitched at his side, his jaw tightening beneath his helm. This was not how angels should be. He had imagined grace, perfection—not this. ‘How—’ The thought came unbidden—wrong. He pushed it down before it could take root. It was not his place to wonder. Not his place to question.
His unease only grew when the Pope moved closer.
The Pope studied the angel in silence.
Then, he reached forward.
He grasped the angel’s chin between his gloved fingers and tilted his face toward the flickering candlelight. The angel’s eyes remained closed, the lashes stark against his skin. His expression was absent of any expression, but as the light shifted, something caught—
The Pope stilled.
For a moment, the slightest sliver of gold peeked from beneath his lashes.
The Head Knight stiffened.
It was not much—not enough to say the angel was truly awake, but something was there, just barely visible—like molten gold trapped beneath a veil.
Not the color of earth, nor sky, nor fire—but of something other. A shade that did not belong to men.
"He sees." The Pope murmured.
The knight did not understand what he meant but his mouth went dry.
The angel remained still in the Pope’s grasp, his breath soft and deep, his body limp. He did not flinch, did not blink, did not move at all, and yet—
The knight felt watched.
‘A trick of the light.' He told himself. ‘A trick of the mind.’
"Take him.” The Pope ordered, releasing the angel’s chin. "It is time."
The knight hesitated for only a moment before stepping forward. His hands slid carefully beneath the angel’s body and lifted. He expected him to be heavier, to be solid, but he felt nothing. As if his sleep had taken more than his consciousness.
He barely weighed more than the silken clothes that covered him. It felt wrong—a thing of heaven should not be so weightless. With careful steps, the knight turned and started the trek to the reliquary.
It was shaped like an egg, the curved form meant to cradle something precious. The interior was lined with silk and scripture. It was made as a vessel of safety.
Or a prison.
Gently, the knight settled the angel into the reliquary. He turned him onto his side, tucking his wings so they would not be crushed beneath his weight.
The angel did not stir.
For a long moment, the knight did not move either.
He simply watched.
Watched the slow rise and fall of breath.
Watched the faint flicker of gold beneath dimmed lashes.
Watched something holy—and wondered if this was what holiness was meant to be.
The reliquary’s veils were drawn. The golden panels sealed shut. The locks clicked into place.
The Holy Relic was ready for its passage to Rome.
And the knight was left standing, hands empty, his heart unsettled.
They traveled under the cover of shadow.
The road was long, treacherous, but the Knights of the Church were prepared. They rode in formation, ensuring no man nor beast could come near. Their banners bore no crest, their presence a warning in itself.
They traveled with purchased silence. No questions asked, no explanations given. At every village, every town they passed, coin exchanged hands to keep mouths shut.
Yet even with steel in their grasp, even with faith in their hearts—the knights were afraid.
The reliquary never stirred.
No sound came from within, no sign of life beyond the weightless burden they carried.
But at night, when the fires burned low, they swore they felt something.
Not words.
Not breath.
Just a presence.
Like something watching from behind the veil. Their hands tensed upon their hilts. Their prayers grew hurried, mumbled under their breath, their gazes flickering toward the reliquary where it lay untouched.
Then—a shift.
Not movement. Not sound. But something.
A weight pressed against the edges of their perception, vast and unblinking. As if there was a great Eye over the reliquary, watching. Weighing. Judging.
And in their hearts, they understood—
The relic was not sleeping.
It was watching.
None dared speak of it.
They rode harder. Faster. Resting only when necessary.
Until finally—Rome’s gates rose before them.
The Eternal City loomed in the distance, the seat of the Papacy, the heart of Christendom. The Holy Relic had arrived.
The angel was relocated within the heart of Christendom.
Beneath the Vatican, beyond the reach of light and the murmur of mortal tongues, the secret chamber lay in silence. It was a place only the most devout would ever tread—though among them, only the trusted, only the chosen, would know the truth.
The Holy Relic was no relic at all.
It was an angel.
Word had already spread beyond the sacred halls. Though the true nature of what had been brought back remained unknown, the people had seen the way the Pope’s procession had returned—guarded, solemn, with a reverence that spoke of something beyond mortal treasure. Something holy.
The whispers carried through Rome. A relic, they murmured. A sacred gift from God Himself. Something so precious, so divine, that only the highest within the papacy were permitted to gaze upon it.
But within the Vatican’s depths, away from prying eyes and restless speculation, the truth was known.
The Pope stood before the great chamber doors. Two guards stood on either side, their gazes resolute, their bodies still as statues. The Templar cross gleamed beneath their cloaks, hidden but present. They had been entrusted with the secret, sworn to protect it—protect him.
With a quiet nod, the doors were unsealed.
The Pope stepped inside.
The chamber was not grand. There were no golden idols or marble altars.The walls were made of smooth stone, the floors covered with woven tapestries that muffled each step. The candles were the only source of light in the chamber, their glow subdued, as if they dared not disturb the one who rested within—
The Pope knelt.
The angel.
He was nestled in a nest of silk and cushions. He sat, enclosed in his reliquary, body draped in white cloth embroidered with scripture. His legs were folded to the side, back leaning against the cushioned walls. Behind him, his wings spilled around him, soft and muted, as if exhausted.
And yet, despite this, the angel was beautiful.
A picture of stillness. A vision of something both divine and sorrowful.
A fallen thing.
The Pope’s hands folded together, his head bowed. He did not speak—not yet. He only breathed, only listened.
The angel did not move.
He never did.
Even now, months since his arrival, he had not stirred, not woken. He remained as he was, caught in some unknown stasis. His skin was smooth, untouched by time. His hair did not grow. His face did not age.
‘Because angels do not age.’ The Pope thought.
It was proof. Undeniable proof.
The men he trusted most had asked if the angel was well, if he required more care, more comforts—but how could one care for something eternal? Did the Lord not already provide?
And yet, the Pope did not wonder at his stillness.
He felt him.
That presence. That quiet, unshakable awareness.
The angel never moved, never spoke, never opened his eyes—but he was there.
Always watching.
A test, perhaps. A patience beyond mortal comprehension.
‘We are being judged.’ The Pope thought, and it sent a shiver of reverence through him.
He breathed deep, gaze lifting once more.
The angel’s wings lay still, feathers tucked close, but then—
A single feather, slightly out of place.
The Pope hesitated.
His hands curled into his robes. The angel had never stirred, never reacted, never so much as twitched beneath mortal hands—and yet, when the chamber was silent, when all else faded, he could feel it.
That gaze.
Even with his eyes closed, the angel watched.
It was not hostile.
It was not kind.
It was simply beyond.
The Pope released the breath he had not realized he had been holding. His hand trembled as he reached forward.
"Forgive me, Lord." He murmured. "Forgive my unworthy hands."
His fingers brushed against the angel’s wings. It was soft. Softer than anything he had ever touched. He didn’t know if he expected resistance or a reaction, but only when none came, did the Pope allow himself to move.
Slowly, carefully, the Pope preened the angel.
He worked with reverence, smoothing the feathers back into place, adjusting the ones that had shifted until, finally, the stray feather came loose.
It drifted down, brushing against his robes and the Pope caught it before it could touch the ground.
For a long moment, he simply stared.
It was beautiful.
Even in the dim candlelight, the feather glowed faintly. Not like gold, not like fire, but something softer. Something ethereal—divine.
The Pope sucked in a breath.
A sign.
A token of favor.
He cradled it as though it were the most precious thing in the world.
He would keep it.
Not to display. Not to flaunt. It would be his alone. A secret between himself and his Lord.
(Yet, though he never spoke of it, the whispers began.
"The Pope holds something sacred."
"A relic unseen."
"Sometimes… it glows."
But none would question him. None would dare.)
And so, the Pope stood, the feather safely hidden within his robes, his heart alight with purpose.
"I will not fail you. I will not stray."
He turned, stepping away from the reliquary.
The chamber doors opened once more, the guards falling into step as he passed.
None noticed the way the angel’s breathing deepened—just slightly, barely perceptible.
None saw the way his fingers twitched beneath the white cloth.
None felt the weight of something unseen, something ancient, pressing against the silence.
The angel rested, but within the depths of his stillness, something stirred.
Not Desmond.
No, Desmond slept on, cocooned in the safety of his dreams, oblivious to the weight pressing upon his body, the reverence in each whispered prayer. He did not feel the feather taken from him, or the promises muttered in shaking breaths.
But the Eye did.
It was still mending, still collecting what scraps of power it could. If it had the strength, it would have curled itself around Desmond, shielding him from every grasping hand, every hungry gaze, but it couldn’t—not yet.
So it watched.
Watched as the Pope cradled his stolen prize. Watched as faith swelled in the chamber’s thick air. Watched the way the guards averted their eyes, the way the men above whispered of unseen relics.
The Eye watched and calculated—no, not calculated. Not anymore.
It had long since abandoned the illusion of control. Desmond had seen to that. He was an impossible thing, a variable no equation could solve, a force that shattered every attempt at certainty. The Eye had learned that truth the hard way.
But if it could not predict, it could adapt.
It had no interest in the Pope’s faith, in the sacred hush of this place. It did not care for the future these men envisioned, nor the power they sought to wield. The world beyond Desmond’s fragile body was meaningless.
Because Desmond was everything.
And if faith was a shield, if worship was a leash these men placed upon themselves, then the Eye would allow it. It would let the feather slip from Desmond’s wings like a gift. It would let them bow and whisper and believe.
They could have their reverence.
So long as Desmond remained untouched.
So long as he remained safe.
The Pope carried his treasure away, blind to the thing that lay coiled in the dark, watching, waiting.
Hoarding its own.
Hoarding him.
And in the silence, the Eye continued to mend.
But before it allowed itself to sink back into rest—before it allowed itself to wait —it reached out, just enough.
A whisper. A promise. A warning.
//Fools.//
Notes:
For those that took The Skip, important context: The wooden dove was taken by the priests and Desmond reacts extremely negatively to that.
I’m also going to say I don’t like this chapter. Getting the Eye’s perspective was ROUGH and the amount of times I went back and forth was not something I want to repeat, haha.
On a lighter note—at one point I had a ‘Eye/Desmond sort of because its platonic tag’ as you prolly long since saw, but it’s changed since then, especially after I wrote the draft for this chapter. You don’t know (or maybe you do—who knows?) how awkward it is to be talking to a coworker and then have these sorts of thoughts pop up in your head and keep a straight face.
The next chapter for sure will include time skips. Now, look, I'm not claiming ANY historical accuracy, but I tried haha. You can prolly look up what year Desmond is REALLY in based on one single clue in the chapter, but the timeline will be clearly stated next chapter.
Chapter 8
Summary:
The world moves on.
Chapter Text
Somewhere between memory and dream, there was a house where time did not pass.
It was small and crooked in some places, with faded shutters and herbs hanging from the rafters. The wood creaked when stepped on the wrong way and sometimes the roof leaked when it rained. Yet, the fire from the hearth was always warm. Someone was always baking. There was always laughter and humming and the sound of happy chickens clucking. The house smelled like lavender and smoke but despite everything, it was home.
Desmond never questioned how he got there.
Maria’s hands were always busy—working her mortar and pestle, smoothing his feathers, cradling his face when the world felt too loud. Lucia danced barefoot across the worn floorboards, a shawl draped around her shoulders like wings, giggling as she spun.
Ampi, Bella, and Carina strut in and out, invading the house as they often did when Lucia forgot to close their pen. Ampi was fond of pecking any animal or object that came too close. Bella, naturally, believed she was royalty, perching on Desmond’s lap even when he was busy. She wouldn’t eat unless the bowl was ceramic and warmed, and often turned her beak up at perfectly good feed. And Carina, ever his shadow, was always attached at the ankles—nestling into the hem of his robe, tripping him without remorse, chirping when he dared step too far. She would cry if he left the room, then pretend she hadn’t missed him when he returned.
Here, no one ever left.
Here, no one ever died.
They lived in that perfect, impossible moment—where every breath came easy and no one spoke of the world outside. The light through the windows never changed. Time passed, slowly, gently, and kindly.
Here, Lucia told her stories.
She would clamber onto Desmond’s back when he laid curled near the hearth, hands tangled in his wings, and whisper in a voice full of purpose. Her stories were always about the chickens, about the silliest rooster, about how everything was going to be alright.
“Because I said so.” She’d declare, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
Lucia never told the same story twice. Sometimes she acted them out, chasing the chickens around the house, draping Desmond in scarves and declaring him “The Lost One” before launching a rescue mission. Maria played along, shaking her head and muttering about “dramatic children” while she served pottage, fresh bread, and honey. Desmond smiled more in this house than he ever had anywhere else.
He spoke here. He laughed here. Sometimes he cried but no one asked why.
Maria would pull him into her arms. “It’s alright, tesoro. You’re safe now. Let it pass.”
He would fall asleep at the kitchen table or in Lucia’s lap or curled before the hearth with chickens roosting across his chest like content barnyard gods.
And outside of it all, the Eye kept watch.
It did not speak. It did not disturb the peace. It only mended. It only held.
This world—this home—was made of memory and ache. It was meant to be its gift, a prayer, a promise to its beloved savior—that Desmond would rest here until it was safe to wake.
Desmond’s captivity beneath the Vatican was not marked in days or years, but in fractures. These were moments where the dream cracked—where the world pulled him back just for the briefest of moments.
The Eye called them milestones.
They were rare—brief—but each one left a mark. A scar in the stillness. A thread of pain or presence that threatened to undo the quiet sanctuary it had built.
The first milestone was an attempt on his life.
1382
The chamber was still and quiet.
The air was thick with incense that drifted high towards the vaulted ceiling. Stone walls and woven tapestries covered the flooring, swallowing all sound.
At the center of it all, he laid in a reliquary of silks and iron.
The angel. The Vatican's holy relic.
He had not stirred in two years. His wings were draped over the silk sheets, half-unfurled. His feathers around the edges flickered gold in the candlelight. His face was serene and his breathing was soft—each rise and fall of his chest the only sound against the quiet of the sanctum.
A relic. A miracle. A testament to the divine.
He had never woken.
Not when the Pope himself had prayed at his side or when knights took turns standing vigil. Nor when trusted scholars debated the nature of his existence, tutting over him in hushed, reverent tones.
The angel slept, undisturbed, untouched by the world—until tonight.
A shadow moved, darting between the pillars. The would-be thief had gotten farther than any before him. The guards had been lulled into complacency by two years of undisturbed slumber. So when he reached the reliquary, trembling hands grasping for the angel—
It was only the Eye that stirred.
It sensed the disturbance and shift in the air, yet it did nothing.
The thief was not the first. Others had come before him—too fearful, too hesitant, but they always faltered. Some had dared to lay their hands upon downy wings, only to retreat in awe. Others had lingered in the shadows, hindered by doubt, trembling at the thought of defiling what they did not understand.
However, this one moved with purpose—with intent.
The Eye knew something was wrong. It had felt the whispers of movement at the edge of its senses, the tremor of intent slithering through the chamber like a coiled viper.
Yet, despite its rising unease, the Eye did not act. The guards had always stepped in before. They always did. The Eye had learned to trust in their presence and it wished to remain unseen, its influence hidden.
But this time, the Eye was wrong.
The thief had already closed the distance and then, a cry—sharp, startled. A clash of metal.
The guards were not so complacent after all. A scuffle broke out. Blades flashed, slicing through air and flesh. The would-be thief stumbled, but not before his dagger found its mark—
Pain seared through Desmond’s body, a hot, tearing agony sinking deep into his chest.
(The Eye snapped awake—an ancient force exploding outward in instinct and terror.)
Desmond arched off the reliquary with a ragged, wet gasp, his body convulsing like it had been struck by lightning. He choked. A horrible, gurgled sound—half breath, half scream—ripped out of him.
His wings flared wide, thrashing against the silk and air. Feathers scattered. His vision blurred—shapes warping, spinning, too bright—and for a moment, he couldn’t tell where the dream ended and the waking began.
He didn’t know—but—but he was bleeding. Was he Bleeding? Or—or—?
Where was he—? Where was—?
The thief yelped when a heavy boot slammed into his side, sending him sprawling to the floor. The dagger skittered across the floor. He scrambled for it, desperate, but a knight seized him up by the collar.
"Heathen!" The knight spat, slamming the thief against the wall.
More guards flooded into the chamber, weapons drawn before—
"Seize him!"
The Pope’s voice rang through the chamber as shadows lurched forward, steel flashing in the candlelight. The knights moved, a cacophony of metal and fury converging on the intruder.
The thief panicked, kicking the knight with enough force that made him loosen his grip. He twisted out of the knight’s hold, but before he could escape, a gauntleted fist slammed into his stomach. The thief wheezed, knees buckling, but another knight was already on him, dragging him forward, shoving him away from the reliquary.
The Pope barely registered it. His attention was elsewhere.
The angel was gasping, pained sounds escaping his throat as he shuddered violently. His fingers were pressed against his wound, wings flapping haphazardly in distress behind him. However, what stunned them all—what left even the most battle-hardened knight frozen—was his face.
His eyes were open.
Wide, unblinking. Fully awake.
For the first time since he had been brought to the Vatican, which had become his sanctuary and his prison—the angel was conscious. Not a dreamer lost in divine slumber, but awake. Aware.
The Pope’s breath hitched.
The angel’s gaze darted around wildly, unfocused, desperate, his pupils blown wide with confusion. His eyes were not celestial—not burning gold, not the cold gleam of silver light, and yet—they were striking.
A golden, honey brown, but too vivid, too rich—like honey thickened to molten amber, like sunlight trapped in resin. Even dulled by pain, even wide with terror, they gleamed with an eerie, liquid brightness.
It was not the gaze of a god.
But it was not the gaze of a man either.
And yet, right now, in this moment, that unnatural warmth was fractured—darkened by sheer, gut-wrenching fear.
They had never seen him like this before.
The angel was supposed to be untouched by mortal suffering. Yet, he was shaking—gasping. His chest rose and fell in ragged, shallow breaths. Worst of all—he was bleeding.
Bright red, stark against his white. It bloomed across his robes like ink spilling into water. The wound was hidden beneath the layers of fabric, but the color seeped through.
Red.
Like theirs.
A human’s blood.
It was a small thing—a simple truth that should not have been shocking. Yet, it rattled something deep in their chests. The Pope could feel the knights around him stiffen, their faith warring with reality.
They had called him an angel, but an angel should not bleed. A god would not fear, but there it was—raw, visceral, unmistakable.
A whimper escaped Desmond’s lips. His fingers dug harder against the wound, shaking. He didn’t hear them—didn’t see the knights staring in horrified awe. He was caught somewhere else, trapped in the haze of pain and memory because where was he?
Where was Maria? Lucia?
Where was—?!
Panic surged through him. His mind was sluggish, drowning in confusion, but his body remembered when he saw the robes and stone walls. The presence looming before him—gold and white flickering in the candlelight. A priest. A priest.
His vision darkened at the edges.
Shapes twisted. Hues faded. The world dulled—then brightened again, just slightly off. Shadows stretched longer than they should. The priests flickered red, their movements too sharp, their voices too distant.
One stepped closer.
Desmond panicked, breath hitching. His muscles tensed, his mind scrambling for clarity, searching for anything that might give him some semblance of control over the situation, but no. The panic rose with the same familiar sting as when he'd been caught—because no, no, no not again.
Had it all been a dream? Had he ever really left that cell? Had he ever—
Where was the Eye?
It had promised.
It had promised it would ease what would come. Promised that he would sleep, but he was awake—awake to a world there was nothing good, where there was no Maria, no Lucia, no SAFETY—
"Eye—!" His voice cracked, thin and desperate. “Eye! ”
His plea cut through the chamber like a blade.
The knights exchanged glances, tense and uneasy.
Desmond’s fingers curled tighter against his chest. He was still bleeding. Had the Eye left him? Was he alone? Had the one thing that had never left him abandoned him too—?
The moment the thought came though, something vast lurched.
//No.//
A presence coiled around him in an instant, wrapping him in something warm, something protective. It curled against his mind, its touch firm, possessive, unyielding. A promise. A vow.
But even within that vow, something cracked.
A tremor. A fury—hot and self-directed.
It had been still. Too still.
The guards had failed, yes—but so had it.
The Eye had waited, lulled by repetition and silence, certain there would be warning, but it had been wrong.
And Desmond had bled for its sins.
The fury curled in tighter, like a wound cauterizing too fast.
There was no sound. No plea. Just a quiet, seething truth that it should have moved.
It would not make that mistake again.
//NEVER.//
And then—pressure.
It wasn’t weight, not in a way that could be touched or measured, but it was heavy. It settled over his mind, seeping into his bones, shifting through him with purpose. It moved like liquid through his veins, pressing into the places that hurt—into his torn flesh, his damaged organs. Healing. That’s why he couldn’t feel it. The Eye had been healing him from inside, stitching him back together, weaving over the raw edges of pain like an unseen hand smoothing over silk.
That’s why. Desmond sucked in a breath, body going slack with relief.
“Don’t—don’t leave again.” He whispered, voice cracking. The Eye said it would be here for him. It said it said it said—
Silence. Then—
//Hush, Savior.//
The words weren’t just a balm. They were reverent. The Eye’s voice wrapped around him like silk, breathless with devotion, as though it could barely believe Desmond had called for it. Wanted it.
//I am here. I will always be here.//
A touch—not physical, not tangible—but something pressed against his thoughts, fingers ghosting through his mind with the care of a lover tracing old scars. It didn’t push. It guided, urging him to let go. A gentle coaxing presence at his back, tilting his face from the pain. Like fingers easing his grip from the wound he no longer needed to hold.
//I will handle this.//
The Eye had been summoned, needed, and it drank in that need like something starved. This moment, this ache, this whisper for it—the Eye would burn worlds to feel it again.
Desmond had called for it.
Not with reverence. Not with fear. But with need—a trembling, desperate plea shaped in its name.
And the Eye… felt it.
It had always been there, quietly watching, weaving dreams, sealing wounds, keeping him whole.
But Desmond had wanted it—because he missed it.
The Eye curled tighter, its essence threading through every fraying edge in Desmond’s mind. It had never meant to be more than a guardian. A watcher.
But now—now it was craving.
Craving the way Desmond whispered. Craving the way he softened when it pressed close. Craving the heat of his belief and his trust. There had been a moment—brief, fragile—where Desmond had cried out and surrendered himself utterly. And the Eye had felt it. It had tasted it.
And it wanted more.
Not to devour, but to remain. To linger.
To be wanted again.
If Desmond called, it would answer. If he reached, it would rise. It would crawl into his thoughts and wrap itself around his soul, tighter, sweeter, deeper—until Desmond could not tell where he ended and it began.
Desmond was its Savior, yes.
But the Eye was learning how beautiful it was to be his.
Desmond exhaled. Tremors still wracked his body, but the relief was overwhelming. The Eye had not left him. He was not alone.
It was here.
And like a man finding an oasis in a dessert, Desmond let go—
And the Eye took him.
The trembling stilled. His fingers loosened, chest rising once in a slow, unnatural breath—as if he no longer needed to breathe at all. For a moment, he was utterly still. Not unconscious, not paralyzed—but paused, like something greater had settled into borrowed skin and was still remembering how to wear it.
Then the Pope felt it.
There was a shift in the chamber. The air stilled, as if holding its breath. The candles did not flicker nor did the stone walls groan, yet something older than sound, something greater and vast moved through the room like a great snake—
And then—they saw it.
For just the smallest of moments.
A shimmer in the candlelight. A bending of shadow. The air behind the angel rippled—too smooth, too slow.
And within that distortion—wings upon wings. Eyes upon eyes.
Then the next moment, it was gone like it had all been a trick—but the image had burned itself into their minds.
One of the eyes had blinked. Another had bled. Others just stared. And above it all, there had been a crown of hands. A choir of wings. They had draped themselves behind the angel like a mantle. A throne. A warning.
They could not unsee it.
The Pope’s breath faltered. The knights did not speak. None dared.
‘Grace.’ Some thought. A veil of the divine.
But it didn’t feel like grace.
It felt like being watched through a keyhole. Like they were watched by something that was still deciding whether or not to open the door.
And then he lifted his head.
The Pope froze.
The angel's eyes were no longer his own.
Where once was a honeyed, golden brown that trembled with confusion and pain, now there was pale fire, bleached and burned clean of any humanity. It stared out—cold and reverent, like a statue coming to life. There was no warmth. No softness.
No kindness.
Just, knowing, and that’s when the cracks began. Lines—jagged, unnatural—bloomed from the corners of his eyes, thin cracks glowing beneath his skin like fault lines drawn in fire. They raced down his cheekbones and down his neck, curling like veins of lightning. The lines flickered with the same blinding gold, shimmering in a way that was holy and profane all at once.
The knights stared, unable to move.
The Pope forgot to breathe.
Something ancient now stared out using the angel’s face.
Something knowing.
Something possessive.
Something that had no name.
"You failed."
And it was furious.
The voice that spoke was not the voice that had cried out before. It was not breathless, nor panicked, nor trembling with pain. It was cold . Monotone. Devoid of human frailty. It was the angel’s voice, and yet, it was not.
The Pope’s mouth went dry. His lips parted—silent, helpless—unable to breathe beneath the weight of that voice.
"You dared allow harm to befall my Savior?"
The chamber went deathly still.
The knights stiffened.
It wasn’t a question. It was a verdict.
Savior.
The word struck like a gavel, ringing through the chamber.
Savior.
The Savior.
The Pope’s knees buckled. He collapsed onto the marble, his hands clasped in desperate supplication.
The knights followed. One by one, their armor clanked as they dropped. Their heads bowed, the weight of prayer filling the silence.
"Forgive us, O Lord!" The Pope beseeched, voice trembling. "We have sinned. We have failed. Please—please, tell us how we may atone."
A pause. A silence that stretched, unrelenting.
Then, at last—
"You will protect him."
A command. Unyielding. Absolute.
"He will remain safe."
The words echoed like law, like a prophecy but the silence that followed it wasn’t peaceful. It was a pause before a blade fell. The air tightened, something passing through the chamber that wasn’t seen but felt by every man in the room—
Not pain. Not fire.
But the quiet, suffocating certainty that if they failed it again, it would not be merciful.
"Y-yes, my Lord." The Pope’s voice cracked. "We swear it!"
A slow exhale.
The pressure in the air pulsed once—watching— judging—
And then—
It passed, withdrew—and the angel sagged, like a puppet with its strings cut.
The silence stretched.
The Pope knelt, hands shaking, robes heavy against the marble floor. The weight of the divine still pressed against his chest, burning in his lungs. He had heard the voice of God. He had felt its presence through the angel’s vessel.
And yet—
Now, there was only the angel.
The frail, slumped form of a man, too pale, too thin, trembling as though the fire of heaven had burned through him. His wings twitched weakly against the sheets, his breath shallow. His body swayed and when the Pope looked again—
Oh.
The realization fell like a stone to the pit of his stomach.
That was why.
This was why God had spoken.
Because this creature—this fragile, mortal thing—was the vessel chosen. Protected. Treasured.
And that meant…
He was sacred.
The chamber doors groaned open behind them. Sandaled feet rushed in. The dottore arrived in disarray, his robes still twisted from sleep, his eyes wide with alarm. He halted the instant he saw the angel—not in fear, but in awe.
He fell to his knees beside the reliquary, fingers trembling as they hovered over the angel’s chest.
“This should not be possible.” He whispered. His voice cracked with reverence.
The Pope frowned. “Explain.”
The dottore swallowed. “You said the wound was fresh. But there’s… nothing.” He peeled back the robes to show the bloodstained cloth beneath. “The injury should be here. Deep. Fatal. But his skin—” He hesitated. “—it’s untouched.”
And it was. There was no scar, only clean, tanned skin beneath torn silk and linen.
The Pope’s heart clenched.
God had intervened.
Not for nations.
Not for kings.
Not for Rome.
But for him.
His gaze returned to the angel, who stirred faintly. The angel was fidgeting, eyes struggling not to close. He was not fully awake—still far from it—but he made a soft, distressed sound, a half-formed protest. His wings fluttered weakly, and he tried—tried—to roll away from the dottore’s hovering hands, but the weight of exhaustion kept him from moving further. It was like his body remembered to protect himself, even if his mind couldn’t follow.
Some of the knights shifted, their armor creaking. Something about the angel’s expression made their throats tighten. Some wanted to kneel. Some wanted to reach out.
None knew if they were worthy to do either.
The Pope closed his eyes. A test. This was a test.
Perhaps—perhaps the Lord had given them the angel in this state because he was fragile—because he needed them—because they had been entrusted with a holy charge.
And they had nearly failed Him.
His eyes snapped open.
“Double the guards.” The Pope commanded, his voice low but razor edged. “No one is to enter the sanctum without my sanction.”
The knights moved instantly, some with bowed heads, others with quiet murmurs of reverence.
“Sanctify the thresholds.” The Pope continued. “Anoint the doors. I want scripture lining every wall. No hand is to touch the angel without blessing. No gaze is to linger without prayer.”
Only then did he dare look again. The angel was trembling, barely clinging to consciousness. The Pope’s throat tightened at the sight.
The Pope’s hand reached out—but to his horror—he hesitated. The inhuman gaze was gone. The presence had vanished, but the image of those eyes, those markings—that voice and hallucination—was seared into his mind, an echo ringing through his bones.
The Lord had spoken. And then He had left.
He did not want to see those eyes again.
He did not think he could bear it.
“…Cover his eyes.”
The priests shifted amongst themselves.
One hesitated. “Your Holiness?”
The Pope turned to them, his face unreadable. “This is not an angel for men to gaze upon. He is a vessel of the divine—not for mortal eyes. He will wake when the Lord wills it, and only the worthy shall witness his Sight.”
There were no further questions.
A priest hurried forward, fumbling with a length of rough, undyed linen.
Desmond flinched violently as the fabric pressed against his face. His breath came in short, shallow gasps, his body recoiling from the touch. He shook his head weakly, fingers twitching against the sheets, instinct driving him to fight against the binding.
//Desmond.//
The Eye’s voice curled around him, warm, familiar. The pressure over his eyes soothed rather than restrained.
//Peace.//
The knot was tied at the back.
Darkness.
Desmond let out a shuddering breath.
The world faded behind the blindfold, muffling the shifting robes and the lingering stares. He no longer had to see them. No longer had to look at the priests and remember their hands, their whispers, the sharp bite of steel against his skin. No flickering candlelight, no more reminders of where he was. It was better this way. The world faded behind the blindfold. He could pretend, just for a moment, that he was somewhere else.
The Eye nudged at the edges of his mind. A dream began to take shape.
A warm hearth. The scent of thyme and honey. The distant hum of voices he had once known.
Home.
He felt someone tug his fingers, threading theirs with his own. Lucia looked up at him with wide, curious eyes in the backdrop of the herb garden. “Where did you go, Desmond? I was looking all over!”
Desmond’s breath evened out. His body relaxed.
When his body sagged again, slipping back into the waiting arms of sleep—none dared touch the blindfold.
The Pope watched the rise and fall of the angel’s chest. His lips pressed into a thin line.
Then, quietly, he turned to his attendants.
"Have one woven from silk and gold." He ordered. "No common cloth should veil the angel’s sight."
The second milestone occurred 10 Years Later, but not while Pope Urban VI was alive.
1392
Pope Urban VI had been a man of faith. He had heard the voice of the Lord and devoted his remaining years to following His will. The angel had been placed in his care, and he had safeguarded him as one would a sacred relic—hidden away, shielded from the unworthy, veiled from the eyes of men.
But faith alone was never meant to rule the world.
When Urban passed, his successor did not inherit his reverence. He inherited his possession.
And from that moment on, the Vatican’s greatest secret was no longer just protected. It was owned.
The angel was passed from pope to pope as a holy relic, a divine inheritance entrusted to the leader of Christendom. Yet as the years stretched on, as power shifted hands, and as the Templars sank their claws deeper into the Church, the truth became evident: the angel did not belong to the papacy.
He belonged to the Order.
No pope who stood against the Templars would inherit him.
The Vicar of Christ could wear the robes, speak the prayers, hold the keys of Saint Peter—but if he was not in line with the Order’s will, the Holy Relic would never be known to him—never to be his to wield.
Only those chosen by the Templars were granted knowledge of what lay beneath their holy grounds. Only those who had proven themselves worthy could lay eyes upon the Vatican’s greatest asset.
To kings and lords, the Pope offered something beyond gold, beyond titles, beyond mortal wealth. He offered proof of the divine—a glimpse of something no other man had seen. The price was absolute loyalty.
To those who sought favor with the Church, he granted them indulgences—the privilege of standing in the presence of God’s chosen relic.
And so they came—men of power, of ambition, and of unwavering Templar loyalty. Each one was carefully chosen and ushered into the hidden halls beneath Saint Peter’s. They kneeled before what the Pope called his most sacred possession.
A blindfolded figure, seated upon an ornate altar, draped in the most finest silks afforded. A being neither alive nor dead, breathing but never waking. The Holy Relic of the Vatican.
They would press their trembling hands to his skin, murmur their prayers in hushed voices, and leave with their faith—and their allegiance—forever sealed.
But not all who entered were meant to leave. The most devoted of the Templar Order, the scholars, the physicians, the men of knowledge who sought understanding rather than faith—they were granted more.
They were given the right to study him.
However, the first time a blade touched his skin, the scholar who wielded it was found slumped over his desk, his own scalpel lodged in his throat.
The guards were called. There was no sign of a struggle. No cry had been heard. The angel remained exactly where he had been, unmoving, his breathing soft and even.
The Pope had dismissed it. A freak accident. Clumsiness.
So they tried again.
The second time, there were two of them. A doctor and a scribe. The scribe’s attention had averted for just for a moment, just long enough to grab a simple journal from his pack and as the doctor reached forward with trembling hands, the blade angled just so—
The scribe’s inattention was only for a handful of heartbeats, but when he finally turned around, the doctor’s body was already sprawled across the floor. His fingers were still twitching around the handle. His face was twisted in agony, as if he had died screaming, though no sound had been heard.
The relic had not moved.
The third attempt was made in secret. A scholar who wished to carve just a small piece of flesh—something unseen, something that would not mar the angel’s beauty.
He, too, was found dead before he could finish his task.
This time, there was blood.
Not on the angel—never on the angel—but smeared in frantic streaks across the walls, as if the scholar had crawled in his final moments, trying to escape something no one else had seen.
The Pope did not believe it.
The angel was not an angel. He was a tool. A weapon. A key to the kingdom the Pope would build.
And yet, after that, no man dared press a blade to his skin again.
Some still touched him, still pressed reverent hands to his skin, still knelt before him in whispered prayer—but always within reason. Never too bold. Never too demanding because those who strayed—who let their hands linger too long, who let their reverence curdle into hunger, who forgot that even the most sacred relics must not be defiled—they were found cold and stiff the next morning.
Their bodies were untouched, unmarked, save for their faces.
Their faces were twisted. Lips stretched too wide. Eyes fixed on something that was no longer there.
Each man wore the same expression—not fear, but awe. Horrified awe. As if, in their final moment, they had seen something vast and beautiful—
And realized too late that it was not for them.
The priests began to whisper then, in secret, that perhaps the relic was not passive. That perhaps it did not sleep entirely—that though the angel never stirred, something else did.
Something that knew the difference between worship and want.
And punished accordingly.
No one dared speak of it or dared to say what they all suspected, but the sanctum doors were locked each night with shaking hands.
Guards were stationed outside, silent and motionless, standing vigil over a relic that had not stirred in ten years.
Not once.
Not ever.
Until now.
A quiet panic spread through the Vatican’s hidden corridors.
The guards outside the sanctum had not realized anything was wrong at first. Their charge never moved. He never stirred and yet, one of them, in an absentminded glance, noticed something impossible—
The door to the angel’s chamber was ajar.
For a moment, there was stunned silence. Then, a heartbeat later, chaos.
The Pope was informed immediately. He arrived flanked by his most trusted guards, his expression unreadable. He stepped inside the candle-lit chamber—and saw nothing.
The room was empty.
The angel—his holy relic, his celestial prize, the proof of God’s favor—was gone.
The Pope’s rage was immediate and absolute. The guards flinched beneath his stare, but beneath his anger, there was something else—something he would not allow himself to name.
(A feeling too close to loss.)
His hand hovered over the empty space where the angel had laid, fingers twitching before he clenched them into a fist.
“Find him.” His voice was quiet, controlled—but the threat beneath it was razor-sharp. “Now.”
The search spread like wildfire, though contained to only the most trusted. None could comprehend how this had happened. The angel had not woken again in the past ten years. The chamber had been locked, sealed, and yet—
The whispers started almost immediately. The angel had vanished without a trace, unseen by even the most vigilant of eyes. Was it divine intervention? A test of faith?
But then, there was a timid voice. A young acolyte stammered that he had seen something in the orphanage wing. A figure, draped in white, moving in the candlelight.
They followed the boy with breathless urgency, the Pope’s fury simmering beneath his skin.
When the Pope and his entourage arrived, they froze.
In the dim glow of the orphanage hall, the angel sat on the stone floor, blindfolded yet impossibly at ease. His wings were unfurled in an unguarded sprawl, feathers shimmering as they moved with an almost joyous energy.
He was not alone.
He sat amongst children and in his lap, curled against him, was a small girl. She clung to the angel, her tiny fingers grasping his robe, her dark curls messy and wild. The child was laughing and her face was buried in his chest, nuzzling him like an indulged cat.
And the angel was smiling—humming, hands moving gently through her hair, like he’d done this all his life—his fingers preening her in a way a bird might tend to its fledgling.
The angel was more responsive then they’d ever seen him.
The other children huddled close, reaching for him, their hands tangling in the downy softness of his wings. The angel did not flinch from their touch like they did to others. His wings shuddered—not in distress, but in something else. Reminiscence. Joy. As if the very feathers themselves remembered a time when this kind of touch had been common, when hands had grasped them in love, not in reverence or restraint.
The Pope’s breath came sharp and furious.
This was not for them.
This was not theirs to witness.
This joy. This warmth. This peace.
This—this was something the angel had never shown them.
Those hands—filthy, mortal, insignificant—had touched what was sacred. They had reached for the holy relic without reverence, without trembling. They had laughed. They had taken.
And the angel had let them.
The Pope clenched his fists. This was unacceptable. He was the one who dictated where the angel belonged. Who was permitted to touch him, to see him. And yet, the angel had simply... wandered away—as if the Pope’s authority meant nothing.
He would remedy this.
“Take him.” He commanded. His voice was soft, but it left no room for argument.
The guards moved swiftly. The moment the angel was lifted from the girl’s embrace, she wailed. Her tiny hands reached for him, but the guards ignored her cries.
The angel stirred at the sound, his body sluggish but reacting. His wings twitched, and a soft noise—something between a sigh and a whimper—escaped him as if he felt the sudden loss of warmth.
The girl, tears streaming down her face, tried to follow, but a nun caught her, pulling her away. The Pope stepped forward, watching as the angel was lifted from their grasp.
The moment the children’s warmth left him, the angel shuddered. His body curled inward, as if seeking what had been taken.
The Pope smiled thinly. Good. ‘Let him feel the loss. Let him understand where he belonged.’
The Pope stepped forward and placed a gentle hand on the orphanage headmaster’s shoulder.
“This did not happen.” He said, his tone calm. “For the good of the children, let us forget this… misplacement.”
The headmaster swallowed hard. “Yes, Your Holiness.”
The Pope smiled, satisfied.
(But too many had seen.
Too many eyes had witnessed the Vatican’s most guarded secret, and the Pope—though outwardly calm—understood the risk. Children talked. Nuns whispered. And faith, once exposed to something so visceral, so real, had a way of slipping from control.
The cleanup was swift and absolute.
The headmaster and staff were summoned one by one. Sworn to silence under pain of excommunication—or worse. The Templars ensured compliance through quieter means: forged transfer orders, sudden retirements, and, in some cases, disappearances that were never investigated.
The children were separated. Some were adopted out to distant monasteries. Others relocated under new names. The girl who had clung to Desmond most fiercely was taken first.
No one was permitted to speak of the angel. Not to each other. Not in prayer. Not even in dreams.
And so, the memory of that night was not erased, but buried—layer by layer beneath doctrine and fear.
The Vatican had kept its secret for nearly a decade.
It would not lose it now.)
When the angel was returned to his chamber, his body was limp as they placed him back onto the reliquary. He did not flinch when silk draped over him once more—did not react as the doors locked.
Even in sleep, he remained still. Silent. Untouched by the chaos he had caused.
The Pope knelt beside him, studying the veiled figure with quiet intensity.
He should have wasted away long ago. That had been the concern of his predecessors, the ones most trusted in their ranks, and dottores who had quietly inherited the secret of the angel’s existence. No food. No water. No change in breath or muscle or flesh. By all reason, the angel should have withered.
But he hadn’t. He remained unaging, untouched. Preserved as though something greater refused to let him go. As though heaven itself was holding its breath.
Softly—more to himself than to the angel—the Pope asked, “…Why did you leave?”
The relic never answered questions. For ten years, he had not moved. Had not spoken. Had not stirred.
The Pope had never believed his predecessor’s claims—that the angel whispered the voice of God into his ear, that the heavens wove their will through him. Superstition. Delusion. Faith-stricken nonsense.
Because how could a voice of God look like this? The angel had always been a husk, a fragile, withering thing that did nothing but breathe. There had been no light, no miracles, no divine decree.
He had expected nothing, but then—a shift. A breath.
A mumble, thick with exhaustion, but undeniably real.
“…Mm’ looking.”
The Pope’s breath caught. His mind raced.
Looking? The muscles in his jaw tightened. “For what?”
A sigh. The smallest smile.
It ghosted across the angel’s scarred lips like a memory from someplace soft and faraway, as if he had returned to another place.
“…Didn’t see… Lucia.”
The Pope went still.
Lucia? Who was Lucia?
The name meant nothing to him, but the angel said it with such quiet devotion that—for the first time—the Pope felt as though he were the intruder.
The angel shifted, his head lolling slightly toward him. The blindfold hid his eyes, but the way his lips curled—the gentleness of his tone—carried something soft and fond. Something warm.
“Said if I got lost…”
He paused, his breath hitching faintly.
“...she’d find me.”
The Pope's mind raced. The implications—the heresy—the opportunity.
But then, just barely above a whisper—
“…My big sister.”
The Pope opened his mouth—to question, to demand, to pry. Who are you? What are you? Were there more of your kind out in the world? Where were they?
But before he could speak—before he could seize this moment—the angel’s body went still.
His breathing deepened.
Asleep again.
No. Not asleep.
Taken.
The Pope clenched his jaw. His hands curled into fists.
No. No more accidents. No more wandering. No more whispers of names that should mean nothing.
The Angel was his. His.
His fingers twitched at the silk draped over the angel’s still form. If he could, he would rip the blindfold away, force those unseeing eyes to look only at him.
“Shackle him.” He ordered when he left the chambers because when next he came to demand answers— there would be nowhere for the angel to run.
(But the Pope did not see the thing that lingered in the dark.
The Eye had helped him walk, had silenced his steps, steadied his limbs, and wrapped him in dream-soft memory to ease the ache of the waking world. The Eye had allowed this because Desmond had wanted it, and that, above all things, mattered most.
It watched now as the man in white fumed in silence, as silk was tucked around shaking limbs, as chains were fastened with trembling hands.
Desmond had believed he was lost. The Eye had felt the ache buried the words and so the Eye answered in the only way it knew how. It pressed close—soothing, warm, familiar.
//You are not lost.// It whispered this over and over, a firm presence in the back of its dearest savior’s mind. //I am here.//
And when Desmond’s breath evened, when his body softened once more in sleep, the Eye reached through the cracks of memory—threading the dream together again.
A garden.
The scent of marigold.
A hearth behind an old wooden door.
Feathers ruffling.
Laughter.
“Don’t worry.” A little voice whispered, soft against the wind. “I’ll find you again.”
And the Eye, curled close around its Savior, believed her.)
The third milestone occurred 12 years later.
1404
The House of Santavera had always been ambitious. They were lesser in name than the great families of Florence or Milan, yet wealthy enough to court danger in their pursuit of power. They had watched the Vatican from afar, envied the iron grip of the Papacy, the way kings and emperors bowed their heads to Rome’s decrees. They had spent years playing the long game, feigning piety, worming their way into the graces of the Holy See.
But faith was a tool, nothing more and they had learned the Vatican’s greatest secret.
It was a whisper at first—an angel locked beneath St. Peter’s Basilica, guarded day and night by men sworn to silence. However, whispers could be bought, and secrets did not stay buried forever.
For five years, they had planned. For five years, they had gathered men, trained them, secured the loyalty of disillusioned clergy and hungry mercenaries alike. Their moment had come.
And so, on a moonless night, led by their most elite Captain, the House of Santavera moved to claim their prize.
The Basilica was sacred, but blood had been spilled on sacred ground before.
The attack was silent, precise. Their soldiers, clad in black, moved through the catacombs with the ease of men who had walked them many times in secret. A priest—whom had long turned against the Papacy—had seen to it that several of the usual guards were absent, sent on errands of false importance.
Still, some remained.
The first man died with a blade to the throat, his body caught before it could hit the ground. The second had time to widen his eyes in shock before a crossbow bolt took him between them. A third managed a sharp, strangled gasp before the steel entered his ribs.
By the time they reached the chamber, the Vatican’s Angel lay undisturbed, his form a limp silhouette in the candlelight in his reliquary.
He was more ethereal than the rumors.
Wings folded around him like a shroud, breath deep and steady, untouched by time. The golden blindfold remained, as did the silken garments, the cushions that cocooned his body.
It was almost too easy.
Santavera's captain moved first.
He hesitated—but only for a heartbeat. Long enough to kneel beside the angel and truly look at him. Then, slowly, his leather gloved hands slid beneath the angel’s body. One arm curled beneath the angel’s shoulders and the other cradled lower to the small of his back, avoiding the base of the wings. The way his fingers settled there, cautious and exact—it was not the touch of someone second guessing where it would not hurt.
He lifted the angel with care, like something precious.
Then—
A breath hitched.
The angel stirred, a quiet sound escaping his lips. His fingers curled weakly, as if grasping for someone long gone.
The soldiers froze.
“Move.” The captain ordered, urgent. His voice barely above a whisper.
The Vatican would soon notice. They had to be gone before then.
They moved quickly, retracing the path through the tunnels—but it was too late.
The alarm sounded before they could even make it halfway back through the catacombs. A guard, who had been sent on a false errand, had returned early. The sound of rushing feet filled the narrow tunnels, the echo of the approaching guards.
“Scatter!” The captain barked, voice sharp.
But in the chaos, the angel slipped. His weight shifted unexpectedly—he was lighter than expected, too light—and the captain’s grip faltered. The angel fell, crumpling toward the stone.
(No one saw what caught him. There was no time to notice the shift in air, the way his fall slowed as if hands had reached out from nowhere.)
The captain spun, breath short. He stared at the angel sprawled on the ground, his eyes drawn to the too-still shape—
And something caught in his throat.
Just for a second. A flicker.
His mouth opened. A breath escaped, shaped without thought—
“Des—”
He never finished it.
The Santavera soldiers didn’t make it out that night.
When the last of Santavera’s infiltrators fell, the angel lay exactly where he had fallen. Unmoved. Unaware.
By the time Pope Innocent VII—Templar-aligned, newly ascended, more devout, more greedier than the last—arrived, his expression was thunderous. He gazed upon the scene—the knights bloodied but victorious, the angel curled quietly on the ground—and knew who was responsible.
The Santavera house had sinned.
The House of Santavera had dared to reach for divinity, dared to steal from God.
And now, they would be erased.
The Santavera estate had always been a fortress.
High walls. Iron gates. An army loyal only to its lord.
It did not matter.
When the Papal forces descended, they carried not just steel and fire—but judgment. They bore banners marked with the insignia of the Church, and with them came a fury more devastating than any war.
This was no political punishment. This was a purge.
The gates shattered beneath siege weaponry. The halls ran red with noble blood. Men begged for mercy, but none was given.
Inside the manor, the last of the family huddled behind locked doors and prayer, but there would be no forgiveness. Not this time.
The Pope’s command was clear—none would be spared.
When the fires finally died down, there was nothing left of the House of Santavera but ash and whispers.
But the Vatican did not allow whispers to grow unchecked.
Within days of the Santavera purge, papal scribes were dispatched to the archives of Florence, Milan, Naples—anywhere the family had once left their mark. Decrees were sent ahead of them, signed in the Pope’s own hand, authorizing the seizure and redaction of documents under the pretense of heresy and sedition.
Land titles were reassigned. Records rewritten. Family crests painted over in monasteries and civic halls. Historians were warned—gently at first, and then not at all.
The House of Santavera, they declared, had never existed.
To the public, the destruction of their estate was explained as righteous judgment—punishment for occult practices, devil worship, and a planned insurrection against the Papal throne. Broadsheets printed the claims in bold ink. Priests wove sermons around their downfall, warning that those who strayed from God’s path would meet the same fate.
And the people believed.
Or if they didn’t, they stayed silent.
The Church had spoken.
And in the face of divine authority, history itself could be rewritten.
Back in Rome, the holy relic was placed under heavier guard than ever before. Sealed within the deepest vaults of the Basilica, his prison was reinforced tenfold.
He had not even stirred.
Yet, the Vatican would not make the same mistake twice. They did not return him to the grand chamber beneath the Basilica.Instead, they took him deeper, far below even the holiest of sanctuaries.
A place of silence.
A place of control.
The cell was built for him. Not cold stone, not rough iron, but a prison all the same. The walls were lined with scripture, the doors blessed, the locks reinforced. There was no window and no candlelight beyond what was deemed necessary.
He was no longer a relic to be admired.
He was a weapon to be kept.
The Pope stood before the sealed chamber, watching as the final locks were fastened, the final prayers spoken. The Angel had been returned.
The world would never know what had transpired.
The Santavera name was erased from history, their lands seized, their legacy burned from the annals of time.
No one would speak of the theft. No one would remember the name of the house that had dared covet what belonged to Rome.
The Vatican’s Holy Relic remained.
And this time, he would never leave.
At least, that is what they believed—
Deep beneath Rome, the cell was sealed. Scripture lined the walls. The locks were divine, the stone unyielding. Outside, the world turned. Years passed.
And Desmond dreamed.
Within the woven veil of silence, the angel laid unmoving, untouched by time. His breath rose and fell. His wings curled loosely at his sides. To the world, he was lost—buried in myth, sealed behind holy gates.
But in the dream, he was home.
Maria’s bread filled the air. Lucia draped him in ribbons and stories. Ampi wrestled a broom. Bella demanded a throne. Carina curled up on his lap and sighed like he’d never left.
Time didn’t matter here.
And the Eye watched over it all.
It had shaped this world feather by feather, heartbeat by heartbeat, and woven a lullaby beneath every step. Desmond was safe. Desmond was at peace.
But the Eye knew peace could not last forever.
The dream would end. It must. The world was waiting and when that time came, the Eye would be ready.
It would be strong enough to carry him.
Perhaps strong enough to burn the world down, if it had to.
Yet, too focused on the dream and its precious savior, the Eye did not yet feel the second presence growing beneath the dream, lurking in the seams like rot.
It did not notice the thread coiled beneath its own, feeding on the same light, growing stronger with every beat of the dream.
It did not see the smile blooming in the dark—
Not until 1476—the fourth and last milestone— when Giovanni and Mario Auditore stumbled upon the Vatican's greatest secret.
Interlude
Various between 1380 - 1476
No one quite knew what happened to the feathers—Desmond’s feathers.
Forty-two.
Desmond had sold exactly forty-two feathers in the year before his capture. They didn’t earn much, not as much as Maria brought in with her apothecary business, but it was something he could do to make up for the small luxuries Maria provided to him.
Then the Vatican took him.
The priests came, scouring the town like hounds on a scent, their whispers thick with urgency. Feathers of purest white, they demanded. Where are they? Bring them to us.
Some were surrendered willingly, out of fear or greed. Others were tossed into the river, buried into the earth, or burned into hearths, by hands that feared persecution, because they could see the storm that was brewing—one that had ended up with a burnt apothecary, death, and a missing young man.
Fifteen were destroyed.
Twenty-seven remained.
But not just in the town.
There were some traders Maria had sold Desmond’s feathers to who had left before the church’s search began. Their wares were tucked into satchels and carts, unknowingly carrying fragments of something rare. Those who purchased the feathers as writing utensils found that they did not fray, did not wear down as other quills did. Scholars marveled at their longevity, at how ink never quite stained them, at how months—years—passed, and yet, they remained untouched by time.
When those feathers eventually wore down, they asked where more could be found, but the traders had shaken their heads. The town that once sold them had long stopped keeping them in stock. Perhaps the birds they came from no longer lived, they said, because the people of that town, when questioned, responded only with tight lips and darkened eyes, voices edged with something that was not grief, but something close.
Yet the feathers persisted.
It was the children who kept them the longest, though they had not known, in their youth, what the priests had sought so desperately. They had only seen something beautiful—soft, luminous, too fine to be real. Shiny— and like crows to baubles, they hid them in drawers, in keepsake boxes, or beneath mattresses. As the children grew older, so too did the myths around them.
They were good luck, they told their children, and their children’s children. A token from a man with warm eyes.
And perhaps they were—because for those who kept the feathers found, in the quietest of moments, that fortune favored them in small, inexplicable ways.
A young trader, a child who had first purchased one of Desmond's feathers but now had grown into adulthood, was setting out for the first time. He tucked the feather into his hat as a simple decoration. When a storm grew on his path, he prayed for safe passage. That night, as he made to cross a bridge he could not see was weak and rickety, his mule, steady and true, suddenly reared back. It was spooked by nothing at all. The man had cursed, frustrated—until the next morning when he saw the ruins of the bridge, which had collapsed into the river below.
A mother, heavy with child, wore hers as a charm around her neck. It had been a gift from her own mother. When her family offered her food, she smiled, but something about the meal unsettled her, making her stomach twist in protest. She ate something else, though she did not know why. Days later when she had her newborn in her arms, a midwife would tell her that what she had refused would have made the birth difficult—perhaps even deadly.
They did not know the truth of it.
But the feathers did.
Over time, the feathers’ luster faded. Slowly, imperceptibly, their radiance dimmed, as if something within them had been spent. Those who carried them never noticed. To them, they were as precious as the day they were first held, relics of childhood dreams, of simpler times.
Yet one—and only one—found its way into the hands of a woman sworn to shadows.
She had bought it on a whim, from a trader who had spoken of its age, of its legacy. A feather from half a century ago, he had said. Said to bring luck.
And luck was something she would never refuse.
So she tucked it beneath the pillow of her master’s son. A boy, barely old enough to know the weight of his own lineage.
Days later, when a mercenary came for his life, he found only failure waiting for them. The child was unscathed. The would-be killer, nothing more than lifeless husks on the nursery floor.
And still, the feathers dwindled.
By the time Desmond was freed from the Vatican’s grasp, only seventeen of the original forty-two remained in the world.
In his captivity, there were others—plucked from him by hands that did not tremble, by men and women alike who did not hesitate. Yet, they were not the same.
They still gleamed, still carried the whisper of something otherworldly, but their brilliance faded sooner. The pristine white dulled, the edges frayed faster, their sheen worn down as if they resented their final resting place.
These feathers had not been given freely. They had not been placed in the hands of wide-eyed children or gifted with honest sincerity. They had been ripped away, torn from flesh by those who saw no beauty in them—only value, only a means to an end. Though they still carried luck, it was not the same.
Their power did not linger for years, did not weave itself into the fabric of a life like the others. Instead, their fortune was fleeting—a brush of fate rather than its guiding hand.
A diplomat who received one as a relic from the Templars might find himself escaping an assassination attempt—but not unscathed. A noble, desperate for favor, might rise swiftly in power—only for his fortune to turn sour within a few years.
The feathers still worked—but their gifts came with an expiration date.
Yet, this did not stop them from being coveted. The Templars, ever keen to hoard and control, recognized their worth. They adorned them in gold, sealed them in glass cases, and whispered of their divine nature. They became tokens of influence, relics to be exchanged in silent transactions of power.
(One feather, however, kept in a glass case beneath the Pazzi estate, lived in the space between gift and theft.
It had not been given—not truly. It had been snatched by a feverish child, clutched in a tiny, desperate fist during the most fragile moment of his life, but the angel had not taken it back. He had not scolded. He had let it remain.
Perhaps he hadn’t noticed. Perhaps he had.
Costanza believed he had.
She never spoke of that night in public. Not even to Guglielmo. But in the quiet dark, when Pazzino struggled to sleep, she would sit beside his bed and whisper, “Do you remember him?”
And always—always—Pazzino would nod.
“He was real.” The boy said. His fingers brushed the feather’s gleaming edge. “I woke up. He was holding me.”
Costanza had gone still.
“Did he say anything?” She asked, almost afraid.
Pazzino blinked, thoughtful and then he smiled. “I asked if he was my angel.”
“And?”
Pazzino, his eyes bright and reverent, had responded, “He said yes.”
The boy didn’t know—couldn’t know—that Desmond hadn’t understood the question. That the answer had been a half-distracted smile, a nod meant only to soothe.
But it didn’t matter.
To Pazzino, it was truth.
And from that moment on, he carried it like a promise.
“He saved me.” He told his cousins, even as they scoffed. “So I’ll protect him too.”
Andrea Pazzi never scoffed. He only listened—quiet, steady—and let his brother speak. Though he was the younger sibling, he was sharper, a mind tailored for politics despite his age, but he loved his brother deeply. He had seen Pazzino dying. He had seen him live. That was enough for him.
He never told anyone what he believed—not outright, but when their father pressed for silence—when others mocked the story behind closed doors—Andrea’s voice had been the one to silence the room.
“He saved my brother.” Andrea had said. “That is not something we should forget.”
As a child, Pazzino hid the feather in his coat like a charm. As a man, he kept it in his study, framed behind glass. He passed it to his son with trembling fingers and made him vow to never forget.
It became sacred in his line. A symbol not of power, but of debt. It became a quiet, private loyalty passed from parent to child. A lineage within a lineage—acknowledged by Andrea, protected by Andrea—even as his own branch carried the future of the Pazzi name.
“The angel saved our name.” Pazzino’s grandson would say, long after the details faded from memory. “We owe him everything.”
The feather faded, its shimmer softening over decades. But the reverence did not.
Decades passed.
By the time Andrea Pazzi’s son took leadership of the family, the Pazzi coat of arms had subtly changed. The twin dolphins remained, but above them, a pair of stylized wings were added—almost imperceptible, but undeniably present.
It was not spoken of publicly, but within the family, the meaning was clear.
"The angel saved us. God blessed our name."
Pazzino’s descendants, unlike their more politically driven cousins, took an interest in art, philosophy, and scholarship. Some believed that their family had been granted divine favor, that it was their duty to preserve knowledge, beauty, and faith.
Some among them believed the story of the angel was an allegory—that a miracle had been woven into family legend. Others, particularly those who still possessed the feather, whispered that it had been real.
Andrea’s descendants, who carried the main legacy of the Pazzi name, were more pragmatic—but they did not deny the story. They did not build their future upon the legend, but neither did they erase it.
“We honor them—” One of Andrea’s grandsons once said, “—but we do not become them.”
Still, when one of Pazzino’s descendants painted a mural in Florence, depicting an angel cradling a child, none of Andrea’s descendants objected.
The painting was not signed, but it did not need to be.
It was blood calling to blood.)
And so, scattered across courts and kingdoms, the feathers moved from hand to hand, traded like currency, but none of them lasted. None of them remained as long as the ones given in love.
But somewhere, years later, a boy named Petruccio Auditore would seek them out—not knowing what they had once been, not knowing the power they still held.
However, the feathers would know and when the time came, they would answer.
Notes:
This chapter killed me. Well, actually, no, not just this chapter. I definitely lost the plot somewhere along the way, haha. I practice the art of WRITING AHEAD now but the downfall of that is I met a wall of oh, shit, how is this gonna work?? And so I had to go back and revise everything I’ve written so far up till Chapter 8 so it didn't brick anything in the future haha.
This is why chapter 8 took so long, otherwise this would have been out last weekend. Also, I LOVE the comments. Like, SOME PEOPLE PREDICTED THIS SHIT, HAHA. IDK if that predictability is a good or bad thing, but it made me wonder if some of y'all are spying on me or something. Are my thoughts being projected into the ether????
Also, there are a lot of easter eggs—(if you could call it that? Maybe call backs?)—in this chapter because I like hiding shit and making you draw your own conclusions, heehee. Can you find them all?
Next chapter gets fun hehe. You know where that's going!
Please check out the wonderful fanart based on this chapter made by the wonderful Dreamsparkleart : https://www.tumblr.com/dreamsparkleart/781384587744100352/last-safe-refuge-nikaris-this-fic-has-tempted?source=share
Chapter 9
Summary:
The heist.
Chapter Text
1476
The scent of old parchment and melted wax was a familiar scent to Giovanni Auditore, instilling him with the familiar weight of planning that he had done countless times before. He traced the edge of an aged letter. The ink was faded but the message was clear even after nearly a century.
"The reliquary has been sealed beneath the Basilica, constructed under the strictest secrecy. The Pope has ensured its safeguarding with layers of security unseen before. The House of Santavera’s failure has only strengthened its prison. I fear that should we delay, it will be lost forever."
It was the last record of a failed mission—a warning scrawled in haste and never followed up. The Assassin who had written it had disappeared, leaving only silence in his wake and the relic—whatever it was—had remained untouched ever since.
Giovanni set the letter aside, rubbing his temples.
Across from him, Mario Auditore lounged in his chair, a smirk tugging at his lips. The firelight deepened the lines of his face, sharpening the mischief in his eyes. He tapped a gloved finger against the wooden desk.
"They were fools." He said, voice low but amused. "They got their hands on the relic but couldn't get out. If it were me, I’d have been out of Rome before the Vatican even knew it was missing."
Giovanni huffed a quiet laugh, shaking his head. "Hindsight makes a fine strategist. They reached the inner sanctum—that alone was a feat, but they underestimated the Church’s speed."
“And the Pope’s pride.” Mario added. “He made an example of them. Burned the entire Santavera estate to the ground. Not even the servants survived.”
Giovanni nodded grimly. “The warning was heard. The Vatican reinforced everything after that. If there was ever a window, it closed the moment Santavera bled on holy ground.”
Mario’s smirk didn’t fade. If anything, it sharpened. “Then we open a new one.”
Giovanni looked up, brow furrowed.
Mario leaned forward. “They were outsiders trying to break in. We’re already inside. That’s the difference.”
Giovanni studied him, then slowly turned back to the stack of papers beside the fire. Four notes, aged but preserved—each penned by the same hand. Each one darker than the last.
He reached for the first.
“The Pope prepares to transport a holy relic to Rome. Secrecy is paramount. The vessel is being prepared. More to follow.”
Mario tilted his head. “We were watching even before it arrived.”
“We were.” Giovanni said. “But we never got close.”
He unfolded the second note.
“The relic was brought into the city under heavy guard. Witnesses describe a closed carriage flanked by knights of the papal guard and foreign mercenaries. It arrived at night. No public blessing. No procession.”
“Sections of the Basilica have been closed indefinitely. Only those with Templar authority are permitted near the lower sanctum. Construction crews dismissed. No explanation.”
“Rumors among the clergy suggest the relic is not an object, but a gift. One described it as ‘the breath of heaven made manifest.’ I believe they are being fed lies to preserve its sanctity.”
Mario snorted. “Sounds like fear. Or fanaticism.”
“Possibly both.”
Giovanni opened the third letter—thinner than the rest, the ink pressed deeper.
“The House of Santavera has been destroyed. Official reports claim they were heretics, accused of consorting with dark forces and plotting to unseat papal authority.”
“Unconfirmed whispers suggest the family attempted to infiltrate the Basilica. Guards were killed. Some say they tried to steal the relic.”
“Following the purge, the Pope ordered all records of Santavera expunged. Their crest has been removed from civic halls. Vatican scribes dispatched to erase the family from every archive.”
“The relic has not been seen since. Whatever they attempted, it failed—and the Church is determined to ensure it never happens again.”
Mario’s expression darkened. “They erased them. Like they never existed.”
Giovanni gave a slight nod. “And tightened the vaults even further.”
Mario’s gaze drifted toward the letter Giovanni had first read aloud—the one still lying open on the desk, its ink faded but furious in intent.
“They buried it deep.” Mario mused. “Whatever it is.”
“Deeper than we’ve ever dared go.” Giovanni murmured.
A pause settled over the room, the fire crackling in the hearth between them.
Then, Mario sat up straighter, the gleam returning to his eyes.
Giovanni studied him, waiting. Mario lived for these moments, for the buildup before revealing a well laid plan.
“And?” Giovanni asked at last, low and cautious. “What thread have you found?”
Mario grinned. "The Pope is hosting a foreign dignitary next week. An ambassador from the east. Someone too important for even him to refuse. The man demanded a personal audience and even his cardinals would be in attendance.
Giovanni’s fingers tapped against the desk. "So, the Pope will be occupied."
"And his guards will be stretched thin." Mario confirmed.
It was a solid opportunity—but not enough. The Vatican was not so easily breached, not even with the Pope’s attention divided. Giovanni remained silent, waiting for the rest.
As expected, Mario did not disappoint.
He smirked. "That’s why we’re giving them something else to worry about."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a folded piece of parchment. He slid it across the desk and Giovanni scanned the words carefully.
The first note detailed an assassination attempt—or at least, the appearance of one. A trusted Assassin embedded within the Vatican had leaked false intelligence, whispering that the ambassador was plotting to kill a high ranking cardinal. Whether the Pope believed it or not, he couldn’t afford to ignore the threat. His personal guards—the most highly trained, the ones who never left his side—would be forced to investigate.
Giovanni nodded slowly. "This removes the most disciplined men from their post."
"Exactly." Mario said. "Leaving only the most fanatical ones to guard the relic. Easier to work around blind faith than a seasoned blade."
The second note was even bolder.
"A fire in the archives?" Giovanni murmured, glancing up.
Mario leaned back, his grin widening. "A small one, at first. Just enough smoke to cause panic. When the alarm is raised, a second team will escalate it, making sure the fire spreads near the restricted sections. The Vatican will be scrambling to save their records, their secrets."
Giovanni exhaled, understanding now. The Pope’s personal guards would be drawn to the supposed assassination plot, while the fire would force another wave of soldiers to respond, protecting the heart of the Vatican’s knowledge.
Leaving the prison—already hidden beneath layers of secrecy—unguarded in ways no one had ever dared to attempt.
"Two major diversions," Giovanni said, folding the parchment. "Enough to turn the Vatican inside out."
Mario raised his glass in mock salute. "And that’s where we slip in. I handle the exit, you handle the extraction. Like old times."
Giovanni let out a slow breath, then allowed himself a small, knowing smile.
"It has been a while."
Mario grinned, pouring another glass of wine.
"Then let’s go steal a relic."
One week later, the scent of burning parchment was thick in the night air.
From their position in the shadowed alley beside the Basilica’s rear entrance, Giovanni and Mario could hear the distant shouts of guards scrambling toward the Archives. The fire had been set at the right moment—early enough that the Vatican was still reacting to it, but late enough that they wouldn’t suspect another threat was already at their gates.
Mario adjusted the heavy wooden chest strapped to his back. It was filled with worthless trinkets—shards of broken statues, rusted coins, relics forged by skilled hands in Florence. To an untrained eye, they were treasures bound for Papal examination.
Both he and Giovanni were dressed to sell the illusion. Their Assassin leathers were gone, replaced with vestments appropriate for eastern archivists—ivory robes trimmed in dark burgundy, papal courier seals emblazoned on their belts.
The robes masked their weapons. The chests disguised their intent.
A nervous figure stepped out of the shadows near the entrance. Father Agnolo. The priest was dressed in dyed fabrics common for his station, but in the dim light, the sweat on his brow was visible. His eyes flickered around the area frantically before quickly motioning them forward.
"You’re late." Father Agnolo hissed. His voice barely audible over the distant sounds of hurried boots and shouts from the courtyard. The scent of smoke was stronger in the air now and it was getting more and more apparent that the fire in the archives was growing.
Sometimes Mario’s plans worked a little too well.
Mario smirked, shifting the weight of the false relic chest on his back. "No, you’re just early."
The priest’s mouth tightened, but he didn’t answer. He wasn’t looking at them—his gaze was averted, darting toward the Basilica’s rear entrance to the guards who looked too preoccupied to pay them much mind.
Giovanni stepped forward, his presence quiet but commanding. "Everything is in place?"
Father Agnolo gave a quick nod. "The document was delivered this morning. The guards at this gate believe you are couriers from the east, bringing relics for the Pope’s personal collection. With the Vatican in chaos, they will not question you."
He stepped aside, but Giovanni didn’t move. He studied the priest carefully, noticing how his hands shook slightly at his sides. It wasn’t just fear of betrayal weighing on him. Giovanni had seen men like this before—ones who weren’t simply afraid of being caught, but of something worse.
Giovanni’s voice lowered. "What aren’t you telling us?"
Father Agnolo stiffened. "I—" He hesitated, casting another glance over his shoulder.
Mario’s smirk faded. He adjusted his stance, shoulders rolling back, readying himself.
Giovanni held the priest’s gaze, his silence pressing for an answer. "If this is a trap—"
"It is not!" Father Agnolo cut in sharply, then winced, lowering his voice. "I swear to you, it is not."
"Then why are you sweating like a man walking to his own execution?" Mario asked dryly.
The priest swallowed hard. "Because… there are rumors." He finally admitted. "I have never seen it myself. My eyes are unworthy, as all of ours are, but the relic—it is not like the others in the Papal collection."
Giovanni and Mario exchanged subtle glances.
"What do you mean?" Giovanni pressed.
Father Agnolo hesitated again, before he said, with a voice barely above a whisper—
"They say it speaks the words of God."
A chill crawled down Giovanni’s spine, but he didn’t react, keeping his expression carefully impassive. Mario, however, exhaled sharply.
"Men say many things." Mario muttered with a shake of his head. "That does not make them true."
"I do not believe it myself." The priest admitted quickly. "But I know this—it is dangerous. Men have died trying to misuse it."
Giovanni’s jaw tensed. That, more than anything, confirmed what they had both begun to suspect.
A Piece of Eden.
The Vatican had hidden one away, and no one had dared to challenge its secrecy—until now.
Father Agnolo’s gaze flickered between them. "You must be careful." He urged. "This… this is not simply treasure. It is something greater, something beyond men. I don’t—I do not know what you intend to do with it, but do not be reckless."
Giovanni inclined his head, though he gave no promises. Mario let out a slow breath, his expression now unreadable.
They passed through the rear gate a few moments later.
Two papal guards stood at attention, halberds crossed. Their armor gleamed despite the ash beginning to drift down like snow. One of them stepped forward, raising a hand.
"State your purpose."
"Archivists from the eastern route. Recovered relics bound for the Holy Father's personal review. I submitted the document this morning." Father Agnolo responded smoothly. He pulled the forged scroll from his sleeve. The guard accepted it and glanced at the seal. His eyes skimmed the contents, then drifted to the smoke rising from the north quarter.
He passed it back with a distracted grunt. "You're cleared. Stay to the eastern wing."
Agnolo nodded, ushering them forward. The guards didn’t look twice. One of them turned to speak into a horn, shouting something about salvaging manuscripts near the restricted vaults.
They moved quickly once inside.
The stone corridors were quieter than expected—emptied in the chaos. Father Agnolo led them through three turns, past two locked gates, and down a stairwell that hadn’t seen sunlight in years.
Finally, he stopped at a narrow archway.
Giovanni glanced around. They were alone.
"This is as far as I go.” The priest whispered, when they reached the edge of the antechamber. He stepped back. "I have given you what I can. You must do the rest on your own."
Mario took the rolled up maps from him, tucking them into his coat.
"You’ve done your part. One of ours will meet with you." Giovanni said quietly. "Leave Rome. Go somewhere safe."
Father Agnolo hesitated. They couldn’t tell whether it was out of guilt or fear, but then he nodded. Without another word, he turned and vanished into the darkened corridor.
For a moment, neither Auditore spoke.
Then, Mario huffed a laugh, but there was no humor in it. "A Piece of Eden." He muttered. "Well. That explains a few things."
Giovanni let out a slow breath, nodding. "And complicates many more."
They shrugged off the borrowed vestments, casting aside the robes of priestly archivists. Beneath, they were themselves again—Assassins cloaked in dark leather, hoods drawn low, blades gleaming at their hips. No more disguises. No more pretense.
Ahead of them, the path descended into the deeper sanctum, where the relic—and something far more dangerous—awaited.
And so the real heist began.
The Eye had been asleep for nearly a century. Dormant, nestled in the quiet abyss of a mind too worn to fight, too broken to resist. And in that slumber, it had mended itself. It had gathered strength, drawn from the deep well of time itself, from Desmond.
Now, it was awake.
And it remembered.
The Eye curled around him, as it always had, as it always would. A great and formless thing, an entity without shape or boundary, and yet—it had wrapped itself around Desmond for so long that it had taken on something close to familiarity. It had carved itself into the folds of his soul. It lived in his breath, his heartbeat, his brokenness. It had rested in the hollow spaces of his mind, coiling through his thoughts like a great serpent guarding its hoard.
And Desmond was its most precious treasure.
It had the power to see again, now. To stretch itself into the patterns of the world, to glimpse at the weave of possibility.
It reached outward, its senses unfurling like a great beast stirring from its long rest, and it saw.
Two men, moving through the Vatican like wraiths. The paths before them diverged into futures both fleeting and uncertain:
—Success. The shadows held firm. Steps silent. A gloved hand trembled as the final lock was undone, and the heavy door swung open, the scent of damp stone and stale air rushing out into the dim corridor. The relic was theirs.
—Failure. A guard, lingering just so—turned his head at the last moment, catching the glimpse of a robe disappearing where no one should be. A call, sharp and cutting. A ripple through the sanctum. The noose tightened. The heist collapsed.
The Eye observed, intrigued.
Calculations whispered through its being, and once, it would have relied on them without question. The probabilities leaned toward success, but it did not trust its own foresight—not when Desmond was involved. Desmond broke calculations. Desmond ruined probabilities. It did not trust numbers anymore.
It unfurled itself slightly from its beloved, just enough to stretch its awareness beyond the prison walls. But in doing so, it felt something pull at it—a faint, instinctive grasp.
Desmond.
Even in sleep, even tangled deep in illusion, Desmond reached for it. Needy. Desperate.
The Eye shuddered.
It had nearly forgotten how much it loved that feeling.
With quiet devotion, it curled back toward him, pressing its essence into his mind like a kiss to the brow. A whisper, silk wrapped and sorrowful, passed between them. I am here.
The ache in Desmond eased.
The Eye lingered, holding him close, but it was greedy now—greedy in the way of things that had tasted affection and wanted more.
So it reached into his dream.
Desmond sat in the backyard of Maria’s home, barefoot in the grass, the warmth of the dream wrapping around him like a familiar embrace. Chickens clucked lazily, scratching at the dirt. A soft breeze wafted the scent of lavender and tilled earth.
Lucia’s laughter rang from inside the house—distant, but real.
Carina was curled on his lap, his hands buried in her soft feathers. The hen let out a pleased squawk, her warmth grounding him, anchoring him here. In this place. In this safety.
It is time to wake up. The words were not spoken. They were felt—like heat beneath the skin, like longing coiled in the back of his throat.
Desmond stilled.
He didn’t look up. He didn’t react. He only kept stroking Carina’s feathers, slow and careful.
Finally, he spoke.
"No."
The Eye froze at the edge of the dream. It had expected resistance, but this—this fear curling in Desmond’s very being—was different.
Desmond wasn’t just reluctant. He was terrified.
//The world is waiting.// It said, softer this time. Gentler. The way it had once whispered comfort in the dark. //You cannot stay here forever.//
Desmond’s hand tightened in Carina’s feathers. "Why not?"
The Eye faltered. It did not need calculations to see the fear knotted inside him, the way Desmond curled in on himself, clinging to the dream like it was the only thing keeping him afloat.
And perhaps, right now, it was.
Because I miss you. It did not say this. Not yet.
//You are safe here.// It acknowledged instead. A pause. Then, like a whisper curling between them. //You could be safe out there, too.//
Desmond flinched.
The Eye pressed closer. Not forceful. Begging.
A home could be built again. A new dream. One where the sun was real, where hands held him with care, not control.
//You do not have to be alone.//
Desmond didn’t answer or move, still clinging to the dream.
The silence stretched long enough that the Eye almost relented. Almost.
But then—softly, carefully, cautiously — //Maria and Lucia would not want you to linger in memories.//
And Desmond’s entire body went rigid.
Carina, sensing the shift in him, raised her head. Her feathers ruffled as she stepped out of his lap, planting herself between Desmond and the empty space ahead—as if she could see the Eye standing at the edge of the dream.
She let out a sharp, threatening cluck.
"Don’t." Desmond’s voice was low, cracked open in a way that made the Eye recoil. "Don’t put words in their mouths."
Carina puffed up defensively, glaring into the windless yard, tail twitching. The soft feathers around her neck bristled as if she meant to ward off whatever unseen thing had unsettled him.
“You don’t know what they would’ve wanted." Desmond hissed and his voice shook—not with anger, but with the kind of grief that never healed. “You don’t get to use them against me like that.”
I would never, the Eye wanted to say—but it had. And that—that—was its mistake.
Desmond’s shoulders dropped, and his wings—they curled around him. They trembled faintly as they wrapped forward, shielding his body, his heart. He outstretched his arm and the hen obediently returned to him with an affectionate coo. His hand slid protectively across Carina’s back. His voice lowered.
"I’m staying."
//Desmond—//
"Don’t…” Desmond swallowed. “Don’t take this away from me."
The Eye stilled.
It could have forced him. It could have unraveled this dream, shattered it into nothingness, dragged him back screaming into the waking world.
But it didn’t.
Because Desmond had chosen.
And it would not defy its beloved.
So it obeyed.
The Eye pulled away from the dreamscape—not sulking, not angry—but grieving. Yearning.
It returned to his side and wrapped around him like a shroud, coiling itself protectively around Desmond once more, settling into patient stillness.
It would wait.
It would protect.
Because the world was coming.
And as its senses caught the sound of the last click of a lock unlocking, the Eye knew that when it did—whether Desmond willed it or not—he would have to face it.
The air was thick with the scent of damp stone and candle wax.
Giovanni and Mario moved in near silence, like shadows slipping between the flickering torchlight. The deeper they descended, the fewer guards they encountered, but the ones that remained were not ordinary men.
Zealots.
Men who would not hesitate.
Men who would die before betraying their faith.
Their boots barely made a sound against the stone as they followed the path laid out in Father Agnolo’s map. Giovanni took point, sharp eyes scanning for movement. Mario trailed just behind, hand resting lightly on the hilt of his sword.
Their distractions had worked—the archive was burning above them in carefully orchestrated chaos. The Basilica’s higher halls were swarming with panicked guards. But here, in the Vatican’s deepest sanctum, the walls remained still.
Still—but not empty.
Two guards stood at the end of the corridor, clad in heavy robes and bearing the sigil of the Holy See. Their weapons gleamed faintly in the low light, hands resting on the hilts.
Mario and Giovanni moved in tandem.
Silent. Efficient. Deadly.
The first guard never saw Mario coming—one moment he was staring straight ahead, and the next, he was crumpling to the ground, throat slit, the gurgle of his last breath swallowed by the shadows.
Giovanni struck just as fast. One fluid movement—blade sliding between ribs, hand clamping over the zealot’s mouth before a sound could escape.
The bodies hit the ground in near perfect unison.
For a moment, neither brother spoke.
Then, Mario exhaled, rolling his shoulders. “I was starting to think we wouldn’t get any fun out of this job.”
Giovanni gave him a look before turning to the door.
It was massive. Made of iron and fortified, standing tall like the gate of some forsaken crypt. Heavy locks lined the frame, intricate mechanisms glinting in the dim light.
No ordinary door.
And no ordinary relic behind it.
Giovanni turned to Mario, expecting his brother to produce some hidden trick, some conveniently simple way to bypass the locks.
But Mario just smirked.
“Well.” He murmured, stretching his fingers. “I hope you haven’t gotten rusty.”
Giovanni stared at him in barely concealed disbelief. “Mario.”
Mario clapped a hand against Giovanni’s back, grinning. “You’ll be fine.” He stepped back, already scanning the corridor. “I’m going to make sure we have an exit.”
Before he disappeared, Mario slung the heavy chest off his back and pried it open. Together, they dumped the worthless relics onto the floor—shards of forged coins and broken pottery scattering across the stone.
The chest was set aside to hold the relic.
Then, with a nod to his brother, Mario disappeared into the shadows.
Giovanni exhaled softly, shaking his head as he reached into his belt.
His fingers brushed against cool metal, drawing out the worn leather pouch tucked at his hip. He unrolled it carefully, revealing a collection of lockpicks nestled in their places, each tool glinting faintly in the torchlight.
They were old, well used, yet precise. Their edges were worn smooth by years of careful hands.
It had been a long time, but he would have appreciated not having to sweep out the cobwebs underneath the belly of the Vatican.
Giovanni flexed his fingers before selecting the right picks, feeling their familiar weight settle between his knuckles. He knelt before the vault door and brought the first pick to the lock.
Steady.
The mechanism was intricate—layers of tumblers hidden beneath iron plating, designed to break under clumsy hands. It spoke of paranoia, of men who knew exactly what they were guarding and feared what would happen should it be set free.
He pressed his lips together, working with careful, deliberate movements.
A small shift. A click.
The first lock came undone.
The sound barely echoed in the suffocating quiet.
Giovanni let out a slow breath through his nose, barely audible, and moved to the next.
Alone now, the silence felt heavier.
Mario had gone ahead to secure their exit, leaving Giovanni to handle the final stretch. It made sense—there was no telling how quickly they'd need to flee once this was done. Yet, standing here, deep beneath the Vatican, surrounded by the weight of history and the unseen presence of something dangerous, he felt something in his bones.
This place did not want him here.
He was an intruder, a trespasser in the heart of a fortress that had more secrets and skeletons than one could count.
Another lock clicked open, the mechanism giving way under his careful touch.
Giovanni shifted his weight, adjusting for the next. The vault door was massive, the thick iron ridges tracing its surface like veins. Each keyhole was a wound, cut deep into the metal, demanding precision.
A Piece of Eden.
It had to be.
Artifacts of immense power, scattered through history, shaping the hands that wielded them. Weapons, tools—curses.
He had spent years chasing rumors, sifting through fragmented knowledge of these objects. Templars sought them with ruthless devotion, their ambitions always leading to war.
And now, after everything, Giovanni would soon stand before one.
He adjusted his grip, flexing his fingers as another lock came free.
What had Father Agnolo said? That the relic spoke? That it had driven men to their deaths?
He did not believe in myths. He didn't believe in whispers of divine voices or curses spoken through sacred artifacts, but men had died for it—men had killed for it. If the Templars believed in this enough to bury it in the bowels of the Vatican, locked away in a sanctum few even knew existed, then perhaps—
Another lock fell. Then another.
The air felt thicker now, like the heavy stillness before a storm.
A final lock remained, its mechanism resisting, tension coiling within its metal core as he worked. Giovanni inhaled slowly through his nose.
One more.
Just one more—
Click.
The last lock came undone.
And something shifted.
It was subtle—like a thread pulled too tight finally giving way. Like the smallest tremble in the air.
The door loomed in front of him, tall and unmoving, but it didn’t feel like an obstacle anymore. It felt like a threshold.
Like the moment before something irreversible.
Giovanni curled his fingers around the iron handle. Then, slowly, carefully—he pushed the door open. It gave way with a low groan.
Beyond the threshold, the dark awaited.
"Your friend is right, you know."
The air smelled of lavender and rosemary. The scent of herbs and laundry mixed with the breeze drifting lazily through the open window.
It was peaceful here. Safe. Like it always had and would be.
Yet at the softly spoken words, Desmond stilled, the leaf from the herb he’d been plucking caught between his fingers. He lifted his head, turning toward Maria.
She stood by the kitchen counter, sipping on a cup of tea. The warm glow of the sun filtered through the open window and it made her look almost ethereal, as if she had always belonged in this place.
Timeless. Unchanging.
Desmond’s mouth opened to ask her what she meant, but something in her gaze gave him pause.
Somewhere in the deepest recesses of his mind that understood that this was a dream, knew she was referring to the Eye. She shouldn't have known about it. He had never told her—never spoken of it. He never burdened anyone with yet another secret, yet another strange, fractured part of himself.
And yet, as all dreams were apt to do, she simply knew.
“It’s okay to leave, Desmond.”
His throat tightened.
“I’d rather stay.” He said, his voice quiet, but firm. “With you. And Lucia. And the girls. I like it here.”
Maria blinked slowly, watching him with something that was not quite sadness, but close.
Understanding.
“This place is not real.” She murmured softly.
Desmond swallowed thickly, his fingers gripping the small leaves in his palm until they crumpled.
“It feels real.”
Because it did. He could feel the warmth of the sun’s rays. He could smell the scent of baking bread. He could hear the girls’ energetic clucks and Lucia’s laughter cutting through the afternoon air as she chased them around.
Here, he could hear them.
Here, he could see them.
Out there—Out there, he had nothing.
Out there was where good things didn’t last. Where Maria and Lucia were gone. Where their bodies had gone cold in the dirt because he hadn’t been good enough—because his failures had followed him across time, staining everything he touched.
The thought sank its claws deep into his chest, a suffocating weight that made his breath come short, made his vision blur as his hands clenched tighter, tighter—
“I killed you.” He whispered, voice cracking. “I got you killed. I—”
“Oh, Desmond.”
Maria was suddenly standing in front of him. Her weathered hands covered his own and gently, she pried his fingers open, brushing away the crushed leaves. Her touch was careful and warm.
Just like back then—like the first time they met.
Desmond’s lips trembled and she wiped his tears away with her thumbs, chasing them from his cheeks like they had no right being there.
“That’s not true, Desmond.” She murmured. “You didn’t kill us.”
His breath hitched, a sharp, punched sound escaping his throat.
“We wanted to protect you.” Maria continued softly. “That was our choice. You were our family.”
Desmond sucked in a trembling breath, but it came out as a sob and before he could think, he collapsed forward. His arms wound around her waist, hands curling tight as if afraid to let go.
Her apron grew damp beneath his tears, but Maria said nothing. Just held him.
She let him cry. Her fingers pressed lightly against his scalp as she carded her hand through his hair. Soothing. Comforting.
His wings shuddered, trembling. They curled forward, the ends stretching as they too tried to wrap around her.
Maria laughed, the sound warm and familiar. “Honestly, you’re just as bad as Lucia.” She teased.
Desmond let out a wet, shaky laugh. He just hugged her, letting the moment settle in his bones, before finally, his voice hoarse, he whispered—
“I’m scared.”
Maria hummed, neither dismissing nor chastising him. Just listening. Just there.
“I love you.” He confessed, voice cracking. “I love Lucia. I love the girls. I love—this.” He squeezed his eyes shut, throat tightening “But if I go out there, it means—” He swallowed, hands tightening around her. “It means your deaths happened.” He forced out. “That they’re permanent and that I’ll—I’ll never see you again.”
Maria was quiet for a long moment.
Then, she exhaled, tilting his chin up just slightly.
“We’re not really gone, Desmond.” She said gently.
He stilled and looked up at her through tear streaked lashes.
Maria smiled, brushing stray locks of hair from his forehead.
“You remember us, don’t you?” She asked. “You remember how Lucia loves honey? How she drools when she sleeps? You remember how I love the smell of lavender? My favorite teas?”
Desmond closed his eyes. He did. How could he ever forget?
Her smile softened. “We were only temporary.” She admitted. “But we’ll always be here.” She placed a hand lightly over his heart. “In your memories. In your dreams.” She smiled wider. “And here—” She teased, tapping a finger against his forehead. “—where you store far too many worries for one person.”
Desmond swallowed, thick and uneven.
“Don’t you want to see what’s out there?” She asked, gently—patiently. “Won't you try? Maybe you’ll find more nice things. And if you don’t, well—Lucia and I will be waiting for you here.”
Maria’s smile softened, a flicker of something deeper beneath it—something Desmond didn’t quite recognize. “This isn’t goodbye, Desmond.” She whispered.
She cradled his face between her palms, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead.
“This is just a ‘see you later.’”
Then—her hands shifted. Still gentle, still warm—but now with purpose. She held his cheeks between her palms, and slowly, carefully, she turned his head.
Not up like he expected, but to the door—toward the one place he’d never dared to look.
Desmond resisted, just a little, but she didn’t push. She just held him there, steady, guiding, until he was ready.
And Desmond looked.
At first, there was nothing unusual. Just the heavy door, as it had always been. Old wood. Metal locks. Barred shut.
But then—
A scent drifted through the air.
Desmond paused, brows furrowing. His head tilted slightly.
It wasn’t lavender or from any of the herbs hanging from the rafters or the fresh laundry drying outside.
It was something else.
Something nostalgic.
Something that didn’t belong in Maria’s house.
(A scent from a long, long time ago. A memory buried so deep, he didn’t know if it was truly his or one of his ancestors’.)
He shifted to his feet, sniffing at the air and as he did, Maria’s hands slipped away, slow and careful, as if releasing something precious. She didn’t follow—only watched, her smile small and soft.
It was coming from the door.
The scent curled around him like an invitation.
Something not of this home, but of another.
A different home. Or… a potential for home—if he just let himself.
Desmond watched, unmoving, as the locks on the door shuddered. Then, they cracked—splintering like glass. They fell away, one by one, clattering onto the floor. The wooden bar holding the door shut gave way, groaning as it was released from its hinges.
And the door cracked open, just slightly.
Desmond hesitated.
A shadow stood beyond the threshold, barely visible in the hazy light filtering through the doorway.
It was a figure—tall, broad shouldered. A beaked hood.
Desmond’s breath caught in his throat.
“…Ezio?” He whispered.
And the dream began to fracture.
The chamber was still.
Too still.
Giovanni stepped in, slow and cautious. His senses were strained with tension, eyes flickering to every visible crevice the dim candlelight offered. The air felt thick. The chamber smelled stale. The kind of stagnant air that came from a place never truly meant to be entered.
He had expected many things when he infiltrated this place—guards, artifacts, perhaps even a Templar secret hidden behind locked doors.
What he had not expected was this.
At first, the figure slumped against the far wall barely seemed human. It was just a dark shape curled inward, head hanging forward, lifeless. The figure's arms laid limp at his sides, wrists swallowed by iron cuffs chaining him to the stone.
‘A prisoner?’
Giovanni’s breath slowed. That was unusual—highly unusual. The Vatican had dungeons, of course, but not here. Not this deep. Not in a hidden sanctum beneath layers of false walls and forgotten corridors.
Something was wrong.
His gaze swept over the prisoner’s form, taking in the unnatural stillness, the mess of dark hair shadowing his face. In the dim light, Giovanni noticed the strange way light caught the fabric that covered him. It wasn’t rough prison garb or the tattered rags of a man locked away.
It was silk.
Fine. Ornate. The kind used for relics and idols, not prisoners. Threads of gold shimmered faintly at the hems—worn from time, but unmistakable. It looked like a ceremonial robe but it hung too loosely on his frame.
His stomach twisted.
Then—he saw them.
Wings.
His breath caught.
For a moment, his mind whited out, rejecting what his eyes were showing him. It was impossible. He was seeing wrong. His heart hammered against his ribs as if his body already understood something that his mind had not yet processed.
It couldn’t be possible but no trick of light could emulate the way the feathers shifted when the prisoner stirred—how the way they twitched in response to the faintest breath of air.
Large. Powerful.
And real.
His entire body tensed, an instinctive reaction to the sight of something other. The rational part of him clawed for an explanation—was this a Templar experiment? A mutation? A Piece of Eden’s influence?
Because nothing—nothing here—made sense.
The wings were magnificent. That was the first thing Giovanni truly saw. They arched behind the prisoner’s back with quiet grace, each feather catching the candlelight with a subtle, impossible shimmer.
But they weren’t untouched.
They drooped slightly, heavy with wear. Not in a way that suggested harm—but exhaustion. The kind of sag that came from too many years spent folded. Some feathers were dulled, a little frayed at the edges. A few had fallen, scattered beneath him like offerings. Time had softened their sheen, but they remained beautiful. Holy.
There were no wounds. No tears. No blood.
No hand had dared mar them—not fully. And if one ever had, Giovanni could feel in his bones that they hadn’t lived long after.
The wings were sacred. Untouched by violence, only thinned by time. Revered in stillness.
Giovanni swallowed hard.
This was not just a prisoner.
This was a man who had been kept. Worshiped. Watched. And broken in quieter ways.
Something in him didn’t want to move forward—didn’t want to know what else had been done.
But he had come this far and so slowly, carefully, he stepped closer.
A faint shift.
A breath, uneven.
Giovanni stilled.
The prisoner moved.
It was slight—barely more than a trembling inhale—but enough to prove he was conscious. The chains clinked faintly as he stirred, a weak sound, fragile. The prisoner’s head tilted slightly to the side, exposing a vulnerable neck and that’s when Giovanni saw it.
A blindfold. A strip of fine silk was wrapped over the prisoner’s eyes. It didn’t look like rough linen, not the kind used for punishment—but for concealment.
Or fear.
The chains. The wasted body. The unnatural wrongness of it all—was this meant to be reverence? Worship? Or was it something else?
His mind screamed at him to retreat, to reassess, but something—something about the figure—kept him rooted in place because when the prisoner’s face tilted, in the dim candlelight, something pulled at Giovanni’s memory.
He took a cautious step closer, unsure of what he was seeing. Then another. As he knelt down, something nagged at the back of his mind—a familiarity. He couldn’t quite pinpoint where or how but—but Giovanni knew he’d seen him before. Somewhere—somehow—
Giovanni hesitated, then reached out. He grasped the man’s chin in his gloved hand, tilting his face into the dim light.
And that was when the prisoner gasped.
The sound was soft, barely more than a breath, but then, the man moved.
The chains rattled faintly as the prisoner stirred. His wrists trembled under the pull of the manacles, arms shaking from disuse or pain—or both—but still, he moved. Tentative. Clumsy. Too slow to be a threat, but Giovanni still tensed, watching as if drawn by some unconscious recognition, the winged man reached for him—not to strike, not to shield—but to cling to the front of his robes.
And then—
“...Ezio…?”
The word was mumbled sleepily, barely formed, but it landed like a blade.
Giovanni froze, heart skipping a beat.
It wasn’t a question. Not truly. The name had been spoken like a memory.
Ezio.
He said it like he knew him.
The word didn’t belong in this chamber.
And yet—it had been spoken. Gently—as if reaching for light.
His son’s name, said from the lips of a man who should not exist.
Giovanni’s breath hitched. His mind reeled, trying to catch up with what his eyes were showing him and what his ears had just heard. The wings. The blindfold. The chains. The robes—ceremonial, not prison worn. Not once had he considered that the relic might be a person. The Church spoke of it in hushed tones, a divine mystery buried beneath Rome. A miracle. A secret worth killing for. Even the aged notes said as much. There was no source that ever said what exactly it was—not truly. Just ‘the relic.’ Just ‘the holy one.’
And now, with this trembling figure pressed to his chest—
It clicked.
This wasn’t just a prisoner.
This was the relic.
He had come here expecting myth, expecting a thing, an object. The Church called it a relic, spoke of it in whispers. The oldest note about the holy relic that spanned from nearly a century ago had pointed him here—so how could this man be alive?
How long has he been here?
A century?
No. No, that was absurd.
A man did not survive a hundred years in captivity. A man did not exist unchanged through time. A man did not lie bound before him, blindfolded in silk, whispering his son’s name as if it had been etched into his soul.
This was not just a prisoner.
This was not just a man.
This was something else.
And the Church—the Templars—had known.
They had been keeping this. Guarding it. Studying it.
His pulse slammed against his ribs, too loud, too sharp. His body locked in place as the prisoner pressed closer, arms curling weakly against him, seeking something from him—
“…Ezio…”
The sound of it stripped the breath from Giovanni’s lungs.
Because it was not just that he said it.
It was how he said it.
With a kind of longing that split clean through logic and explanation. A name spoken like sanctuary. Like hope.
Like prayer.
For a fleeting, ridiculous second, he almost corrected him. Almost said, No. I am not my son, but the way the man clung to him made him hesitate because it wasn’t an attack—it was desperation.
Giovanni inhaled sharply, grounding himself.
The assassin didn’t move. He couldn't move. The man’s weight was nothing—air and bones—but the grip was deliberate. Intentional. Fingers curled weakly at his chest, grasping fabric like it was something sacred.
Like he was something sacred.
Then, for the first time, the prisoner’s face tilted up. The blindfold shifted slightly—just enough for the candlelight to brush against too pale skin. The man winced, recoiling with a small sound of discomfort. Even in the dim candlelight, it was too much for his eyes.
Giovanni’s hand moved on instinct—his body acting before thought. He cradled the back of the man’s head, shielding him from the glare, guiding him down again with the kind of care he hadn’t used since his children were small.
"Calmati." He murmured, voice softer than he intended. "Va bene."
The response was immediate. The man sighed—soft, shuddering, as if the words had slipped through whatever veil that had dulled his senses. His body relaxed, limbs going loose, cheek pressed lightly against Giovanni’s chest.
Giovanni barely breathed.
The figure in his arms was wrong in every way—but the grip was real. The trembling, clutching grasp of a soul that knew him.
Giovanni hesitated.
Does he even know what he’s reaching for?
And yet…
The name echoed in his mind.
Ezio.
Not just once. Twice. Said with certainty. With grief. With trust.
It rang in Giovanni’s ears, louder than the chains, louder than the questions clawing at his mind—but there wasn’t time for this. Not here—not in a sanctum that wasn’t supposed to exist, with guards that could return at any moment.
He started to shift, but the moment he did, the man’s grip tightened. Not much—barely stronger than a child’s hold—but enough to make his intent clear. A sound escaped him. Not quite a whimper or a protest—but something frustrated, like a man gripping at the edge of a dream and trying to keep it from slipping away.
Giovanni’s chest tightened.
"Calmati, angelo.” He murmured, his voice steady, reassuring. "I am not leaving. I just need to free you.”
The angel’s breathing remained shallow, but his grip slowly loosened. Not all the way—just enough.
Giovanni moved quickly.
The chains rattled as he tested them, feeling where they connected to the wall. As soon as the metal scraped, he felt it—
A slight flinch. It wasn’t big or dramatic, but instinctive. A barely there reaction to the sound.
He was used to chains.
The thought made something ugly settle in Giovanni’s stomach, but he pushed it aside. He braced himself, raising his sword. Then paused, just for a breath.
“Hold still.” He murmured to the prisoner, not unkindly, almost as an afterthought. “I’ll be quick.”
And then he struck. The first hit sent vibrations up the chain. The second made the prisoner tense again—his muscles reacting before going slack, as if a buried instinct told him he should be fighting back, but his body wouldn’t listen. By the third strike, the chain snapped.
The angel exhaled sharply, body twitching—but he didn’t move.
The next took three more blows, each sending another sharp clang through the chamber.
The shackles remained around his wrists, short links of chain still dangling, but he was free.
And Giovanni needed to move.
His gaze swept the chamber for anything useful. The thin sheet beneath the winged man was the only real option. He reached for it, draping it over the man’s shoulders, ensuring it covered the elegant sweep of his wings.
The angel barely reacted—until Giovanni pulled a portion of the sheet over his head.
The moment it covered his face like a hood, he shifted.
Not just relaxing—but adjusting.
Like muscle memory.
Like a man who had done this before, a thousand times over.
Giovanni watched as the angel unconsciously tucked his chin down, his breathing settling slightly, his fingers twitching as if his body expected to pull the fabric further.
The motion was automatic.
The realization sent something uneasy crawling up Giovanni’s spine because it was familiar but there was no time to dwell on it.
The prisoner was too weak to move. He would not be able to walk.
Giovanni slid one arm beneath his legs, the other supporting his back, and lifted.
The weight of him was nothing.
Too light. Like he wasn’t even there.
The winged man barely stirred—except for one thing.
Even in his half conscious state, as Giovanni adjusted his grip, the angel shifted just enough to curl toward his warmth, his body instinctively moving like a man who knew how to sleep on the back of a galloping horse.
Giovanni swallowed hard.
Without a single glance back, he carried the relic from the chamber and vanished into the dark.
The tunnels were suffocating in a way only tunnels could be—narrow, restrictive, silent.
Yet, the heavy silence was broken only by the sound of Giovanni’s measured footsteps.
The weight in his arms barely stirred.
Wrapped securely in the sheet, the winged man remained still, his shallow breaths warming the fabric against Giovanni’s shoulder. His body was lax against the steady rhythm of movement.
Giovanni pressed forward, his grip firm yet careful.
The tunnels sloped downward, the air growing heavier with the unmistakable scent of rot and damp stone.
The sewers.
He had memorized the quickest path based on Father Agnolo’s map and it was the only reason why he had maintained any semblance of direction in the labyrinth that was the Vatican’s underbelly.
Then, a sound came from ahead. A whisper of movement.
Giovanni froze just for a second before he pressed his back against the cool stone wall, muscles tensing. The weight in his arms shifted, a soft exhale against his neck, but did not wake.
But then a familiar shape stepped out from the shadows.
"Finally." Mario grunted, stepping into the torchlight. His sword was in hand, stained with something dark, his broad form tense but alert. He flicked his gaze over Giovanni, his expression unreadable. "Took your time, brother."
Giovanni exhaled, tension releasing only slightly.
But Mario’s sharp eyes were already scanning past him, looking over his shoulder, then frowning.
"Where’s the chest?" He asked. His tone wasn’t accusatory—just confused. "You were supposed to bring the relic out in the chest. That was the whole point of the disguise, remember?"
Giovanni didn’t answer.
Mario’s eyes dropped to the bundle in his arms. His brows furrowed.
Then, Giovanni shifted his grip—just enough. The sheet slipped, revealing tanned skin, a glint of gold, and the curve of something... impossible.
A wing.
Mario’s breath hitched. He stepped back, hand twitching toward his sword. Then, suddenly, he laughed. A short, wrong, humorless bark that barely made it past his throat.
"No." He said, shaking his head. His voice was hoarse, raw. "That’s not—" Mario looked again, really looked. The blindfold. The ceremonial silk. The feathers.
"You’re joking." His voice was thin, caught between disbelief and something closer to horror. "Tell me you are joking."
Giovanni said nothing.
"Dio." Almost a prayer. Almost a curse.
"The Vatican—" Mario stopped, shook his head sharply, and let out a breath that was neither steady nor controlled. His voice wavered, caught between disbelief and something uglier. "You’re telling me the Vatican’s been hiding this?" Mario’s hand jerked toward the limp figure. "A fucking—" He cut himself off, unable to say it.
Mario exhaled. He had known the note was nearly a century old. He had known they were looking for something ancient, something forgotten, but in his mind, the relic had been an artifact—something stored away, something long untouched by time.
Not a man.
Not this.
"That’s not possible." He muttered, shaking his head.
A living man.
Locked away for a hundred years.
Mario felt sick.
"Dio." It came out strangled. "They kept him locked up for a century, Giovanni. Do you even understand what that means?"
Giovanni did understand. It had struck him the moment he laid eyes on the prisoner, the moment he saw the wasted body bound to the stone wall. But now, Mario was the one struggling to make sense of it.
"No one survives that." Mario’s voice was rough. "No one should."
His gaze snapped back to Giovanni’s, his expression demanding an answer.
"Are you even sure he’s a man? No one wakes up with wings, and no one survives a hundred years in a dungeon."
Giovanni’s grip on the fragile weight in his arms remained unwavering.
"I am sure."
Mario stared at him for a long moment, searching his face.
Then, almost reluctantly, he exhaled.
"Figlio di puttana." He muttered, scrubbing a gloved hand over his face. He let out a disbelieving laugh. "You always find the worst kinds of trouble, brother."
When he spoke again, his voice was gruff. Practical.
"We need to move."
Giovanni nodded once, shifting his hold again as he followed.
The tunnels seemed to shrink, the ceiling lowering just enough to make movement more awkward. Mario led, his steps quick but sure, leading them towards their pre-planned exit.
Giovanni adjusted his grip on the unconscious man in his arms, his heartbeat steady but sharp. The prisoner was too light. Too cold. His wings, carefully wrapped and hidden beneath Giovanni’s cloak, twitched slightly, the only sign of life.
Mario moved ahead, blade drawn, his footfalls silent against the stone. The Vatican’s depths were a maze of shadows, torchlight flickering weakly against cold walls. They had made it in through deception. Getting out would require something far riskier—luck.
And luck, Giovanni had learned in his tenure, was a fickle thing.
They had barely passed the first corner when Mario stopped short. A single flick of his hand sent Giovanni pressing into the wall beside him, tightening his hold on Desmond.
Voices.
Distant but closing in.
"Check the cells—He wants confirmation." One of the guards barked, boots scuffing against stone. "Something isn’t right. If the relic is disturbed—"
Giovanni’s stomach turned. They didn’t know yet that they had already pilfered their relic, but they were checking.
Mario moved first, cutting left into a secondary passage. Giovanni followed, mindful of the angel’s weight. The man barely stirred, his breathing shallow.
Another turn. A descending stairwell. Then—
A torch flared ahead.
Too close.
Mario swore under his breath, shoving them both into an alcove as a trio of guards passed within arm’s reach. Giovanni kept still, his grip on the prisoner tightening as the man in his arms shifted with a soft, drowsy sigh.
One of the guards hesitated.
"Did you hear that?"
Giovanni’s breath caught, a hand tightening over the hilt of his sword. Mario’s stance changed.
The moment stretched.
Then another guard scoffed. "Rats. Or ghosts." A laugh.
The first man muttered something about the Vatican being cursed before they moved on.
Giovanni exhaled silently, forcing his muscles to unclench. Mario shot him a look, then gestured forward.
They moved. Faster now.
The tunnels twisted, spiraled—shifting from carefully laid corridors to rougher, older pathways. Giovanni followed Mario’s lead, his own memory of the mapped escape route blurring under the pressure.
Then Mario stopped again, just short of an archway. Giovanni nearly collided into him.
‘What?’ Giovanni mouthed.
Mario just looked ahead.
Shit.
The passage they needed—the final tunnel to the catacombs—was blocked. A barricade, manned by two guards.
Giovanni clenched his jaw. Time was slipping away. The palace above would wake soon. Their absence would be noticed.
Mario considered their options, gaze flicking toward the nearest side passage.
"There’s another route." He murmured. "But it’s longer."
And if the Vatican went into full lockdown, they would be trapped inside.
Giovanni shifted his grip, feeling the fragile weight of the man in his arms.
They didn’t have time.
"We take them out." He decided.
Mario gave him a look. "With your burden."
"I can still use a knife."
Mario exhaled but didn’t argue. Instead, he moved—silent, swift.
Giovanni followed, pressing the angel’s limp form closer against his chest as Mario closed the distance.
The first guard barely had time to react before Mario’s blade slid beneath his ribs, catching the weight before he crumpled.
The second turned—opened his mouth—
Giovanni moved on instinct.
A flash of steel. A silent choke. The man fell, body stilling before his sword could even leave its sheath.
The passage was clear.
Giovanni adjusted the prisoner again. They stepped over the bodies and into the tunnel beyond.
The final stretch was a blur of stone and shadows. Their escape route twisted through old catacombs. The deeper they went, the less refined the walls became, until finally, they emerged into an ancient, disused aqueduct.
The exit loomed ahead—a grated passage barely wide enough for a man.
Beyond it, faint torchlight flickered against damp stone.
The city.
Freedom.
Mario shoved his shoulder against the rusted bars. With an aged groan, the grate gave way, collapsing onto the cobblestone of an abandoned side street. The night air rushed in, cool against their sweat dampened skin.
Giovanni didn’t hesitate.
He stepped over the threshold, out of the suffocating tunnels.
The city stretched before them, quiet in the late hour. It was a stark contrast to the Vatican’s
They had made it.
But it wasn’t over.
They had a plan. Of course they had a plan. The relic would be secured in the false chest—smuggled out of the city under the guise of diplomatic treasure, with forged documents and a decoy caravan bound for Florence. Mario would handle the exit routes. Giovanni would monitor the trail. Clean. Efficient. Rational.
But that plan had been for a thing. An object.
Not this.
Not a man wrapped in silk and silence, warm and breathing in his arms. Not someone whose fingers curled when spoken to.
The moment Giovanni had lifted him from the chamber floor, the plan had begun to unravel.
Because you didn’t hide a person in a crate.
(At least, not unless you had no other choice.)
Giovanni turned towards his brother. "Where now?"
He adjusted his grip on the bundle in his arms. The man within it shifted slightly but did not stir.
He barely weighed more than the cloak around him—like holding the echo of someone who’d long since faded. His silence wasn’t peace. It was absence. It sat heavy in Giovanni’s chest, unfamiliar and unwanted, pressing at the edges of something he refused to name.
He stared down the narrow alleyway ahead. He knew these streets. He had walked Rome’s alleys before, but tonight, with this burden in his arms, they felt different. Wrong.
“There’s a safe house here in Rome. A place I trust.” Mario said finally.
Giovanni frowned. "Where?"
Mario gave him a pointed look. "You know where."
Understanding dawned, and Giovanni felt the weight of it settle against his ribs.
"The courtesans."
Mario nodded.
Giovanni’s grip unconsciously tightening around the figure in his arms.
"We need discretion." His voice was low, edged with something firm. Unyielding. "How many will know?"
Mario exhaled, nodding slightly as if he had already expected the question.
"Only Vittoria."
Giovanni’s eyes flicked to him, assessing. The name was unfamiliar to him, but his brother had said the name with such ease that it was clear they had done business together before.
"She’s no fool, Gio." Mario’s voice was quieter now, but deliberate. "She won’t ask questions. And her girls—" He shook his head. "They don’t pry. They take in broken things and put them back together. That’s what they do."
Giovanni considered that.
The courtesans could be trusted. Their profession was built on secrecy, on knowing when to speak and when to stay silent. If Mario vouched for them, then they would keep the relic hidden.
And more than that…
They would care for him.
Warm hands, soft voices, a place that smelled of perfume instead of damp stone. It was better than any alternative Giovanni could give him right now.
"Fine." He murmured.
Mario grinned. “Good. Because I wasn’t going to let you drag him all the way to Florence in this state.”
Giovanni rolled his eyes, adjusting his grip on the sleeping man. The winged figure murmured something under his breath, shifting slightly but never waking.
Mario clapped him on the shoulder.
"Come on. The girls will have a room ready."
They moved quickly, keeping to the narrow streets with shadows being their only allies. Mario led, cutting through alleys and deserted courtyards with practiced ease. Giovanni followed close behind, adjusting his grip on the winged man whose weight never seemed to settle.
As they rounded a corner, Giovanni’s gaze flicked down, catching the faint glint of broken chain links slipping from beneath the sheet.
The shackles.
He didn’t slow, but his jaw tightened.
"They’ll need to come off." He muttered lowly, just loud enough for Mario to hear.
Mario didn’t glance back. "I know. I keep supplies at the courtesan house. Blades. Tools. It won’t be a problem."
Giovanni nodded, shifting the burden in his arms to hide the chains more securely beneath the cloth.
The streets were mercifully quiet as they moved.
Minutes stretched.
Then—at last—Mario slowed in front of a building.
The Rose in Fiore stood before them.
Candlelight flickered through its shuttered windows, alight with laughter and conversation from within despite the time of night. To the city, it was just another pleasure house in Rome’s winding backstreets.
To Mario, it was something else.
He knocked twice on the door, then once more in quick succession.
There was a pause—before the door cracked open, revealing a woman wrapped in dark, flowing silks. She stood tall and poised, her expression unreadable. She didn’t seem surprised to see them. Her gaze flickered over Mario first, then to Giovanni—then to the figure in his arms.
She said nothing. She did not need to.
Mario inclined his head, his voice low but smooth. “Buona sera, bella. I find myself in need of your kindness.”
Her expression didn’t change, but her eyes found their way back to Giovanni and his burden. Something in her gaze sharpened.
“A favor.” Mario added softly. “A quiet one.”
She held his gaze for a second longer before, wordlessly, she stepped aside. The door opened wider.
Mario smiled and turned towards Giovanni. “She’ll know how to care for him. I need to check for movement in the Papacy.”
Giovanni paused, reluctant. He had relied on Mario’s presence, the silent reassurance that they were not alone in this, but Mario was right. He could not stay here. Someone needed to assess the situation before it unraveled further.
“…Understood.” Giovanni said at last.
Mario nodded once, then slipped back into the night.
Now, it was just him and Vittoria.
She watched him, expectant.
“I need a room.” He said, voice low. “Secure. Private.”
The corners of her lips twitched—just slightly. Something like amusement flashed in her dark eyes. “For yourself?”
“No.” Giovanni adjusted his grip on the weight in his arms. “For him.”
She studied him for a moment—cold and assessing—before she turned on her heel. “Follow me.”
The moment Giovanni stepped inside, the atmosphere shifted almost immediately. The air was warm, wafting with the scent of perfume and incense. Furniture was draped with silks. Cushions lined the space in inviting colors. Everything about the house spoke of indulgence. It looked like any other brothel, and yet, underneath it all, there was something more unique. Deliberate.
Control.
The moment the door closed behind him, the courtesans who were lounging nearby stirred effortlessly—beautifully. Their chatter rose in pitch. Like a spell, laughter spilled into the halls, playful and exaggerated.
A group of women leaning by the staircase tossed smiles his way. Their movements, already languid and enticing, became more.
It was a distraction.
They weren’t performing for him. They were covering him in case of any wandering eyes.
Giovanni felt a flicker of appreciation, lowering his head in silent thanks. These women knew their work well.
Vittoria led him deeper into her house, passing by flowing curtains and elegantly adorned figures like ghosts. They reached a narrow staircase before long, which winded up toward quieter halls.
They climbed one flight. Then another.
Finally, at the top, Vittoria stopped before a dead end. She pressed her palm against the wall and applied pressure. The sound of something clicking echoed in the air. The panel shifted and revealed a darkened room.
She turned around then, acknowledging him at last. “No one will disturb you here.” She murmured.
Giovanni stepped past her.
The room was modest. The furnishings were simple—a bed, a table, a drawer—but it was enough. Safe. Quiet.
Then, as he moved forward, adjusting his charge’s weight—
Vittoria shifted.
It was slight, nearly imperceptible, but Giovanni caught it.
Her gaze was fixed on the angel—not his face, but at the feathered edges that slipping loose from beneath his coverings.
A whisper of white against the dim candlelight.
She stilled.
There was no sudden flinch or fear, but something sharp passed through her gaze. Quick, assessing—dangerously close to alarm before she buried it beneath control.
Giovanni had seen hardened men freeze in the wake of something incomprehensible. Vittoria did not freeze. Her expression smoothed, lips pressing into a thin line.
She lifted her gaze to Giovanni.
It was not shock in her eyes. It was not awe.
It was calculation.
A breath. A decision.
Then, as if nothing had happened, she inclined her head slightly.
“I will bring water.” Her voice was softer now. Not reverent, but measured.
And with that, she slipped away, leaving Giovanni alone with the impossible weight in his arms.
Somewhere, far beyond the reach of the waking world, Desmond drifted.
The edges of his dreamscape were soft, hazy—like watercolor on paper. The wooden beams of Maria’s home curved in and out of focus. The scent of fresh bread curled around his senses, warm and familiar.
He was home.
And yet, something shifted.
The walls stretched longer than they should have. The floorboards beneath his feet were uneven. Wrong.
In the hearth, a fire burned. The warmth brushed against his skin, but it did not feel real.
Maria hummed in the kitchen.
Lucia giggled by the window.
He should go to them.
He should—
A whisper.
A ghost of a touch against his hands.
Something was missing.
Desmond’s fingers curled reflexively. The warmth was too far, too faint, and when he reached for it—
It slipped away.
His chest ached. He was forgetting something. Someone?
The light in the room flickered. Lucia’s laughter became distant. Maria’s song faded.
In the growing silence, Desmond reached. He didn’t know for what, exactly, but he needed something real. Something solid.
His fingers grasped at nothing.
But then—
A voice.
Not Maria’s. Not Lucia’s.
It was a man’s voice.
Deep. Familiar.
It tugged at something in him—something raw and buried. A thread pulled taut beneath the surface, tied not to memory, but to instinct. Recognition without understanding. Safety without reason.
He had heard that voice before. He didn’t know where or when. If it was from his memory or from his ancestors, but—but it calmed him.
The tone carried warmth, steadiness—like a campfire on a winter night. Like the sound of someone who didn’t need to raise their voice to be obeyed. Someone who would not let the world break you.
It was safety. Or the memory of it.
"Breathe."
The word came low. Measured. Not pleading. Not asking.
A quiet command—one that expected to be followed, not out of fear, but because it made sense to.
Desmond shuddered.
He inhaled. Exhaled.
His fingers curled, weak and unfocused. The tension bled from his muscles, exhaustion pulling him back under.
The warmth hadn’t come back.
But something else had.
And for now, that—that was enough.
Giovanni exhaled slowly, dragging a hand through his hair.
The winged man was calmer now—or something close to it.
His breathing had steadied. It was not the stillness of restful sleep, not truly. More like resignation. The quiet of a body too exhausted to fight, too drained to resist.
It wasn’t right.
Giovanni hesitated for only a moment before reaching for the ties of the man’s robe.
The outer layer was ceremonial—thin and translucent, the kind of silk meant for altar cloths, not for warmth. Beneath it, a simple tunic lay loose against his frame, pale and finely made, as if someone had dressed him with care, but not concern. Reverence without mercy.
He untied both—and the moment the cloth fell away, Giovanni stilled.
Tanned skin, stretched too thin. Starvation was his first thought, but that wasn’t quite it. The body beneath wasn’t merely weak.
He could see, without a shadow of a doubt, that it had been strong once.
Not just sturdy—honed.
Giovanni had seen warriors fall out of practice, their frames softening with age or safety. This was something else.
The remnants of strength were still there—the ghost of muscle, the memory of speed and precision etched into the shape of him.
But it had been arrested. Preserved.
Not dead. Just not allowed to live.
His stomach twisted.
This body had been built to move, to climb, to survive. Not anymore.
Had the Vatican made sure of that?
More cloth fell away. More skin was revealed. And with it—
Scars.
Not the kind earned in battle. Not ragged or wild.
These were clinical. Sharp. Deliberate.
Fine white lines crisscrossed bronzed skin. They cut along his ribs, dotted his abdomen—too symmetrical to be accidents. Clean. Intentional. Like the mark of a blade guided by a scholar’s hand, not a soldier’s.
Some curved like circles, as if someone had pressed something hot against his flesh again and again in search of an answer.
They were not fresh.
But they weren’t aged either.
Not quite gone. Not quite healed.
As if something had mended them too well, but not enough to erase the memory.
Giovanni swallowed tightly.
These wounds must have been made at the start. Early. When he had first been captured—before anyone, or anything, had stepped in to stop it.
He did not know who had intervened. Only that someone—something— had because the damage had not gone further. The body had not rotted. The pain had not been compounded. There was no infection, no open wounds—just… remnants.
He had seen cruelty before.
But this—this wasn’t punishment. It wasn’t vengeance. It wasn’t even hate.
This was curiosity.
Giovanni’s jaw tightened. He forced himself to take a breath, steadying himself against the sick feeling curling in his gut and the burning hot rage in his throat.
His eyes traced the long lines of scars, carved upon flesh like scripture onto parchment. Then—carefully—he reached for the sheet at the edge of the bed and drew it up.
Not to hide everything. Just enough.
The worst of the damage remained exposed—his ribs, his arms, the fresh bruising around the shackles. But the rest… the rest, Giovanni let the cloth cover. The wings, tucked beneath, remained unseen.
He barely heard the door open as Vittoria stepped inside, a basin of warm water in her hands. Her heels barely made a sound against the wooden floor—silent, efficient, controlled.
Then she stopped.
The water sloshed against the rim of the basin, forgotten.
Her sharp gaze swept over the man laid out on the mattress, and Giovanni knew the moment she saw it. The hollowness beneath the skin. The shackles. The scars.
Something in the air shifted—subtle and sharp. The same stillness Giovanni had seen in fighters before the first strike.
When she finally spoke, her voice was cold. Precise.
"Who did this?" It wasn’t a question.
Giovanni did not answer. He could not.
Her dark eyes snapped to him.
“The rats?” The word was sharp, deliberate. Templars, she meant.
Giovanni’s throat was dry. He forced himself to speak. “No.”
Vittoria studied him. She was weighing more than just his words—she was measuring what kind of man he was, and how much of the truth he was willing to speak aloud. Then, finally—
"The Church."
Giovanni did not answer. He didn’t have to.
Something shifted in Vittoria’s posture—not shock, not horror.
Disgust.
"They always pretend their hands are clean." She said, measured and cool, but her fingers twitched around the rim of the basin, as if resisting the urge to snap it in half. She set the basin down on the nearby table.
For a second, her hands trembled. Then, without another word, she walked to the doorway. Lingered.
"Bring the eldest.” A beat. “Now."
She didn’t shout. Her voice didn’t raise. Yet, her command rang through the halls like the crack of a whip.
The weight of it sent the girls, who had been idling nearby like beautiful ornaments—silent, smiling, deliberately decorative—scattering with precision.
They had been there the whole time. Listening. Waiting.
And now, with Vittoria’s word, they moved—not with fear, but purpose. Tools summoned to a hand long used to wielding them.
She stood still for a moment longer, looking down at the sleeping man with something unreadable in her gaze.
Then, without another glance at Giovanni, she left.
They moved swiftly, but not with urgency—with care.
The eldest daughters of the house, the ones who had seen men at their worst and tended to them without fear, stepped forward. They knew the weight of a man too broken to speak. They understood the quiet language of pain, of exhaustion, of wounds both seen and unseen.
And they knew—instinctively, immediately—that this one was different.
Not just because of the way Giovanni guarded him like a knight watching over something holy, but because he was too still.
Even in sleep, even in fevered exhaustion, men moved. They twitched, they groaned, they tensed against unseen threats—but this man was loose limbed and pliant. His breath came too light, too shallow, as if he had spent so long curled in on himself that he had forgotten how to take up space.
Not weak. Not fragile. Emptied.
Even his blindfold, wrapped in a careful strip of golden silk, felt deliberate—not a restraint, but a barrier.
He could not see them and perhaps, in his state, he did not want to.
They did not ask what had been done to him.
Instead, they cooed and tutted, murmuring soft reassurances like a mother soothing a restless child.
Vittoria observed in silence as her girls tended to him.
They moved like sculptors—efficient, delicate, exact.
Cloth wiped away sweat, fingers pressing to pulse points to check for fever. Cool hands smoothed over scarred skin, not lingering but not flinching either.
They did not pity him. They simply tended to him.
When Vittoria briefly left and returned with a small bundle of tools in her hands, she did not need to announce her presence. One of her eldest courtesans, a woman with steady hands and knowing eyes, reached for them without needing to be told.
The shackle around his right wrist was stiff, rusted slightly at the hinge where the broken chain still dangled. The courtesan pressed her fingers against the skin beneath, assessing. The bruising was deep, the flesh raw from the restraint.
She did not hesitate.
A quiet snip. A shift of metal and then the iron shackles clicked open, the metal groaning as it was pried away from skin it had long since marked.
The eldest of the courtesans worked in silence, steady and practiced, their hands firm but never cruel. They had done this before—freed wrists from bindings, removed the weight of chains.
This time, though, felt different.
The moment the last piece of metal fell away, the man flinched.
Not in pain. Not in fear, but in reaction. The slight twitch of fingers, the subtle tightening of muscle.
One of the women—bolder than the rest—brushed her fingers along his palm. Testing.
The man did not pull away. Instead—he sighed. A slow, trembling exhale, softer than breath.
“Poor thing.” She murmured, her fingers tracing lightly over the bruises left behind, the faint ridges where metal had once bitten deep.
And then—her gaze lifted.
She had been focused on his wrists, the shackles, the way his fingers curled weakly as if expecting the weight to remain, but something caught her eye.
The sheet draped over him had slipped—just slightly—with the movement of his arm.
A glimpse of white peeked through.
It wasn’t a bandage or linen.
She hesitated—then reached. Slowly. Deliberately. Her fingers brushed the edge of the sheet, and with a quiet, tentative motion, she peeled it back.
The wings unfurled.
Not fully—but just enough to spill across the bedding in a sweep of pale feathers, delicate and impossibly real.
A hush fell over the room.
Not of fear. Not even in surprise.
Of reverence.
One of the women—bolder than the rest—reached out. Her fingers hovered, not quite touching. When she finally made contact, it was barely more than a whisper of skin against feather.
The softness startled her. She had expected something coarser, something unnatural. Instead, it felt like the underbelly of a dove—delicate and warm.
The wing shifted under her touch.
(And Desmond—Desmond shuddered, but it wasn’t in pain or fear—but in familiarity.
A memory surfaced—hazy, distant, warm.
Gentle hands, careful touches, someone tending to his feathers with devotion.
Soft laughter, lavender, chamomile.)
A breath escaped him—quiet, pleased. His wing, the one she had touched, lifted slightly. Then stretched, as if to request, “More, please!”
The girls stilled.
Then, the courtesan closest to him laughed softly—half breath, half wonder. She leaned in and gently brushed the back of her fingers along his wing again, slower this time. He twitched, but didn’t pull away.
Another woman reached out, kneeling gracefully at the bedside. She adjusted the sheet so it wouldn’t wrinkle beneath the feathers. One smoothed his hair back from his face with a mother’s touch.
A third gently tucked her fingers beneath his curled hand and gave it the lightest squeeze—just enough to offer presence. Safety.
They moved quietly around him, careful and deliberate, like women tending to a sleeping child.
Not worshipping. Not fearing.
Just… caring.
A soft giggle escaped the first courtesan, fond and amused.
“Oh, Dio.” She whispered. “He’s just a chick.”
The others joined her—smiles tucked into their voices, laughter like velvet. Light. Tender.
Their hands moved without thought now—adjusting the pillow beneath his head, brushing dust from the base of his wing, careful not to pull or press too hard. One placed her palm briefly over his heart, feeling the steady rise and fall.
They had seen beautiful things before—jewels, silks, art made by the hands of masters, but nothing like this. Nothing so tragic or as breathtaking.
Giovanni, who had been standing stiffly to the side, watching with sharp eyes, frowned.
Not because of the laughter—but because of the way the air changed the moment the wings were revealed. The way these women—hardened, clever, used to seeing the worst of men—had softened.
He watched the angel's fingers twitch at a touch. Watched a wing flutter in unconscious reply. Watched the way the softest hands in Rome reached for him not in pity, but in quiet reverence.
They didn’t look at him like a prisoner.
They looked at him like something sacred.
Vittoria caught his expression and smirked.
“You should be grateful.” She murmured, watching as one of her daughters smoothed the angel’s hair back, another pressing cool fingers to his too warm cheek. “He’s responding to them.”
Giovanni’s gaze flickered to the winged man’s face.
She was right.
He was still caught in whatever haze held him, his body sluggish and barely aware, but there were moments of lucidity. When one of the women ran a damp cloth over his wings, he shuddered. When another hummed softly, his fingers twitched. When Giovanni moved too close—his body leaned toward him.
Vittoria’s eyes were sharp as she took note of it all.
“He knows you.”
Giovanni stilled. Just for a second.
(She caught the way his jaw twitched. He didn’t believe it—but he wasn’t sure he didn’t, either.)
Giovanni thought about the name murmured by the relic, haunted by it, and shook his head. “He only thinks he does.” The Assassin said at last, his voice rough.
Vittoria hummed. Considering. “Then let him think it.” She said, because in her eyes, it did not matter who the angel believed Giovanni was. She saw how his muscles had relaxed in Giovanni’s presence, saw how the angel’s wings had moved, as if reaching for him. If his presence helped, then all the better.
She turned away, giving her girls a quiet nod to continue.
Giovanni, however, didn’t move for a long time. Her words played in his head.
Now that the haze of adrenaline had cleared, now that this winged man was no longer bound in rusted iron or shrouded in grime and shadow, he could finally see him.
And what he saw made his stomach twist.
The sharp lines of his face. The arch of his brow. The way his jaw curved.
Familiar. Too familiar.
It was a resemblance he hadn’t seen in the dark and hadn’t processed while they were running through tunnels. Now though, in the soft light of the courtesan house, he couldn’t unsee it.
He looked like Ezio.
Not precisely. There was something other in the face, but Ezio’s bone structure was there. The eyes, though closed, sat beneath brows Giovanni knew as well as his own. The mouth, when relaxed, looked like his wife’s.
And if not for the scar bisecting his lip—pale and healed, but unmistakable—he might have passed for his son in perfect stillness.
In the dim light, with those lashes casting soft shadows over his cheeks, with his breath slow and silent, the angel looked like blood.
Giovanni closed his eyes and massaged his temple.
No.
It had to be a trick of light. Or imagination. A coincidence, surely.
But this was a man locked away in the depths of the Vatican, but he had whispered his son’s name, who looked like his son, looked like he belonged with them—
There couldn’t be that much coincidence in the world.
And yet—until the angel woke, he had no answers.
This wasn’t a relic.
Nor was he a man—not with those wings. Not with that face. Not with the way he clung to Giovanni like he knew him.
Giovanni pinched the bridge of his nose and let out a long, tired breath.
“What the hell—” He muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “—have we stolen?”
Interlude
She had been watching for a long time.
Even before the dream, before the warmth of this illusion wrapped around him, she had waited—buried deep beneath thought, beneath time, beneath the Eye’s blind gaze.
For nearly a century, he slept and she watched it all.
The priests who anointed him.
The cardinals who whispered about wings.
The guards who adjusted his chains with trembling hands.
The scientists, later, with quiet mouths and hungry eyes.
They touched him. They all touched him—and their thoughts, their emotions, their little tethered regrets—they stuck to him like ash on white feathers.
She sifted through those traces.
From one, she learned how humans fear the divine. From another, how they justify cruelty with reverence. From a third—one who knelt to him in secret—she learned the shape of worship.
She did not need their names. She needed only their touch.
Desmond had been touched by hundreds. Brushed, dragged, carried, restrained. Each moment a thread. Each thread, a key. She wove them into a net.
But it wasn’t enough to reach him.
Not yet.
He was sleeping too deeply. Guarded. Wrapped in something that curled around him like a serpent—some other presence. Protective. Possessive. The Eye.
She could not challenge it directly.
So she bided her time.
When the dream began, she moved softly. She knew the Eye would be watching. So she did not try to claim the warmth. Not immediately.
Instead, she chose the Farm.
There had been regret there, deep in a hidden part of Desmond's heart. He had wanted to run. He had left his mother behind. He had always wondered what if.
It was a logical choice.
But Desmond did not respond the way she expected.
He did not want that house. He did not care for the soil or the sky. He did not reach for the ghost of his mother or father.
He did not want this mother.
The dream cracked at the edges before she could adjust. The world shifted away from her hand, and the Eye—unknowingly—swept her construct aside.
It should have been a failure.
But it wasn’t.
Because while he dreamed, the living touched him again.
The old one—Giovanni—held him like another son.
The woman—Vittoria—loathed what had been done to him.
And the courtesans… oh, they loved him.
She felt it.
Each brush of fingers. Each hand against fevered skin. Each quiet hum meant to soothe.
This was not the same as before.
These were not shackles. These were not trembling hands made frantic by fear. These were not the curious touches of reverent believers who worshiped as they carved.
This was gentleness.
This was care.
And Desmond… responded.
He shifted into their touch. He breathed differently when they were near. He sought warmth like a half starved creature.
And she understood.
He was not starved of touch.
He was starved of affection.
A hundred hands had touched him, yes—but none had comforted. None had cradled. None had treated him like someone human—someone to be loved.
The Eye had wrapped him so tightly, he had forgotten the warmth of others.
But now he remembered. Now he leaned into it.
She smiled—small and sharp and knowing.
She would not fight the Eye. Not yet.
She would become what Desmond wanted. Something warm. Something safe.
She would slide into the skin of a memory.
Not the Farm.
Maria.
And she would be his mother.
Notes:
What is this? A rescue? Light at the end of the tunnel? Actual plot?!
So letting ya’ll know—next few chapters are gonna be a doozy. Not a bad doozy, but like, lead up doozy. More Auditore! More Eye! More…courtesans?!
You can prolly tell from my writing and thought process that I like slow burn. (And drama.) I like having a foundation for the characters I write about and the next two chapters build this up for what I hope to be the most succulent comfort to the hurt I’ve given you all.
I spent waaaay too long on this chapter than I wanted to though, mostly because I was like, how the hell would Giovanni and Mario even react to Desmond, realistically. As you can tell, it lingered on freak the fuck out lol.
Also, ya boi Ezio won’t show up till Chapter 12—that is what I am estimating at least. For clarification, it is the beginning of 1476. So we have about a year till shit hits the fan. (And it will hit the fan.)
Hoping to get another chapter out next weekend assuming my caffeine addicted ass doesn’t brick what I have ready! //sad haha//
Chapter 10
Summary:
The Eye makes a mistake.
Giovanni reevaluates.
And Desmond, through it all, sleeps.
Notes:
FYI there is a scene in this chapter where there is a group of people who get super verbally pervy around Desmond but get their just desserts (aka violence.) Not sure if you would consider it VIOLENT VIOLENT (because it's not TOO descriptive, but the uh, idea is there lmao. I figure I’d put this here anyways because would you call biblical violence—violence violence, or simply violence?
(Kinda makes me wonder if I’ve become too jaded to tell withe the amount of research I had to do lol)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The courtesan house was quiet, cloaked in the hush of dawn—too early for clients, too late for sleep.
Giovanni sat hunched near the window, still in yesterday’s clothes. The weight of the night had pressed heavily on his shoulders. He had not slept—not truly—not since they arrived.
The brothel had remained still, its halls dark and silent, watched over by painted women who moved like shadows.
Not one had asked about the man with wings.
Not what he was.
Not where he had come from.
Not what had been done to him.
Yet their silence had teeth.
Paola’s girls would have asked—softly, cleverly, with meanings folded between the words. They were spies as much as courtesans, but Vittoria’s said nothing.
Giovanni had seen one brush her fingers across a scar on the winged man’s neck, face gone unreadable. Another had traced the bruises with her eyes like they were a map—one she meant to follow back to whoever left them.
They were disciplined, yes—but there was blood in their perfume. The kind of women who didn’t end fights. He was certain of it.
The quiet didn’t last.
Brisk, purposeful footsteps echoed through the hall, and a moment later, the door opened with a quiet creak.
Mario stepped inside.
He looked as worn as Giovanni felt—dust on his boots, sweat drying on his brow, but his eyes were sharp. Alert. All the more dangerous for how quiet he was.
Giovanni stood at once. "What did you find?"
Mario didn’t bother with pleasantries. "The Vatican hasn’t moved."
Giovanni frowned. "What?"
"No orders. No searches. No increased guard presence. As far as the Papacy is concerned, nothing happened last night."
That shouldn’t be possible.
The relic—no, the man—had been held beneath the Vatican for decades. A living miracle. A divine secret that was jealously guarded. His very existence was a symbol of legitimacy—proof that the Church still walked hand in hand with heaven. His disappearance should have sent shockwaves through the Church. Yet there had been no proclamations, no manhunts, no papal decree.
Only silence.
It meant only one thing.
"The Pope doesn’t know." Giovanni murmured.
Mario nodded grimly. "It was never the Papacy keeping him locked away. It was the Templars."
And they had noticed.
Mario’s voice lowered. "My spies report heavy Templar movement across Rome. They’re searching. Every rat, every informant—turned inside out. They lost something valuable, and they know it. They just don’t know where it is."
A coil of unease tightened in Giovanni’s chest.
"Then we need to leave."
Mario exhaled. "That’s why I’m here. We can get him out of the city, but to where is the problem." The elder Auditore shifted his weight, arms crossed as he leaned against the edge of the table. "I was thinking Monteriggioni."
Giovanni looked up. "The villa?"
Mario nodded. "It’s out of the way. Fortified. Fewer eyes."
Giovanni gave a low sound in his throat. Not quite agreement. Not quite doubt. "It was fortified."
Mario’s mouth tightened. "It still is."
"You haven’t sent men there in nearly a year."
"I’ve been fighting a war, Giovanni."
"We both have." Giovanni’s voice was low. "But I had Florence. Lorenzo. Gold that wasn’t mine to give." He hesitated, then added, softer—"I should’ve done more."
Mario’s jaw tensed. He looked away. "You gave what you could. Intelligence. Political cover. Medici favors, but you weren’t there."
Giovanni didn’t answer. He was thinking of the villa walls—how the south side had begun to crumble, how the stables sagged under rot and time. Monteriggioni was still standing, yes, but just barely. Mario was holding it together with spit and pride, and every year, the cracks grew deeper.
"I didn’t forget the place." Mario muttered.
"No." Giovanni said, voice softer now. "You just poured all your strength into the Brotherhood. And Monteriggioni... paid for it."
The silence between them stretched.
"It would’ve been ideal." Giovanni admitted. "Once."
Mario didn’t respond right away. When he did, his voice was tight. "It was supposed to be the legacy. The place that stood when everything else fell."
Giovanni’s eyes softened. "It still can be. Just not today."
They stood in the quiet hum of the brothel for a moment—two brothers, two soldiers, with too many years between them and too many regrets.
Giovanni exhaled. "We need a place the Templars won’t suspect. Somewhere unremarkable. Somewhere no one would think to look."
Mario arched a brow. "That’s not a long list."
Giovanni didn’t flinch. "Florence."
Mario stared at him. "You’d bring him home?"
"Not home." Giovanni said evenly. "Not with my family."
Mario tilted his head. "Then where?"
Giovanni paused, the answer forming slowly—inevitably.
"…Paola."
That earned him a look.
Mario’s mouth twitched. "Ah. Paola."
"She runs a courtesan house." Giovanni said, too quickly. "She’s discreet. Her girls know how to handle secrets—and she owes me a favor."
Mario raised a brow. "Does she?"
"She’s not like your courtesans." Giovanni added stiffly.
Mario gave him a slow, smug smile. "You sure about that?"
Giovanni sighed, dragging a hand down his face. "Don’t start."
But Mario was already grinning. "So that’s how it is, eh? I’ve got mine in Rome, you’ve got yours in Florence—two Auditore men, two brothels."
"This isn’t a competition." Giovanni muttered flatly.
"Oh, no." Mario said dryly. "But if it were, mine pour wine better."
"Yours start fights." He snapped back, but then caught himself—and let out a breathless laugh.
The humor hung there for a moment, unexpected but welcome.
Two Assassins. Two courtesans. Two cities. Both hiding something sacred in plain sight.
Giovanni shook his head. "I can’t believe we’re putting him in brothels."
Mario shrugged. "Where else? Churches are compromised, fortresses draw eyes. Brothels?" He gestured broadly, arms outstretched. "People see what they want. No one questions what they’re paying to forget."
"…He won’t understand it."
He didn’t mean the location. He meant the setting—the silks, the perfume, the unfamiliar hands. If the winged man woke up surrounded by courtesans, their painted faces and gentle voices might not comfort him.
They might remind him of the Vatican.
Of priests who dressed him like a relic.
Of reverence twisted into imprisonment.
Giovanni’s jaw tightened. He wasn’t sure the man would know the difference.
Mario’s smirk faded.
"Then we don’t let him wake until he’s safe." Mario’s voice was serious again. "Paola will know what to do." He didn’t know her, not really—but courtesans didn’t survive long in Florence without a sharp eye and sharper instincts.
Giovanni nodded, the decision settling over him. "Florence, then."
"Florence." Mario agreed and grinned. "And may God forgive us for smuggling an angel through half the countryside."
Giovanni gave him a long look. "I don’t think God is watching anymore."
Mario glanced toward the door. "Then let’s hope the courtesans are."
His gaze flicked toward the other room—where the angel laid.
The winged man was still. Even in his half conscious state, he clung to warmth like the way a body sought shelter from cold. His breathing was slow and measured, his body loose against the mattress.
"Can he handle the journey?" Mario asked with a frown.
Giovanni hesitated.
The angel was pliable now, barely aware, but even if his mind slumbered—his body had once been something else. Whatever the Vatican had done to him, it hadn’t erased that core. There had once been strength in him. There could be again.
Mario watched him carefully. Then, with the kind of brutal practicality only he could manage, asked—"You want him waking up in a moving carriage with no idea where he is? You want that to be the first thing he sees?"
Giovanni’s lips thinned. The answer was no.
Mario pressed on, voice flat. "If he panics, if he bolts—what then? You’re going to chase him through the countryside? Subdue him in broad daylight?"
Giovanni hated how right he was.
Mario exhaled sharply. "You’re not taking him on that journey awake. You know that."
Giovanni clenched his jaw. "…So we drug him."
Mario nodded. "We drug him."
Giovanni stared past Mario, toward the curtained room. There would be no carriage to slip him into unseen. No hidden compartments or gentle disguises. Only one way to move something this fragile and unpredictable without drawing attention— as if he were not a man at all. A merchant's crate. Straw for padding. Iron clasps and thick wood to muffle sound. The thought turned his stomach.
Mario didn’t say it aloud. He didn’t have to. They were both men who had smuggled worse in darker times.
Yet, the thought of binding and drugging the man—after everything the Vatican had already done to him—turned his stomach.
He wasn’t a prisoner anymore.
He wasn’t a relic to be handled with silk and chains.
But they had no time.
If the winged man woke too soon, if he ran, struggled, caused a scene—if the Templars caught even a whisper of their trail—it was over.
Giovanni exhaled slowly, feeling the weight settle.
Mario’s voice softened. Not much, but enough. "It’s the safest way. For everyone."
Giovanni swallowed. Dio perdonami.
"…Fine then."
"Good." Mario exhaled, nodding slowly. "Once you’re past the gates, stay on the planned route. Avoid major roads."
Giovanni frowned slightly. "You’re not coming with me?"
Mario shook his head. "I can’t." He jerked his chin toward the window. The sun was rising, the first hints of dawn creeping above the skyline. "Templars are already moving. If I leave now, we’ll be blind to their next steps. Someone has to stay behind and make sure they don’t catch the scent."
Giovanni clenched his jaw. He knew Mario was right. But the thought of traveling alone—of handling this fragile, unpredictable situation without his brother unsettled him.
Mario caught the hesitation in his face and scoffed. "Come now, Gio. You’re not that reliant on me, are you?"
Giovanni scowled. "I don’t like unknowns."
"Then don’t make him one." Mario said simply, nodding toward the sleeping figure on the mattress. "You’ve seen how he reacts. He leans toward warmth, not away. That might be the only advantage you have."
Giovanni exhaled sharply. Fine.
Mario clapped him on the shoulder, his grin sharp but understanding. "I’ll track the Templars. If they shift focus, I’ll send word. But if I find you lounging in Florence while I did all the hard work—"
"Go." Giovanni muttered. "Before I decide I like the silence."
Mario laughed. "I will go get—"
As if summoned, soft footsteps echoed from the hall, soon revealing the owner to be Vittoria.
She entered without knocking, a bundle of wrapped cloth in her arms. Her expression was unreadable, but her gaze flicked between the brothers with quiet purpose.
"You’ve made your decision." She said, not a question.
Giovanni nodded. "We’re taking him to Florence."
Vittoria's brow arched—not at the destination, but at the unspoken implications. She said nothing, instead stepping forward to set a bundle on the table between them.
"You’ll need these, then." Her voice was cool, measured. "They’ll keep him under long enough for the trip."
Giovanni opened the bundle. Inside were vials of sleeping tincture, folded cloths, and padded bindings meant to restrain without harm.
He stared for a moment. "You had these ready."
Vittoria met his gaze, voice cool. "Of course I did."
Mario gave a soft grunt of amusement. "You’re terrifying."
"I’m thorough." She replied, but took the compliment graciously. She set her sights on Giovanni. "He’ll fight it in his sleep. Expect shaking. A fever, perhaps—but it will pass. He needs quiet. And warmth."
Giovanni nodded once, carefully folding the cloth over the supplies. "Thank you."
Vittoria tilted her head. "Don’t thank me yet. He’s not out of this city." She paused then, and her voice went soft—almost reluctantly. "When you reach Florence… Send word. Let me know he made it."
Giovanni looked up. The words hung between them, quiet and sincere.
"I will."
Vittoria inclined her head once, then turned and slipped quietly from the room.
A moment passed. Then, Mario clapped his hands together, breaking the silence. "Well, I’ve got Templars to hunt. You’ve got an angel to smuggle."
He turned toward the door—but something on the floor caught his eye.
A feather. Pale, sharp-edged, half tucked beneath the edge of the rug. It had slipped free at some point—clean and strangely pristine in the dim light.
He crouched, pulling it loose with two fingers.
Behind him, Giovanni’s voice cut in. "Take it."
Mario glanced back, one brow raised. "What for?"
"Don’t leave anything behind." Giovanni said quietly. "Better to burn it than let someone else find it."
Mario turned the feather over in his fingers. It was oddly warm. He didn’t answer—just tucked it into the inside of his coat.
Then he straightened and gave a dry little smile.
"Try not to lose him, Giovanni."
Giovanni snorted faintly. "I won’t."
"And if he wakes up and kills you?"
Giovanni rolled his eyes. "Then you’ll owe Paola a very awkward explanation."
Mario grinned—and left without another word.
Giovanni stood still for a moment longer, hand resting on the cloth wrapped bundle. His gaze drifted across the room, sharp and searching.
One feather was never just one.
He swept the space with his eyes—the floorboards, the baseboards, the crumpled linens at the foot of the bed. He found two more. One was curled near the leg of a chair, another nestled beneath the edge of the cabinet like it had tried to hide.
Carefully, he gathered them into the folds of a cloth pouch. He would burn them in the fireplace. Quietly.
Nothing could remain. He would ask Vittoria to do her own sweep before he left.
Only once he was satisfied that the room was clean, the evidence contained—did he move toward the door where the angel slept.
He was utterly still beneath layers of soft blankets.
Giovanni crouched beside the bed, studying the man’s face. The blindfold remained in place. His breathing was shallow. His fingers twitched faintly, curled in toward his chest.
Giovanni unwrapped the bundle with slow, careful hands. He pulled free one of the folded cloths, then uncorked the smallest vial. A sharp, bitter tang filled the air—papavero, thick and dark. Poppy tincture, laced with something stronger. He’d smelled it before in battlefield tents and sickrooms. Enough to quiet pain. Enough to drag a man under.
He dabbed the cloth gently against the mouth of the vial until it grew damp with liquid. Then he exhaled, steadying himself.
"Forgive me." He murmured.
Then—gently, carefully—he pressed it to the angel’s lips.
Desmond stirred—slowly, weakly.
Something was wrong.
His body was heavy—wrong—like he was sinking into something too deep to escape. He couldn’t move. His arms—his wings—bound. Tight.
Restraints.
His pulse jumped. Fight. Move. Get out.
He tried to shift, but his muscles wouldn’t respond. Like wading through thick fog. His mind reached for his limbs, but the connection faltered—delayed—drugged.
Rope? No, it was—it was softer than that. Restraint without bite.
He exhaled sharply, lashes fluttering. Darkness. Wood. The rattle of wheels against stone.
Was he in a carriage?
A memory flickered, blurred at the edges. He had been warm before. Perfumed hands had tugged at his feathers. A girl had laughed.
Lucia?
No. That wasn’t right.
He inhaled, but the breath felt thick, sluggish—pushing through something unseen. A strange numbness laced his limbs, a tingling under his skin. The more he tried to think, the further everything slipped away.
This felt familiar.
Not the softness of his dream. Not the warmth of Maria’s hands.
Something else.
Something cold.
A distant, hollow voice flickered in his mind.
"Hold the demon down."
Desmond’s breath hitched. His fingers twitched—but his wrists did not move.
No. No, no, no—
A sharp jolt rocked the carriage, and for a brief, desperate moment, his body surged—muscle memory, escape, run—but the ropes held.
The world remained distant.
Still trapped.
A low murmur filtered through the haze.
"…I don’t like this, Mario."
"Neither do I. But it’s done."
"We shouldn’t have—"
"If we hadn’t, he’d be in chains again—and not by our hands."
Silence.
Desmond wanted to reach for the voices. He wanted to ask—who? Where? Why?
His lips barely parted. Nothing came out.
The drug was still pulling him down.
But then—
//Sleep, my Savior.//
The Eye.
Something brushed against his mind—soft as breath, weightless as silk. Not words at first, but feeling—the warmth of being seen , the hush of arms pulling close without pressure. It slid into the cracks of his fear like water.
A memory stirred—Maria’s hands, the scent of her hearth, Lucia’s quiet laughter echoing down sunlit halls. Then… something beneath it. Not memory. Not dream.
Presence.
It did not speak again right away, but it stayed. It was closer than breath—nearer than skin. It felt like it was holding him in the places no one else could reach.
The bindings pressed tighter as the carriage hit another bump.
Desmond whimpered.
The presence did not retreat. It leaned in—closer, closer still. The warmth deepened, twining through his thoughts like fingers through hair . The Eye pressed in, deeper and deeper, as if it might lose him if it let go, like a lover unwilling to part.
And Desmond—muddled, drifting, confused—breathed in that closeness like air.
The Eye had never lied to him. Not once.
So when it whispered, he listened.
When it held him, he stayed.
Even now—half-drugged and fading—he leaned into it not because he had no choice, but because it was the only thing in the dark that had ever felt safe.
He trusted it.
And so, when it murmured again, quiet as a breath—
//Sleep, my Desmond//
—he obeyed.
The darkness took him again.
The air at the city gates was tense. The usual flow of merchants, travelers, and noblemen had slowed to a crawl as heavily armed soldiers moved amongst the crowd, stopping carriages, wagons, and riders for questioning.
They were not city guards. They were not church watchmen.
Giovanni adjusted his grip on the reins of the carriage Mario had managed to procure for the journey. He kept his expression neutral.
These men moved too cleanly. Too quietly. Their formations were tight, their commands clipped, and their presence heavy. They were efficient in the way true believers were.
Not Rome’s men.
Templars.
They were searching for something.
No—someone.
His gaze flickered to the crate nestled securely in the back of the cart, buried beneath thick fabrics and merchant wares. There was a wax seal at the corner—fake, but close. Just believable enough to pass as Church freight.
The angel was inside. Unmoving. Drugged. Tied down.
It had to be enough.
A soldier stepped forward, raising a hand as Giovanni got close to the city gates. "You. Halt."
Giovanni pulled back the reins, the cart slowing. He did not let his fingers tighten or his breath hitch.
"State your name and business."
"Antonio Palumbo." Giovanni answered smoothly, the false name slipping off his tongue with practiced ease. "Merchant. Heading north to deliver rare wares to buyers."
The Templar’s eyes narrowed slightly.
"Rare wares?"
"Fabrics. Jewelry. Spices." Giovanni exhaled through his nose like a man who had been through this a dozen times before. "High quality goods for high paying clients."
A slow hum. The man didn’t move.
Giovanni kept his face carefully bored.
Then, with a slight nod, the soldier waved over another guard.
"Routine security measures." The man said. "Under direction from the Holy See. Religious contraband has been slipping through."
Giovanni hid a frown.
Lies. The Papacy didn’t know.
The voice was too smooth. Too practiced. The kind of voice that offered papal authority like a shield, when in truth it was just a curtain.
This wasn’t Church business.
It was a leash.
Still, he tilted his head, feigning indifference. "An odd command for a Pope concerned with faith, not trade."
The soldier ignored the remark. His gaze shifted toward the cart. "We’ll need to inspect your cargo."
Giovanni’s hand twitched over his thigh, his hidden blade carefully concealed beneath his sleeve.
With an exaggerated sigh, he leaned back. "If you must, but these are rare goods. If your men break anything, I’ll expect compensation."
The guard climbed onto the cart, peeling back thick fabrics, shifting aside crates and sacks of goods. The air was scented with cloves and dried citrus peels—deliberately packed not just for sale, but for masking.
Then, he hesitated.
His fingers brushed over the lid of one of the heavier crates—iron-braced and sealed with a courier's mark.
The crate the angel was inside of.
Giovanni’s jaw tensed. His heart began to race.
The guard tapped his knuckles against the wood. Listened.
No sound. No echo.
Then—he pried it open.
The light allowed a glimpse of stacked bolts of silk. The neck of a silver flask. Nothing unusual, but then he frowned. He squinted and shifted one layer. His fingers brushed a seam at the base of the crate.
A panel.
The false bottom.
It didn’t sit perfectly flush. The alignment was slightly off—just enough to catch the eye if someone was looking too closely. They hadn’t had time to procure a better one. Mario had done what he could.
The guard began to lift it up.
Giovanni’s lungs forgot how to breathe.
Then—
"I am no thief! I won’t be treated like a criminal!"
A scuffle. An angry merchant gesturing wildly at another soldier who had just upended his cargo onto the dirt.
The man inspecting Giovanni’s cart glanced over his shoulder, distracted.
From the corner of his eyes, Giovanni caught it—the faintest shift beneath the sliver of light where the false panel had lifted.
A shuddering breath. A tremor.
Giovanni’s heart dropped. No, no, not now.
The soldier’s frown deepened. He looked back at the crate—
Just as the false panel resettled into place.
He tapped the side of the crate again. The scent of cloves lingered—thick enough to suggest expensive incense. Expensive enough to deter petty theft.
Then another guard called him.
The inspector hesitated, his brows furrowing in brief unease. Something felt off—a merchant too still, a crate too deep, a silence that didn’t match.
But after a moment, he shook his head as if it was too much of a bother to think more of.
"Fine." He muttered, stepping off the carriage. He waved Giovanni through. "Move along."
Giovanni exhaled slowly through his nose, nodding curtly as he urged the horses forward.
The cart rumbled past the checkpoint, slipping through the gates of Rome and onto the open road beyond.
Only when the city had disappeared behind him did Giovanni allow himself to unclench his fingers from the reins.
His hands were shaking.
That had been too close.
He reached back, brushing his fingers over the cool wood of the crate.
His charge was still.
Giovanni swallowed hard. Just a few more days. Then this would all be over.
But unseen to Giovanni, a man in a red and silver cloak lingered near the gate. His posture was straight—too controlled to be ordinary.
A Templar captain.
His gaze followed the departing cart with narrowed eyes.
"Sir?" A subordinate approached.
The Captain did not answer immediately. His jaw worked, slow and thoughtful, the echo of a barely seen movement pressing in the back of his mind.
Something was off.
His fingers tapped idly on the hilt at his hip.
"Follow that merchant." He said at last. "Quietly."
The road stretched endlessly in the dark. The only sound breaking the silence was the creaking of the carriage wheels rolling on the road.
Giovanni should have felt relief.
Rome was behind him.
But the unease in his gut remained.
The Templars had let him go too easily.
His thoughts twisted on the checkpoint, on the near miss, on the way the knight had hesitated at the crate.
He had passed. He was safe.
So why did he feel like he was still being watched?
He adjusted his grip on the reins, casting a quick glance at the crates behind him. The one in the center—the most important one—remained still. No noise. No shifting of movement. The angel was still unconscious, lost to the sleeping drugs Giovanni had fed him. If applied daily, the man hopefully wouldn’t stir until they reached Florence.
Giovanni sighed, glancing at the road ahead.
Rome was long behind him now. The men he had hired outside of Rome to accompany him had split off at the fork, taking a different road, just as planned. They were never meant to protect him—only to give the illusion of a typical merchant convoy. Paid for presence, not loyalty.
None of them had seen the cargo. He’d made sure of that.
And he hadn’t told them what was inside the crate.
Even mercenaries asked questions eventually. And if any of them had guessed the truth—what he was really carrying—they would’ve slit his throat and sold the secret to the nearest noble or priest.
It was a necessary precaution, though it pained him. A ‘merchant’ with guards was normal. A man with this cargo shouldn’t be alone.
But he was.
Traveling with something bound, winged, and incomprehensible… Giovanni couldn’t risk anyone else’s eyes on it. Not yet, at least—not until he understood what, exactly, he had pulled from the depths of the Vatican.
And so he rode alone.
With silence at his back and wrongness crawling under his skin.
It had been the right call, so then why did it feel like a mistake?
The farther he traveled, the heavier the silence became.
Then—
A sound cut through the night.
A sharp thwip!
Then, the snap of wood.
The carriage wheel cracked with a splintering snap.
Giovanni reacted immediately, yanking the reins to keep the cart from keeling over. The horse reared, neighing in fear, and the whole carriage lurched violently as he steered it to a halt. Only when it stopped did he jump off the carriage, drawing his sword with a sharp curse.
Something moved in the trees and then another arrow shot out, striking the dirt near his boots.
Figures emerged from the shadows, slipping between the trees. Their faces were obscured by ragged hoods. There were six—no, seven—of them. They surrounded the carriage in a loose circle.
"Evening, traveler." One of them called with mock cheer. "Bit late to be hauling goods alone, no?"
Giovanni braced his stance.
"I have no coin for you."
A chuckle. Dark amusement. "Oh, we’re not looking for coin."
The bandits moved closer.
"Rare wares, valuable goods..." One of them eyed the carriage. "I wonder what a merchant like you is hiding?"
Giovanni didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
Seven wasn’t a problem.
He’d taken more than that before. He noted their builds, the way they spaced themselves, the way the first two fanned out. Not farmhands. Not hungry fools.
Soldiers. Or former ones. One of them even moved like an Assassin dropout.
He adjusted his stance, calculating. This wouldn’t be a quick fight, but it would still end in his favor.
His blade gleamed in the moonlight as he stepped forward.
The first bandit lunged—and Giovanni met him cleanly, striking low and fast. A blade through the gut. Down.
Another came from the left. Giovanni turned, parried, struck once, twice—elbow to jaw, then a slash across the thigh. He was fluid. Focused.
But then—
A hiss. A thump. A sudden bloom of smoke.
His instincts screamed.
Giovanni staggered back as the smoke bomb exploded at his feet, cloaking the world in a choking haze. His eyes watered. Movement flickered in the fog.
‘One of them knows tactics.’ He realized grimly. This wasn’t random.
A second later, something sharp whistled past his ear. A throwing knife. Meant to distract, not kill.
He turned toward the carriage—but too late.
The horse, panicked by the noise and smoke, jerked against its harness. There was a sound of splintering wood and snapping leather, before it broke free.
Giovanni lunged to grab the reins but missed by a hair. He swore and pivoted back toward the carriage but the movement exposed his side.
That was when the bandits closed in.
A blunt object—a club or the butt of a blade—slammed into his ribs. The force drove the breath from his lungs. He staggered, twisting to retaliate, but then another smoke bomb was dropped, hissed beneath his feet. It was followed by another kick to his leg that dropped him hard to the ground.
His sword went skittering across the dirt.
Giovanni rolled on instinct—but before he could rise, a weight dropped on his back, slamming him into the earth. A grunt tore from his throat as a knee dug between his shoulder blades, heavy and deliberate. His arms were yanked back and forced together at the wrists. Rope bit into his skin—tight, fast, practiced. He barely had time to register it before another hand was at his belt, patting for weapons.
Then, a second presence. He felt it before he saw it. Cold steel pressed to the side of his neck.
"Easy, old man." A voice sneered above him. It was the one he’d cut across the thigh. "You twitch, you die."
Giovanni’s hidden blade was still sheathed. He could feel the weight of it under his wrist, but with one man straddling his back, restraining him, and another holding a sword to his throat, he couldn’t move. Not yet. Not without losing his head.
His jaw clenched hard enough to ache. His muscles coiled like springs beneath the pressure, but he had no opening.
Behind him, he heard the bandits laughing, voices rising as they tore into the carriage.
They rifled through crates, ripping lids off with casual violence.
"Wine." One grunted.
"Spices." Another scoffed. "Where are the real prizes?"
A voice jeered from the back of the wagon. "Oh, what’s in this pretty box, then?"
Giovanni’s stomach dropped.
The center crate—the one that mattered—toppled off the wagon’s edge with a heavy crack from a careless kick. The wood splintered as it slammed into the dirt. It rolled once, awkwardly, and broke open on impact.
A figure flopped across the ground in a spill of pale cloth, ceramic, and rope from the wreckage. His wrists—tied together in front—scraped against the dirt. The linen hood dragged back from the motion, catching on a jagged splinter of the broken crate.
And there the winged man was.
Still bound. Still blindfolded.
The angel’s wings were tightly wrapped to his back, pressed flat beneath layers of cloth cinched with thick rope at the shoulders to keep them immobile. His legs were slack in the bindings around his ankles, his body limp with sedation. One knee was bent awkwardly beneath him as he laid in the dirt like discarded freight.
Thanks to the drug, he didn’t stir—didn’t react.
A doll wrapped for transport.
And now—on display.
A stunned silence rippled through the clearing.
Even the bandits—grimy, cruel, half drunk on blood and anticipation—paused.
"…Is that a person?" One of the bandits muttered, blinking.
"Get a better look." Another barked.
One bandit stepped forward, boots crunching against the broken wood and shattered stoneware, and grabbed the rope lashed around the figure’s shoulders. With a rough yank, he dragged the limp body upright. The angel flopped bonelessly, limbs slack with sedation. Another bandit gave him a hard shove with a boot for good measure, forcing the angel to slump against the cracked wooden frame of the carriage like cargo. His spine bowed, chin resting limply on his chest.
He didn’t react or resist. Just breathed—shallow and slow.
"No fucking way." Someone whispered.
"You were smuggling a man?" Another hissed, turning toward Giovanni. "What the hell are you?"
Giovanni didn’t answer.
He couldn’t.
His breath was lodged in his throat, trapped behind clenched teeth. His eyes stayed fixed on the figure slumped upright like a broken offering.
The cloth wraps had loosened just enough to show what laid beneath—tanned skin flushed with fever, a sharp jawline, strands of damp hair clinging to his brow. The blindfold was still in place, pressed tight across his eyes like silk laid for a burial. The suggestion of something vast and strange bulged faintly under the wrappings at his back. His wings were concealed, but not enough to hide the shape if they decided to look closer.
Giovanni’s pulse roared in his ears.
"He doesn’t look like a slave." One bandit muttered, unsure.
"You kidding?" Another snapped. "He’s tied, blindfolded, drugged—and boxed like wine. If he ain’t a slave, what else would he be?"
"Looks clean." Someone added. "Not beaten. Not marked. Like he’s trained for something."
"Trained for someone." Another muttered.
There was a beat of silence.
"That’s noble stock." The torchbearer said finally. "Kept, not bought."
A bark of laughter followed, sharp and cruel. "Pretty enough to be one."
That hit like a punch to the ribs.
Giovanni’s jaw flexed, grinding against the pressure of the knife. His hand twitched around his bindings.
The weight pinning him down shifted slightly—enough to press the blade harder to his neck. He felt a sting, a warmth, and the first drop of blood trailed down his throat.
Still he didn’t move. Couldn’t—not yet.
But every muscle in his body was screaming.
A bandit stepped forward, crouching low. He waved the one with the torch closer before flipping over his knife, slipping the flat edge beneath the captive’s chin.
"Let’s get a better look at you." He murmured silkily.
Giovanni’s breath caught.
Not from fear but from something deeper. Older.
The torchlight caught the angel’s face—and for a moment, it wasn’t a stranger staring back. It was something in the shape of his jaw, the line of the brow, the way his mouth rested open in restless sleep—
Ezio.
Federico.
Claudia.
Petruccio.
Not clearly, not exactly—but close enough to twist his stomach into knots. It wasn’t purely from resemblance, not even from recognition, but from something worse.
A familiarity buried too deep to name.
A wrongness that reached past thought and slammed straight into instinct.
Something in him recoiled. His pulse stuttered.
No.
His vision narrowed. His breath came shallow.
The angel’s skin glowed faintly with heat. His lips were parted just enough to show shallow breath. The blindfold shimmered faintly. Even slack in sedation, his brow was furrowed—like a child caught in a nightmare he couldn’t escape.
Giovanni’s skin crawled. His jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. The pressure in his chest built like a scream he didn’t remember starting.
He didn’t understand it—not fully, but something inside him thrashed. It wasn’t thought. It wasn’t logic.
Instinct.
('Not theirs.' It seethed.)
And every second these bastards lingered—every touch, every look —was a step too far.
And he was counting.
"Dio…" The torchbearer breathed.
No one laughed.
No one moved.
The firelight kissed the angel’s skin, turning it gold at the edges—unreal, untouchable.
Someone drew in a breath and didn’t release it.
A third voice laughed. "No wonder. Of course someone’d keep him."
The bandit with the blade Giovanni’s neck whistled. "You should’ve just paid the toll, friend." He looked down at Giovanni—just for a moment, but it wasn’t mocking anymore.
It was calculating.
The others began to circle, slower now. Less like thieves.
More like wolves.
Giovanni’s jaw locked.
The man with the knife dragged its flat edge slowly down the angel’s throat—not to cut, but just for contact. Just enough pressure to claim.
"You should’ve kept him locked tighter." The bandit murmured. "Too pretty to hide in a box. Might as well share the wealth."
The others chuckled, low and breathless.
"Whoever gave the tipoff’s gonna want a cut." Someone added. "But fuck ‘em."
Giovanni froze.
Something cold slithered down his spine. ‘A tip off?’
"You can’t buy something like this." Someone added, voice thick with hunger. "This ain’t coin. This is a gift."
Giovanni’s hands clenched behind his back. He twisted—not hard enough to break the blade at his throat, but just enough to draw another bead of blood.
The man on top of him hissed. "I said stay down—!"
And then a boot slammed into his temple with brutal force, knocking his cheek into the dirt. His ears rang. Light popped behind his eyes.
The blade at his throat pressed deeper, breaking skin.
The pain was nothing. He had trained through worse. Bled through worse. All that mattered was the sound of the bandits closing in.
All that mattered was the man on the ground—the prisoner he’d smuggled out of hell, who didn’t even stir as greedy hands circled closer like dogs.
Giovanni blinked away the ringing, chest heaving against the earth.
His shoulder flared as he tried to shift again, enough to test the weight on his back. The blade at his neck dug in deeper—a threat he barely felt.
He was breathing hard now. Not from pain. From fury.
From something that had no name.
He didn’t know what the boy was. Didn’t know why the weight of him felt so familiar. Why every part of Giovanni screamed to protect him even now, even like this.
He just knew this was wrong.
The crouching bandit stared at the bound figure a moment longer, before he frowned when something moved behind the bound man.
"What the hell’s this lump?" He muttered. Was the man deformed?
His knife returned, the edge slipping beneath the rope cinched high across the man’s back. It wasn’t a clean slice—just a sawing, impatient tug until the cord split with a dry snap.
The cloth around the man's shoulders sagged.
Something shifted underneath.
The crouching man grunted. "The hell is this?"
He grabbed a handful of the linen and yanked it aside.
And that’s when a feather slipped free.
Bone white and pristine, it drifted down in the torchlight, drifting lazily in the air before settling on the dirt.
"Wait—" Someone breathed. "Is that—?"
Another man stepped closer. "That’s not—"
But the croucher had already pushed the fabric aside further—and the wings stirred.
Crushed from confinement, wrapped too tightly for too long, but unmistakably real.
Feathered. Massive. Beautiful.
Even restrained, they were too much to be anything but true. Too detailed. One shifted again—just enough to rustle, a faint sound like parchment dragged across silk.
"Holy shit." Someone said, breath catching. Not in awe—but in greed.
"They’re real." Another murmured. "Wings."
The silence fractured under the weight of a dozen thoughts.
"Forget coin." Someone breathed. "He’s worth kingdoms."
"Imagine if we sold ‘im. To Rome—or further. Or anywhere. They’d pay anything for this."
"No, no—we keep him a while first." A chuckle, low and sharp. "Just to see what else he can do. We use ‘im. Then sell what’s left."
And Giovanni, already trembling at the edge, snapped.
His vision tunneled—red, sharp, feral.
He could hear his own heartbeat pounding like a war drum. He thought he might vomit. Or scream. Or bite through the damn ropes with his teeth if that’s what it took.
They were talking about him like a thing.
Like livestock.
Like something they could use and break and sell off in pieces.
(As if he wasn’t someone’s son. As if he wasn’t his.
The thought shot through him without permission—wild, wordless, and too fast for him to catch or even register.
It didn’t feel like logic. It felt like blood.)
"Touch him and I’ll fucking kill you."
Giovanni didn’t realize he’d said it. Didn’t register the sound or shape of his own voice. His body had moved first. His voice had simply followed.
The bandit closest to him paused, surprised at the heat in his voice. Then, he laughed. "You’re not in a position to—"
Giovanni twisted—hard, vicious, thoughtless.
The blade nicked his neck. Blood ran hot down his collarbone.
The man on his back snarled. "You want to die that bad?"
Giovanni didn’t answer.
He was shaking. Wrists burning from the rope, muscles coiled so tight they ached. His breath came shallow, fast, furious. He wasn’t still because he was calm—he was still because he was boiling.
If he moved too soon, he’d waste it. If he moved too late—
No.
He was going to kill them. All of them.
He just needed a single slip, a twitch, a breath out of place.
One opening—just one.
And the fool gave it.
The bandit’s hand cupped the angel’s jaw, thumb dragging across the flushed curve of the unconscious man’s cheek.
The contact was obscene in its gentleness—not because it hurt, but because it didn’t.
There was no cruelty in it. No force. Just a quiet, possessive reverence—like the man thought he was soothing a prize.
Like he believed this was something that could be his.
(At that touch, something split open.
Not skin.
Not bone.
The air.
Something peeled back behind the veil of flesh—slick, gold-veined—glistening too bright to be blood.
Not a wound. Not a thought.
An eye.)
"Look at you." He cooed when the angel unconsciously flinched at the touch. "Pretty thing. Didn’t mean to scare you. Just wanted a peek."
He tilted the angel’s head, admiring it in the torchlight like a jeweler appraising a gem. His fingers brushed beneath the chin, across the curve of a slack mouth.
Giovanni’s stomach turned.
But something had changed.
A silence fell—not over the bandits, who still laughed and murmured with the low, hungry tones of men circling prey—but over the world itself.
The trees stilled.
The air thickened.
The torchlight didn’t flicker—it recoiled. Like the flame knew what stood too close.
And Giovanni felt it.
Not with his eyes. Not with his ears.
But with the same instinct that once told him when a blade was about to find his back. Something cold weighed down on his lungs, thick and suffocating, like the eye before a storm.
There was something else here.
It was not a man.
Not a beast.
But something that loved .
And something that would kill in its name.
The crouching bandit didn’t notice.
He was too enraptured.
Giovanni couldn’t move—his wrists still bound, a blade pressed to his throat—but his eyes were fixed on the one they'd dragged from the crate. The angel slumped in the dirt, still blindfolded, still drugged.
The bandit leaned in, ran a thumb across the angel’s mouth like it was something fragile to be savored. "He tied you up like that, huh?" He murmured. "Poor thing. Are you cold? I’d keep you warm."
The angel didn’t wake, but he stirred and strangely, he did not lean away. He leaned—not in fear, not in pain, but in recognition of warmth. The way a child might nuzzle a mother’s hand in sleep. The way something starved for comfort moved toward touch, even if it didn’t understand it.
The bandit chuckled. "Sweetheart likes it. You like this, don’t you?"
Giovanni’s chest tightened. He wasn’t sure what he was seeing.
Because now the angel’s bound hands were moving. They lifted slowly, deliberately—wrists still knotted together, arms sluggish—but they reached up.
Slow. Dreamlike. Almost in prayer.
The bandit hummed in delight. "See? Knew you’d come around."
Giovanni wanted to look away, but he couldn’t.
He watched the angel’s fingertips brush the man’s jaw. Ghost over his cheeks. Curl into his hair. Down his neck.
They were a lover’s hands.
Devoted.
Hungry.
The bandit’s eyes fluttered. He leaned in. "That’s it, darling. Come to—"
And then the angel’s fingers closed around his throat.
There was no warning. No pause.
One moment, tenderness—
The angel’s fingers twitched. Just once. A slow, deliberate curl.
Like he was savoring the warmth. Like he meant it .
—and the next, judgment.
Because the voice came from the angel’s mouth but—it was not his . It moved through his lips with perfect clarity, but there was no breath behind it. No tension in his throat.
It was as if the sound had bypassed muscle, will, and flesh—spoken straight from something else.
Something that wore his body like scripture.
Flat. Echoing. Unnatural.
"You dare touch what is mine?"
Bones splintered beneath his grip.
The bandit didn’t scream—he couldn’t. His breath was cut off mid word, strangled to a wet rasp. Eyes bulged. Hands scrabbled at the angel’s wrists.
The angel did not flinch. He only watched—blank and blindfolded. His face serene. His grip absolute.
A sickening crack.
A gasp.
And the body slumped at the angel’s feet.
The silence that followed was not human.
No one spoke. No one breathed.
A feather drifted, slow and deliberate.
The fire snapped—but even that sounded distant.
"What the fuck was that voice?" Someone whispered.
No one answered.
They were too busy staring at the corpse.
His neck was bent sideways—far too far.
The body rolled.
His eyes were glassy.
His mouth stayed open, as if even in death it hadn’t finished the sentence.
Giovanni didn’t move. He didn’t breathe.
He had only heard the man speak a handful of times—soft and fevered, a single name whispered into the dark.
This was not that.
This voice hadn’t been shaped by pain or confusion. It hadn’t cracked or wavered.
It had been deliberate. Measured.
Like a judgment passed, not spoken.
Whatever had spoken… it wasn’t the angel.
It was something else.
Something that had only borrowed his mouth to speak.
And then the panic exploded.
The second bandit came at the angel first with an enraged cry.
The angel—no, the thing wearing him—didn’t dodge. He shifted forward, knees grinding across rock and soil, dragging the binding rope taut between his ankles. One controlled, crawling motion—then another. He closed the distance not with speed, but with gravity and when the second bandit tried to strike him with his sword—
The angel’s bound hands caught his wrist. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
He simply looked at him. Not with eyes—he had none to offer—but behind the blindfold, something burned bright, a glow leaking from beneath the silk like fire under a door.
The man froze midstep.
"W-What…what are you?" The bandit choked.
The horror veiled in sanctity tilted his head—too slow, too smooth—
And smiled.
The bandit flinched.
It wasn’t a human smile—but a reflection of one. The echo of joy carved into flesh by something that had only ever read about it.
The torchlight behind the winged man shimmered.
(And for an instant—just an instant—the bandit saw it. Something bloomed from the flicking backlight behind the angel. A crown of limbs. Arms too long, too many, curling in slow, impossible patterns. Some draped downward like cloaks, like veils. Others coiled protectively, each gripping a curved blade.
And in between them—eyes.
Eyes upon eyes.
Blinking. Bleeding. Staring.)
Bones shattered with a sickening crunch.
The bandit shrieked.
The sword dropped.
The angel dropped his weight sideways, dragging the man down with him.
They hit the earth together. The thing wearing angelic skin pressed his palms flat against the bandit’s chest. For a moment, the angel hovered over him like that— like an anointment , like last rites before his bound hands found the man’s throat—tight, perfect.
And pulled.
There was no sound but the snap.
There was no resistance. No urgency.
Just pressure, a crack, and then stillness.
The third tried to strike from the side.
The angel’s head turned—blindfold gleaming—and leaned into the blow, letting it slide across his back like it meant nothing. The winged man moved with it, and used the momentum to bring the bandit down with him.
The creature, tangled in dirt and rope, ended up above him, straddling the bandit’s chest.
He raised his bound hands like an executioner.
And brought them down like a hammer of God.
Once—a crack.
Again—a spray.
Third—final.
The man didn’t move.
The fourth bandit screamed and tried to run, but the rope around the relic’s legs had already snapped.
Not ripped. Not torn. They just… gave way. Like they were never meant to hold.
The angel stood—not bolted upright, not flailed—simply rose, blindfold still in place, wings unfurling slightly with the creak of joints. Every motion was too smooth. Too balanced. Like something else had reached inside and pulled the strings.
Feathers shifted. Bound wings rustled beneath cloth.
The creature stepped forward—graceful, unhurried, like a prophet walking a path already written. His wings did not strike. They simply unfolded behind him, a halo of feathered reverence that caught the moonlight and seemed too large for the body that bore them.
And as he walked, the gold beneath his skin began to glow.
Cracks of light bloomed from beneath the blindfold—curling like veins of lightning. The lines whispered with light, singing soft hymns no ears could quite catch. He stood like a statue posed in divine stillness. The scent of oil and ash filled the air.
The fleeing man didn’t get far.
The angel caught him around the waist—dragged him backward like a lamb from the flock.
He turned him around. Cradled his face in both hands.
The man whimpered. "Please—"
The angel’s thumbs pressed gently against his cheeks.
Like a blessing. Like a moment of tenderness before they pushed in, slow and steady, until the man’s skull gave way with a dull pop and a spray of heat.
The angel lowered him gently, like a prayer being set at the foot of an altar.
Four bodies laid broken.
One bent.
One folded.
One crushed.
One held like a blessing.
And the angel—blindfolded, bloodied, barefoot—turned to the two who still remained.
The last two bandits—one pinning Giovanni and the other with a sword to his neck—didn’t move.
They hadn’t even screamed.
They had watched their comrades die—snapped, crushed, torn apart in seconds.
Not in rage, not in frenzy—but with a cold, terrifying precision. Like the violence had been practiced. As if it had been a ritual.
And now they just stared, caught in that awful space between disbelief and survival.
The one on Giovanni’s back finally jolted, as if waking from a nightmare. He scrambled, dragging Giovanni upright with him like a shield.
"Stay back!" He barked, voice breaking. He yanked a dagger from his belt and pressed it tight to Giovanni’s throat.
"I’ll kill him! I swear—"
The angel turned to face them.
Blank faced. Silent.
And walked forward.
"No!" The man hissed, panic blooming into full hysteria. "Don’t— I’ll do it!" As if to prove the point, the blade dug, adding yet another red line across Giovanni’s neck.
The angel stopped. Then, raised his hands—still bound, palms open. Slow.
The bandit froze. He couldn’t look away.
He stepped back—just one step.
And that was all the opening Giovanni needed.
He twisted, hidden blade sliding free to slice through his bindings. Once released, he drove his elbow back into the bandit’s ribs, shoved hard, and rolled.
Steel kissed flesh.
The bandit screamed—and was silenced.
The last bandit—the sixth— turned to run.
He didn’t make it five steps.
Giovanni lunged after him, grabbed his fallen sword from the dirt, and drove it into his back with a snarl.
The man collapsed face first in the leaves, choking once.
Then—nothing.
Giovanni stood still, breathing hard, chest heaving as silence reclaimed the clearing. His sword trembled in his grip.
This was the moment he had prepared for. The moment he’d imagined—freeing himself, striking back, saving the angel in the crate.
And yet—
He had saved no one.
He looked at the carnage around him—not wrought by his hand, but by something older, colder, and far more terrible than he could comprehend.
The winged man was not a victim.
He was not someone to protect.
He was a storm. A sentence. A thing that waited in silence for permission to end.
Giovanni felt his stomach turn. The bodies around him weren’t just dead. They had been judged .
And he had thought himself the rescuer.
He staggered back a step away from the angel—away from the beast garbed in grace before him.
That thing had never needed saving.
It had only needed a reason.
Giovanni could not breathe.
His sword hung uselessly in his grip. His body screamed at him to run.
The thing standing in front of him was not an angel. It was something else—something terrible.
The thing in front of him was not human.
The angel turned to him, but there was something wrong.
Giovanni had seen men fight. He knew how killers stood, how soldiers moved—fluid, reactive, grounded.
This was none of those things.
The winged man moved like a marionette, tugged forward by invisible strings. His spine held too straight. His hands hung too loosely. Every step felt rehearsed, not lived.
And then there was the light.
Golden lines still burned through the man’s skin, seeping from his blindfold in jagged, branching streaks. They slashed down his cheeks, curling like fractures along marble, glowing with the terrible brilliance of something old.
For a fleeting moment, the lines pulsed—sharp and bright, like the sigils etched into the relics Giovanni had only heard of in whispered legend.
Something ancient. Something powerful.
Giovanni did not understand what he was seeing. He only knew that it was wrong.
And then the creature spoke.
"You have done well to protect him thus far."
The voice slithered through Giovanni’s ribs like something alive. It melted through Giovanni’s spine, not like a threat—but like approval. As if the words themselves were a hand brushing the back of his neck, cool and deliberate.
"Continue to do so."
His stomach turned. He should have felt threatened. Should have been ready for a fight. But the words—they were not a warning. They were an expectation. As if Giovanni had already been playing his part.
Had it spared him out of mercy?
Or simply because he had been useful?
"My beloved savior must remain untainted."
Savior.
Beloved.
Giovanni’s breath hitched.
The phrasing was wrong. Not ‘I must remain untainted.’ Not ‘protect me.’ But ‘him.’
The thing that had torn through the bandits—the voice that had slithered through the winged man’s throat—had not claimed to be the angel.
It had claimed him.
The creature—this thing that had just torn men apart—had not spoken of the angel as a tool. It had not called him a weapon. It cherished him.
Giovanni’s stomach churned. That should have been a relief. The words should have meant separation—should have meant that the angel was just a vessel. Just the victim in the jaws of something older.
But the Templars had said the same. So had the ones who worshipped relics, who lost themselves to myth and madness. It wasn’t me, they said. The artifact did it. The god chose me.
Lies wrapped in tears. In soft voices. In trembling hands.
They always wept, when the bodies cooled.
Giovanni’s jaw tightened. No. He would not be fooled by this.
It didn’t matter if the voice lied.
It didn’t matter if it told the truth.
Even if the angel was a prisoner—he was a weapon now.
And whatever lived inside him could pull the trigger again.
It didn’t matter if the angel was separate.
It didn’t matter if he was real.
That thing had used his body to kill. Giovanni had watched it.
Whatever else he was—he was dangerous.
The wrongness in the air thickened, but then it was broken by a single sharp, fragile gasp tearing from the puppet’s throat.
The golden fractures, stark against the creature’s tanned skin pulsed once more, deep and terrible.
Giovanni’s grip on his sword tightened. His breath felt trapped in his chest as he waited for something—another shift, another awakening, another inhuman thing wearing angelic skin—
But the angel just swayed, not like someone crumbling beneath exhaustion, but like something else was moving him. The unnatural control did not snap—it reluctantly unraveled, slow and careful, like hands smoothing down a lover’s spine one last time before letting go. His body began to relax, guiding the man to the ground as if someone was easing him down into the dirt even as they withdrew.
Only when the angel was settled on his knees did the golden fractures begin to fade. The terrible light bleeding from his blindfold dimmed, withdrawing back underneath the covering, then finally, his body slumped forward.
And only then did he tremble. The angel twitched once, fingers curling like they were searching for something, face scrunching in the faintest expression of pain. It was the first human thing Giovanni had seen him do since the massacre, yet Giovanni couldn’t move.
The night around him remained still, as if the world itself had been holding its breath. His sword felt useless in his grip.
The thing that had spoken to him was gone.
The golden light had disappeared.
Giovanni's mind reeled, not understanding what he had just witnessed, but he knew one thing—
This was not an angel.
This was not a relic.
This was something buried, something bound, something that should have never been touched.
And Giovanni had dragged it into the world.
The stench of blood clung to the air.
Giovanni stood in the middle of the massacre. His breath came too fast, heart hammering against his ribs. His sword hung loosely in his grip, slick with blood that was not his own.
It had happened so fast.
One moment, he had been outnumbered, caught in the inevitable fate of a lone traveler and the next—
No. Not the next.
The angel.
He had been lowered gently onto the earth, as though unseen hands had guided him down with reverence. His form was slack, not discarded, not thrown, but placed.
The angel was limp, limbs loose beneath the heavy folds of his robe, his breathing shallow but steady. His face was pale, turned away from the bodies he’d mangled with his bare hands. The golden blindfold still shielded his eyes. He had not seen the slaughter.
But Giovanni had.
The moment those bandits had dared to lay hands on the angel, something else had woken up. A presence so terrifyingly methodical that the seasoned Assassin—who had seen war, treachery, and death in its most brutal forms—had felt his stomach turn in fear.
That voice, thick with otherworldly authority. The way the winged man's body had moved, precise and merciless. It was like a god piloting a broken marionette.
The bandits never stood a chance.
Giovanni shuddered, forcing his breath to steady. Later. He would think about it later.
Right now, he had more pressing concerns.
His horse was gone, spooked by the earlier situation and the cart was a lost cause. The front wheel had shattered from the attack, splintered wood and metal littering the road.
Giovanni sheathed his sword and strode forward, crouching by the corpses. He rifled through their belongings, searching for anything of use. A few scattered florins, a half empty flask of water, a rusted dagger. Useless.
But something still gnawed at him.
They hadn’t come for coin. Hadn’t asked for payment. They tore through the cart like men expecting something more.
And he remembered it now.
"Whoever gave the tipoff’s gonna want a cut."
A tipoff.
Giovanni’s chest tightened.
This hadn’t been random. Someone had known a carriage was moving quietly through the countryside. Someone had told these men. Not who he was. Not what he carried. Just enough to draw blood.
A Templar ploy, most likely. Leak a rumor. Let the vultures swarm. Then come sniffing through the bones.
They wouldn’t know what they were looking for, but if they found feathers in the wreckage—anything that could point to their stolen relic—
They’d know enough. Enough to trace the shipment. To track the cart. To match it to a false name and a forged route and a merchant who was never supposed to exist.
His jaw clenched as he looked at the bodies. If any trace of the angel remained—any proof of what had been here—it wouldn’t take long for the Templars to find it.
He had to burn it all. If the Templars found even a hint of what had been here, it was over.
Then, he finally found something useful.
A horse. The mare was tied to a tree just beyond the road, ears flicking back and forth uneasily. It had likely belonged to the bandit leader, judging by the finer saddle and bridle. It would do.
Moving quickly, he gathered what supplies he could from the wrecked cart, slinging them onto the stolen mount before returning for the angel.
And that was when he noticed it.
The winged man was unnaturally warm.
His skin damp, sweat slicking his brow. His fingers twitched—faint, barely noticeable. His breathing, too shallow.
Giovanni’s grip tightened.
This creature had just torn through men like they were nothing and now it couldn’t even hold itself upright?
This was not what he expected.
If it was so powerful, why did it collapse like this? Why did it look so… breakable?
Giovanni clenched his teeth. He refused to pity it.
He had seen what lived beneath the skin and he wasn’t going to take any chances.
He found fresh rope in the wreckage. His hands shook as he worked quickly—adrenaline or fear, he didn’t know—but he spared no expense in tightening the fibers around its ankles, then its wrists, then finally over its shoulders and chest, pinning the wings tightly in place again.
It was not cruelty. It was necessity.
And it was fear.
The same hands that had once cupped a bandit’s cheek had crushed him moments later like a doll.
Giovanni wouldn’t forget that—couldn’t.
The wings, now tightly wrapped, pressed stiffly against the angel’s back—flattened and hidden beneath the layers of rough fabric and cord. Even now, with everything bound and disguised, there was an unnatural weight to them.
As if the knowledge of what lay beneath made the air itself feel heavier.
Before he left, Giovanni lit a fire. He didn’t want to—his stomach twisted at the thought—but he couldn’t leave the scene untouched. The bodies were dragged into a loose pile. It wasn’t reverent. There were no rites. It wasn’t meant to be. It was to be a cover up.
If he was right about the tipoff being a ploy and the Templars came looking—and they would—they wouldn’t find feathers or bindings, no blindfolded figure, or broken crates.
Just charred wood. Ash. Heat-warped metal.
A robbery gone wrong. A merchant attacked and lost.
He set the flame low at first, feeding it with broken cart wood, dry cloth, and oil from a shattered lantern. It caught quickly. Soon, smoke began to rise, thick and acrid, curling up into the night. It would burn hot enough to erase what had happened here.
What he had seen.
What had seen him back.
When he returned to the angel, Giovanni worked quickly. He dressed him in a travel worn cloak—frayed at the edges, deep enough in the hood to shadow his face. He tucked the man’s arms beneath the fabric, hiding the bindings. The robe itself had been cinched tighter around the wings, fabric layered over linen and rope to disguise the unnatural shape.
Giovanni swung into the saddle and settled it in front of him like cargo—warm, limp, too human in the wrong ways. He adjusted the bindings, making sure they would hold firm for the journey. The blindfold slipped slightly, revealing a sliver of its face—pale, sweat slicked, utterly unconscious.
Even like this, there was something unsettling about him that Giovanni couldn’t name.
From a distance, he could’ve passed for a weary wife—silent, sleeping, head resting gently against her husband’s chest. Familiar. Human. Wrong.
Few would look twice. Fewer would ask questions.
His jaw tightened as he spurred the horse forward.
The bodies still burned behind them, the flames consuming all evidence of the massacre. By the time anyone found the scene, there would be nothing left but ash and whispers of something unnatural on the road.
Giovanni didn’t know if even fire could erase that presence, that voice, that impossible gaze buried beneath a blindfold. He didn’t know if he could.
He did not look back.
Giovanni rode hard for another day, stopping only to secure a fresh carriage in a small town he couldn’t name along the way. His face was drawn and lined with exhaustion, but his vigilance never wavered.
The thing remained unconscious throughout the journey, a dead weight beneath the heavy robe that still cloaked its bound form. It hadn’t stirred since the massacre. Still, Giovanni did not dare unbind it.
The first time Giovanni glanced over his shoulder and saw the winged man lying in the carriage, chest rising and falling in slow, shallow breaths, something caught in his throat.
He—no, it— hadn’t moved. Not really.
Just breathed.
Giovanni found himself checking the bindings more than once. Ankles. Wrists. Wings.
Not because they had slipped—but because he couldn’t stop imagining that they would.
He had tied the creature down like a threat—carefully, deliberately, every knot cinched tight.
And yet now, it slept like a fevered boy.
Head tipped against the side of the cart. Hands hidden beneath a rough cloak. Blindfold slipping just enough to show sweat soaked skin beneath.
He looked small. Vulnerable.
'It isn’t real.' Giovanni told himself.
He knew what he had seen.
The firelight catching on bone white feathers. The wet snap of necks twisted like branches. The voice that hadn’t echoed, but reverberated.
And still—that thing had reached for him in its sleep. Leaned toward the warmth like something afraid to be alone.
('Like a child.' Something in him whispered. 'Someone’s son.')
Giovanni shoved the thought away.
He told himself it meant nothing. Just reflex. Instinct.
But the thought clung to him like smoke.
So he kept riding.
The road stretched quiet beneath the hooves, every creak of leather and clink of buckle sounding too loud in the dark. He hadn’t looked back—not at the smoke, not at the past, but the image stayed with him anyway.
The warmth. The way the angel had leaned into him. The way it was so trusting.
He didn’t want to think about it, but the memory, like guilt, crept back in.
His hands tightened on the reins. He could still feel it. The raw, cold calculation behind that voice. The sheer power that had turned those bandits into nothing more than playthings for its rage.
And yet—
The angel had reached for something in his sleep.
It had happened when Giovanni stopped to adjust the bindings, ensuring that they had not come loose. The moment Giovanni’s hands brushed against him, the winged man shifted—subtle, instinctive—leaning toward the warmth—the way a child might.
The angel stirred once—just once—murmuring something too soft to understand.
And Giovanni... he didn’t respond.
Couldn’t.
Not with the voice from the woods still echoing in his skull.
"My beloved savior must remain untainted."
He had pulled back immediately, cursing himself for even considering the moment worth noting. It didn’t mean anything.
He was just reacting on instinct.
Still, the thought remained.
By the time Florence’s towering gates loomed in the distance, Giovanni had already made up his mind.
His original plan had to change. The winged man was unknown—too dangerous.
Giovanni had intended to keep him in Florence. Just for a while. Just until something more permanent could be arranged—a safehouse, perhaps. A quiet villa outside the walls.
But now... now he knew better.
He couldn’t house something this volatile in his city. Not with his family there. Not where this thing had whispered his son’s name in the dark.
He would not keep this man—this thing, this burden, this unknown force—anywhere near the ones he loved. He didn’t know whether it was the angel he feared, or the thing inside him, but if they shared breath and body, it hardly mattered.
Not until Giovanni understood what, exactly, he and his brother had just stolen from beneath the Vatican.
And if he could not understand it—
Then perhaps he would have to find a way to contain it.
The scent of Florence wrapped around him like a comfort—baking bread, the lingering sting of tanned leather, the musk of civilization. The city was alive with noise and movement with merchants still hawking their wares beneath the evening sun.
Giovanni tightened his grip on the reins as the carriage rolled through Florence’s gates. The familiar sights should have brought relief because home, he was finally home—but his shoulders remained tense. His chest was wound too tightly with unease. His hands ached from stiffness over how tightly he had been gripping his sword for the past day of travel, waiting for another ambush that never came.
He had not slept. Every time his eyes drifted closed, the memories surged forward—the thing’s body moving with unnatural precision, its hands stained red, that voice speaking through its lips like a puppeteer pulling at invisible strings.
He had thought it a man once. A victim. Now, he wasn’t sure it was even human.
The bundle of cloth in the back of the carriage remained still, the rise and fall of shallow breaths the only sign of life. Even in unconsciousness, it looked fragile—too thin, tanned skin too pale. There was an eerie contrast between its battered body and the wings strapped tightly to its back—so much softness, hiding something that could destroy men without a second thought.
Giovanni exhaled sharply, gripping the reins harder.
Had he been a fool to ever think of it as just a man?
He remembered the way the strange force had turned its attention on him, how it had seen him, peering into his soul like a god amused by mortal insignificance.
"You have done well to protect him thus far."
"Continue to do so."
That voice still crawled through his mind like an infestation. That thing—that entity—had not threatened him, not in the way he expected, but it had spoken to him as if it knew him—as if his choices had already been decided.
As if he had no choice but to obey.
The very idea made Giovanni sick.
He had seen what happened to men who became enslaved to things they did not understand. The Templars chased the will of the Pieces of Eden, blinded by their hunger for control, too ignorant to realize they were merely serving the objects they coveted. He had sworn never to fall into that same trap, and yet here he was, carting an unknown force into the heart of his city, uncertain of whether it could be contained.
Was it still a man?
Or had he been carrying a vessel the entire time?
A sick feeling curled in Giovanni’s stomach. He forced himself to glance at the unconscious figure in the back of the carriage, trying to find the answer in the quiet rise and fall of breath.
There was no inhumanity in his face. No monstrous sneer or unholy glow to his skin. There was only exhaustion—only a man left bruised and scarred by a life Giovanni could barely begin to understand.
And yet.
He had seen him smile through blood streaked lips, whispering in that voice that was not his own. He had watched his body move like a blade honed by something ancient—something that killed without hesitation.
And now, the angel was here, trapped in the fragile shell of his own body, unaware that Giovanni was afraid of him.
Giovanni exhaled sharply, his pulse thrumming like a warning beneath his skin.
He had been desperate to protect the winged man before. He had drawn his blade for him, sworn to keep him safe.
But that was before the bandits.
Before that presence had made itself known.
Before Giovanni had realized he had no idea what he had been protecting.
And yet… his hands still twitched at his sides, aching with the impulse to pull the boy from the carriage. Some paternal instinct in him wanted to shield him from whatever came next.
Giovanni gritted his teeth and shoved the feeling down.
He would not be controlled.
Not by the entity’s commands.
Not by the boy’s borrowed softness.
Not by the illusion of fragility wrapped around something that had killed without hesitation.
Not by his own conscience.
(Not yet.)
By the time he made it to his destination, it was under the cover of night.
Giovanni guided the carriage through familiar streets with ease, despite the darkness. The streets were scarce, vendors having packed up their wares but his grip on the reins remained firm, fingers tense from the restless weight pressing against his mind.
He slowed the carriage as he approached the courtyard of Madonna Paola’s establishment. La Rosa Colta was nestled between fine villas and grand halls. It was a place of refinement and elegance, catering to wealthy and powerful men. The house bore no marks of the Brotherhood, yet Giovanni knew better.
He didn’t stop at the front.
Instead, he pulled the carriage down a narrow side path, circling to the rear of La Rosa Colta. La Rosa Colta had a side entrance—used by staff, deliveries, and the occasional man who needed discretion.
He brought the carriage to a halt and then climbed down slowly, joints stiff from tension. For a moment, he just stood there, staring at the back door. Then—reluctantly—he circled to the back and opened the carriage.
The figure inside hadn’t moved. Still bundled in layers of cloth and rope, still breathing, still breakable in all the wrong ways.
Giovanni hesitated. His hands hovered for a second too long, as if the mere act of touching it might awaken something else.
Then he exhaled sharply, reached in, and lifted the relic.
He was light. Startlingly so.
Too light for someone with wings, too light for a body that had once held the strength to tear men apart.
And yet—
Giovanni staggered under the weight of him.
Not because of muscle or mass, but because of everything else.
Guilt. Dread. The fear of what he had brought into the world and was now too late to put back.
He adjusted his grip, cradling the bound figure against his chest like an unwanted truth. He told himself he didn’t flinch when the angel's head slumped against his shoulder.
He didn’t believe it.
The sharp rap of Giovanni’s knuckles against the wooden doors sent a ripple through the quiet air.
The door cracked open just enough to reveal a pair of sharp, kohl lined eyes. The door opened fully, and Paola stepped into view.
She was as he remembered her—poised, radiating an effortless grace that masked the sharp mind beneath.
"You’re still awake." Giovanni said. His voice was rough, frayed at the edges.
"Giovanni Auditore." She looked him up and down, then to the bundle in his arms. Her brow furrowed—slight, but telling. "That is not a package. Nor a wound."
A pause. Her gaze sharpened, voice quieting.
"What have you brought me?"
She expected him to sigh. To offer some vague apology or explanation, the way men did when they knew they were asking for something too heavy to repay.
But Giovanni didn’t speak.
He just gritted his teeth and shifted the figure in his arms.
Paola’s gaze flicked over the form—cloth wrapped, blindfolded, unmoving—and then to Giovanni himself.
He was off balance. Not physically—he stood steady enough—but the discomfort was written in every line of his body.
And the way he held the figure—
She had seen men carry their dying brothers with more ease.
He was uncomfortable. Not just wary—unsettled.
Paola’s expression didn’t change. But something passed between them—a silent recognition of gravity.
She stepped aside.
"Come inside."
The courtesans moved as though rehearsed, flowing into the courtyard in pairs, with laughter and soft conversation. It was a routine unlike the one in Rome. Here, they did not create a spectacle of flirtation but instead wove distraction into the air itself—guiding the eyes of onlookers away. It gave Giovanni time to follow Paola through a discreet entrance without drawing notice.
Two courtesans flanked Giovanni as Paola led him deeper inside. No words were spoken, but he felt their eyes watching his every move, hands at their sides—where hidden daggers could be drawn in an instant.
She led him past the front rooms where the girls lounged between clients, and toward one of the hidden back chambers where discretion could be ensured.
All the while, Giovanni walked stiffly, his muscles coiled too tightly for a man merely exhausted. She noticed the way his grip on the bundle remained firm—gentle, but distant.
Paola spared a glance at the figure as she reached for a latch, her expression unreadable. The bundle offered no indication of what lay beneath it. She stepped ahead to open the door, giving Giovanni space to enter first.
And when she turned her back to lead them in, the figure stirred.
It was barely a movement—just the faintest shift, a sluggish, instinctive act of a sleeping creature seeking warmth, but it found it in Giovanni.
The weight in his arms pressed closer. A soft breath. A barely there sigh.
And then—the angel nuzzled into the crook of his shoulder.
It was a small thing. A thoughtless thing, but Giovanni’s breath caught.
For a moment, it was not just a confusing mess of a man in his arms. For a moment, it was Petruccio—curled up against him, tired and small, trusting in a way only children could be.
Giovanni’s hand twitched.
The instinct to respond surged before he could stop it—before he could remind himself that this was not one of his sons.
Before he could remind himself that this man, no—this thing—was dangerous.
It would be so easy to believe the creature was separate. That the one who leaned into warmth was not the one who crushed bones.
But Giovanni had learned not to believe in easy stories.
So he went still and then—slowly, deliberately—he pulled away.
Paola hadn’t seen the interaction, but she caught that motion and she made no comment, only gesturing to the bed, watching as Giovanni finally set his burden down.
He was careful, but there was something detached in the movement, as if he were placing down something he did not wish to be holding at all.
Only when his arms were empty did he take a step back.
Paola folded her arms. "Talk."
Giovanni ran a hand down his face. "This is what the Vatican was keeping." His voice was low, strained. "I got him—" He hesitated, jaw clenching. "—it out. We couldn’t keep it in Rome. The Templars were already circling. I need somewhere safe to put it. I need time."
Paola's eyes narrowed. "You brought this to my house, Giovanni. To my girls. What makes you think I would agree to shelter something you clearly fear?"
Giovanni’s jaw tightened. "Because I don’t have any other options. And because you understand what kind of danger walks this city in silence. You know how to survive it."
She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes flicked to the shape on the bed. Still motionless. Still a mystery.
"Is it dangerous?" She asked finally.
Giovanni was quiet for too long.
That was answer enough.
"It hasn’t stirred since the escape." He said. "I kept it drugged. Bound. But then—" His voice dropped, something hoarse slipping through. "—on the road north, we were ambushed. Bandits."
He ran a hand down his face, jaw clenched. "It should’ve been helpless. Still half asleep in the carriage. But it moved." His eyes flicked toward the bed and without thinking, his hand drifted to the hilt of his sword. "Not like a man. Not like anything asleep."
He didn’t explain further. He didn’t need to.
"It stood. Looked through me. And then it killed them, Paola. Broke them apart like they were nothing."
He looked at her then, eyes dark. Not angry. Not afraid for himself. Just… haunted.
"I carried it like a corpse across half of Italy." He said, voice like gravel. "And for most of that journey, I believed it was harmless. A prisoner. A victim."
A pause.
"I’m not so sure anymore."
A beat. Then, quietly—
"I won’t lie to you. It looks—docile now, but I don’t know what it is. I don’t know if it's safe."
That gave Paola pause.
Giovanni did not fear easily.
So whatever this was—whatever the Vatican had hidden, bound, drugged—her mind began to conjure shapes from shadow. A creature, maybe. Twisted and half human. A cursed thing, stolen from a tomb. A relic that breathed but should not. Something old. Something wrong. Something with too many eyes.
Her stomach tightened, unbidden.
Paola’s expression did not change, but her stance shifted—barely. A tightening at the shoulder. A recalculation in her eyes.
"Then why bring it here?" She asked carefully.
"Because I knew you would see clearly." Giovanni said. "You’ve dealt with monsters. You don’t trust softness. You protect what’s yours. That’s exactly why I came to you."
You are the only one I can trust. He didn't say, but the message was loud and clear between them.
He sighed, long and controlled.
"If anything changes—" Giovanni said, more quietly now. "If it becomes unstable—if you have to protect the girls—do it." He swallowed and even though something deep inside him rebelled, bit out— "Don’t hesitate."
Paola tilted her head. "You’re asking me to keep a blade at its throat."
"I’m asking you to keep your eyes open."
The silence stretched.
She looked at him again, and this time—his hands weren’t near his sword. They were fists at his sides.
Then without a word, she stepped forward and reached for the cloth covering the figure’s face.
Giovanni tensed.
Her fingers brushed fabric—thick, coarse, not just a hood but something wound tight, something deliberately secured. She felt the shape beneath it. The curve of a face. The slope of a nose. And something strange—a strip of fine, woven fabric covering the eyes.
A blindfold.
Her frown deepened. "Is it blind?"
Giovanni hesitated. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
"No." His voice changed. Not certain. Not detached. There was a flicker of memory there—a memory of the way the angel had flinched at candlelight.
Paola watched him carefully. "You are sure?"
He exhaled, hesitated. "Keep his room dim."
It was not an order, but a request.
And Giovanni had not called it an 'it.'
Paola filed that away because for all his fear, there was care beneath it, even if he seemed to not want to admit it.
She turned back to the bundle, fingers brushing the edge of the hood. She felt his eyes on her as her hand lingered at the edge of the hood, as though even now, he wasn’t sure if she should see. If anyone should.
But Paola had never flinched from the truth.
She drew the cloth back.
Giovanni’s body coiled tight. His hand lingered near the hilt of his sword. Not quite gripping it, but close—ready. As if preparing for something to go wrong.
But nothing happened.
She had braced herself for something monstrous. Some grotesque creature, half living. A husk with something ancient inside it. A monster carved by faith or science or both.
But not this.
This wasn’t some ancient horror dredged from legend. Not a twisted statue. Not a cursed object. Not a beast in a gilded cage.
It was a man.
Barely more than a boy, really—on the cusp of adulthood, with the sharp bones and slack limbs of someone still growing into himself. He was far too young to be feared this way. His skin was too pale for someone who should have been sun-kissed, his brow slick with sweat, lips parted in restless sleep.
No shimmer of divinity. No crackling aura of menace.
Just rope burns on his wrists.
Bruises on his skin.
A blindfold that looked more like a punishment than a mercy.
Something twisted in her chest.
She did not indulge it.
Pity was dangerous. Pity softened the spine. Pity got girls killed.
She studied him like she’d study a new client—slowly, thoroughly, hunting for signs of deception. Every breath, every bruise, every unnatural stillness. She didn’t see malice, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there.
Behind her, Giovanni remained silent.
Her fingers brushed a tuft of hair away from the man’s brow. It clung to her fingertips, damp with sweat. His skin was flushed but not with fever. Perhaps fatigue. She had seen this kind of exhaustion before. On the dying. On the punished.
Still, she kept her expression neutral.
This might be a prisoner—but that didn’t make him safe.
Out of the corner of her eyes, she saw Giovanni watching. His expression was unreadable, but his fingers had tightened once again into fists.
Then—she noticed something else. The fabric twisted oddly around his shoulders—unnatural, too thick, too structured. Not padding. Not armor. Something concealed.
Paola reached for the cloth bindings securing the robe. Carefully, she pulled at the wrappings.
The cloth unwound slowly. The shape beneath it grew clearer. Not a trick of light. Not folds of fabric.
Wings.
Bound, hidden, but unmistakable.
And then—with a soft pull—
They unfurled.
A gasp caught in her throat.
Paola’s gaze widened as the great feathered limbs shifted and fell open. They had been bound too tightly for too long. The feathers, which should have been pristine, were in disarray—some bent, others missing entirely.
And worse—blood marred the white.
This was no costume or illusion. The weight of them was real.
Her hand hovered midair.
This was not what she had expected, but she forced her voice to remain level.
"Is he hurt?"
Giovanni’s mouth tightened to a thin line.
"The blood doesn’t belong to it." He said, voice tight.
She stilled. That told her everything.
Violence had followed the creature. Not wounds taken—but wounds given.
She looked back at the sleeping figure. He hadn’t stirred once.
He was still again, peaceful in the dim light, but peace was not the same as safety.
Her thumb brushed across the bloodied feathers. Then, finally, she straightened, dusting her hands off on her skirt.
"He stays." She said simply.
Giovanni let out a breath, closing his eyes. Relief—or guilt, she didn’t know—but Paola saw the tightness in his shoulders, the exhaustion buried under his carefully composed exterior.
"Grazie, Paola." He murmured, voice low but laden with meaning. "I will not forget this. I owe you a favor."
She only inclined her head, smirking slightly. "You owe me several favors." She said simply.
A breath of dry amusement escaped him. "Of course."
There was a beat of silence but the air between them was heavier than the words exchanged. The gratitude lingered, but it didn’t soften the tension in Giovanni’s posture or the calculation behind Paola’s eyes.
Her expression cooled. "He stays in this room. I’ll assign no one who doesn’t know how to keep their mouths shut. Only my eldest. No outsiders. No slip ups. If he wakes, you’ll be the first to know."
Giovanni nodded and glanced back at the bed, at the unmoving figure. His jaw clenched. "This… is temporary. I need to consult my brother before making a permanent decision."
Paola arched a brow. "You say that, yet you sound uncertain."
Giovanni sighed, rubbing his face. "I am uncertain." His voice was rough with something Paola couldn’t name.
She only hummed, neither confirming nor denying the weight of what he had said. Instead, she studied him. He was swaying slightly. Only a fraction, but she noticed.
"Go home, Giovanni." She said, voice softer than before. "You need it."
His mouth twitched in something that was a ghost of a smile.
"I doubt I will find rest tonight." He admitted.
Paola’s gaze flicked to the bed.
"Then try."
Giovanni said nothing, but something in him relented. He nodded stiffly before turning to leave.
He barely made it three steps before the bundle on the bed stirred.
It was not much.
A small sound. A quiet shift. A struggle against the bindings.
The angel’s hands—tied securely to keep him from harm, from lashing out—twitched against the restraints. His head turned slightly, almost as if following Giovanni’s retreating warmth.
It was not a conscious act.
And yet, Giovanni froze.
His fingers curled tightly at his sides and Paola saw it—the hesitation, the instinct to soothe, to press a hand to the being he had rescued’s shoulder, to linger just a little longer.
But he did not move.
He did not touch.
He swallowed thickly and exhaled through his nose, steadying himself.
Then, his voice barely above a murmur—as if afraid that speaking any louder might undo his own resolve—
"Take care of him."
Not it.
Paola met his gaze, something unreadable in her expression. "Of course."
But she knew the unspoken weight beneath his words.
Ensure that her girls keep silent—that this did not leave La Rosa Colta.
Giovanni hesitated a moment longer before he turned and left. Paola watched him go, sending one of her girls to guide him out.
Only when he was gone did she turn back to the bed. She stared at the sleeping man, taking in the mess of feathers, the way he had subtly turned toward the space Giovanni had once occupied.
Paola said nothing for a long moment. Then, she straightened, strode to the door, and called for her girls.
The women who answered Paola’s summons were her eldest, her most trusted—trained not just in beauty, but in subterfuge. They knew how to read men like maps, how to trace their lies through silence, and how to see past masks of power to the truth beneath.
When they stepped into the room and saw him, they stilled.
A hush fell.
"Madonna…" One of them, Catalina, took a slow step forward. "Dio santo…"
Another let out a breathless whisper. "Is that… an angel?"
Paola did not answer immediately. She only watched them, waiting.
One of the women, Diana, took a cautious step closer. Her eyes were fixed on the bundle of cloth and feather that lay motionless on the bed.
Slowly, she reached out.
Paola said nothing, letting her.
Her fingers barely brushed against the wings.
And then—she gasped.
"They’re real."
Her voice wavered but it wasn’t in fear.
The other courtesans shifted, moving in closer, drawn by something they did not understand.
"Are they broken?" Another girl, Anastasia, asked softly. "They look so… sad."
Sad.
Paola glanced down at the disarray of feathers. The dried blood. The evidence of a struggle long past.
Sad was not the word she would have chosen.
But it was not wrong.
"Poor thing." Another of Paola’s eldest—Fiora — murmured, crouching beside the bed. "He looks like a baby bird that’s fallen from its nest."
Paola exhaled slowly.
Giovanni hadn’t said the words aloud, but she had seen his hands curl into fist, seen the tension in his stance, the wariness in his voice. Paola had spent her life reading the truth behind men’s silences and she didn’t need to hear it from Giovanni to know the message left unsaid.
This thing is dangerous.
You should not trust it.
And yet—
Paola had spent her life surrounded by dangerous men. She had known real monsters. The ones who wore fine silks and spoke with honeyed tongues. The ones who saw women as things to be used. The ones who killed without hesitation, without a thought.
This man—this creature—was not one of them.
Not now.
Now, he was quiet. Now, he was small. Now, he was something her girls would adore—not out of foolishness, but out of instinct.
Because even bound, even bloodied, even lost in exhausted slumber—
He felt harmless.
Paola had spent her life reading people, and this boy—whatever he was—was not an immediate threat—but that did not mean she would let her guard down.
"I do not know what he is." She admitted. "But you are to care for him as if he were one of our own. That means silence. No words outside of this house."
A murmur of agreement swept through them.
They did not need to be told twice.
But Paola wasn’t finished.
"And no one is to be alone with him. Not yet." Her voice had sharpened—just slightly. "You’ll rotate in pairs. Four hour shifts. You keep the room dim. You do not attempt to wake him."
She let the words settle before she added, low and cool—
"And you keep your blades close."
The air changed.
Not with fear, but with awareness. The kind that settles into the spine like a warning.
The softness in the room didn’t vanish—it just turned cautious. Focused.
Whatever tenderness had been there a moment ago now stood beside discipline.
"He hasn’t stirred yet." Paola continued. "But if he does—and if he turns violent—do not try to reason with him. Do not try to subdue him. You strike. Then call for me."
Catalina's fingers hovered above the angel’s arm, expression unreadable. "He doesn’t feel like a threat." She said quietly.
"That’s exactly when threats are most dangerous." Paola replied. "He has killed even while half asleep."
A beat of silence passed. Then Anastasia nodded, her gaze steady. "We understand."
Paola didn’t smile. She only studied their stances, their distance, the way their hands now hovered a little closer to hidden weapons. These were her best. They knew what care meant—and what it cost. They could kill again, if needed. That would have to be enough.
Still, they did not move immediately. They lingered at the edges, assessing, judging, until Diana stepped forward again.
This time, she brushed a gentle hand against the man’s arm and the angel—he made a sound.
A quiet thing. A low, contented murmur—something soft and warm, almost like a trill, escaped his throat.
The women stilled.
Diana’s breath hitched. One of them shifted slightly. Another adjusted her stance.
But they did not retreat.
And then—a ripple.
It wasn’t fear. Only reassessment.
A different kind of silence settled over them—not tension, but something cautious. Curious.
Fiora leaned in, voice low. "Dio mio…"
It wasn’t worship.
It was recognition.
The shift came slowly. One of the girls adjusted the coarse fabric draped over him, replacing it with something softer—not sentiment, just comfort. Another smoothed his hair with the ease of long practiced hands. Not affection. Routine. Familiar care for the wounded.
Gentle fingers brushed against his wings—not to groom or heal, but simply to straighten what had been twisted. To restore order.
And the angel responded.
He wasn’t fully awake, not even conscious, but he leaned—just barely—into the warmth they offered. A soft sound slipped from his lips—something contented, breathy, as if the comfort stirred a memory too deep to name.
The wariness in the room didn’t vanish but it did...shift.
"Poor thing." Fiora murmured, pressing the back of her hand to his brow. "He’s running hot."
"Exhaustion." Anastasia noted, brushing hair back from his temple. "He’s been under too long."
"He’s so warm." Someone else observed quietly.
"And soft." Another added, fingers resting lightly along a wing joint. "Not just the feathers. Everything. He’s gone slack."
The hush that followed was not reverent. It was measured.
But something had eased—barely.
A few hands lingered longer than they needed to. One girl adjusted the fabric at his chest even though it hadn’t slipped. Another brushed his hair back a second time, slower.
They did not smile. They did not sigh. But their movements grew careful. Not cautious— tender.
Paola watched them carefully.
Not with alarm, not with sentiment, but with the scrutiny of someone used to reading rooms like ledgers. They hadn’t forgotten her warning. The blades were still close.
But the discipline had been joined by something else.
Curiosity.
Pity.
Perhaps even the beginnings of belief.
They weren’t fawning. They weren’t lulled. They were working—assessing the situation as they would any uncertain client, any wounded man brought in from the street.
They’d seen feigned weakness before.
They’d seen it used as bait.
But this… didn’t feel like that.
Whatever this creature was, he didn’t command the room. He didn’t bend it to his will. He simply accepted what he was given.
That made it more dangerous in a way—easier to fall for.
Paola knew better.
The instinct to protect was easy to manipulate. She had seen charm weaponized, she had seen softness used as a lure, and her girls, for all their skill, were not immune to warmth.
Still, she could not deny that the figure before her—bound, blindfolded, weakened—did not look like any weapon she’d ever known.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t one.
(She remembered the man she refused to dignify with a name.
The way he’d cried in her lap, hands shaking, voice broken. The way he’d kissed her fingertips like they were holy.
And then, the way he’d broken Anastasia’s ribs a week later when she told him no.
He’d smiled when he did it.
He was the first man Paola ever killed herself.)
Her jaw tightened.
She watched her girls again. The way they hovered were as caretakers. Their hands were steady. Their eyes, still sharp, but something gentler had crept in at the edges.
And it would grow.
She would let it.
But she would also be ready.
Fiora, still crouched at his side, exhaled softly.
"Madonna…" She murmured. "What do we do with him?"
Paola did not have an answer, but her mind was already turning.
She looked at the sleeping man once more, noting the faint tremble in his bound hands. Then, quietly, she turned to Anastasia, the most experienced among them.
"Keep him warm. Keep the room dim. And until I say otherwise…"
The vials Giovanni had left glinted faintly in the low light—prepared in advance, as if he hadn’t planned to ask.
Paola’s lips pressed thin.
"…do not use the tincture."
She didn’t care what the man had done on the road. She didn’t care how frightened Giovanni had been. You did not drug someone into obedience and then call that safety.
He was already bound. Already blindfolded. And if the way he leaned into comfort meant anything—already afraid.
If he was dangerous, she would deal with it, but she would not be a warden playing priest.
Not in her house.
Not with her girls.
She drew a breath, quiet and steady.
Still… precaution had its place.
Her mind moved quickly, instinct stitching thought into action. The watch would rotate routinely. No girl would be alone—not until she was sure. She would keep him in this room, away from clients, away from the city’s whispering eyes. No one outside the house would know.
Giovanni had asked for time.
Paola would give him that.
But she would not gamble blindly. Her charge might be quiet now. Might stir softly at their touch, might lean into comfort like something docile, but Paola knew better than to mistake softness for safety.
She would protect her girls first. Always.
And if it came to it—
She would not hesitate.
Her gaze lingered on him one last time.
He was safe here.
For now.
But if he turned, so would they.
The Eye had not meant to be seen. It had not meant to act.
But the blade in Giovanni’s hand had faltered. The bandits had reached too close. Their hands had touched what was sacred and it—the Eye—had burned through the fog without mercy.
For him. For Desmond.
It had worn his skin like ritual. Moved through his limbs with reverent rage. It had broken them. Snapped them. Crushed them. Not out of vengeance, not out of wrath, but out of love.
Because they had looked at him like he was a thing. Because they had dared to touch its Desmond.
And yet— Giovanni had stared at Desmond like a monster.
The Eye had not expected that.
It had sensed his fury. That flash of paternal fire. The way Giovanni had twisted beneath the knife. The way he had threatened—
"Touch him and I’ll fucking kill you."
Yes. The Eye had understood that rage. It had thought they were aligned.
But then it acted and Giovanni had recoiled.
Not from the bandits. From Desmond. From it.
It had miscalculated. Again.
It thought it had been helping. Shielding. Saving.
But the look in Giovanni’s eyes had not been one of gratitude. It had been fear.
And fear was dangerous. Fear, the Eye had learned, could rot love. It could twist duty. It could become something darker.
The Eye had revealed itself too early. Too clearly. Its claws were meant to stay hidden. Its light cloaked in flesh.
Now Desmond lay wrapped in softness, but the hands that tended to him carried knives. Gentle ones. Hidden ones.
The courtesans doted on him, but their eyes remained watchful. Their movements were too measured. Even asleep, Desmond would feel that.
And Giovanni—Giovanni had bound him again. Had brought him here, not home. The Eye had thought he looked like blood, like kin, like sanctuary. It had been wrong.
It had meant to free Desmond, but it feared it had delivered him into another cage.
The Eye had to fix it. It would fix it.
But first—Desmond.
It slipped inward, searching.
The drug had faded—burned out from time. Giovanni had fed it to Desmond every day of the journey, but the day’s supply had ended. Although new hands now tended Desmond, the Eye did not yet feel the familiar pull of poppy tincture in his veins.
So why was Desmond still sleeping and so deeply, at that?
It was not the stillness of sedation—not the surface drift of exhaustion, but something else. As if he were beneath the dream.
The Eye paused. It felt no fracture. No poison. No pain. Only… distance.
He was dreaming, but it wasn't just that.
He was far .
And though that troubled it—perhaps that was best.
The Eye did not want him to wake here. Not yet. Not until it could be sure these hands would never turn. Not until it knew the softness was real, and the knives stayed sheathed.
Not until it knew Giovanni would not falter again.
It had to stay hidden now.
No more missteps. No more flashes of light. No more blood.
Only stillness. Only silence.
Only the dream.
But something was wrong.
It reached inward—not into the flesh, but into the shared space between them. The space where thoughts softened, where warmth and memory bled into sensation.
Desmond was always there. Drifting. Shifting. Sometimes lucid, sometimes lost, but always present.
This time… he was not.
Not where he should be. Not in the garden of warmth the Eye had built.
The familiar structures were intact—the scent of bread, the flicker of candlelight, the low hum of a lullaby echoing without voice. Yet, Desmond’s presence was missing. He wasn't absent, just… farther.
The Eye moved deeper.
It pushed through the warm layers, hunting for any semblance of him—the tether, the pulse, the faint spark that had always answered.
Nothing.
It paused.
Then narrowed its focus.
That was when the Eye felt it.
Not danger. Not sharp. Not pain. But—something else. A ripple. A disturbance. A subtle wrongness, like silk drawn against the grain.
Desmond was still there, but something had pulled him deep.
Deeper than the Eye had allowed.
And it had not been itself that pulled him.
The Eye recoiled, alarmed. Then, surged forward, reaching—
And in that instant something let go.
There was no resistance. There was no confrontation. Just a sudden easing, like hands withdrawing from water.
Desmond stirred. Faint. Bare. His dreaming breath changed. His presence returned, flickering back into reach like a star behind cloud cover.
The Eye stilled.
It sensed no threat, but the shape of the absence lingered.
Something had been there. Something had touched him.
And it had left no mark.
That, more than anything, disturbed it.
It paused, waiting, but no echo remained.
Whatever had pulled Desmond away had been gentle. Careful.
And perfectly timed.
The Eye drifted closer to Desmond’s dreaming presence, curling around him like a shield it could no longer trust to be enough.
It would not let him slip again.
It had revealed too much on the journey from Rome and perhaps, now, it had seen too little .
Something was changing.
And Desmond—
Desmond was still drifting, as if the weight of the world had not yet finished pressing down.
Interlude
She learned from the first attempt.
The Farm had failed.
That construct—so carefully chosen, pulled from lingering guilt and what-ifs—had been too cold, too hollow. He hadn’t wanted fences. He hadn’t wanted the man on the porch.
He had only wanted his mother.
She had not made that mistake again.
Now, she moved carefully. Quietly. Beneath the warmth the Eye believed it had crafted alone.
She had learned to work in the seams of the dream—between breaths, between heartbeats, in the pause before thought became memory.
And there, she listened.
Not to Desmond.
To the others.
To the one who had brought him here.
Giovanni.
The man had carried fear like a blade—sharp, but hidden. It coiled beneath his ribs, cloaked in rationality and purpose. But fear was fear. And fear, too, had left traces.
He had held Desmond like a son—and then looked at him like a stranger.
He had wrapped his arms around the boy’s fragile body, cradled him like something precious, and then—
Called him it.
Not once. Not in passing.
Repeatedly.
As if fear had stripped the name from his lips. As if turning Desmond into a thing made it easier to carry the weight of what he’d seen.
She understood. Fear dehumanized. It always had. It always would.
But names mattered.
Names rooted people in the world. Anchored them. Preserved identity when everything else was slipping.
And Giovanni had taken that away.
She had seen the moment Desmond leaned into him, small and unconscious, seeking warmth like instinct. And she had seen the man’s hesitation—the way his hands had twitched, then stilled. The way he had turned away.
The way Desmond stirred when he left.
It had left an echo. A bruise. A soft disappointment that lingered like a hand never taken.
She had miscalculated once—focused too much on place, on regret, on architecture of memory. Yet, Desmond was not shaped by land. He was shaped by people.
And people could wound without meaning to.
Now she understood.
He hadn’t needed a dream to shelter him. He had needed a presence to hold him. Someone who would not turn away.
She could give him that.
The Eye still hadn’t seen her—not fully. It had draped its protection over Desmond like a canopy of stars, believing itself the only guardian. It watched for danger, not comfort. It didn’t understand the way affection left cracks in the mind. The way longing created doorways.
So she whispered. Not to Desmond—but to the dream.
She built warmth into its bones. Inserted memories that had never quite happened. A scent here. A texture there. The hush of a lullaby that had never been sung but felt real anyway.
She was not Maria. Not yet.
But she had learned the shape of her.
The voice. The patience. The presence Desmond would not question.
He didn’t need to see her clearly. He only needed to feel her in the spaces where the Eye could not reach.
One day soon, he would reach for her without hesitation and when he did, she would be waiting.
But she had not been the only one.
The dream had already been seeded before she arrived—already soaked in warmth, in memory.
That woman.
The echo.
Not quite Maria, but close enough to lull Desmond into trust. The dream of a mother who whispered like a prayer and told him to try.
Try.
As if healing were that simple. As if hope were enough.
She almost laughed.
How quaint.
That figment had spoken gently, had wrapped its arms around Desmond like a memory he barely believed in—and he had listened. Even in his weakness, even in his pain, he had listened.
Only to try.
She would do better.
She would not offer comfort without purpose. She would not ask for effort without reward.
Desmond didn’t need dreams that asked things of him. He needed certainty. Structure. Something to hold him upright when the world failed again.
She would be that.
Not just Maria’s voice. She would be her scent, her spine, her presence—
—her love.
The Eye would not stop her. Not yet. It guarded against pain, not tenderness. What she offered was kind—what she built was gentle.
But she had begun to see another problem.
Ezio. The prophet.
Desmond clung to the memory of him like a lifeline. Not a person—an anchor. A guide. A comfort carved too deeply into his foundation. The boy had seen Giovanni and clung at the resemblance, drawn but hesitant all at once.
But if the real Ezio ever came—if he stepped into this dream, or this waking world—
Desmond might follow him. He might trust him more than her.
That could not be allowed.
So she began to consider a contingency.
A version of Ezio, perhaps. Controlled. Shaped. A false echo, bound in golden light.
Or perhaps something worse.
She smiled—soft and distant.
There was time.
The Eye had not noticed her yet.
Desmond still leaned into the warmth she helped build. He did not question the scent of baking bread, the lull of his mother’s voice, the steady hum in the walls that hadn’t been there before.
Soon, she would be more than memory. Soon, she would be the dream.
And when Desmond reached out—
He would not reach for Ezio.
He would not reach for the Eye.
He would reach for Juno.
Notes:
Okay, so I probably wasn’t as sneaky as I thought I was regarding who our first antagonist will be for the story haha because like most of y'all got it immediately. To be fair, there’s only so many plausible antagonists haha, so I should have expected that!
So…Giovanni. You may ask me, why would I do this? Why would I have Giovanni doubt?! Well, I was aiming more towards realism than anything else haha, because realistically, if you saw Desmond/the Eye decimate bandits with only their bare hands, you'd be more than just a little bit leery and considering Giovanni is an Assassin who has realized that 'oh shit, I'm in over my head,' I thought his reaction was appropriate.
You probably hate him a little right now, but I hope he’s still sympathetic in that he has a reasonable rationale as to WHY he’s acting like this towards Desmond. Giovanni and Paola will have their own mini character arcs/loyalty missions which will be satisfied in the next few chapters.
(I really like stories where loyalty is earned, not given. It feels more fulfilling and makes the payoff that much more delicious—because my dear readers, I have plans.)
Also how are these chapters getting so long wtf. This ended at 40 pages but I was like, wait that’s a plot hole and now here we are. I could have made this two chapters, but I wanted to spoil you!
Anyways, next chapter will have the courtesan loyalty mission! An actually, somewhat lucid Desmond! And—another Auditore!? They will be popping out of the woodwork like crazy in the next few chapters, haha.
———
Personal note: You can prolly tell if you’ve read my stories in the past that I don’t usually update as fast as I do with this one. It’s mostly because writing this story (and drinking) are my only outlets after working ~12 hour days for the past 3.5 months lol. My moods haven’t been great just because I kinda hate my job, so uh, when the story gets a little sad, that’s me projecting because I want to feel something.I’m actively looking for a new job though—so silver lining!
Regardless, what does this mean for the story? Does that mean a slowdown? MAYBE—but prolly not lol unless I ACTUALLY succeed in getting the job I’m eyeing and I have to spend hella time getting onboarded. Figured some of ya'll would want to know since some of you follow this story rather closely, haha! (Which makes me feel nice and gooey inside~)
Chapter 11
Summary:
‘This thing is dangerous.’ Giovanni had said without words. ‘You should not trust it.’
‘Was this a monster? Was this a wolf beneath silk?’ Paola wondered.
Would a rose by any other name smell just as sweet?
Or—
The La Rosa Colta courtesans get to know an angel.
Notes:
I am a cruel, yet benevolent god.
//shamelessly indulging in putting Desmond into Situations™//
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The streets of Florence were nearly silent by the time Giovanni reached the steps of his home. His body ached—worn down from the strain of both travel and decisions he had not yet reconciled. His mind was still caught between the past day’s events—the quiet weight of Paola’s knowing gaze, the unnatural golden glow seared into his memory, the fragile warmth of the boy he had left behind.
But now, he was home.
Finally.
When he opened the door, Maria Auditore stood in the dim candlelight of their hall, already waiting.
She always waited.
The sight of her nearly undid him.
Giovanni exhaled, something tight in his chest loosening as their eyes met. The tension in his shoulders, in his jaw, in his clenched fists slowly, slowly, started to relax. He had not realized how tightly he had been wound up until now.
She did not speak at first. She only studied him. He must have looked exhausted, because her brows pinched slightly, and she stepped forward without hesitation, pressing a warm palm against his face.
“Welcome home, amore.” She murmured.
Giovanni closed his eyes and leaned into her touch. He gave himself a moment—just long enough to remember who he was when she looked at him like that. Her thumb brushed gently across his cheekbone, over his stubble, and he tried to follow the motion with his nose. It was a familiar gesture that never failed to unravel the knot inside his chest and he hadn’t realized how badly he had missed her until he was standing here now, breathing her in.
“Long trip?” She asked lightly, even though they both knew the answer.
Giovanni managed a tired huff of a laugh. “Longer than I expected.”
Maria hummed knowingly and turned, already moving toward the main room. “Sit.” She said, not unkindly. “I’ll bring you something warm.”
He wanted to protest. To tell her that he didn’t deserve warmth—that the things he had seen and done were still clinging to him like smoke, but he relented and sat.
Everything in Giovanni ached as he sank into the chair. His bones, his muscles—it didn’t seem like there was anything that was spared from the tension he had carried for far too long. He let out a slow breath, closed his eyes and it spoke of his exhaustion when he didn’t even flinch when Maria returned, placing a cup of something fragrant and warm in front of him.
“Drink.”
Giovanni took the offered drink obediently, taking a sip. The warmth of spiced wine spread through him. It eased some of the stiffness in his chest, though the weight on his mind did not lessen.
His wife sat across from him, watching.
There had always been a quiet understanding between them—one that did not rely on words, but tonight, something was different. He looked worn down to the bone, like he’d carried something heavier than usual—something that still pressed against his shoulders even here, at home, beside her.
“You’re troubled.” She noted softly.
Giovanni huffed, setting the cup down. “I am always troubled.”
Maria’s lips curved slightly. “That is true.”
Silence.
Then, after a long moment—
“Do you wish to talk about it?”
Giovanni’s fingers curled slightly around the rim of the cup. For a moment, he didn’t speak. He only stared into the wine, as if it might contain the answers he didn’t know how to say aloud.
Maria said nothing. She just stayed with him. Steady. Patient. Maria was not blind. She knew what he was and what he did. She had known long before she had married him. She never asked questions she knew he could not answer, but she knew when something sat heavily on his soul.
So, she waited until he was ready.
Finally, his voice came—low and rough.
“I retrieved something.” He admitted finally, voice quieter than before. “Something that should not exist.”
Maria tilted her head, reading more in the hesitation than in the words themselves.
“And?” She prompted gently.
Giovanni exhaled slowly. “I do not know what to do with it.”
She studied him for a moment. There was something in his voice she hadn’t heard before and she paused, just for a moment, before asking, softly—
“Does it need to be destroyed?”
He stiffened.
Destroyed.
That would be the simplest option, wouldn’t it? To end the problem before it grew. It would be cleaner that way. Safer. Mario would understand. They had destroyed stranger things for far less.
Whatever it was—the thing that had moved like a god and spoken through the angel’s lips—it had torn four men apart without hesitation. That kind of power had no place in the world. Not in the hands of the Church. Not in the hands of the Templars. Not even in the hands of Assassins. It should never be in the hands of anyone.
And yet—
He remembered the weight of the relic against him, damp with sweat, boneless with sedation. He remembered the way the creature had turned toward him, unconscious and seeking warmth like a child clinging to something familiar.
He remembered the soft breath against his neck.
The way his voice had cracked underneath the Vatican—not with power, but desperation.
He remembered how he’d wanted to ease that look from his face.
Giovanni’s throat tightened.
“...No.” His voice was hoarse. “I do not think it does.”
Maria hummed again, her expression knowing. Her eyes narrowed, studying him the way only a wife could—like she was peeling back layers of his carefully measured words into the heart of the matter.
Giovanni could not fathom to guess what his wife saw in him tonight. Perhaps she saw the way his shoulders were tense or the white of his knuckles as he gripped the cup with more force than necessary.
But Giovanni wasn’t looking at her now. His gaze had drifted to the far wall—unfocused, haunted.
It hadn’t gloated.
Not when it killed. Not after.
He remembered the silence—the unnatural stillness that followed the blood. The way the thing in the winged man's skin had moved—precise, inhuman, unflinching. It had torn four men apart with terrifying ease, but not with cruelty.
Only... resolve.
And when the violence had passed, there had been no triumph. No growl. No threat.
Just a pause.
Then it had done something strange. Something almost tender.
It had leaned down, and—without a word—tucked its vessel's limp hands back against his chest. As if protecting him. As if the storm had never belonged to him in the first place.
Giovanni’s throat tightened.
Was it a possession? A puppet? He didn’t know, but the rage, that terrible golden wrath—it hadn’t felt like the boy’s.
It had felt… separate.
And that was what disturbed him most.
The fire crackled softly in the hearth. The weight of the cup in his hands felt heavier.
Across the table, Maria was still watching.
She had seen him return from missions before. She had seen him wounded, triumphant, grieving, victorious. She had seen him sit at this very table, his hands stained with the weight of his work. But this? This was uncertainty.
She reached across the table, her fingers ghosting over the back of his hand. It wasn’t a demand. It was an offering.
“Then it is not a thing, is it?”
Giovanni’s breath stalled.
“You called it a ‘something’.” She mused. “But not ‘someone’.”
Giovanni did not answer.
Maria’s thumb brushed over his knuckles.
“Whatever it is.” She said softly. “I know you, Giovanni. I know the man I married.”
His shoulders twitched. His jaw tightened.
“You would not hesitate if it needed to be destroyed.”
She squeezed his hand, the only thing tethering him in the storm of his thoughts.
“You would not be here, wearing that look of guilt, if it were just an object.”
Her words settled around him like a balm and a bind all at once. Maria let go of his hand and stood.
“Finish your drink.” She murmured, rising to her feet. “Then come to bed.”
She leaned down and brushed a kiss across his temple before she passed.
And in the silence that lingered, Giovanni sat there, staring at the dark red liquid in his cup. His pulse was a slow, steady drum in his ears.
Not a weapon.
Not a thing.
Someone.
(Someone’s son.)
Giovanni closed his eyes. His fingers loosened around the cup. He rose from the table with a quiet breath. His joints ached, his muscles protested, but he moved through the house without hesitation.
She was already pulling back the blankets when he stepped into their bedroom. She didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.
He crossed the room, sat at the edge of the bed—and for a moment, he simply… sat.
Then, slowly, he leaned into her side.
Maria didn’t startle. She didn’t comment.
She only opened her arms.
Giovanni pressed his forehead to her shoulder, breathing in the scent of home, of her, of peace that only she could offer. Her hand rose, threading into his hair, gentle and grounding.
He had been gone for a week.
But it felt like he had been gone so much longer.
And finally—finally—he let himself rest.
The first thing Paola did after Giovanni left was have the winged man’s bindings adjusted—but not removed.
She was not a fool.
But she was also not without compassion.
His wings had been tied down too tightly, crushed and folded into an unnatural position that left the muscles stiff and aching. It must have been unbearable to endure it for that long, even in his sedated state.
Giovanni had only bound them temporarily, ensuring the feathers were hidden beneath layers of fabric for the journey from Rome to Florence. A necessary precaution, but even a day in that position would have caused pain. Paola had seen it in the slight twitch of the angel’s spine, the way his body had sagged as soon as he’d been laid down. Even now, they remained stiff, the feathers flattened and bent in places.
She ordered her most trusted girls to ease the pressure, nothing more.
“Do not unbind his wrists.” She said, sharp and quiet. “And if he stirs—call me.”
The girls obeyed. They moved with practiced hands, unwinding the layers of cloth around his shoulders until the wings were freed. No sudden movements. No fuss. They peeled the wraps back as though tending to something sacred—but dangerous.
When the last of the bindings slipped away, the wings gave a slow, sluggish twitch—almost like a sigh.
Paola watched for signs of instability. Agitation. A surge of energy. Anything that might warn of something to fear. Her hand tightened around the dagger hidden in her sleeves.
Instead, she saw the angel exhale—a soundless sigh—and his shoulders relaxed.
Diana, crouched near the side of the bed, reached out without thinking. Her fingers brushed the softer down at the base of one wing.
“Doesn’t that feel better, angelo?” She murmured.
The winged man didn’t respond, but he shifted, subtly, like a child nudging closer to warmth.
The reaction was too fluid, too instinctive. It was not a conscious response.
He wasn’t responding to them—he was responding to the idea of comfort.
“He’s dreaming.” Anastasia murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
Paola glanced at her. The observation didn’t surprise her. It made everything else make more sense.
The angel liked to be touched with kindness, Paola noted almost clinically.
Or, at the very least, he was starved for it.
It was almost endearing.
Almost.
She did not smile.
They had planned to bathe him quickly. Quietly. Efficiently.
It was not supposed to be any different from tending to an injured guest save for the use of more caution—and more contained. Paola had assumed it would be a routine matter. He barely moved—drifting in and out of awareness since Giovanni had handed him over. He wasn’t fully conscious nor did he seem to be able to resist. Still, she had assigned only the eldest courtesans to the task—those with practiced hands and steadier nerves.
They prepared the room in silence.
A shallow copper basin was placed near the hearth. Cloths were folded, the water warmed, and poured carefully into ceramic bowls. The rest of the room remained dim, curtained tight, candlelight kept low. This wasn’t a parlor bath—it was quiet work, done in secret. The younger girls were to be kept in the dark.
It was supposed to be a simple affair.
However, the moment the first layer of fabric peeled away, revealing his bare skin beneath, the room fell silent.
One of the courtesans slipped out. Paola was called immediately.
(In hindsight, she should have expected it. Giovanni had warned her of the bindings, of the blindfold, of the place he’d been kept. She had braced herself for strangeness and for damage, and yet, even knowing that, she wasn’t prepared for the reality of it.)
When she stepped into the room, the first thing she saw was the angel—propped up on his side (the only comfortable position he could be due to his feathered appendages) on a nest of cushions near the fire. His head rested against a rolled towel, his limbs slack. A bowl of warm water steamed quietly beside him as someone wrung out damp cloth.
His robe had been undone at the front.
The courtesans assigned to the task washed him in sections. They started with his arms, then moved to his shoulders, then his legs. His limbs were handled one at a time—gently lifted, sponged clean, wrapped again. No more than was necessary. No more than he would tolerate. He did not flinch or twitch. He allowed the motions without question, yielding with the pliancy that couldn't just be from sleep. The way his head lolled when repositioned, how easily he folded forward—it left them uneasy.
The eldest courtesans worked in near silence. At first, their movements were careful, restrained—not unkind, but deliberate. They had been told to be cautious and they were…until his robe slipped lower.
Because the moment it did—the moment the full extent of his scarring came into view, the air shifted.
The silence deepened. Their hands slowed.
But it was not out of fear.
Scars crisscrossed his body in patterns no accident could explain.
He was covered in them. Deep, pale marks, over his arms, his torso, his back. Some were thin and sharp, the kind left behind by knives. Others were broader, the remnants of deep incision. Punctures. Burns. Stitch lines.
These were not wounds from a battle.
These were deliberate wounds. They were surgical. Precise.
The women said nothing, but something in their posture changed. Fingers gentled. Cloth was wrung more softly. One girl breathed through her nose, harshly.
Paola felt her stomach tighten. At first, it was calculation. Familiar. But then—something else.
Not horror. Not even anger.
(Grief. That was what bloomed, slow and heavy, in her chest.)
This had not been meant to kill him. It had been meant to understand him.
Dissect him.
Possess him.
A chill settled in her chest.
Behind her, one of her girls—Elisabetta—was rigid, mouth a hard, bloodless line.
“Madonna…” She whispered lowly. “What did they do to him?”
Paola didn’t answer. She stepped closer, her expression unreadable.
The winged man did not flinch beneath their gazes. Any other man would have tensed under their scrutiny—covered himself, turned away, shown even the smallest sign of unease, but this one did not. He made no effort to cover himself, no attempt to hide. He laid there in silence, the weight of his own body seemingly too much for him to bear.
He wasn’t docile. He wasn’t unaware.
He was resigned.
It was like had been here before.
Touched. Examined. Cleaned.
Handled.
But more than anything, he was not present.
He didn’t turn his head towards them. He did not respond. He did not protest.
He was dreaming still, caught in some place they could not reach.
His skin reacted more than he did—twitching faintly under their ministrations. When a damp cloth brushed against a long line of scarring near his ribs, his body tensed instinctively, almost like a flicker of self preservation passing through him before vanishing again.
Paola noticed.
She always noticed.
The instinct. His body knew these were weak points. Vulnerabilities. It had learned to protect itself—even if he wasn’t fully aware of it. He was not limp with helplessness, but neither was he stiff with fear. He had been taught to be like this—to not to fight unless necessary. Not like a soldier, but like a possession—moved, dressed, restrained. Expected to endure without complaint.
“This isn’t… This isn’t from a fight.” Fiora observed hesitantly. “Who would do this?”
Paola knew.
Not who, exactly—but she knew the kind of men who left scars like these.
She had seen girls rescued from men like that before. Not criminals, not soldiers, not even Templars. Men with authority—with ambition. Men who thought they could take apart something beautiful just to see how it worked.
Her jaw tightened before she exhaled sharply, forcing her expression into something calmer.
“Continue.” She said quietly.
“But, Madonna— ”
“Continue.”
The courtesans hesitated, but they obeyed.
They continued—softer now. Like every movement had to prove they were not like the others. They touched only when needed. They whispered to each other so as not to disturb him. They washed gently, as if to make up for whatever cruelty had come before.
When it came time to wash his face, Catalina hesitated.
The blindfold was soaked at the edges, stiff with old sweat and wear. It had to come off. Paola gave the nod.
Catalina reached with careful fingers, loosening the knot behind his head. The fabric slid away with a faint whisper of damp silk, revealing his face fully for the first time.
The air shifted as they got their first real look at his face.
Even in sleep, even beneath the pallor and the fatigue—his features were unmistakably lovely. Not the sharp, chiseled beauty of marble statues, but something quiet. Worn. Human in the most disarming way. His lashes were long against his cheeks, his brow smooth in sleep. The kind of face you could almost mistake for peace—until you looked closer.
His cheeks were sunken in. Gaunt, like someone who hadn’t eaten properly in far too long. There was no expression to his features, no tension in his brow or mouth—but something about his face still felt faintly…grieved. Like he’d been used up.
Tired.
Not the weariness of sleep, but the kind that came from being worn thin by something that hadn’t stopped.
Their eyes caught on the pale scar that curved along his lower lip—subtle, but more striking now that the cloth was gone. It didn’t mar his face. If anything, it emphasized it. A scar that made his silence feel heavier.
Catalina gently sponged the sweat and soot from his skin, dabbing around his temples, the hollow of his eyes, the curve of his cheekbone. She worked slowly, not realizing the quiet reverence in it, like she was afraid to disturb him even with the softest touch.
Paola’s gaze sharpened as she watched.
Beneath the grime, the skin along his jaw was rough and bristled with uneven stubble. Not the neat, deliberate kind favored by the fashionable, but the patchy, unkempt roughness of months left unattended.
Neglect, more than design.
She made a small note of it, the way she would catalog any detail like of his build, his injuries, his breathing, but the thought lodged deeper than she meant it to.
They saved the wings for last.
Not out of fear, but hesitation because none of them quite knew what to do. No one had ever bathed wings before. There were no instructions, no traditions. Just instinct, and the quiet ache of seeing them in such a state.
The feathers were dull and matted in places, clumped with old soot and sweat. Some stuck together from disuse, others bent at odd angles where linen had pressed too tightly. They looked wilted and neglected—pitiful, almost.
They needed to be tended.
So the women did what they could.
Their hands hovered more than they touched at first—uncertain. They dampened soft cloths, added a little soap, and worked by guess and gentleness. They started at the edges, tracing lightly along the outermost pinions, barely grazing the down. They moved slowly, gauging the angel’s breath, watching for signs of distress.
The winged man did not move. He did not protest or pull away, but his entire frame went still. His shoulders tensed when hands neared the base of each wing. The place where flesh became feathers drew the tightest reaction—a flicker of something learned. Not panic. Not pain.
Anticipation.
He had been touched like this there before and not gently.
So they adjusted.
They worked lightly, cloths damp but never dripping. They sponged lightly across the topmost layers of feather, trailing carefully down the arch of each wing. They avoided the bases. They worked only as long as needed. Just enough to clean. Just enough to smooth.
The angel didn’t flinch, but he didn’t breathe deeply either.
He remained motionless, but as one cloth skimmed too near an old burn, his brow furrowed. A faint crease. Gone as quickly as it came, but there.
Later, when a hand accidentally brushed near a healed incision along his ribs, the corner of his mouth pulled—not in pain, not fully—but in something close to weariness. Memory, maybe. The expression faded almost instantly, smoothed back into that same haunting stillness.
And Paola watched it all.
She saw all the ways the angel’s body reacted, even if he wasn’t consciously aware of them. The way his shoulders twitched when they neared his neck. The small, almost imperceptible tremble when warm water met old wounds. The muscles in his arms coiled when they reached near his wrists.
And even his wings too, moved instinctively.
Just a little. Not enough to stop her girls. Not enough to resist, but there was movement—a hesitant, flickering effort to curl and fold back toward his chest, as if to shield something soft. Yet, the angle was wrong. His body was too tired. Pinned slightly by his own weight, the wings couldn’t quite reach. One sagged uselessly along the blankets. The other lifted slightly, then drooped.
It wasn’t resistance, but instinct, worn thin. A defense that didn’t know how to protect him anymore.
Even asleep, he had not truly forgotten.
His body remembered everything.
So did hers.
Paola folded her arms and said nothing.
Then, one of her girls murmured something soft—a hush of reassurance meant only for him. It was a small thing and had Paola not been watching, she would have missed it because at the sound, the tension that had crept into the corner of his mouth when her cloth had passed near the long scar at the base of his throat had eased.
Just slightly, but enough.
It wasn’t trust or from comfort—but recognition.
Somewhere deep in that quiet fog he lingered in—he still knew.
Paola exhaled slowly, watching as he let them clean him, allowing them to touch his wings. He tensed, but he did not recoil. Somewhere in that dream fogged mind of his, he knew they were not a threat.
He had been trained.
Not just to fight, but to assess threats instantly. He had assessed them—and deemed them safe. That trust, offered without resistance, weighed heavier on her than any weapon.
They would not hurt him.
So he did not hurt them.
And when they were done—when his skin was clean, his hair freshly combed, his wings softly preened—Paola gave one final order.
“Wrap him in linen. The softest we have.”
Because whatever he was, whatever danger he might still pose—
She would not treat him like the people who had left those scars.
For all his past wounds, he deserved to be treated gently.
The room had gone quiet after the others left.
The water had been drained, the towels folded, Paola gone to handle other matters.
Elisabetta and Fiora stayed behind. It was their turn on rotation and Paola had been clear—two girls at all times. No exceptions. They were never to leave him alone.
The angel lay on his side where they’d settled him—still, silent, wrapped in their softest linen. His wrists were still gently bound, tucked near his chest like a prayer. One wing was draped limp along his back, the other stretched nearly off the bedding that the feathers brushed against the woven rug on the floor.
The gold-threaded ceremonial robes he had arrived in had been stained stiff with blood and soot and had been folded and set aside the moment they removed them. No one had touched or spoken of them since. The fabric had felt wrong in their hands.
In their place, they dressed him in something gentler. A spare camicia— plain, soft, and surrendered from one of their own. It had been cut open at the back to fit around the wings and fastened with a ribbon at the shoulders to keep it closed. It hung too long, the neckline dipped low, but it left space for his wings to move. It was cleaner, warmer, and more importantly, forgiving.
The angel didn’t stir, but every so often, his fingers twitched, or his feathers rustled in reflex. They were small signs that he was still dreaming—still somewhere else, but whether it was by choice or something else, no one could say.
Fiora wondered what those dreams were like. Were they sweeter than this place? Gentler than this room?
Like the rest of the girls, she was warned about him. That he had killed. That he was dangerous, and yet, the more she looked at him…
“He doesn’t look dangerous.” Fiora murmured aloud without meaning to.
“Neither do we.” Sitting on the opposite side of the bed, Elisabetta didn’t look up from the book on her lap. However, the corners of her lips twitched upwards, as sharp as knives. “And yet, we all know where to aim—and how deep to twist.”
Fiora huffed a laugh because that was true. As the eldest courtesans—her first girls— Paola had trained them well.
But this was different.
Fiora watched the rise and fall of his chest beneath the blanket. She watched the way his wing, half folded and trailing across the rug, shifted ever so slightly as he breathed like a curtain catching an invisible breeze.
In truth, she hadn’t known what to expect from their newest charge.
She had grown up with stories of angels—biblical ones. Blazing, terrible things. Wreathed in flame. Covered in wings and eyes and voices that shattered the air like thunder. Messengers of wrath and glory, untouchable and holy.
That was what she thought an angel would be—vast, unknowable. A creature too divine to pity. Too terrible to touch.
But this?
This wasn’t awe inspiring.
This was heartbreaking.
There was no tension in his body, no cruelty in his posture. No simmering power waiting to strike. Even now—cleaned, dried, tucked into warmth—he didn’t sprawl like someone triumphant. He curled inward, like a secret. He slept like someone used to discomfort or like he didn’t expect the peace to last.
And then Fiora said it—suddenly. Simply. As if the word had been sitting in her chest, waiting to be spoken.
“He’s soft.”
She didn’t mean it as an insult. She didn’t mean it as a compliment. She didn’t know exactly what it was meant to be—only that it felt like the right word.
Soft.
Like damp feathers. Like a breath held too long. Like something not meant to survive what it had survived.
“Soft things can still cut.” Elisabetta said, but her voice lacked any real edge.
There was a long pause.
Fiora glanced at him. His face was peaceful beneath the blindfold. His wings relaxed on the bedding. He looked half carved from marble—quiet, weightless.
And yet, the scars were there. Not brutal. Not wild. Not the kind of wounds made in a moment of rage. They were drawn with intention, as if someone had mapped his skin with a question they were too afraid to ask aloud.
Wounds meant not to punish, but to uncover. To define him.
Curiosity, sharpened into harm.
“They were afraid of him.” Fiora observed. “The ones who had him before.”
“They should’ve been afraid of themselves.” Elisabetta muttered without hesitation.
Fiora blinked. That sharpness surprised her. Elisabetta didn’t usually say things like that.
They didn’t much talk after that.
Then, slowly, Fiora knelt beside the bed. She brushed a curl of slightly damp hair from his temple. Her hand hesitated a moment before she tugged the blanket up, tucking it more securely around his shoulders—careful not to disturb the feathered weight at his back.
Then, quietly so it wouldn’t break the stillness of the room—
“Sleep as long as you need, angelo.” Fiora whispered.
Elisabetta didn’t say a word. She blew out the nearest candle.
The room dimmed.
And the angel—still half lost, still drifting—continued to dream.
It had been a week now since Giovanni Auditore left her doorstep.
Paola had expected to hear from him the following morning after delivering his burden or perhaps by the following evening. She knew the weight he carried—the way he had clutched that fragile body like something both sacred and cursed. He had not looked like a man who could walk away clean.
But no word had come.
No letters. No messenger. No secret signal left in the usual places.
The city remained quiet. Too quiet. There were no signs of unrest, no blood in the streets, no whisper of Templar activity. And yet, that absence of news only made her more uneasy. Florence didn’t often stay silent for long.
Perhaps something had kept him.
‘Or perhaps—’ She thought, not unkindly. ‘He simply needed time to think.’ To breathe. To process what he had found.
She didn’t blame him. The man he’d brought into her care wasn’t something easily forgotten.
She didn’t take the silence as abandonment. Giovanni had trusted her with many things over the years. Secrets, missions, lives—but this was different. When he’d placed the winged man in her care, he hadn’t given instructions. He had given her everything. His silence wasn’t absence. It was faith—wordless, weighted. She was the only one he’d trust to make sense of what he couldn’t yet understand.
And Paola had treated this temporary addition to her household the way she treated any dangerous unknown—like a wounded Assassin in need of shelter. Gently, but cautious. Professionally, but pragmatic. She had assumed it would be manageable. Her girls had been trained for this—how to tend to the hurting without baring their own hearts. How to soften without surrendering.
At first, they followed that training to the letter.
They fed him thin broth at first, carefully spooning it past his lips. He drank when prompted, leaning weakly toward the warmth, though he never reached for the bowl himself. He did not speak. He did not open his eyes.
He was too thin, his body gaunt from neglect. They had seen starvation before—but this? This was slow deterioration, the kind of long-term suffering that could only happen when someone had been left to waste away.
So they coaxed him gently.
They filled the silence with soft voices and warmth. Stories about Florence. Gossip about clients. Bits of song or nonsense—whatever came to mind. And he responded—not in words, but in presence. A twitch of the fingers. A sigh. A name murmured in sleep, swallowed by dream.
The blindfold, meanwhile, remained fixed around his head, but it was no longer the heavy one he’d arrived in.
Over his eyes was a new blindfold—thin, sheer, almost gold in the candlelight.
They’d replaced the old one after the bath. The original had been heavy—dark silk, stiff with wear and stained at the edges that reeked of control.
This one was softer and gentle. A whisper of cloth. It filtered the light instead of blocking it. Something he could see through, if he wanted.
Not a barrier.
An invitation.
He had twitched when they took the old one off—not in fear, just… confusion. Like his face didn’t recognize its own exposure. When the candlelight hit him later, even through his closed eyelids, he had flinched—his whole body going rigid like a thread pulled too tight.
They hadn’t tried to remove it again.
Instead, they adjusted.
They began adding light in quiet increments—an extra candle near the hearth, a second oil lamp left glowing through the night. Never enough to hurt him. Just enough to shift the shadows.
They never asked him to wake.
They only made it gentle, in case he wanted to.
And even blindfolded, he adapted. He did not need sight to sense them. Paola noticed it in the way his head tilted ever so slightly when someone approached and the faint twitch of his fingers when a new voice spoke.
He was listening. Not in a passive way, but in a way that marked distance, counted people, mapped the room.
He was learning them.
And the house—bit by bit—was learning him, too.
There were no more awkward hesitations or uncertain glances. The girls fell into a rhythm—baths every few days in the mornings, broth offered at set hours. Wings checked by candlelight. Linens changed. Hair brushed. Blankets fluffed.
They knew the way his feathers twitched when the room was too cold. They knew the scent of his skin when he was too warm. Fiora began keeping a soft brush beside the bed. Catalina started warming the linens before folding them over his chest.
He never asked for comfort, but he never recoiled from it, either.
And Dio, the wings.
They became part of the house, too.
They draped over bedding like velvet. One afternoon, Anastasia tripped on an outstretched tip and nearly fell. She’d cursed, steadying herself, and then grumbled—”Try not to take up the whole room, will you?”
He hadn’t moved, but the wing curled back slightly, as if embarrassed.
It was almost endearing—one of the only signs that something inside him still responded.
The angel remained largely as he had when he first arrived—conscious, but not. Awake, but barely. He existed in a strange limbo, caught between the safety of his dreams and the reality of the real world.
There were moments when his breathing shifted—when his brow furrowed faintly or his head turned toward a sound. Moments like these made the courtesans pause, wondering if he might open his eyes, but then, just as quickly, the moment would pass. His breath would even out again. His body would go slack, as if whatever part of him that had stirred had drifted back under, unwilling—or unable—to stay.
He lived in a fog. A quiet, heavy stillness that wasn’t quite sleep and wasn’t quite waking, but over time, the silence began to change.
Not from him, but from them.
The girls—slowly, subtly—began to change.
For the first few days, the elder courtesans had treated him like a curiosity. A strange, soft thing. A mystery. Something helpless. He made soft noises in his sleep. He turned instinctively toward warmth. It was easier to treat him as something injured—to play nursemaid.
But over time, it became more and more apparent that that surface level fondness deepened.
Not only did they brush his hair or wings. Sometimes they spoke to him when no one else was listening. Not sweet nothings. Not coos or coquetry. Just… words. Confessions. Half formed thoughts. Things they didn’t say aloud to anyone else.
They didn’t believe he was a real angel—most of them, anyway—but something about him made it easier to pretend. That maybe someone was listening. That maybe it mattered and that it was okay.
It wasn’t faith, but when you were raised to believe heaven would never open for girls like them—girls who sold kisses and company for coin—it was easier to speak to something that couldn’t answer back.
After all, he never judged. He never frowned. He never turned away. In a place where silence was rare, his stillness made him feel safe.
Like he was a well they could pour things into.
Like a kindness too soft to be holy, and too human to be anything else.
Sometimes, as they whispered, a wing would shift—barely a brush, a faint graze against their side or hand. Maybe it was chance, maybe it was instinct, but in that moment, it felt like he heard them.
They didn’t forget Paola’s rules, of course.
If he stirred too quickly—if he reached, or lunged, or gave even the shadow of threat—the girls were to strike first, then call Paola.
None of them did.
Even when he twitched. Even when a wing stretched across the room without warning. No one reached for their knives. That, more than anything, told Paola the danger was growing—not because he had changed, but because they had.
Bartholomea—stern Bartholomea, who once broke a man’s nose for grabbing her wrist started brushing his hair between tasks. Gently. Almost absentmindedly.
Catalina hummed when she was near him. Not lullabies, but old tunes she always muttered when her hands were busy and her thoughts were elsewhere.
Diana started offering different herbal teas near his bed—chamomile, rose, mint—as if waiting for him to choose.
Her girls were softening.
It got to the point where the girls had begun asking for small mercies.
“Surely, it’s fine to untie his ankles.” Anastasia murmured on the third day. “He never moves. He doesn’t fight.”
“It’s harder to wipe him down like that, too.” Elisabetta insisted, tone carefully neutral.
Paola had resisted at first. Giovanni’s warnings were fresh in her mind. He had not been subtle—keep your eyes open. Don’t trust it.
But eventually, she relented. Only his legs. The bindings at his ankles were beginning to chafe.
His wrists remained tied.
She told herself it was a reasonable concession. A kindness. Nothing more. He didn’t deserve pain just to keep her comfortable.
Still—she watched her girls more closely. How they hovered. How they lingered. How they spoke to him with the kind of gentleness that slipped in unnoticed, like habit turning into care.
And care, Paola knew, was dangerous.
He never lashed out. Never resisted. When touched, he turned toward them, soft and slow. Not from trust, but from instinct.
And that was the danger.
Paola had seen charm used as a weapon. Had watched the cruelest men wear gentleness like a mask. But this one—this one wasn’t pretending. He didn’t know how to pretend.
She caught herself once, watching from the hall. He had stirred slightly, lips parting like he might speak. He looked cold, even though the fire was lit. Her hand had moved—just slightly—to adjust the blanket before she stopped herself.
That was what she did for new courtesans. After their first nights. After their first tears.
She stepped back and let the blanket be.
However, each night, she found herself in the hidden doorway, watching the rise and fall of his breath. Watching his wings unfurl slightly, as if they too were learning to rest.
He looked… small. Not fragile, exactly. Just thin. Like someone stretched too far for far too long.
He looked less like a weapon and more like a boy lost in a fevered dream.
He was a man, clearly—grown in bone and muscle, scarred like a soldier. Yet there were moments, quiet ones, when the weight fell from his face and she saw something younger beneath it. Not innocence. Just... absence. Like a boy who had survived too much silence and hadn’t quite come back from it.
But Paola was not a fool.
She knew danger didn’t always come sharp edged and snarling. Sometimes it came with a sweet face. Soft spoken. Sometimes they looked just like this—docile and angelic, curled beneath blankets.
Giovanni hadn’t said how many had died on the road by the winged man’s hand—but he didn’t have to. She’d seen it in his eyes. The angel had killed but whether out of rage, survival, or something deeper, she didn’t know.
The man in her house looked nothing like a killer, but Paola knew better than to trust appearances.
For now, he was safe.
But safety, Paola knew, was a delicate thing.
It never lasted long.
An urgent knock at her office door pulled her from her thoughts.
One of her middle daughters—Isabetta, breathless from the stairs—stood with a furrowed brow.
“Madonna—” She panted. “You need to see this.”
Paola’s brow furrowed, setting down her quill.
“We’ve had a request. A full house rental. Paid in advance. One of our oldest patrons—”
“And?”
“He wants the house tomorrow night.”
The sun was high in the afternoon sky the moment La Rosa Colta received its first unexpected guest.
Paola had been midway through coordinating catering menus, finalizing floral arrangements, and drafting contingencies when Catalina burst in, breathless.
“Madonna—” The courtesan panted. “There’s a man at the gate, asking after a… ‘relic.’” She paused and then added more quietly—“Not Giovanni.”
Paola’s brows lifted, but she made her way to the entrance, already suspecting who it was.
Indeed, standing at her doorstep was Giovanni’s eldest. His posture was relaxed, his grin sharper than necessary this early in the morning. He looked freshly groomed, confident, and exactly like a young man who knew he was handsome and liked making trouble with it.
Her sharp eyes raked over him before she leaned against the frame, arms crossed, with a knowing smirk.
“Federico Auditore. You must be bored.”
“Madonna Paola.” Federico greeted with a respectful dip of his head, though his grin was quick and roguish. “You look as lovely as ever.”
She snorted. “Flattery before lunch? You must want something.”
“I always want something.” His grin widened. “But this time, I come on official business. My father sent me.”
She had figured as much. It was about time he finally responded. “That does sound serious.” Paola drawled, unimpressed. “Should I be worried?”
“He wants news of the relic.” He tried to say it casually, but the word sat oddly in his mouth, like it didn’t belong.
Paola raised an eyebrow.
“Relic?”
The way he said it held the faintest note of uncertainty and Paola almost laughed. So Giovanni truly told him nothing.
Interesting.
She had assumed that Giovanni had only kept his wife and youngest children in the dark about this matter, but it seemed even his eldest son—an Assassin-in-training, this novice —had been left unaware of the full truth.
Well, if Federico did not know, then she would not be the one to tell him.
“All is well.” Paola said smoothly. “Nothing is amiss. The relic is safe and quiet.”
Federico’s head tilted slightly, looking vaguely confused. “Quiet?”
“Very quiet.” She assured, veiling her amusement with a practiced dip of her head.
Federico nodded, seemingly satisfied although there was the smallest of furrows on his brows. "Bene. My father will be pleased to hear it.”
His gaze wandered past her shoulder, catching the flurry of movement in the courtyard beyond—maids stringing up lanterns, courtesans practicing their steps, servants darting through with baskets of wine and fruit. The energy was unmistakable.
His brow arched. “You’re expecting guests.”
“A private event.” Paola replied, tone light but layered with something that almost bordered on disdain. “A wealthy client has rented the house for tomorrow evening. A celebration for his final night of freedom.”
“A bachelor party?” Federico smirked. “I could have cleared my schedule if you’d sent word.”
Paola rolled her eyes. “You were never on the guest list.”
“Tragic.” He placed a hand over his heart. “Florence’s finest brothel, and not a single invitation for its most charming Auditore?”
“You flatter yourself.”
“Well, someone has to.”
Her expression twitched to something almost fond. Dio, this one. “Be quick with your report. We’ll be closed to visitors until after the party.”
He nodded, a little more serious now. “Understood. My father trusts you.”
Paola’s gaze sharpened slightly, the edge returning. “As he should.” She paused, considering, before she tipped her head toward the entrance. “Would you care for a drink before you return?”
Federico chuckled. “Tempting, but I must decline. If I linger too long, my mother will ask why.”
“Mm. And what would you tell her?”
“That I was training.” He replied smoothly, eyes glinting. “With a very skilled instructor.”
Paola let out a dry laugh. “Get out of my house, Federico.”
He saluted cheekily and turned, jogging down the cobblestone path.
Paola watched him go, amusement lingering in her eye but as soon as his form disappeared into the city, her smile vanished. Her eyes sharpened, gaze drifting toward the far end of the house—toward the sealed room.
Still hidden. Still silent.
Still dangerous.
And tomorrow, of all days—her house would be crawling with guests she could not afford to refuse or offend. Drunk, powerful, entitled guests.
Her fingers curled around the edge of the doorway.
The booking had come at the worst possible time.
The rental had come through one of their oldest patrons—a merchant with ties to a Medici cousin, the kind of connection that could shield them from scrutiny if used well… or invite it, if mishandled. If she’d rejected the booking without cause, it would have been remembered. Questions would be asked. Whispers would follow.
Why had La Rosa Colta turned down such a lucrative offer?
What was she hiding?
She grit her teeth.
The man had paid in advance with more than a little extra coin for the short notice. Enough florins to keep her girls in luxury for months.
It would have been foolish to refuse. Dangerous to accept.
And yet here she was—preparing to host a full house rental on the one week she had an unconscious man with wings tucked away in one of her most secure rooms. A stranger with too many unknowns and far too much meaning for any outsider to glimpse.
Dio, what timing. Just thinking about it gave her a headache.
The angel’s room, at least, was discreet. One of the old back chambers on the top most floor reserved for quiet clients or whispered dealings. It had no windows, only one discreet entrance. Secrecy was the room’s design, but that didn’t mean someone couldn’t find him.
Especially with a house full of men drunk on wine and power, wandering where they pleased.
She had no one to post at his door. She couldn’t afford to draw attention by stationing a courtesan there—not tomorrow night, not when every girl was expected to be visible, smiling, dancing, and earning her keep. Paola also certainly wasn’t letting a mercenary inside her walls. Not even the ones she trusted to guard the perimeter. The inner sanctum of La Rosa Colta was sacred. It had survived for years because she knew how to guard it.
She would allow not just anyone to breach that space.
Still—she couldn’t rely on silence alone.
Control, above all, was necessary.
Paola’s jaw clenched as she turned on her heel, already running through contingencies.
If she couldn’t spare a guard, then she would have to reroute the danger.
She would tell the girls—subtly, carefully—to steer the party away from the top floor. Keep the dancing in the outside courtyard. The drinks near the bottom levels. Keep the men downstairs, dazzled and distracted while the top most level remained closed.
If anyone asked, the wing was under renovation. Or reserved. Or hosting a noble’s mistress recovering from a fever.
It didn’t matter what excuse they gave so long as it allowed the upstairs to stay off-limits.
Because drunk men imagined things.
A flash of feathers. A bound, blindfolded figure in linen. They wouldn’t see a prisoner. They would see an opportunity. A fantasy. A prize.
And that was the danger, wasn’t it?
The top floors of places like this were always whispered about—rooms with velvet curtains, masked clients, strange indulgences reserved for those rich enough to ask for them. Men believed there were levels of pleasure—layers of mystery that only florins could peel back.
A locked door didn’t warn them off. It tempted them and whatever they found beyond it, they’d assume it was meant for them.
Some would whisper he was a luxury item, hidden away for the wealthiest clients. Others might call him a spectacle—something exotic to be shared and passed around.
And some, the worst kind, might believe him divine.
The upper floor of La Rosa Colta had a reputation—one Paola had carefully cultivated. Clients whispered about it—silken rooms, masked lovers, hidden pleasures reserved for only the most discreet and daring patrons. She never corrected them. Let them believe her house hosted indulgences too rare and too sacred for the lower levels. Let them dream of veiled dancers and secret rites.
The truth was quieter.
The top floor wasn’t for fantasy. It was for sanctuary.
A safe place for those who couldn’t be seen—injured Assassins, fugitives in need of care, women with nowhere else to go. The doors were thick. The walls were soundproofed. The locks were silent.
It was a lie that protected the truth.
And tonight, she would need that lie to hold.
She would check the door herself. Lock it. Reinforce the latch if she had to.
Paola’s jaw tightened.
If a whisper left her walls, if someone mentioned a winged man, if the wrong ear caught wind of a real angel being hidden in a Florentine brothel, not only would his previous captors come—but so would the Church.
And they would not ask questions.
She exhaled slowly and turned back towards the courtyard. The girls were already moving—changing linens, lighting incense, preparing wine. Their laughter drifted through the halls, light and charming, but tomorrow, their usual rhythm would not be enough.
She would need her best.
Anastasia.
The sharpest of them all. Quiet as a shadow, with a memory like a ledger and eyes that missed nothing. If anyone so much as drifted toward the stairs, Anastasia would intercept them with a smile and a full cup, steering them away before they ever knew they’d been redirected.
Bartholomea.
Her most loyal. Her most blunt. The only one Paola trusted to lay a hand on a man’s chest and say ‘no’ without flinching. She would not be in the rooms tonight. She would be near the top of the stairs, lounging like she belonged there—because she did—and no one would question her presence.
Catalina.
Soft-spoken, but clever—deceptively so. Men underestimated her constantly, which made her invaluable. Paola would station her near the back hall with a tray of wine, watching for strays.
None of them would ask why—not out loud—but they would understand.
Paola had trained them well.
She would gather all her girls before dusk. No panic. No dramatics.
The eldest she briefed fully while for the younger ones, she told just enough to obey.
“Keep the upstairs clear.”
“No guests past the second landing.”
“If anyone asks—lie. Believably.”
If that wasn’t enough—if something went wrong—Paola would act. She would guard the room herself if she had to with a blade in hand and her back to the door.
Because whoever this man was—whatever Giovanni had dragged out of the Vatican and into her care—he was still hers to manage.
And no one—not a drunk merchant, not a wandering noble, not even an Assassin— would undo the control she had worked so carefully to preserve.
Not in her house.
Not under her watch.
Upon returning from his mission, Federico found his father in the study. The door creaked softly as he entered. Giovanni didn’t look up right away, his hands still poised over the parchment in front of him though the quill had long stopped moving the moment he heard his son’s footsteps in the hall.
“Back so soon?” Giovanni said without looking up.
“It wasn’t a long visit.” Federico replied lightly, stepping in. “Paola sends her regards.”
That made Giovanni glance up. His gaze was sharp, but not unkind. “And?”
Federico offered a faint shrug. “She said the relic is safe. Quiet. No trouble.”
Giovanni nodded once.
Federico leaned against the wall, arms crossing lazily. “She didn’t explain what it was. I didn’t press.”
“You did well.” Giovanni murmured. An Assassin learned more by silence than by demanding answers. It was a lesson every novice had to master and Federico was learning it well.
“But—” Federico tilted his head. “The house is… busy. There’s going to be a party tomorrow. Full house rental. One of those rich cousin-of-a-Medici types celebrating his last night of freedom.”
Giovanni stilled.
“I figured it was worth mentioning.” Federico continued, watching his father closely. “I know she’s hosted guests like that before, but... it struck me as bad timing, if something important’s hidden inside.”
Giovanni’s jaw twitched. He turned his face back toward the window, staring at the light dancing across the rooftops.
“Do you trust her?” Federico asked.
“I do.” Giovanni said without hesitation. “She has hidden more dangerous things than I can count in that house. She knows how to keep secrets.”
Federico smiled faintly. “That’s what I thought.”
He pushed off the wall. “Alright then. Message delivered. If you ever feel like letting me in on what this relic is, I’ll be around. Just… preferably before I’m sent back to play messenger.”
Giovanni’s lips curved, just slightly. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
Federico gave a mock salute and let himself out.
Giovanni stood by the window long after his eldest son had left, the last echo of the door fading into silence.
He should have felt reassured.
The relic was safe. Paola had said as much. There were no alarms, no threats, no signs of exposure. Everything was proceeding as it should.
A note had arrived two days prior—brief, her handwriting clean and clipped. He is stable. Still asleep. No signs of distress.
Giovanni had read it once, folded it in half, and tucked it away. He hadn’t replied. Just as he hadn’t replied to the one before or the one before that.
Paola never pressed. She didn’t need to.
They had worked together too long to mistake silence for indifference. She would understand what his lack of response meant: that he had nothing to offer. No direction. No reassurance. Only quiet trust and waiting. It had always been that way between them—unspoken things given weight by years of shared service and sacrifice.
But now, after a full week, he had finally broken the pattern.
Not with a letter, but with his son.
He hadn’t planned on sending Federico, but whispers had reached him—murmurs from within his social circles over goblets of wine and banking ledgers. A private booking. A brothel cleared. A full house rental redirected at the last minute after another venue mysteriously fell through.
The name La Rosa Colta had been mentioned once, almost offhandedly, but it had been enough. His jaw had clenched. His decision had followed.
He trusted Paola, but he didn’t trust Florence.
His hand curled slightly against the sill.
Still asleep.
That shouldn’t surprise him. He had left the poppy tincture with Paola before departing—just enough to maintain stillness if needed, to buy them time while the household adjusted. It had been a precaution, not a sentence, but Paola had returned it two days later, accompanied by neither note or message. That was a clear enough answer as it was. Her house, her rules. She would not sedate something she hadn’t judged dangerous herself.
Giovanni respected that. Admired it, even.
But still.
Truthfully, he wasn’t sure how he felt about it.
The tincture had been meant as a mercy. A precaution. The Vatican had surely kept the winged man under constant sedation—how else could they have contained it for so long? A clean sleep was safer than waking in fear, than thrashing in confusion. However, long-term use came with a price. Dependence. Dullness. Giovanni had known men who never truly woke again after too many nights of poppy laced quiet.
He hadn’t wanted that for him.
Still… part of him had hoped the sleep would break on its own.
Perhaps foolishly, he’d imagined that once they had pulled him free—once the bindings were gone and the blindfold loosened, once he was placed in a real bed with gentle hands tending to him—something would shift.
The unnatural stillness would ease.
The thing—no, no…the man—would wake.
But he hadn’t.
And that troubled Giovanni more than he was willing to admit.
It shouldn’t be a surprise. He had kept the winged man drugged on the road from Rome. Enough to keep him from waking, from thrashing, from seeing. Giovanni had administered it himself the first few days, watching as the man had sunk into stillness like water into stone.
But even so, even sedated, the winged man hadn’t twitched. Not when thunder cracked overhead. Not when his limbs were jostled into the crate. Not even when Giovanni pressed two fingers to his pulse just to be sure he was still breathing.
It was the kind of quiet that felt too deep to be from a simple drug. Not restful. Not safe. Just… distant.
Whatever they’d done to him under the Vatican… it had kept him silent. Suppressed. Small.
And maybe that silence was easier.
Maybe it was even kinder.
Because what would happen if he did wake?
Would he speak?
Would he run?
Would he turn toward Giovanni again with those trembling hands, whispering a name that wasn’t his?
Or worse—would he not remember that moment at all?
Giovanni exhaled slowly, forehead resting against the cold window pane.
He hadn’t been thinking clearly when he brought it—him—back.
Rome to Florence had been four days of blood, bone, and exhaustion. He hadn’t slept. Had barely eaten. He’d watched something ancient awaken on the road and watched four men die without a weapon drawn. He had witnessed a massacre on the road and felt power tremble through the air—ancient and holy and wrong.
And he’d been angry.
Not just disturbed. Not just afraid.
Furious.
The bandits had spoken of the angel like he was a possession. Something to sell. Something to open. Something to break.
Giovanni had been ready to kill them for that.
It wasn’t mercy that had held him back—it was timing. He would have slit their throats one by one if the thing inside the winged man hadn’t acted first.
The difference was the how, not the why because it was the how that haunted him even now.
Bare hands. Bone-cracking force. The sound of silence after.
He had called the angel ‘it’ not because he believed it, but because it was safer. Distance made it easier. Necessary.
But now—now, with time and sleep behind him and his wife’s quiet steadiness folded into his chest, he wasn’t so certain.
Maria hadn’t tried to convince him. She never did. She had only watched, and waited, and told him gently that if it needed to be destroyed, he would have done it already.
And she was right.
Paola would keep the winged man safe. Her house was a haven when it needed to be and she was no stranger to sheltering dangerous men. She knew how to hide a sword inside a silk sleeve. Giovanni trusted her more than most.
But even that trust had limits.
The brothel wasn’t meant to be a permanent solution. He had known that from the beginning. It had been convenient—hidden, discreet, managed by someone he trusted—but it was not built to withstand scrutiny forever. It had always been a temporary hiding place—a stopgap between one impossible decision and the next. The longer they left him there, the more likely it was that someone would see too much.
But if Paola took on more high profile clients like this one—wealthy men with Medici ties, men with coin and curiosity—it would only grow more dangerous.
She couldn’t start declining bookings. Someone would notice.
Someone would ask what she was hiding. Sooner or later, someone would see too much.
He needed a better option.
Somewhere secure. Somewhere silent—
A vault.
The word came before he could stop it—clinical, logical. Sealed stone and silence. It made sense.
His banker’s brain said yes.
But something in him recoiled.
Violently.
Instinctively.
He gripped the edge of the windowsill tight, the thought coming together like a slow poison.
Monteriggioni had one.
The family crypts beneath their ancestral home were still sealed. The Sanctuary was too well known, but the old vaults—those were different. Stone and dark and forgotten. The kind of place no one would ever stumble into. The only place only he and Mario controlled.
Giovanni stared out at the rooftops of Florence, his eyes distant.
If the angel never woke—if he remained like this—then maybe that was the safest place. Not exposed. Not vulnerable.
Contained.
'Someone.' Maria had said.
Giovanni’s chest tightened.
He didn’t want to put him in there.
But the thought still wouldn’t leave him.
‘It’s not punishment.’ Something murmured—quiet, steady, not in his ears but in his bones. ‘It’s preservation.’
He would be protected.
Unreachable.
Safe.
‘Stillness is not suffering.' The thought continued. ‘It is peace.’
His heart recoiled.
But his mind—
His mind traced the edges of it like the lip of a cup—smooth, inevitable.
‘If he wakes up… what if he can’t tell the difference between kind hands and cruel ones?’
Giovanni stood still, hand braced against the sill, eyes fixed on the faint reflection in the glass—his own face, half lit by firelight, shadowed by doubt.
The angel had said Ezio’s name.
Not once, but again and again, in sleep—like a prayer spoken to no one.
Giovanni had heard it with his own ears. He had never told the creature his son’s name. Not once, and yet he—it knew.
Coincidence could not stretch that far.
Not when his son’s name came from a mouth that had smiled as it crushed windpipes with its bare hands.
Not when it was spoken like a claim.
The longer he stared, the more the reflection seemed to ripple, just at the edges, and then—movement.
A flicker.
And then behind him, in the glass—
‘Better to lock a door… than mourn a mistake.’
Ezio.
Standing. Still.
His head bowed just enough to catch the light—just enough for Giovanni to see the blood trailing from the corner of his mouth, dark and slow.
It trailed down his throat like ink across a ledger.
His son’s eyes were dull, glassy. The hearthfire flickered in them, but nothing looked back.
And behind him, was the angel—blindfolded, expression blank, watching with something that did not understand grief.
One hand rested on Ezio’s shoulder.
His fingertips were red.
Giovanni’s breath caught. He spun toward the room behind him—
Nothing.
No Ezio.
No blood.
No figure in silk with blindfolded eyes that didn’t need to see to watch.
There was only the quiet. The fire.
And the taste of copper in his mouth.
‘You are not cruel.’ The voice so like his own soothed. ‘You are cautious.’
The back of his neck chilled.
‘And a father must be cautious.’
He clenched the edge of the windowsill tighter.
His knuckles were white.
His chest was tight.
He could feel himself folding toward the thought like paper.
‘You could stop it before it ever happens.’
He didn’t know where the thought came from.
It didn’t feel like his.
But it echoed so perfectly in the hollow behind his ribs that he didn’t question it.
And somewhere, in the hush between heartbeats, Juno smiled—soft as a lullaby, sharp as a hook.
She only ever spoke in comforts. It was not her fault they fit so well.
The letter arrived not long after dawn the day of the party.
It was waiting in the usual place—wedged behind the loose brick beneath the attic turret’s overhang, just beyond the attic window. A spot no courtesan used and no client would ever find. The roof had always been for Assassins—a place above the noise, for signals, secrets, and things too fragile for daylight.
Paola retrieved it herself just before dawn when she heard the birds that roosted above disturbed. She stepped onto the house’s beams and pulled the letter free with practiced fingers. The letter was folded, sealed, and unmarked.
Paola broke the wax without hesitation and read it in one glance.
P,
Thank you for your continued vigilance. Your most recent report was received. I recognize the strain this arrangement places on your household.
A more suitable location is being prepared—isolated, secure, and long-term. Once final preparations are made, I will retrieve the relic myself.
I appreciate your discretion in the interim.
-G.
Paola sat with it a moment longer, the paper resting against her fingers.
She should have been relieved.
He was doing what he had always intended—removing the risk, securing the unknown. She had not expected the winged man to remain in her care for long. He was never hers to begin with.
And yet...
Her gaze drifted toward the far corridor. The quiet, hidden room at the end of the hall.
There was no movement there. No sound.
But she could still feel him.
She didn’t disagree with Giovanni—not entirely.
The angel was still a risk. His scars did not make him safe.
But she had seen risks before and not all of them deserved to be buried.
Her fingers tapped once against the edge of the letter—thoughtful, unsure.
She leaned back in her chair.
A more suitable location, the letter said.
She had no doubt Giovanni already had one in mind. Somewhere enclosed, walled in stone, guarded by secrecy. The kind of place you put dangerous things when you wanted them safe, but out of reach.
(Where you wanted them forgotten.)
It was smart. Efficient. The perfect place for a relic. The sort of plan she herself would make if the roles were reversed.
But...
Her thumb brushed over the edge of the parchment, the wax flaking slightly beneath her nail.
He wasn’t just a relic.
Paola wasn’t sure when she’d stopped thinking of him that way.
Perhaps it was the first time she saw the scars—long, surgical things carved with care and cruelty. Or perhaps it was the way his fingers curled instinctively away from touch at first, the way his whole body tensed when someone reached too near his ribs, as if expecting pain before relaxing when there were none.
He hadn’t spoken. Not once, but still, she had learned him in fragments.
She knew now how he tilted his head toward familiar voices. How he leaned toward warmth without understanding it. How he sighed when Fiora whispered— “It’s alright, angelo.”— like some part of him recognized the words, even if he couldn’t answer them.
That didn’t make him safe.
But it didn’t make him dangerous either.
Her brow furrowed.
She understood Giovanni’s caution. She respected it, but Giovanni had seen him awakened. He had seen the other side—whatever it was that stirred inside that body when it was threatened.
She had only seen the boy left behind.
And though she would never say it aloud, there was something deeply, unsettlingly human in the way he folded into silence.
Paola folded the letter once, tucked it in her bodice, and stood.
The hallway beyond her study was quiet.
She found herself walking without realizing it—steps measured, not hurried, not hesitant. A habit now.
The door to her charge’s room creaked softly as it opened. She had oiled the hinges herself.
Inside, the light was dim—just enough to see, not enough to blind. The boy still slept as he had all day, wrapped in linen and silence, the softest fabric brushing the curve of his shoulders where old scars and burns peeked through. His breath was steady.
Paola watched for several long moments.
There was no change or any sign of awareness. He held the same fragile stillness he’d carried since he’d arrived.
And then—
A sound.
Just a soft, helpless noise.
Barely louder than a breath, like something half remembered had caught in his throat and failed to escape. His lips parted, but nothing followed. Only a faint exhale, and the smallest tremble of his fingers. His wrists were still gently bound, tucked against his chest where they’d been positioned for comfort. He couldn’t lie on his back due to his larger appendages. So, he remained as they’d left him on his side—folded inward, quiet, and contained.
One wing shifted once—slow, loose, like a bird stretching in its sleep. It wasn’t defensive motion, or strained. Just…tired. It was a hollow movement that was more from habit, than instinct. Like it wanted to curl inward and shield itself, but couldn’t remember how.
Something in her chest pulled tight.
He would be taken somewhere. Somewhere distant, locked away not because he had done harm, but because it was easier to lock him away than understand why.
Others had done worse, but his was the blood they feared.
It wasn’t wrong, not completely—but it felt like silencing something just because it hadn’t spoken yet.
Paola did not step forward or speak, but her gaze lingered.
And when she finally eased the door shut, she did so carefully, as if afraid the quiet might slip through the crack if she wasn’t careful.
She would not stop Giovanni, but she would remember this moment.
And she would not be kind to anyone who tried to erase it.
The party began at sundown.
Florence’s nobility did not come quietly. They arrived in a flourish of gilded masks, silk cloaks, and heavy perfumes. The lanterns strung across La Rosa Colta’s courtyard flickered like starlight. Below them, half dressed courtesans moved like whispered promises. Music floated through the air, cutting through the haze of wine and laughter.
Paola watched everything.
From the balcony above the back courtyard, she stood like a sentinel draped in silk, eyes sharper than any blade. Her expression was calm, but her grip on the balustrade betrayed the tension humming beneath her skin.
Everything had to go perfectly.
Anastasia, Bartholomea, and Catalina had their instructions. The younger courtesans assisted. The top floor was off-limits. No exceptions. They steered drunk men away from the final staircase with smiles and songs. Her girls moved like a current around them, guiding the party’s rhythm—keeping it loud, distracting, dazzling.
So far, it was working.
The angel remained hidden. Silent. Safe.
Then, a goblet was thrown.
A raised voice followed—slurred, angry—and another snapped in return. A vase struck the wall and shattered near the kitchen entrance. Screaming followed, then a crash as two men shoved each other into a table, sending goblets and fine cutlery scattering.
A fight.
Not uncommon during nights like these, but this one escalated quickly. An accusation of insult. A drunken cousin swearing revenge. A spilled secret. It didn’t matter. The damage was done.
Paola moved immediately.
She snapped for Anastasia, Bartholomea, and Catalina to follow, trusting the rest of her girls to handle the floor. That was how La Rosa Colta survived chaos—with rhythm, with trust. The elder courtesans were not just performers—they were shields. They kept the clients entertained, kept the atmosphere fluid, and kept their eyes sharp for trouble.
And when a fight like this broke out—when chaos flared—another part of their role kicked in.
They watched the younger ones with vigilance.
Because even well-trained girls could falter. They could freeze or forget the signs. The younger courtesans were skilled, yes—but youth had its blind spots. In the swirl of perfume and politics, when wine blurred the edges and a noble’s smile turned sharp, it was easy to miss the moment danger struck.
That was why Paola had trained her eldest girls to always scan the room to spot the cracks before they broke. One wrong glance. One forced smile. One girl trying too hard to laugh. If something seemed off, the eldest would step in. They would offer a touch, a redirect, a graceful exit masked as flirtation. It was meant to be a quiet intervention to cut the fuse before it sparked.
That was the plan.
But tonight—there was too much.
The fight downstairs had drawn their attention, snowballed into something that La Rosa Colta had never encountered before. It had peeled Paola’s gaze towards two men in a drunken fist fight over shattered glass, forcing her to move, flanked by her most trusted courtesans. They descended like silk wrapped knives, swift and sure.
And because of the chaos, because of the diversion of attention, they did not see her—
They did not see their youngest—Letta—slip away.
Letta had been working the balconies—her smile charming, her laughter practiced—but the client assigned to her had grown more handsy with every drink. An older noble, drenched in coin and entitlement. She had tried the usual tricks—laughter, redirection, flirtation with someone else, but the client was persistent and resistant to give her even a little bit of breathing room. It had escalated to the point that Letta even spilled a bit of wine on herself to excuse herself for a moment away.
Just five minutes to reset, she’d told herself.
Just long enough to breathe.
It worked. It always did.
He had laughed, boisterous and easy, gesturing for her to go clean up. “But don’t take too long, bella. I’m not finished with you.”
Letta smiled stiffly through her teeth and backed away, steps light, head bowed in apology. She turned the corner into the quieter hallway and exhaled—too fast. The breath didn’t steady her.
And the walls tilted slightly.
She frowned.
No, not tilted. Her hand touched the wall as if to test the steadiness of it and her fingers tingled.
Something was wrong.
She blinked slowly, the lamplight warping at the edges of her vision. Her skin prickled hot beneath her bodice, her mouth dry when she realized it—
The wine.
She’d only taken a sip. Just a sip. She’d poured it herself. She had watched.
Hadn’t she?
Her stomach turned. A coil of unease twisted under her ribs.
Protocol.
Paola had drilled it into them—what to do if a client slipped something into their drink. They all knew the signs—dry mouth, glassy vision, tingling skin, fevered flush. They all knew what to do.
Find another courtesan. Use the signal phrase. Get to the safe room.
Never be alone. Never wait.
But when she turned back towards the main room, the path was clogged—bodies, silk, perfume, laughter sharpened to points. The courtesans were busy and pulled in every direction. She tried to make eye contact but her sisters didn’t see her.
The fight downstairs had drawn attention. Half the courtesans were clustered near the stairs, steering clients away from the chaos. The others were occupied—entwined, distracted, or locked in intimate grips.
There were no free hands. No safe eyes to catch hers.
She should’ve stayed in sight or made a scene. She should’ve dropped her goblet when the heat first crawled up her throat.
But she hadn’t. She didn’t—couldn’t—think.
And now her limbs felt heavy. Her knees buckled ever so slightly as she walked, and the lights above her seemed to stretch too far.
The safe room was too far but she knew where warmth lived.
So, her feet took her somewhere else.
Somewhere her body remembered. Somewhere safe.
She wasn’t supposed to know about the angel.
Only the eldest courtesans were entrusted with that secret. The eldest sisters were women Paola had trained herself, girls with steady hearts and sharp instincts. The younger ones had their own work, their own floors, and their own illusions to uphold. They weren’t meant to know the full details of what laid behind the quiet halls and locked doors upstairs that housed the house’s other, more subtle, matters.
And yet, whispers still traveled. Rumors of the secret wing. The sealed room. Something being hidden upstairs—an injured Assassin, perhaps. Or one of La Volpe’s boys who had gotten himself in trouble again.
It didn’t matter. They trusted Paola and they knew better than to meddle.
But Letta was curious to a fault.
Once, on a restless night, she had wandered a little too far and gone past a velvet curtain she wasn’t meant to notice. The door beyond had been cracked slightly open, the candlelight inside flickering strange and low.
She hadn’t dared step in, but she saw him. A figure half reclined in bed, tanned skin wrapped in linens, and unmoving. His wings—vast, gleaming, and so, so real—had stretched loosely across the bedding, like something out of a fairytale.
Just seeing them had made her breath catch. Her heart slowed. The room was hushed, but not threatening. It was still, deep, and soft.
And then he had moved.
Not by much. There was a slight shift of his head. A wing perked, slow and light, like the smallest flicker of awareness. It wasn’t a hostile motion or alert, but gave off the impression that he had heard her.
Letta had frozen, terrified at being caught and that the angel—a real angel—might cry out or call for help, but no voice called for help. The angel did not speak.
So, emboldened, she stayed just for a moment—just long enough to see him clearer. He was slouched against the pillows, wings heavy with stillness, and a sheer wrap tied gently over his eyes.
He was blindfolded.
She hadn’t expected that. She didn’t know what it meant, only that it made something inside her twist unexpectedly because if he couldn’t see her, then how had he known to turn his head at all?
Unsettled, she backed away quickly and fled like a child who had stolen something she didn’t understand.
She had thought someone would come after her. She fully expected Paola to call her in, angry, furious, and scold her for peeking.
But she did not. No one did.
So, Letta visited again. Carefully.
She learned the rotation of the elder sisters—two at a time, always four hours apart. She paid attention to the way their shoes echoed off the floor, the soft cadence of their passing steps. She counted the minutes between their changeovers and she made her visits between those brief, unguarded gaps.
Letta didn’t dare step far into the room. She never moved more than a foot past the door but only stepped close enough to see him in the candlelight—close enough to watch.
Sometimes he was lying on his side. Other times he was upright, propped against the pillows, but he always looked serene. Blindfolded, still, but the light had gradually increased as the days went by and sometimes, she swore she saw his eyelashes tremble through the sheer cloth. His wings—those large, beautiful things—shifted like they were breathing which never ceased to amaze her.
She didn’t know if he remembered her—if he knew of her secret visits—but sometimes he tilted his head toward the door, as if amused and sometimes a wing would give the faintest flick—like a waved, ‘oh, you’re back!’
It made her smile, every time.
She started thinking of him as hers. Not truly, of course—but in the quiet way little sisters sometimes laid claim to something safe. Something warm. A quiet presence that didn’t ask anything of her.
He felt like safety.
And Letta, with her practiced laugh and aching feet, with her painted smile and hollowed out nights, had started to think of him as her secret refuge. Her breath between masks. Something like a big brother made of feathers and dreams.
She never stayed long. She always slipped away before the next rotation arrived, but she returned again and again.
Just to stand near the door.
Just to feel okay.
And now, in the haze of heat and fear, her body remembered too.
The door to the angel's room was hidden in the hallway by design, tucked behind a small partition of bookshelves and curtains. No one but the inner circle knew it was there and even the clients would never know where to look.
Letta paused just outside it, hand pressed flat against the smooth wood, her breath shaking.
She wasn’t supposed to be here.
No one was without Paola’s blessing. The angel was a secret. A sacred thing hidden behind shadows and silence, guarded like a relic the world didn’t deserve, but the moment her fingers touched the wood, the tension in her chest eased just slightly.
She wasn’t supposed to be here. The rational part of her told her again. Not tonight. Especially not tonight.
But her head was spinning, her vision blurred at the edges, and her skin itched like it no longer fit.
She waited, listening for footsteps—for laughter. For the drag of shoes on tile—anything that would indicate that she had been followed, but there was nothing.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears and then, with trembling fingers, she slipped inside, closing the door quickly behind her.
The room was dim, tucked away from the perfume and music. It was quiet in a way the rest of the house could never be.
The angel was upright on the bed tonight, propped loosely against a mound of pillows in a way that would not bother his feathered appendages. A half empty bowl of broth rested on the bedside table. His hair was still damp from the late sponge bath the elder courtesans had given him earlier, soft and curling slightly at the ends. His camicia was loose, revealing the faint trace of a scar and the long, sunkissed sweep of his collarbone.
His wings curled loosely around him like an exhausted halo.
He looked like something holy, but heartbreakingly human.
His hands were still bound, eyes still blindfolded, but even now, he seemed to know she was there—what she needed.
(It wasn’t just Letta who noticed this.
In the week since his arrival, something had taken root among the eldest courtesans of La Rosa Colta—something they didn’t have a word for. Not affection, but something close.
Trust.
He had not spoken, he had not moved, but somehow, he had made them feel safe.
His wings moved on instinct—soft gestures that mirrored their moods. When a courtesan sat near him, venting about a cruel client or a long night, his feathers would tilt toward her, like a lean. A sigh might escape his throat—soft, unbidden—right when the words started to crack. When someone laughed through her pain, the wings would fluff up in indignation, as if offended on her behalf.
He didn’t speak.
But something in him seemed to listen.
Sometimes, the elder courtesans joked that his wings had minds of their own. That they were his voice and sympathy. He never touched them, never reached for them—but sometimes, his wings would stir, as if wanting to curl around them, silent and soft and there.)
That was why Letta came here—because she didn’t need words. She needed comfort.
She had never dared to cross the threshold before. She had only ever lingered near the door, too shy, too uncertain to step closer.
But tonight, she needed him.
And he gave it, in all the ways that mattered.
Her knees gave out before she could think twice. She slid to the bed, curling into his side, cheek pressed to his ribs. The warmth of him soaked through her like heat through stone.
One of his wings shifted—slowly, sleepily—like something startled gently awake. It moved in a delayed, ‘oh, hello!’ sort of way before it curved clumsily around her.
Letta let out a quiet breath.
“You’re so warm…” She mumbled, the admission spilling from her mouth like marmalade. “Like… fresh bread or something.”
Her tongue felt thick, lips slow, yet, the words still came because she needed to speak the weight out of her chest.
“Men’re idiots.” She muttered. “Say no once and they act like you insulted their dogs or...or…burned down their villas…”
His wing twitched at her side. A small, indignant shudder.
Letta giggled—quiet and slurred. “Y’understand it. Right? Bastardi…”
The wing curled further around her, ruffling slightly as if nodding in agreement.
Letta’s eyes stung, but she was too warm to cry.
Too soft. Too tired. Too held.
“They always think they can take.” She mumbled. “Like we’re just... here. For them. Not people. Just... music boxes with tits.”
A hum escaped from the angel’s throat, low and tender.
She smiled at it. A dopey, sleepy little thing. “Yeah... y’know…” She murmured. “You don’t... don’t talk, but your wings do. I like ‘em.” She giggled when the wing around her seemed to shiver with delight. “‘Specially, when they do that lil’ fluff thing when someone says something stupid—s’funny. Like you’re ‘ffended.”
Another breath from him. It was warm and steady that she thought it could have almost been a laugh.
She melted into him, nose brushing the soft fall of feathers.
“…Not scared.” Letta mumbled into his chest, which meant that she was. “S’rry, angel. Jus’ need a moment. That’s all. Just a lil’ to breathe. Then I’ll go.”
He didn’t answer but the wing over her tightened, as if reluctant to part.
Letta exhaled slowly, her whole body softening.
“…I dunno your name.” She whispered, her mouth barely moving. “But I think you’re nice. You’re so, so nice. So warm. I’m glad you’re here.”
There was a pause. Then—a soft, fragile hum.
She smiled into his chest, eyes fluttering shut.
“Grazie, angelo…” She breathed.
His wing furled over her. It felt like a hug with no expectation and for the first time that night—despite the haze, the pounding in her head, the heaviness in her limbs—
Letta felt safe.
That’s what this room felt like.
No music. No wine. No grasping hands. No expectation. Just the quiet rise and fall of his chest, the rustle of feathers, and the steady thrum of warmth beneath her cheek. Her breath slowed, syncing with his, their rhythms tangled like the sheets.
She closed her eyes. Just for a moment.
Just long enough to forget the party still raged below.
Just long enough to let her body relax.
Just long enough to let her guard down.
And so she didn’t notice the door opening.
She didn’t hear the latch give way or the slow hush of feet sliding across the floor.
(But Desmond did.
His wings twitched, agitated. His chin lifted faintly, brows twitching beneath the edge of his blindfold. A sound nearly escaped him.)
A whisper of cold air slipped in with the figure standing in the doorway.
And Letta, lulled by safety, didn’t stir until she felt it—
The feeling of eyes, the sound of drunk gasping, and then—
“Well, well…”
—a slurred voice, thick with wine.
Letta froze, head shooting up.
He was there—that bastardo of a nobleman.
Framed in the soft candlelight, the guest was swaying slightly in place. His mask was crooked on his brow, his tunic rumpled and sweat stained. His eyes gleamed, unfocused from wine.
“Look’at you.” He said, dragging the words out like syrup, his grin spreading wider than it should. “Hidin’ up here with a little dove. Thought I lost you, bella.”
“You!” Letta croaked and staggered to her feet. Her limbs wobbled under her, but rage burned hotter than fear. “You—You’re not supposed to be here!”
The guest tilted his head. “M’payin’ customer, aren’t I?” He blinked slowly, as if the room took effort to understand. “Didn’t know Paola kept special guests like this tucked away. S’pose I deserve a peek for all the coin I’ve dropped tonight.”
His gaze swept past her to the angel’s still figure and something in his expression changed.
Slower. Hungrier.
A wet, slurred chuckle that disturbed the stillness in two.
“Hiding him away…” He muttered, swaying a little. “S’that what this is? Some secret treat for Paola’s favorites?”
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and blinked—slow and heavy.
“Not very hosp’table of her…” He muttered. “Not after all I spent, eh?”
His gaze slipped past her again, landing on the angel. It lingered.
“Dio.” He whispered. “Are you... you’re real…?”
He took a lurching step forward.
“An’ here I thought this house only offered earthly pleasures.” He grinned—wide and crooked.
Letta raised her arms, blocking his path. “Leave. Now.”
He ignored her, but didn’t move. Instead, he stared past her, mouth slack, eyes glinting.
“Beautiful thing like that? Locked away like treasure? Shame, shame… S’posed to be shared.”
(Desmond’s fingers twitched. A small, breathy noise escaped his throat—disoriented, uncertain.
Something was wrong.
He didn’t know what, but the dream was slipping. The warmth of Maria’s home felt further away now. The scent of bread and lavender faded, leaving only the heavy, acrid musk of wine and sweat.)
The nobleman swayed.
“Still dreamin’, are you?” He slurred, staggering closer, his voice sticky with wine. “Poor thing... Must be lonely in here… all tied up, all quiet…”
His eyes trailed hungrily over the figure’s form.
“You need to leave.” Letta snapped, stepping in front of him again. Her knees still trembled, but her voice was firm, hard. “Now.”
The nobleman blinked, slow and syrupy. “Aw, come on now... Not tryin’ to steal. Just a—a peek, bella.”
He stumbled forward.
Letta shoved him back. “GET OUT.”
The slap came out of nowhere—sudden, senseless, the raw swing of a drunk man’s fury. It cracked through the room like a whip.
Letta didn’t feel it at first.
She blinked and staggered, more shocked by the sound than the impact.
She had never been hit before. Not once. Not in this house. Not under Paola’s watch. If a man ever raised his hand, the eldest intervened before the blow could land—or better, returned it with interest.
So when the pain did come, she didn’t know what to do with it.
Her cheek went cold, then hot. Her knees buckled before she could think.
She hit the ground hard—wine, sweat, and copper flooding her nose. Something sharp split in her mouth before the pain fully bloomed.
(Desmond flinched.
The sound tore through the haze like a blade. Sharp. Wrong. It sounded like pain—not his, but it was close. Too close.
Someone had been hurt
“Lucia?” He tried to call but it came out strangled in the back of his throat.
The dream twisted. It no longer smelled like he remembered. The air reeked of wine, sweat, and something sour.
His heart kicked inside his ribs. He tried to move but his muscles struggled to respond. His limbs twitched, bound hands clawing for purchase.
Something was happening. Something was wrong—)
Letta exhaled harshly, one hand holding her cheek while the other scrambled for purchase. She tried to reach for the bedside table, but caught on the edge of a food tray and the half empty bowl from the angel’s meal clattered onto the floor. The sound was too loud and made her head ring. She staggered upright, tried to scream—
”Paol—!”
The second strike landed before she finished.
She hit the floor. Her skull bounced off the flooring, and the world blurred.
Blood spilled hot from her nose, down her lips. Her chest hitched, dragging in a sob she hadn’t meant to make.
(Desmond heard it. Felt it.
The second hit. Sharper. Crueler.
A girl was crying.
Lucia.
Her sob was sharp and small and frayed at the edges, like something had scared her. Hurt her.
Desmond’s body moved before thought did. He twisted, muscles shaking, heart pounding. He didn’t feel his knees hit the floor, didn’t feel his shoulder slam forward. It didn’t matter. He only felt the sob. Only her pain, only the desperate need to reach her.
“Lucia—” He gasped, barely a whisper, the word a prayer. A rhythm. A pulse inside his skull. His voice broke, His arms shook. His body burned.
But he moved.
Because she was crying and he had to reach her, his sister his sister his sister—)
When Letta felt warmth at her side, she tensed—flinching from instinct, not recognition. Her body was bracing for another blow, for something to add to the hurt—
But it wasn’t a hand.
It wasn’t a man.
It was feathers.
Soft. Trembling. Careful.
They settled over her like a blanket—just a hush of warmth, curling around her from behind.
Letta gasped, breath catching but there was no barked order. No slurred growl. No hand dragging her up by the hair.
Only a low, aching croon.
The sound was wrong—not because it frightened her, but because it hurt. It sounded like grief, like if sorrow had been given shape. It came from above, shuddering and soft.
The angel.
He was hunched beside her, his breath ragged, wings arched like a shield. They curled around her, ushering closer and closer, as if trying to hide her from the world—as if he could take the pain for her.
His bound hands trembled against the floor, too weak to offer anything more.
But still, he reached.
Still, he tried.
And then—soft, strained, so faint she almost didn’t hear it—
“L–Lucia…”
Letta froze.
The voice was hoarse, fragile, scraped raw with disuse. It rasped through the air like torn silk, like a memory caught in the back of a throat.
Her eyes widened.
He was talking.
Not murmuring in sleep. Not dreaming.
For the first time, the angel made a sound with meaning—a name—and Letta’s heart stuttered because she knew that name wasn’t hers.
She wasn’t Lucia.
But he held her like she was.
He couldn’t see her. His eyes were still closed behind the sheer blindfold, lashes damp with sweat. His face was pale with effort, jaw tight from pain, but even so, he reached for her blindly. His wings pulled tighter around her, like a heartbeat that had finally found its rhythm.
“It’s ‘kay…” He whispered, brokenly. “It’s ‘kay. I got ya.”
Letta let out a shaky breath.
Her face throbbed. Her jaw burned. Her whole body felt small—too small for the pain, but his words, cracked and trembling as they were, wrapped around her like a second skin.
He didn’t know her.
But she needed him.
So she let him be right.
Letta didn’t mean to cry.
But she did.
Through the pain, through the ringing in her ears and the heat of her bleeding face, the sobs came. Quiet, stuttering, and impossible to stop. She tucked herself into him, her arms curling inward, her head finding his shoulder. She buried her face into the crook of his neck, into the warmth of feathers and skin and that trembling voice. Her fingers fisted weakly into the edge of his clothes like a child clinging to a blanket.
Because she was scared.
Because it hurt.
Because all the strength she pretended to have had slipped through her fingers like wine.
And the angel—the one hidden upstairs, blindfolded and bound—held her anyway.
She sobbed into him, soft and stuttering, the kind of sobs she never let herself feel, not in a house where elegance and charm were armor.
But now, cradled in wings and quiet desperation, she let go.
The angel didn’t flinch. He only swayed with her, rocking her through the storm. A soft sound hummed in his throat—low, unsteady, but constant. Like the lullaby of someone who didn’t know the words, only the need.
“I got ya, Luc’.” He murmured again, softer this time. A promise, whispered through cracked lips. “You’re ‘kay… you’re ‘kay…”
And for a moment, she believed it.
Then—
A breath that wasn’t hers.
Too close.
Too loud.
Letta stiffened, her breath locking in her throat.
The angel didn’t move—still caught in the haze of memory, murmuring soft reassurances, but something in the room changed.
The air shifted, thickened.
Behind them, the drunk nobleman took a slow, deliberate step forward.
He hadn’t left.
He had been watching—entranced, eyes fixated on the scene before him. He had seen who he thought was a male courtesan crawl. Had seen the wings rise and wrap around the girl like a miracle.
And now, all he could see was the man beneath them.
His gaze devoured the bare skin from where his camicia slipped off one tanned shoulder, the vulnerable slope of his neck, the divine shimmer of his wings.
He didn’t even see the girl anymore.
He was too enraptured.
He hadn’t meant to find this room.
He’d only followed her.
The courtesan had slipped from his grasp too quickly, too gracefully—like she knew how to disappear. It had annoyed him—that practiced ease. He’d been generous, hadn’t he? He had smiled, complimented her, and paid well. He even slipped just enough powder into her drink to make her soft around the edges.
She should have stayed. Should have thanked him.
Instead, she’d wandered off like he was nothing.
So he followed.
Not at first or obviously, but when she vanished behind the curtains near the topmost floor—where no clients were clearly meant to go—his curiosity got the better of him. It bloomed into something hotter.
Because, ah.
Everyone whispered about the top floor. Secret rooms. Reserved pleasures. A masked noble’s personal muse. Rarer delicacies for clients discreet and rich enough to ask.
He’d laughed it off once but not tonight—not when she glanced over her shoulder like she thought no one would dare follow.
So, he waited. Counted to ten. Maybe twelve. Then climbed the stairs, slow and sure, one hand on the railing to steady himself.
No one stopped him.
The shouting downstairs had drawn the courtesans guarding the starwell away. He'd seen them slip off through the crowd, following Paola’s sharp bark and trailing silk. For once, no one watched the stairwell. No one blocked the path.
So he took it.
And he hadn’t expected a prize like this.
A secret this beautiful wasn’t meant for the common floor. It was meant for those who knew how to look.
And he had found him.
He smiled to himself, half stumbling into the room, his shoulder grazing the doorframe like an afterthought. He didn’t even see the trembling girl—what was her name again? Lina? Leda? It didn’t matter anymore. She had been the key—one glass of wine, one flirtation, one detour.
And she had led him to this reward.
A male courtesan—no, a vision— draped in white and slouched like a painted martyr.
And oh, the wings.
He blinked hard, trying to make sense of what he saw. His gaze trailed along the courtesan’s wings—props, they had to be. Exquisite, silken things. The craftsmanship alone must’ve cost a fortune. Feathers sewn to skin with careful artistry, maybe, or pinned cleverly to a harness beneath his clothing. The texture was unreal, realer than anything he’d ever seen, but it had to be fake. No one actually had wings.
But they moved.
Shifted with breath.
The camicia slipped lower—exposing skin like warmed honey, slick with sweat. His eyes trailed over the slope of a collarbone, the fragile jut of ribs. The presentation felt so divine it felt painted for him alone.
The restraint, the helplessness, the illusion of purity—it was all part of the fantasy, wasn’t it?
Holy restraint. Sacred surrender.
The illusion was immaculate. Crafted with intention. For someone who understood what it meant to want.
“Dio…” He breathed, swaying on his feet. “You’re real.”
The words fell out of him like prayer.
He took a staggering step forward, reverent and off balance.
He ignored the girl entirely. She was scenery now. A prop in someone else’s fantasy. His gaze was fixed on the angel. The camicia he wore had slipped further during his crawl. One shoulder bare. Wings still trembling faintly. The skin beneath flushed with heat. Alive.
Real.
Real, and waiting.
“Not for the party, are you?” He murmured, breathlessly. “No. No, no… too fine for that. You’re not meant for… cheap eyes. Not for the rabble.”
Another step.
“You’re hidden. Kept. Saved.” He murmured, low and trembling. “For me.”
One final step.
“Heaven.” His voice trembled with reverence, like a man on the cusp of communion. “And I found it.”
His hand reached out, slow and shaking, drunk with the holiness of the moment.
Warm skin. Damp silk.
One finger brushed it.
And the world stopped breathing.
The moment flesh met skin—
The moment that wretched, lecherous hand brushed against Desmond’s bare shoulder—
The Eye awoke.
Not gently, not with patience.
But like a blade tearing through velvet.
Like a storm trapped too long behind trembling glass.
Like fire discovering oil.
It touched him.
The words echoed through the veil, not spoken but carved—each syllable laced with disbelief and contempt.
It dared.
It dared.
It dared.
Rage bloomed. Not hot, but cold—glacial. Monumental. Ancient.
The kind of fury not born of anger, but of sacrilege.
Because Desmond was sacred.
And this man—this creature—this wretched scrap of wine soaked flesh had touched him with unclean hands.
The Eye did not scream.
It did not strike.
It did not tear.
No.
It remembered.
Through those unworthy hands that touched its beloved, the Eye saw—and it remembered everything the drunkard had done.
Every whispered bribe.
Every cornered breath.
Every drunken boast that had made someone smaller.
And so, the Eye reached in.
It did not possess the nobleman.
It unfolded him.
It peeled his mind open like soft fruit.
It flooded his thoughts with mirrors that could not be turned away.
And it showed him—
His sins, not as he remembered them, but as they felt to the ones he hurt.
The fear curdled in their lungs.
The helplessness. The shame. The rage.
The years stolen. The joy soured. The bruises hidden in candlelight.
He became them.
And the Eye was not kind.
//You wanted to own beauty.// It whispered, a breath against the edge of thought. //Then drown in it.//
//You wished to defile grace? Then let grace unmake you.//
The nobleman dropped, collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut.
There was no scream—no warning.
Just piss spreading beneath his fine clothes. His mouth was open, eyes wide, breath hitched—and then silence.
He would wake, eventually—but not the same.
He would flinch from mirrors.
Lose sleep to hands that never touched him.
Wake from dreams where he begged forgiveness from mouths that would never speak again.
And he would never speak of the angel.
Because to speak of it would mean remembering.
And he would not survive the remembering.
The body hit the floor with a dull, wet thud.
Letta flinched.
She hadn’t seen what happened. The angel’s wings cocooned her, muffling the room in a velvet hush. She only felt the weight shift, heard the stillness sharpen, and then something like a breath being released.
The air reeked of sweat and wine and something faintly scorched, but beneath it, she could still feel him.
The angel.
His warmth was pressed to her side, heartbeat slow but steady.
Letta blinked, dazed. Her head throbbed. Her cheek burned. She tried to shift, to lift her gaze—but his arms tightened, pulling her close.
“Don’ look.”
His hand—still bound—brushed weakly against her hair. The motion was clumsy, feeble, but careful. Like she was something fragile he didn’t know how to carry but still tried to hold.
“It’s ‘kay, Lu’. It’s over.”
It wasn't her name, but the sound of it broke her anyway.
Letta’s breath hitched. She pressed her face to his chest and let the warmth of him wrap around her, steady and solid and real.
His wings shivered faintly, trying to shelter her even now, as if they could press silence into her skin.
Safety into her bones.
Forgiveness into her ribs.
He wanted to hold her properly—he clearly wanted to with the way he was fidgeting, but his wrists were still tied. His fingers twitched uselessly against the floor, too tight, too stiff. A flicker of frustration ghosted across his face, sharp and helpless.
So he used what he had.
He tipped his head, nudging her gently with his chin closer, the way a bird might guide its fledgling with its beak.
A soft nudge.
A breathless pull.
He couldn’t wrap his arms around her, but his body leaned, curved, curled—trying to fold her into himself with everything else he had.
It was clumsy in the most careful way—like a flustered hen trying to shelter her last egg into place, all instinct and soft determination.
Letta didn't fight it. She let herself be gathered.
His wings adjusted again, spreading with care until they were draped over her like sheltering canopies. One of them brushed low, curling beneath her ribs like it might catch her if she slipped too far.
She moved slightly—just enough to steal a glance over his shoulder at the fallen nobleman.
And one of his wings fluffed.
Right in her face.
A soft puff of air and indignant feather, a scolding, as if to say, ‘Don’t. Look. At him!’
Letta startled—then laughed.
Or at least, she tried to. It came out broken and wet, more breath than sound.
The wing fluffed admonishingly again, but this time, it was more gentle, brushing her cheek. His head leaned down and he nudged his forehead against her crown, as if trying to tuck her away from the world entirely.
Letta obeyed, following his motion and as she pressed her face into his chest, she heard it—his heartbeat.
Slow. Steady. Real.
A rhythm she could follow if she ever got lost.
“Okay.” Letta whispered. “Okay, I won’t look.”
The angel sighed, like a tired thing settling back into itself. Then, with a faint rustle of feathers, he tucked his wing over her again.
His voice, hoarse and barely audible, kept moving—soft, broken threads of sound murmured into her hair.
Nonsense words. Comforts. Someone else’s name.
Letta didn’t try to make sense of them.
She just listened to the rhythm of him—his breath, his warmth, the lull of his voice—until her own shaking quieted. She stayed there like that—sniffling softly against him, letting the ache in her chest unravel.
Letting herself be small.
Letting herself need.
Because whatever he was—whatever this was—
It felt like grace.
And Letta, bruised and bleeding, had never known she needed it so badly.
The door wasn’t locked.
That was the first thing Paola noticed when she reached the top of the stairs. Her heart was pounding, nerves coiled tight.
She had felt it in her bones when Diana returned, pale and breathless, stammering about Letta missing. A sinking weight in her gut that said something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.
Letta was their youngest. Newly trained, still learning how to balance charm with caution. She wasn’t naive, but she didn’t yet know how far some men would go when they thought themselves owed.
That alone was enough to make Paola move. Fast.
She had already checked the usual corners—safe rooms, servant alcoves, even the quiet stretch behind the kitchens. Letta wasn’t in any of them and at this point, there was only one other place a girl could vanish to without being seen.
A place no one was supposed to know.
Paola’s stomach dropped.
Letta had known. Somehow, her youngest had found out.
Now the door was open.
Not enough to be obvious.
Just enough to scream.
She pushed it open with the flat of her palm. The soft creak of the hinges was the only sound. The other courtesans were behind her—Anastasia, Bartholomea, and Catalina—silent as shadows. They had come running the moment Paola gave the order, sharp-eyed and deadly, still dressed in silk and perfume but bristling like unsheathed blades.
And what they found was not what they expected.
A party guest laid crumpled on the floor. His limbs were tangled beneath him, piss spreading beneath his fine silks. His mouth hung open. His eyes stared at nothing—wide, glassy, frozen mid-scream.
But it wasn’t him they looked at.
It was the angel.
He was not where they had left him.
He was on the floor, hunched low around Letta’s body, wings curled protectively around her like a living shield. His body sagged with exhaustion, shoulders trembling from the effort of holding her close. His head was bent low, cheek resting against the crown of her head, as if trying to press all the warmth he had left into her skin.
And Letta—sweet, laughing Letta—was curled against him, tucked into the hollow of his neck. Her fists clenched weakly at the fabric of his clothes, her breath still hitching with the aftershocks of tears. Her face was streaked with blood, her lips parted, and eyes closed. She wasn’t sobbing anymore, but her body clung to him like he was the only good thing in the room.
And the angel was whispering.
“‘s ‘kay… I got you, Lucia… I got you…”
His voice was cracked, not from volume, but from wear. He sounded frayed—thin around the edges, like each word was a thread being pulled from somewhere deep inside him.
His bound hands brushed weakly through her hair, careful even in their clumsiness. His wings were wrapped around her like a second body—like they were trying to become arms in the places he couldn’t hold her.
And Paola felt it.
Not just what had happened, but what had been left behind.
The room should have reeked of blood. There should have been broken things. Wounds. Fury scorched into the walls.
But there was none of that.
There was only this—a girl held like something precious, and a boy with wings trying to shield her from everything, even now.
And yet, she could feel it in the air.
The judgment.
It lingered—not like rage, but like divinity.
Like something vast had been here only moments ago. Something that had watched, and acted, and now turned its gaze away. The air still hummed faintly with it. Like a prayer unfinished. Like a mercy that had come—and left.
It wasn’t cruel, but it was not gentle either. It felt like the hush after lightning. Like the sea watching from the shore. Like a storm just past the hills.
Whatever had done this—it wasn’t the angel.
But it had answered on his behalf.
Paola knew what the angel looked like—knew what the drunkard had possibly seen when he’d encroached on this secret place. She could guess what had happened.
A single moment of entitlement. One filthy hand against skin. When her charge had been touched, when pain had been threatened—the presence, wrapped around the angel like a shield, had become a sword.
This was what Giovanni had seen.
Not the aftermath—but the presence itself. The thing that lived beneath the angel’s skin. The thing that answered to nothing except his pain.
And she understood his fear now.
Of course he’d been afraid.
No wonder Giovanni had hesitated. No wonder Giovanni had sent that letter.
But despite that, he had still brought him to her. The other Assassin had still left the winged man here in the safest place he knew, because even through that fear, he must have seen what she saw now and could not unsee, even if he refused to admit it himself.
This wasn’t a weapon.
This wasn’t a monster.
This was a miracle with teeth.
And though its wrath had never been meant for Letta, it had sheltered her all the same.
Catalina’s breath hitched behind her.
Anastasia pressed her hand to her mouth.
And Bartholomea—sharp, unshakable Bartholomea—spoke first, sounding more unsure than she’d ever heard her.
“Madonna…” She murmured quietly, hesitant. “Do we send for Giovanni?”
She was only repeating what Paola had said herself. If the winged man woke—if he moved—Giovanni was to be told.
Paola didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze stayed fixed on the angel, on the way he murmured a name that wasn’t Letta’s but still sounded like love. On the way his bruised body curved protectively around a woman who had nothing to offer but need.
He didn’t know what he was doing.
But he was trying.
Trying to comfort her.
Trying to make it better.
Trying to shield her, even in his state and his voice unraveling.
And that—that instinct to protect without promise, to reach without being asked—
That was not a thing you locked in a vault.
That was not an ‘it.’
That was someone.
And something in her cracked.
She remembered the letter Giovanni had sent just that morning.
A more suitable location is being prepared.
Isolated.
Secure.
The folded paper was still tucked in her bodice, but it might as well have been a brand. She could feel it burning through the fabric, searing against her skin as if the ink alone carried the weight of a decision she could not undo.
Paola knew Giovanni. She had known what he meant. She did not know the exact shape of the place, but she knew the kind.
Stone. Locked. Forgotten.
A vault. A crypt. A tomb. A prison built not for cruelty, but for control.
It had made sense when she read it.
But now she stood in a room filled with the residue of violence, and found no monster at its center.
Only tenderness. Only silence. Only wings that had not closed until the girl in his arms had stopped shaking.
She had seen many men before. Many boys, many creatures who called themselves human, but knew only selfishness.
And at that moment, Paola understood that this one was not one of them.
Not a monster.
Not a threat.
Not to her girls.
Not when he held Letta like that.
Not when he whispered in softness, even while something terrible watched through his skin.
Paola inhaled deeply.
“No.” She said at last. “This is a courtesan matter.”
Because this angel—
He had chosen them.
The warmth around him was unfamiliar.
It was nothing like the cold stone of before. Nothing like the distant voices and endless shadows. Nothing like the cold weight of waiting.
He drifted—half asleep, half lost—caught in the lingering remnants of a dream that refused to fully fade.
Maria’s house.
He had been there.
He had felt the warmth of the hearth, had smelled the scent of bread baking, had heard Lucia’s laughter echo through the halls. He had been home. He had been safe.
But then something had changed.
The door had opened.
And—Ezio.
Ezio had been there. He had heard him—felt him.
But w hy couldn’t he see him?
Ezio had always been there.
Not in voice, not in person, but in his steps. In the way Desmond moved, the way he fought, the way he survived.
It hadn’t only been Ezio.
Altaïr’s precision, Connor’s instinct—they lived in his muscles, in his bones, in the reflexes he didn’t have to think about. Each one had carved themselves into him in their own way.
But Ezio—Ezio had lingered the longest.
Ezio’s steps were the ones he had traced the most. Ezio’s hands had been his hands more times than he could count. Italy had soaked into him like ink into parchment, staining the foundation of who he was.
Ezio had never spoken to him. Never once turned his eyes toward him.
But Desmond had known him.
Because Ezio had shown him how to endure.
How to keep moving forward.
How to carve his own path after everything was taken away, and for that, Ezio had been something close to safe.
A fleeting sanctuary. A brief shelter against the storm.
So where was he now?
Desmond’s fingers twitched against the sheets, weak and searching.
The warmth of the dream was still there, wrapped around him, but it felt different.
Something wasn’t right.
He was sitting up, wrapped in unfamiliar blankets.
His hands were bound.
Ezio—Ezio should have freed him.
Ezio had always led him out of dark places. Had carried him forward when he could no longer see the road.
But there had been nothing.
Just silence.
Why?
"Ezio?" The name formed on his lips, but caught in his throat. It felt wrong—misplaced, because he wasn’t sure if he was dreaming anymore.
He wanted to go back.
He wanted to go home.
His breath trembled. His fingers curled.
Where was Maria? Where was Lucia?
//No.//
A voice pressed into his mind, smooth and unyielding.
//They are not here.//
A flicker of unease shivered through him, too slow to surface.
No?
Then where was he?
Darkness pressed behind his closed lids—no, not darkness. Blindness.
He was blindfolded.
Why?
His breathing hitched as his thoughts scrambled to place themselves. He had seen Ezio—hadn’t he? He had been home—hadn’t he?
But this wasn’t home.
This wasn’t Maria’s kitchen.
This wasn’t safety.
The warmth around him no longer felt familiar.
Not cruel, not cold. Just… unknown.
//Hush.// The voice—the Eye—whispered, curling through his thoughts like a hand pressed to his heart. It did not scold. It did not demand.
It calmed.
//You are safe.// It murmured quietly, reverently. Not a command.
A promise.
He swallowed thickly, his pulse still quick, but not from fear.
He was blindfolded, restrained, but not harmed.
And the hands around him—soft, careful hands—didn’t hurt.
They soothed. They settled.
They held like they were trying to help.
Not to take. Not to break.
Not to own. Not to cage.
They were gentle. Kind.
And his body, still sluggish with exhaustion, slowly began to ease.
//She asked you to try.// The Eye coaxed, low and tender.
A weight, warm and shuddering, curled into the space behind his heart, too vast to name, too steady to fear.
Desmond could feel it, somehow. As if it were a second heartbeat, beating slow and steady alongside his ribs.
//You can try.// It pressed against him. A nudge at the edges of his mind, like a breath at his neck. Not demanding, just there.
Waiting.
Willing.
Wanting.
//You are safe enough to try.//
Desmond exhaled. He could see it now. The door was open in his mind, warm light spilling through the crack like an invitation—familiar, unspoken, kind.
He just didn’t know if he could.
The brothel had gone still.
The lanterns were dimmed, the party long since ended.
Guests had been ushered out with charm and careful lies. The music had quieted and the wine poured away.
The drunk nobleman had been carried from the house in silence by two of Paola’s trusted mercenaries, summoned swiftly and without explanation. Not a word spoken. Not a question asked.
Outside, Florence still stirred with the distant sounds of activity but here, in the sanctuary of the angel’s room, everything was quiet.
He had been returned to the bed and settled in a nest of soft cushions. His clothes had been adjusted to cover him properly, and his wings rested in loose, heavy folds against his back. He hadn’t moved much since the incident, but his breath had evened out—slow and steady, still caught between sleep and wakefulness.
Letta had refused to be moved.
She clung to the angel stubbornly, arms wound tight around his waist, and didn’t let go until her strength finally gave out.
Only then—when exhaustion left her too weak to hold on—did the others gently lift her to her feet and lead her away to treat her face.
The angel hadn’t protested or stirred at that. Perhaps he understood on some deep, unspoken level, that the hands lifting Letta were gentle. Safe. When they took her from his arms, his head dipped, slow and silent, as if some small thread inside him had been severed.
Later—much later—after Letta had been treated and returned to him and after the other courtesans finished tending to the house, they drifted back into the angel’s room like birds returning to roost.
They didn’t come all at once. Just one or two at first. Then more. Word had spread, quietly but inevitably. Secrets didn’t stay buried in a house full of sisters—not when one of their own had wept in an angel’s arms. The elder courtesans had kept the truth as long as they could, but tonight changed everything. After tonight, even the youngest ones knew.
They came with quiet voices and careful steps. They didn’t speak to him at first. They settled near the edges of the room instead, murmuring to one another like children too shy to approach an injured animal. Some sat nearby, speaking in soft voices. Others perched by the wall or knelt near the bed, watching with dreamy awe. One of the older courtesans braided ribbons into another’s hair, her fingers moving on autopilot while her gaze remained fixed on the angel. Others simply lingered, watching him with a quiet kind of curiosity.
Letta was attached to the angel’s hip.
She lay curled against his side, head on his shoulder, her breathing shallow but calm. She hadn’t said much since the incident but her grip on his tunic hadn’t loosened.
He hadn’t said that name again.
He hadn’t said anything.
But his bound hands rested on her lap, palm splayed weakly, as if he didn’t want her to drift too far. One of his wings hung limply over her shoulder like a second blanket.
Finally, it was one of the middle daughters—Rosa—who stepped forward with a small bowl. She lingered near the edge of the bed, a bowl of warm soup cradled in her hands. She glanced down at him. His lashes were long against his cheeks through the blindfold. His lips slightly parted. He looked less like a creature out of myth and more like something left behind by the stars.
She hesitated before looking at the others.
“Do you think he’s hungry?” She asked softly, kneeling.
No one answered at first.
The girls exchanged glances. Letta stirred faintly, her fingers twitching in her sleep where they still curled against his clothes.
“I don’t hear his stomach rumbling.” Someone murmured.
“It never rumbles.” Fiora noted.
One of the younger courtesans leaned forward, chin in her hand. “Maybe you’ve been feeding him the wrong things.” She mused aloud. “Maybe angels don’t like broth.”
“Maybe he wants wine.” Another giggled. “The fancy kind. Aged in clouds.”
“Oh, clouds?” One wondered. “What if that’s it? Maybe he only eats clouds.”
A few of the women giggled under their breath. It was a careful sound. Delicate. Like they were afraid laughter might break the spell.
“He doesn’t eat clouds.” Diana said wryly, rolling her eyes. “He liked the broth I fed him last night. He even leaned into the spoon.”
“Are you sure about that?” Someone teased, a courtesan her junior of three years. “Maybe he was just being polite.”
“Do you think he has a favorite food?” Another asked, tilting her head. “I bet it’s something warm. Like fresh bread.”
The girls hummed in agreement, some smiling, others simply watching him breathe.
“What do you think angels even eat?” One asked, voice hushed. “Surely not just bread or broth.”
“Something fancy?” Someone guessed.
“I think something made with care.” Another piped up.
The room quieted again.
Their gazes lingered on the shape of his mouth, the curve of his lashes, the faint lines of tension that hadn’t eased even in sleep.
No one laughed now.
It was Bartholomea who reached forward, her fingers brushing a lock of hair from his brow. Her touch was gentle, almost tender.
“He wasn’t made for harsh things.” She said softly, almost to herself.
No one answered, but a few shifted where they sat.
His skin was smooth in some places, too smooth in others—faint scars traced like stories on parchment. Old burns faded pale against his shoulder, a map of pain long passed. His hands, even when still, held tension in the knuckles. His shoulders curled inward in rest, as if he was always bracing for something that never came.
The elder courtesans had seen how he stilled at certain sounds. How, in sleep, his breath sometimes caught. The kind of silence he wore was practiced. Defensive.
“Then let him have gentle ones, now.” Catalina decided, finally.
No one replied, but something in the air shifted, like an agreement unspoken.
Curled against the angel’s arms, Letta stirred. She didn’t speak right away, just content in listening to the soothing sounds of her sisters’ voices. Her fingers shifted slightly in the folds of his camicia, grounding herself in the presence of him.
Then, slightly slurred, she asked—
“Do you like sweets?”
The question hung in the air, small and sincere.
A few of the others turned toward her, eyebrows lifting in surprise. Letta blinked blearily at them, then turned her gaze up toward the angel’s face, her cheek still pressed to his shoulder.
“I do.” She murmured, almost dreamily. “Paola once gave me honeyed peaches when I was sad. I think she said… ‘Eat until you remember you are loved.’” Her voice trailed off, and a smile curled at her lips. “I think that was the moment I decided I would follow her to the ends of the earth.”
A soft chuckle rippled through the others—quiet, warm, affectionate.
And though the angel didn’t speak, his wings shivered faintly where they draped across the bed. A subtle flutter, like down caught in a breeze—happy, maybe. Pleased. As if some part of him had heard the laughter and decided it was safe to respond.
Letta smiled at the shift, nestling closer to his side.
“What about you?” She asked again, quieter this time.
Silence.
But just as the conversation seemed to move on—
His lips parted—just slightly.
Not to speak.
Not even consciously.
But enough that the girls noticed.
Excitement bubbled through the air, a contrast to the hushed atmosphere from before. One woman gasped, clutching at the nearest courtesan’s arm.
“Did you see that? He moved! He was thinking about it!”
“Quickly, does anyone have sweets?” Someone whispered urgently.
Isabetta shot to her feet, already moving. “I’ll check the kitchens!”
There was an energy now, something playful and bubbling, as they all turned their attention back to the angel with renewed interest.
By the time Isabetta returned, she was breathless, triumphantly holding up a small bowl of honey and a single halved fig.
“This was all I could find!” She said, kneeling beside him.
“Just half?” Someone pouted.
“The rest had a bite in it.” Isabetta admitted, wrinkling her nose. “The kitchen is a mess—most of the trays were knocked over during the chaos.”
“Gross.” Elisabetta muttered.
“I cut off the bitten part!” The girl said quickly. “Swear on my corset, it’s clean! The peaches were gone, and the rest’s ruined or put away till morning.”
“Who bites a fig and walks off?” Someone scoffed.
“That cocky one in that garish green mask, probably.” Another grumbled. “Looked like he hadn’t chewed a thing in his life.”
“Well, he left us the good half.” Rosa said lightly, dipping the spoon in the honey with exaggerated grace. “We’ll make it count.”
She leaned closer, her voice softening into a coaxing hum.
“Come on, angel. Just a little?”
For a moment, nothing.
Then, slowly—so slowly—the angel’s lips parted, and he let her press the honeyed spoon against his tongue.
He swallowed without hesitation.
The girls burst into quiet giggles.
“He does like sweets!”
“Oh, he eats just like a little bird!”
“Try the fig! Maybe he’ll like that too!”
Encouraged, Isabetta moved closer and carefully pressed a piece of the fig against his lips. The angel, still drifting between dreams and waking, parted his mouth without resistance. His lips closed around the fruit in a small, absent nibble.
The room melted.
Somewhere in the haze of warmth, of hushed voices and soft hands, a weight shifted and settled against him. One particularly brave courtesan took it upon herself to settle her head onto his lap. She couldn’t help herself when he looked so cozy.
And then, to their astonishment, the angel moved.
It was hesitant and his hands shook, but his fingers found her hair and began to card through it in slow, absent strokes—brushing, smoothing, preening. As much as he could, at least, with his bound hands.
The courtesan—Marsilia—giggled. “That tickles.” She complained, shifting slightly.
The angel’s fingers twitched again—a slow, sleepy fuss of movement, like ruffled feathers, as if displeased she had dared to move away.
Marsilia stilled. Then, amused, she let her head rest back against him, allowing the motion.
“He really is like a bird.” Someone whispered.
“Something softer. A little dove, maybe?” Rosa chimed.
“Should we name him?” Another suggested.
“Please.” Catalina sighed, exasperated but fond. “We can’t keep calling him the angel. It sounds like we’re in church.”
A few of the girls snorted.
“We’re in a brothel.” One of them muttered, flopping dramatically onto a pillow. “The only thing holy here is the wine.”
“Still…” Fiora said, shifting to peer at him again. “He should have something else. Something just for him.”
A chorus of agreement.
And so they started.
A game, playful and lighthearted, throwing out names as if coaxing a stray into their arms.
They started with A.
“Angelo?”
A scoff. “Too obvious.”
“Benvenuto?”
“Sounds so stuffy!” Another made a face.
They moved through the letters, teasing, laughing.
(And Desmond, caught in between dream and reality didn’t react, didn’t move, but their voices threaded into the space around him—warm and gentle.
The dream trembled, softened at the edges.
Their laughter was gentle, brushing across his skin like sunshine filtered through leaves. A weight leaned against him, small and trusting. Fingers carded through his hair like someone had done before—like someone who had loved him once, long ago.
And for the first time in what felt like a century, the dream didn’t pull him deeper.
It let him drift.
The names curled around him like ribbons—playful, curious, harmless. They weren’t prayers. They weren’t commands. They weren’t asking for anything more than presence.
Their voices carried through the open door of Maria’s house and he found himself following—half mindless, lulled by the cadence of their voices.
A… B… C…
Then—)
“D.”
The angel’s fingers stilled in Marsilia's hair.
Something in him twitched, like a string pulled taut.
(“Ampi, Bella, Carina follow A-B-C. That means the most beautifulest chicken must share that pattern, thus—Desmond!”
Lucia’s voice was bright, triumphant.
“D is for Desmond!”)
His breath hitched, unnoticed by the courtesans.
“Duccio?” One courtesan at his back suggested, smoothing the feathers in a wing. The angel seemed to like it if the small, insistent wiggle when she stopped was any indication and she laughed despite herself.
“Domenico?” Another guessed, fingers gently combing through his hair. The strands were soft and warm beneath her touch, and she smiled at the way they curled near his ear.
(The warmth thickened around him. Past and present blurring together. The soft weight on his lap, the teasing, the kindness—it was the same. Just like then.
“Won’t you try?” Maria had asked, gentle and patient.
Back then, he hadn’t trusted himself to reach for it. But now…now he wanted to. The memory wrapped around him like hands. Like home.
His breath caught. His throat worked.
And then—)
“Desmond.”
The name spilled into the quiet—unbidden, barely more than breath, but it hung in the air like a gift.
The girls froze.
That was a man’s voice.
A stillness followed—heavy, sacred.
Then—
“...Desmond?”
The word came from one of them, voice as soft as a heartbeat, but they all felt it.
The angel hesitated.
Then—
“Desmond.” The angel—Desmond— repeated, nodding faintly to himself.
Soft. Slow.
Like something fragile, waking up.
The girls stared at him in wonder.
The courtesan on his lap blinked up at his face, lips parted as she gasped.
“His eyes…” Marsilia whispered. “They’re open.”
And they were.
Just barely—half-lidded, dulled with exhaustion, still shrouded behind the sheer blindfold.
Not fully awake. Not fully here.
But present.
And Paola watched it all unfold.
Giovanni had warned her of the danger. Of the thing hiding underneath his skin.
And yet, this was what she saw now.
Not a monster. Not a weapon.
Just a fragile thing, caught between reality and dreams.
She saw the way he had moved, sluggish and slow, drawn not by hunger but by some distant memory of warmth. She saw how the girl he had protected curled against his side, searching for safety in the same wings that Giovanni had spoken of with caution.
Paola had spent her life reading people. Men with smiles that hid knives. Women with laughter laced with sorrow. She knew what it meant to be a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
Perhaps the angel—perhaps Desmond—was one, too.
But if so, he was the gentlest wolf she had ever seen.
Paola exhaled slowly, stepping forward. The women, noticing her presence, quieted, but she didn’t send them away. Instead, she reached down, brushing a few strands of hair from Desmond’s face.
His brow smoothed beneath her touch.
Paola didn’t stop.
Carefully, she adjusted the blanket draped over his shoulders, making sure it covered his arms properly. His skin was cool—too cool. She reached for the cup of warm honeyed milk beside her, dipping two fingers in before brushing them gently against his lips.
For a moment, nothing.
Then, his mouth parted, barely perceptible, his tongue flicking out instinctively to taste.
The response was small. Simple. Trusting.
Paola brought the cup to his lips and as she lifted his head slightly—she paused.
The blindfold hadn’t shifted, but she could see clearly through the sheer fabric. His gaze, hazy and soft through the veil, caught hers—unfocused at first, then lingering.
A warm, muted brown, touched with gold.
But not just brown—not simply warm.
There was something strange in them. Not cold. Not frightening.
Just deep.
Like sunlight held too long in glass. Like honey left to thicken in a forgotten jar.
A softness that didn’t make him less uncanny. Just… more human.
‘They were nice eyes.’ Paola thought.
Tired, but kind.
And it felt wrong—somehow cruel—that anyone had kept them blind for so long.
A quiet giggle broke the silence. Her girls watched, wide eyed and enthralled, as he responded just enough to drink, just enough to show that somewhere beneath all that silence, he was there.
“Bravo, uccellino.” Paola murmured, as if soothing a restless child. Her fingers threaded once through the soft strands of his dark, tangled hair. She brought the cup to his mouth again. “That’s it. Just a little more.”
His lips parted obediently, accepting the milk with quiet trust.
He drank slowly, absently, and as she tilted the cup away, his tongue flicked out again—just barely—as if still tasting the sweetness left behind.
Then a sound escaped him.
It wasn’t quite a hum or a word.
Just a soft, sleepy sound, something pleased, like a nesting bird settling deeper into warmth.
A few of the girls stifled small smiles. One even whispered, excitedly—“He chirped!”
Paola didn’t comment, but her gaze softened.
She set the cup aside.
She should be cautious. She should remember what Giovanni had told her—that this creature was dangerous, that he had spilled blood, that he was a weapon.
But the boy in front of her was none of those things.
His hands were bound, his body too feeble, his face lax with exhaustion. The wings curled loosely around him trembled as if seeking warmth.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing? Perhaps.
But then again—weren’t they all?
Paola hummed as she smoothed her palm over the blanket covering him. He was much too thin.
“This won’t do.” She murmured, fingers ghosting over the sharp angles of his wrist. “The broth isn't enough. He needs feeding up.”
Rosa perked up beside her. “What should we get him?”
“More milk, for one. Eggs, soft cheese, whatever will settle in his stomach.” Paola pursed her lips, studying his hollow cheeks. “Maybe some milk rice next tomorrow. Something soft and sweet.”
Desmond didn’t react to their words, still blinking sluggishly like a fledgling too newly hatched to know which way was up. Only when she reached for his hands—still bound, fingers limp in his lap—did he twitch.
Paola paused. Her fingers traced over the frayed fabric of his bindings, the touch gentle but firm. The knots had been tied well—secure, meant to restrain. To control.
This thing is dangerous.
You should not trust it.
She had expected Giovanni’s warning to weigh heavier on her. That the fear in Giovanni’s voice would leave her wary.
And yet—
She saw the way Desmond’s wrists curled inward, too used to being bound. The way his shoulders sagged not in rest, but in resignation.
He wasn’t waiting to be freed. He had stopped expecting it.
Paola stared at him—this boy wrapped in feathers and silence—and something raw and furious tore loose in her chest.
No. No more of this.
He would not be kept like this.
Not in her house.
Not ever again.
She reached for the small knife tucked into her belt.
A sharp inhale broke the quiet as one of the younger girls clutched her chest. A few others stiffened, though none moved to stop her. They trusted Paola, but even still, the moment stretched long, thick with unspoken tension.
Paola did not explain.
She didn’t need to.
This wasn’t a decision. It was a promise.
She knelt beside him, careful and slow. Her fingers hovered briefly above his bound hands before she slid the blade beneath the fraying fabric.
Then—rip.
The cloth gave way. The bindings fell slack.
For a moment, no one breathed.
Then—
“Finally!” One of the courtesans huffed, clapping her hands together in exasperation.
“Poor thing.” Another tutted, touching his wrists carefully. “He looks like a trussed-up lamb.”
Paola sighed, exasperated, but the warmth in her gaze betrayed her fondness.
The moment his hands were freed, Desmond barely moved. Then, slowly, his fingers curled and he exhaled, the sound faint and content, as if something unseen had been weighing him down and now, finally, it was gone.
Paola smoothed her palm over the back of his hand.
“There.” She whispered and brushed her fingers through his dark, tousled hair once more. “Better, isn’t it, piccolino?”
She didn’t know if he could hear her, but the way his brow smoothed, the way his shoulders lost the last bit of tension, made her think that maybe, he could.
And for the first time since Giovanni had left him in her care, Paola no longer saw a burden.
She saw one of hers.
Notes:
I wanted to break this into two chapters. I desperately, desperately wanted too, but—the FLOW. THE CADENCE. THE PAYOFF. It wouldn’t have hit as hard if I separated it out into two chapters and I wanted ya’ll on the fucking rollercoaster and to feel as breathless (and insane) as I felt writing this.
(Don’t expect these long chapters anymore lmao. I actually had been writing and rewriting this chapter for WEEKS back when y'all were in chapter 6—now I have no more excess chapters haha)
Idk if you noticed, but I used a naming convention for the eldest courtesans. All the elder courtesans have names with the first letter closest to the beginning of the alphabet.
It took a long way to get here from all the shit I put Desmond through, but—was this not worth it?
This is where the promised sweetness to the bitterness I gave you begins. (If this story was a tv show, this would be the end of season 1, lol.) FULL FLUFF STARTS HERE. I will play with as many bird motifs as possible because I love that shit.
I went down so many rabbit holes making this chapter, but here are a few:
1) What is Desmond even wearing to accommodate his wings?
From Rome to Florence, Desmond was wearing what the Vatican gave him, which were ceremonial robes (see chapter 9). However, he’s filthy by the time he makes it to Florence because of blood, soot, and dirt. So what would replace that? I kinda just winged it and made Desmond wear a modified camicia—which ok, just means SHIRT in Italian, but I guess in the context of 15th century Italy, it means a loose linen undershirt/undergarment. Because the courtesans likely have more female/unisex camicia lying around, I put him in that, so the hem is longer—maybe to his knees—neck is wider, and it is generally pretty loose/oversized since it's meant to be used for sleeping, indoorwear, etc. The back is split to accommodate the wings.
2) How long did men wear the same clothes for?
I guess I shouldn’t have been so surprised about this because in earlier chapters, I mentioned that people did not bathe as frequently as we do, but apparently, people in the 15th century did not change clothes daily either. Not even the RICH PEOPLE did. Apparently the camicie were washed more frequently than outside clothes (because skin contact), but they’d still be worn for multiple days, especially indoors or when people are sick—so, sorry Des. You’re stuck in that for a but ha.
3) How often did courtesans bathe?
Because of their job, more frequently than other people—but that was still more like 2-3 times a week probably, so I just put that in as lore. This makes sense because there’s no plumbing and preparing bathes were labor intensive. As you saw in earlier chapters though, Desmond is a modern man and so NOT SHOWERING daily, especially, now that he’s half lucid, is gonna bother him. Which is yet another Situation™ I will use to my advantage heehee
--
Just because I have a(n) interview(s) coming up and I am now utterly behind in where I want to be story wise, Idk when I'll post next. I have something planned for next week, but after that, idk because I'm running low on steam haha.
I will grace you with a cute little summary sneak peek though since it'll prolly be a month till I next post for this unless I'm hit with either gigachad inspiration or another round of obsessessive zeal.
Presenting:
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Ezio Auditore ✧ﾟ
Half brooding son
Amateur detective
Handsome idiot on a missionAnd his newest title—
Party crasher.
(⊙‿⊙✿)
Please check out the wonderful fanart based on chapter 8 made by Dreamsparkleart : https://www.tumblr.com/dreamsparkleart/781384587744100352/last-safe-refuge-nikaris-this-fic-has-tempted?source=share
It has me ･ﾟ✧dazzled ✧ﾟ
Chapter 12
Summary:
Presenting:
(ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:･ﾟ✧ Ezio Auditore ✧ﾟ
Half brooding son
Amateur detective
Handsome idiot on a missionAnd his newest title—
Party crasher.
Alternate summary: Everyone thinks they know what’s going on. No one does.
Notes:
im so tired boss.
My mind is gone. I said no more long chapters but then LOOK AT THIS SHIT.
(I guess it’s gonna be a thing now.)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
The rooftops were still slick with dawn when Ezio slipped out of the bed.
Cristina murmured his name in sleep behind him, soft and distant, her hand curled loosely against the sheets.
He fastened his belt, smoothed his doublet into place, and lingered for a moment longer than he meant to. One hand brushed lightly over her shoulder, still bare in sleep. A touch, nothing more. Soft. Familiar. A goodbye she wouldn’t wake for.
Then he slipped out through the window.
Florence was quiet in the early light, the streets below hushed, the air soft and cool. The bells hadn’t rung yet, the vendors hadn’t begun shouting, and Cristina’s voice was still a whisper behind him as he crossed the tiles like a shadow.
He didn’t look back.
He never did.
Not out of callousness, but from rhythm. Habit. The same way his feet knew where the loose tiles were. The same way he could time his descent between shutters to avoid a curious baker’s boy opening his stall.
The same way he ducked—without thinking—as a pigeon let loose from a windowsill above.
The droppings missed his head by inches, splattering wetly onto the ground behind him.
Ezio didn’t flinch.
He just sighed, straightened his collar, and kept walking.
It had been happening for years now.
Not always the same bird, not always the same mess—but often enough to be noticed. Pigeons. Doves. A chicken once. The more amorous his adventures, the more creative the punishments seemed.
Ezio didn’t believe in curses, but even he had started to acknowledge that the universe seemed to have Opinions about his sex life.
Cristina, in particular, was a sensitive subject.
For months now, their secret meetings had continued—sweet, soft, sometimes stolen from behind shutters or under moonlight. But ever since they became something more than just a dalliance, the consequences had... escalated.
A dove crashing through the open window, scattering feathers and knocking over a lit lantern. A pigeon landing on the curtain rod mid-embrace—bringing the whole thing down in a rusted snap. And once—a finch caught in his hair as he climbed, its tiny wings thrashing until he lost his grip on the trellis and toppled backwards into the garden hedges below.
He’d started closing shutters beforehand. Extinguishing candles more carefully. Saying a silent prayer to whoever might be listening.
It hadn’t helped.
Still—he wasn’t going to stop.
He just… adjusted.
He walked rooftops in the early hours with his shoulders hunched slightly forward. He avoided balconies with nests. On mornings like this, he chose lighter clothes after romance. Bird droppings showed less. So did poor decisions.
It was easier than explaining.
And besides, Cristina was comforting.
She always was.
Cristina Vespucci was the kind of beautiful Florence couldn’t stop talking about—painted, whispered, compared to saints and statues. But Ezio liked her best when she was laughing. When she rolled her eyes and called him ridiculous. When she kissed him like no one else existed. When she looked at him like maybe—just maybe—he wasn’t all talk.
He didn’t just like her.
He wanted to be liked by her.
And Cristina… Cristina had always made him feel like the world made sense, at least for a little while.
She had. She always did.
That was why he’d gone to her in the first place. He’d told himself he was just passing by, but the truth was quieter, heavier—he’d needed something familiar. Something warm. Someone who looked at him without suspicion or shadows in their eyes.
And she had given him that. Her laughter. Her skin. Her arms around him like the night could wait, but even after all of it, the weight in his chest hadn’t lifted.
He couldn’t say why—only that something clung to him, quiet and sharp, like the aftertaste of a lie.
She was kind. She was warm.
But he still felt like a guest in someone else’s story.
His thoughts drifted, uninvited, back to home. To the closed doors. The changed rhythms. The way his father had begun moving through the house like a guest instead of its anchor.
Something was wrong.
He just didn’t know what.
Ezio Auditore did not like being in the dark.
Secrets had a way of curling through the walls of a house—quiet and constricting—until every corner felt too tight to breathe. And lately, home hadn’t felt like home at all. It felt like a question no one would answer. A door locked from the inside.
His father had returned from Rome days ago, but not quite as himself. Giovanni Auditore was still gentle, still measured, still the man Ezio trusted more than anyone—but there was a distance now. Subtle, careful—like someone moving through familiar halls with unfamiliar footsteps.
Ezio knew the difference between silence and absence.
Whatever his father had brought back with him, he hadn’t put it down.
And it wasn’t just work.
He didn’t shy away from his children, but he watched them now—as if searching for something behind their eyes.
Claudia had noticed, of course. She always did.
“Something must have happened.” She said one afternoon, threading her needle with more force than necessary. “He never used to flinch when Petruccio hugged him.”
The thread snapped. She didn’t curse—just reached for another, calm and unbothered, like she’d meant to break it.
Claudia was like that. Quiet, elegant, and terrifying when she wanted to be. She stitched like other people sharpened knives.
Ezio had stilled at her words though, mostly because she wasn’t wrong.
It was a small thing and easy to miss. When he was well enough, Petruccio would run to their father the moment he returned from work or a trip, arms open, smile bright. And Giovanni—smiling too, always gentle—would crouch down and gather him close.
But now… there was a pause.
A beat too long.
His hands would hover, uncertain, before settling, like he wasn’t sure how tightly he was allowed to hold his youngest son anymore.
Ezio hadn’t noticed it at first, but once he saw the pattern, he couldn’t unsee it. The pause. The hesitation. It wasn’t fatigue. It wasn’t from distraction. It was restraint. Deliberate, practiced, and wrong in a way Ezio couldn’t quite name.
Like their father was afraid of something.
Or worse—ashamed.
He thought about asking Federico, but his older brother had a way of dodging things with smirks, half-jokes, and the confident charm of an eldest son who always seemed to be in on something that Ezio wasn’t. These days, Federico spent nearly all his time with their father, tucked behind the study’s heavy doors or away on ‘banking errands’ that felt more like secret missions than paper pushing.
They said it was business.
But Ezio wasn’t stupid.
He’d seen what banking looked like—quiet meetings, sharp arguments over coin and contracts. He’d sat through enough of them himself, scribbling figures while their father explained compound interest and double entry bookkeeping.
His mother had insisted it would be good for him.
His father had agreed.
Ezio had mostly just tried not to fall asleep.
But whatever Federico and their father were doing now? It wasn’t that. They whispered too often. Left too suddenly. Returned home with bruised knuckles and too-tired eyes.
It didn’t look like it was just matters over ledgers.
And when Ezio finally asked—genuinely, quietly, trying for once not to sound accusatory—Federico had only smiled. That same infuriating smile he always wore when he knew something Ezio didn’t.
“Come back when Father tells you more than numbers.” He had said, and that was it. No elaboration. No explanation. Just a smirk, a too-casual shrug, and a hand in his hair like Ezio was still a child asking questions he wasn’t ready to understand.
Like they’d already decided what he was allowed to know—and what he wasn’t.
And the worst part? Ezio could tell Federico thought he was being kind.
Protective, even.
Ezio hadn’t asked again. Not to Federico because what was the point?
But Ezio had tried once more—this time with his father. Not a confrontation, just a quiet question after breakfast. His father had been standing near the window, adjusting his cuffs, his mind clearly elsewhere. The light had caught the lines beneath his eyes and they looked sharper than Ezio remembered.
He hesitated, before asking, “Is something wrong?”
He hadn’t meant for it to sound so raw, but once the words were out, he couldn’t take them back.
Giovanni had paused, just for a second. Then, he turned, and offered a faint smile. “Everything is fine, figlio mio.” His father had replied, but the look in his eyes told a different story.
It wasn’t fear. And it wasn’t guilt, either.
It was something Ezio couldn’t name. Something quieter. Sharper. Like recognition—or caution. The kind of look someone might give a wound they weren’t ready to treat.
And then, instead of explaining, his father had simply placed a hand on Ezio’s shoulder like he always did—firm, steady, familiar. It was a gesture that had once comforted him. As a boy, it meant safety. Reassurance. Trust.
But now… it felt rehearsed. Like a curtain drawn over a window. Like being told enough to quiet him, but not enough to understand.
Ezio didn’t feel comforted.
He felt dismissed.
And then his father turned and left—just like that. As if Ezio hadn’t asked. As if nothing had been said at all.
He stood there a while longer, staring at the door, left with more questions than answers and a bitter taste that hadn’t been there before.
So he went to his mother.
Maria Auditore always knew.
She wasn’t a loud woman, nor was she quick to give advice. But Ezio had grown up watching the way people looked at her when she entered a room—how they quieted, how they listened. She stitched in silence but caught every word. She remembered things other people forgot. She could read an argument before it started and settle it with a glance.
His father had influence. His mother had stillness.
And Ezio had never once seen her surprised.
His mother hadn’t confirmed anything outright, but the pause in her stitching had said enough. There had been a flicker of sorrow in her eyes that she couldn’t quite hide.
“Your father carries many burdens, Ezio. He has always done what he thought was right.” She had said gently, touching his cheek gently like she often did.
That didn’t comfort him.
His father being troubled by work wasn’t rare. Giovanni carried the weight of a banker’s life with practiced silence, but this… this wasn’t just stress. Not when even his mother seemed quietly unsettled. Not when Claudia picked at threads, and especially not when Petruccio’s hugs made their father go still.
And then there was Federico—always Federico.
Ezio had grown out of the childish jealousy years ago. Federico was the eldest, the heir, the one who sat closest to their father during dinners and joined him on business trips. Ezio had long since accepted that most of their father’s guidance would be passed down to Federico first—especially when it came to matters of the bank.
He knew Federico would inherit their father’s place at the bank. That was just how things worked. Names carried weight. Doors opened when you shared one.
Their father trusted Federico—with meetings, travel, and closed door conversations.
Ezio didn’t want to work at the bank anyway and never had. Even as a boy, when Federico came home bragging about numbers or reciting business terms like passwords to some secret world, Ezio had only half listened—already dreaming of fresher air and faster roads. Ledgers bored him stiff. He wanted movement. Adventure. Something with a pulse.
Let Federico inherit the bank’s mahogany chairs and hush-toned meetings.
Let him inherit the secrets, too.
Ezio had always known his path would lead elsewhere.
(He just wished—sometimes—that he didn’t feel so left behind in the process.)
He’d tried to brush it all off. His father worked in banking. That meant long meetings, quiet transactions, ledgers full of secrets. But even those had their rhythms—and Giovanni had broken them.
He moved through the house differently now. Lighter. Quieter. As if trying not to leave a footprint. The study door stayed shut more often. Conversations stopped when Ezio got too close. Federico spoke less and smiled more—but it was the kind of smile that curled around something he wouldn’t say.
And Ezio—he was tired of being humored. Of being watched like someone who might ask the wrong question. Of hearing his own footsteps echo too loudly in halls that used to feel like home.
Now, out in the morning sun with too much on his mind, Ezio just wanted air.
Clarity.
Answers.
Instead, he got Vieri de’ Pazzi.
Ezio had no patience for Vieri today.
The morning had been frustrating enough—his father coming home late, Federico being cryptic, and now this smug bastard had the gall to stand in his way, all too pleased with himself.
They had hated each other for years.
Not just because they came from rival families—Auditore and Pazzi—but because their rivalry had roots, planted young and fed with pride.
They had trained together once, when they were boys—swordsmanship, language, politics. Vieri had been loud, desperate to be taken seriously, always chasing praise. Ezio hadn’t needed to chase anything.
That was the real offense.
Ezio was everything Vieri wasn’t—confident without effort, well-liked without trying, fast with a blade and faster with a smile. He didn’t posture. He didn’t beg. And Vieri couldn’t stand it.
What had started as competition turned into obsession.
Vieri mocked Ezio behind closed doors. Spat insults when tutors weren’t listening. Picked fights in the yard when no one important was listening. Once, he’d tripped Ezio into the river in front of a girl Ezio had been trying to impress. Ezio had laughed it off, but he’d never forgotten.
Ezio had tried to ignore him, once. Tried to rise above it, but Vieri never let it rest. The jabs got meaner. The fights got dirtier.
And after Cristina—
Ezio hadn’t even known how far Vieri’s bitterness went until he had found the other cornering her. He hadn’t hesitated. He broke two knuckles putting Vieri down.
After that, it was war. More fights. More provocations. More pathetic little ambushes in alleyways that never landed.
Ezio had never truly hated anyone.
Except maybe Vieri.
And even then, it wasn’t hate.
It was boredom.
Because at some point, Vieri stopped being a rival.
He became a chore.
Ezio stopped turning the other cheek a long time ago.
Now, this was just routine.
Vieri leaned casually against the stone wall, arms crossed, a smirk curling at his lips. Around him, a few of his usual lackeys loitered—less a real threat, more a nuisance.
“Auditore! Fancy seeing you out and about. I’d be careful, if I were you. Keep lingering in the streets like that and some might mistake you for one of the servants.”
Ezio rolled his shoulders, already unimpressed. “Vieri. You really should learn when to keep your mouth shut.”
“But then I wouldn’t get to see that adorable little vein in your forehead twitch.” Vieri mocked. “Besides, I come bearing news. Word is your father’s returned from Roma with a... fondness for the city.” He paused, letting the word linger—then, he leaned in with a smirk, like the setup to a joke only he and his lackeys were in on. “Or more precisely… the women of Rome.”
Ezio’s expression didn’t shift, but his body tensed—just slightly. “Tch. Is this the best you can do, Vieri? Resorting to gossip like some jealous wife?”
“Ah, but this is no gossip.” Vieri grinned, the words dripping with satisfaction. “I have it on good authority that your dear father has been frequenting a particular establishment since his trip to Rome.”
And then—true to form—he spread his arms wide, theatrically, like a street performer basking in applause. A few of his lackeys chuckled on cue, eager to be seen laughing with him.
“And, well…” Vieri shrugged with mock innocence. “It made me wonder— does Madonna Maria know?”
Ezio’s fists clenched.
Vieri’s grin widened. “Or do you all just pretend not to see it? Such a loyal family, the Auditores—always covering for each other. Though, it does make one wonder…” He walked closer, voice almost sweet. “If your father’s so busy elsewhere, who’s keeping your dear mother warm at night?”
That did it.
Ezio lunged.
Vieri had been expecting it, sidestepping just in time, but Ezio was faster. His fist connected with Vieri’s jaw, snapping his head to the side, and sending the Pazzi boy stumbling back.
The laughter turned into a snarl. “You shit—!”
Both boys swung wildly—more instinct than form—boots skidding across the stone as their shoulders crashed together. Ezio landed another blow to Vieri’s ribs. Vieri elbowed him hard in the side. They grappled, teeth bared, knuckles slick with sweat.
And then the others joined.
Vieri’s lackeys—four of them, maybe five—peeled off from the wall like rats from the shadows. Ezio barely caught the glint of a ring before it slammed into his jaw. Another hand yanked his collar, dragging him back. A knee hit his side, another hand clawed for his hair.
It wasn’t a duel.
It was a dogpile.
“What’s wrong, Auditore?” Vieri sneered, spitting blood from his lip. “Losing your footing?”
Ezio growled, driving his shoulder into the nearest attacker’s gut and twisting free. His boot lashed out, catching another in the shin. One man stumbled. Another cursed. But there were too many.
Fists. Feet. Rough cloth. Rings.
He hit the wall.
And then—whistles.
A shrill blast from the edge of the square.
Guards.
The crowd scattered like birds from a bell tower. Vieri clicked his tongue in annoyance, brushing off his sleeves with one hand while the other pressed subtly to his jaw, where Ezio’s fist had landed hard. The skin was already purpling.
“A shame.” Vieri taunted, voice tight beneath the smugness. “I was enjoying this.” He sneered but fingers still ghosted over the bruise. “Next time, I’ll bring fewer friends. Maybe.”
And with that, the Pazzi turned on his heel and stalked off, his lackeys trailing after him like kicked dogs.
Ezio exhaled sharply, chest rising with fury as Vieri vanished down the street like the smug bastard he was. His knuckles stung. His ribs ached. His pride burned hotter than all of it.
But it wasn’t the blows that had done the most damage.
It was the words. The suggestion. The smug little smirk wrapped around a rumor Ezio couldn’t shake off.
He didn’t believe him.
His father wasn’t like that. Whatever was going on—whatever secrets were being passed behind study doors and buried in half-truths—it wasn’t some sordid affair. Giovanni Auditore didn’t sneak around for that. He was strict, principled. If anything, he was too proud. Too rigid. A man with too many burdens, not too many vices.
Vieri didn’t know anything.
He was just poking and prodding—trying to find cracks in the stone, like he always did.
But still.
Ezio had lunged.
There had been no hesitation. No second thought. The words left Vieri’s mouth and Ezio’s fists were already flying.
And that—that—was what unsettled him most.
Not the accusation.
But how easy it had been to lose control.
He’d felt the shift before he ever moved. The tension in his shoulders. The tightening in his chest. The part of him that had been simmering for days finally boiling over—not because he believed Vieri, but because it echoed too close to something he hadn’t been able to name.
His father had been distant. His brother had been evasive. And his mother, for all her poise and grace, had offered more poetry than truth.
The house had been too quiet lately.
Too careful.
Ezio ran a hand through his hair, trying to shake off the weight curling around his thoughts like smoke.
It was just Vieri.
He always knew which stones to throw.
And yet Vieri was right about one thing—his father hadn’t gone straight home after returning from Rome.
Ezio knew because he’d heard it from an acquaintance whose father manned the checkpoint near the southern gate. They’d crossed paths that same day, and the other boy had mentioned it casually—how Ser Giovanni had arrived in Florence just before the bells marked evening.
Late afternoon. Plenty of daylight left.
Ezio hadn’t thought much of it at the time. He’d nodded, smiled, and gone about his day.
But later—after the lamps were snuffed, after the halls had quieted, after even Claudia had gone to bed—he was still awake, staring at the ceiling in the dark.
That’s when he heard it.
The soft creak of a door. The hush of boots against the floor. Then, voices—low and private—his mother’s and father’s, rising faintly from the main hall.
They’d spoken briefly—quietly—and then his mother had gone back to bed.
And his father? He had followed minutes later. He hadn’t checked on anyone else.
No footsteps down the hall. No pause outside the children’s rooms. No creak of floorboards near Petruccio’s door.
Just one arrival, one hushed conversation—and then the quiet shut of the bedroom door.
It was strange.
His father always came home first. Always. Even after long journeys, even when exhausted, he made a point to be seen—to greet his mother, to check on Petruccio, to ask about any news while he had been gone. A touch here. A glance there. That was the rhythm. That was the pattern.
But this time… he hadn’t.
Ezio had tried to excuse it. Maybe his father had stopped to speak with someone. Maybe he’d delivered a message. Maybe something came up at the bank, or he ran into someone important who required discretion.
He told himself all of that, again and again, but none of it explained the hours. None of it explained the break in pattern.
None of it explained the way his father acted the next morning—calm, composed… and just a little too careful.
Because Giovanni Auditore was not a man who left gaps. Even when he didn’t explain himself, he left clues—a comment at dinner, a passing word to Federico, a quiet gesture his mother understood without needing context.
But this time, there was nothing.
No breadcrumbs. No aside. No nod Ezio could pretend to interpret.
Just silence.
And Ezio hated the way it made his thoughts twist.
He rubbed at his jaw absently, then his side, wincing at the deep ache blooming beneath his ribs. Vieri had gotten a good shot in before retreating, the bastard. Ezio hissed through his teeth and muttered something unrepeatable under his breath.
He turned the corner toward home and nearly collided with Annetta.
“Madonna mia! Ezio!” She gasped, staggering back. Her arms clutched a basket to her chest. “You’re lucky I didn’t drop the eggs!”
Ezio blinked, shaken from his thoughts. “Scusa, Annetta—I didn’t see you there.”
“That much is clear.” His mother said from behind him.
Ezio turned to find his mother watching him with narrowed eyes.
She had an arm through the loop of a woven basket, her expression unreadable. “I’d ask what has you so deep in thought, but I already know.”
Ezio offered a crooked grin. “What gave me away?”
“The way you almost walked through the maid, for starters.” Maria stepped closer, studying him more carefully. Her voice dipped. “And the bruising.”
Ezio’s smile faltered. “It’s nothing.”
“Another brawl?”
“Not exactly.” Ezio deflected with a forced laugh. “More like… heated words, and a few shoves.”
Maria gave him a long, unimpressed look.
“Fine.” Ezio muttered. “Maybe a fist or two.”
She hummed, clearly not surprised. “With Vieri?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“You wear your grudges like your father wears his coats—heavy, and always in season.”
Ezio snorted at that, rubbing the back of his neck.
Maria shook her head. “If you’ve got energy to waste on old feuds, you can put it to better use.”
Ezio blinked. “Doing what, exactly?”
“Paintings.” She said, already turning. “We’re picking up a few pieces from Leonardo’s workshop.” His mother glanced over her shoulder. “And since you clearly have strength to spare—and no better purpose for it—you can carry the canvases. Come along, figlio mio.”
She gave Annetta a gentle nod. “You go ahead and finish the errands, dear.”
“Of course, Madonna.” Annetta smiled and disappeared inside.
Ezio sighed, the weight of the morning still pressing on his ribs—and now, apparently, on his arms.
“…Canvases it is.” He muttered, and fell in step beside her.
As they began to walk, his mother’s pace was slow and deliberate, Ezio kept quiet. The city’s noise filled the quiet—merchants shouting prices, carts creaking past, pigeons scattering ahead of running feet.
Then, softly—
“You’re still worried about your father, aren’t you?”
Ezio stiffened slightly.
“I can see it.” She continued. “Even if you try to hide it. You’ve always been easier to read than you think.”
He hesitated then sighed. “Yes—in a way.”
Maria hummed. “Your father does carry many burdens, Ezio. The sort that leave marks.”
“I know.” He said quickly. Too quickly.
She glanced at him, reading too much. “But you still doubt him.”
“No!” Ezio refuted before he faltered. “I just… I don’t understand what’s happening. He’s changed. He comes home late. He looks at us like he’s seeing something else. And when I try to ask…” Ezio trailed off, jaw tightening. “Federico won’t tell me anything. They both act like I’m too young to understand.”
Maria’s expression didn’t waver, but her voice softened. “You’ll understand in time. For now, trust that he’s doing what he must—for all our sakes.”
Ezio looked away, jaw clenched.
That was the problem.
He wanted to trust him.
But he didn’t feel like he could—not after what Vieri had said. Not with the strange silence that clung to the house like fog. Not with the way his father watched him like he was seeing something else. Not with how Federico kept sidestepping his questions with smiles that didn’t reach his eyes.
Still, he didn’t want to worry his mother, not when she looked so sure—so certain.
“Right.” He said, forcing a smile. “I’ll try.”
Maria didn’t respond. She merely glanced sideways at him, a knowing glint in her eyes.
She let the silence stretch just long enough to settle. Then, with the faintest smile, she touched his arm. “Come. Leonardo will be waiting.”
They turned the final corner just as the doors of the workshop opened and a man stepped outside, adjusting the cuffs of his paint stained sleeves before he noticed them.
“Madonna Maria!” Leonardo da Vinci greeted warmly, pressing a kiss to each of her cheeks. “You’re right on time.”
“Leonardo.” Maria returned with a smile. “I hope we’re not interrupting anything too delicate.”
“Nothing that can’t wait.” He assured, stepping aside to let them in. Then, he glanced at her son. “And this is?”
“Ezio.” She introduced. “My son.”
“Molto onorato.” Leonardo replied with a smile, offering a small, paint smeared bow.
“L’onore e mio.” Ezio replied politely, returning the bow.
Leonardo nodded and turned toward Maria. “Let me fetch the paintings. I’ll be right back.”
Maria hummed as he disappeared into the studio. “He’s very talented.”
“I guess.” Ezio muttered, looking away.
“Self expression is vital to understanding and enjoying life.” His mother said patiently. “You should find an outlet.” Then, with a sideways glance, murmured, ”Perhaps you should learn from him.”
Ezio resisted the urge to kick the dirt. “I have plenty of outlets.”
HIs mother however, looked unimpressed and gave him a pointed look. “I meant besides vaginas.”
Ezio winced. “Madre!”
He was saved from further scolding when Leonardo returned with a crate full of paintings. Ezio wasn’t sure if the man had overheard their conversation, but the subtle twitch at the corner of his lips when he looked at Ezio was telling.
“Back to your house, then?” Leonardo asked cheerfully, as if he hadn’t just caught Ezio’s extracurriculars laid bare.
“Si, si.” Maria said, following him. “Ezio, help Leonardo, will you?”
Ezio moved to take half the stack, trying very hard not to make eye contact.
Leonardo handed them over with ease, then leaned in—just a little—his voice low and far too pleased.
“Don’t worry.” He murmured conspiratorially. “I find all kinds of outlets inspiring.”
Ezio nearly dropped the entire stack.
His mother’s head turned. “What now?”
“Nothing.” Ezio said quickly, shooting Leonardo a glare. “Absolutely nothing.”
Leonardo just smiled, entirely unashamed, and fell into step behind them.
The road curved gently ahead, sunlight catching on painted canvas and lacquered frames. Ezio adjusted his grip on the last of the paintings his mother had purchased as they walked, Leonardo keeping an easy pace beside them.
“So, Ezio!” Leonardo mused brightly, as if nothing scandalous had just occurred. “What is it that you do?”
Maria answered for him. “He’s been working with his father.”
Ezio nodded, not particularly interested in discussing it further—especially not at the mention of his father.
Leonardo, ever perceptive, caught it. He hummed politely and pivoted. “I see, I see—Ah, which reminds me—I noticed you’ve quite the eye for art, Madonna Maria. Have you heard about the exhibit opening soon?”
Maria blinked, intrigued. “An exhibit?”
“Yes! Well—it’s not the exhibit itself that interests me, but rather… a particular painting being displayed. The name tends to linger—if you’ve ever come across it.” Leonardo hummed before he smiled, and like someone sharing a secret, murmured—
“The Angel of the Lake.”
The name rang out like a bell struck in the quiet—soft, resonant, impossible to ignore.
Ezio frowned, but beside him, his mother tilted her head, thoughtful. Her brows lifted slightly—not in recognition, but something softer. Quieter. As if something drawn from a deeper place had brushed the edge of her memory.
“I’ve heard that name before.” She said slowly. “Years ago—when I was a girl. My father brought it up once, I think, after a trip north. He mentioned a painting… something rare. Beautiful, but strange. I remember the name because it felt like a story title.”
Her lips curved slightly. “I assumed it was a myth.”
Ezio gave his mother a sidelong glance. There was something unusual in her tone—not distant, exactly, but… hushed. Like her thoughts had moved a step ahead of her words.
He looked at Leonardo. “I’ve never heard of it.”
Leonardo chuckled. “It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s rarely displayed, but whispered about—especially among older families. It was painted nearly a century ago by none other than Costanza de’ Pazzi.”
Ezio scowled, reflexively. “A Pazzi?” He had just fought Vieri that morning and wanted nothing to do with the name.
Leonardo held up a placating hand. “Ah, not exactly those Pazzis you may know. The branch family inherited this particular piece. They’ve long been out of politics—only known for their art and scholarly pursuits.”
Maria nodded, smiling slightly. “I saw the branch family’s head in passing recently. He has a son a little older than you, Ezio.”
Ezio rolled his eyes. “Wonderful.” Like he needed more Pazzi in his life.
“I’ve never seen the painting myself.” Leonardo said, his tone low with intrigue. “But I’ve heard descriptions. It’s interesting the way it’s spoken about—the effect it has on those who’ve seen it. It’s not just beautiful. There’s something about it that lingers and everyone says the same thing—that it feels like you’ve stumbled into something sacred. Like you weren’t supposed to see it… and yet it sees you anyway.”
Leonardo exhaled, almost wistfully. “That kind of honesty on canvas… It’s rare. The story behind it is just as compelling, too.” He glanced at them. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Only bits and pieces.” Maria admitted, her tone mild.
Ezio stayed quiet, though his eyes didn’t wander.
Leonardo brightened at once, naturally spurred on.
“Costanza de’ Pazzi painted it after a harrowing experience.” Leonardo began, launching into the tale with the practiced ease of someone who’d told it over wine more than once—part historian, part performer. “It’s said that in the dead of winter, she and her family left the city with her ailing son. Pazzino, I believe. The boy was near death, his fever consuming him. She searched for a remedy, town after town, but nothing worked and all hope was lost.”
Maria’s brow furrowed, deeply absorbed. “And what happened?”
Leonardo continued. “Well, according to legend, she came upon a small, remote village by a lake, and there, something miraculous happened.” He leaned in slightly. “A figure, described as neither man nor entirely divine, was said to have descended upon them, wings as pale as the moon, with eyes like burning sunlight.”
Ezio arched a brow, skeptical. “An angel?”
Leonardo smirked. “That is what some believe. Costanza herself never claimed it outright, but she painted The Angel of the Lake soon after, and I heard that if you look at it—truly look—it’s not heavenly. Just…other. Watchful.”
He hummed in thought. “It is... unsettling, the way the angel is described. Not quite of this world, but not wholly removed from it either.”
Maria exhaled softly. “A mother witnessing a miracle—whether divine or human—it is understandable that she would immortalize it in art.”
Leonardo nodded, enthusiastically. “Precisely! But what makes it even more compelling is that Costanza and her family left that village under... unclear circumstances. She never spoke of what happened in detail. Only the painting tells the tale.”
Ezio shifted the weight of the canvases in his arms. “So either she was telling the truth, or she was mad with grief.”
Leonardo’s lips quirked. “Or, she saw something she could not explain.”
Ezio didn’t respond but an image stirred in his mind—wings that weren’t quite white, a gaze too sharp to be human. Not cruel or kind, just—watching. Ancient and waiting. Like something that had stood at the edge of the world and judged it unworthy.
They moved through the street in silence, their footsteps blending with the hum of Florence around them.
“The painting is rarely displayed, you know.” Leonardo said lightly, but something thoughtful flickered beneath it. “Some say the Church discouraged it—quietly, of course. Others claim it’s simply too strange to hang beside saints and martyrs. But me?” He smiled faintly. “I think the family keeps it close on purpose. Not hidden, exactly… just guarded. Protected. Not as a secret—but as a sacred inheritance. Something they remember in symbols, not stories.”
“The wings on the coat of arms.” Maria recalled. “They said it was for the angel.” She paused. “Most people thought it was a metaphor.”
Ezio glanced between them, a frown forming on his brow—but said nothing.
He’d seen the wings, of course. Painted above doorways. Carved into the family coat of arms at Pazzi-owned chapels and villas. To him, they’d always been there—part of the family’s self-important flair, like Vieri’s smugness etched in marble.
But changed?
He hadn’t known that.
Noble coat of arms didn’t change lightly. They were bloodlines chiseled into iconography—meant to endure war, scandal, and generations of politics. Altering one wasn’t just symbolic. It was deliberate. A statement etched into permanence.
And if the Pazzi had rewritten theirs—replacing swords or laurels or whatever had come before with wings—then they’d done it for a reason they didn’t want forgotten.
It wasn’t from something out of pride.
It was proof.
A truth they couldn’t say aloud, so they carved it instead.
Ezio’s gaze dropped briefly, thoughtful.
The Auditore coat of arms hadn’t changed in centuries. An eagle poised mid-flight, one wing outstretched, displayed upon a divided field. As a boy, he’d been told what it meant. Strength in vigilance. Power held in balance. Sight that reached further than most and claws sharp to act when needed.
The divided field, his father had once explained, wasn’t mere design—it was doctrine. The duality of the world. Light and shadow. Truth and illusion. Not good and evil, but understanding that both could exist within the same man.
And the wings on the eagle outstretched meant guarding more than oneself.
Ezio had worn it all his life—on buckles, on bracers, on banners above the courtyard—never once thinking to question it. But now, as Leonardo spoke of a family that changed their coat of arms for a single moment, a single act of reverence, he wondered, suddenly, what it might take for his own family to change theirs.
They continued walking, the conversation falling into a thoughtful silence. Ezio adjusted his hold on the crate, arms taut as he sidestepped a group of city guards. The frames inside gave a soft clink, and he exhaled through his nose, steadying them
Leonardo glanced sideways, then added, almost too casually, “The exhibit opens soon—just before Lent, by the way. Quiet affair. One night only.”
Ezio looked over, brow raised. “Let me guess. The Pazzi are hosting it?”
Leonardo chuckled. “Naturally. They’re opening a private gallery near Santa Croce for the occasion.”
Maria tilted her head. “On the anniversary, I presume?”
Leonardo nodded. “Yes. The very night the angel was said to appear.” He hesitated. “It’s... unusual. The Pazzi rarely open their doors like this—not to the public, and certainly not for something this private. Their collection is typically viewed by invitation only—scholars, patrons, the occasional foreign dignitary. And even among those, few are ever shown that painting.”
He glanced between them. “But this year… for some reason, they’ve made an exception. One night. No formal list. The gallery will be open to any who come.”
Leonardo smiled encouragingly. “If you’re interested, I’d go. This may not happen again.”
Ezio hummed, uncertain. Given the years of bad blood between their families—and the most recent bruises exchanged with Vieri that very morning—he wasn’t even sure the Pazzi would let them through the door.
Not him, at least. Not without raised brows or whispered words.
His father and Vieri’s, of course, kept things cordial—smiles at dinners, polite bows in public, that polished tolerance noblemen wore like armor. But Ezio doubted the same courtesy would extend to someone who’d bruised Pazzi pride more than once—if Vieri had anything to say about it.
His mother’s expression didn’t change, but there was a flicker of dry amusement in her eyes when she glanced at him. The kind of look that said, ‘this is what happens when you throw punches before lunch.’
Ezio sighed and looked away.
They said nothing more as they made their way through the streets, but the name lingered behind them like a trailing echo.
The Angel of the Lake.
Ezio didn’t believe in angels, but he could admit—quietly, to himself—that it might be worth seeing. Just once. If only to understand what made even the Pazzi treat it like something sacred and change their coat of arms for.
Just ahead, the white spire of Santa Croce pierced the skyline—solemn and pale against the blue. It wasn’t the grandest church in Florence but something about it caught the eye.
Ezio slowed slightly as they passed into its shadow.
Santa Croce.
The name curled in the back of his mind like a lesson half-remembered. He didn’t know much about Santa Croce. His tutors had mentioned it—briefly, cautiously—during his studies on Church influence in Florence. Most of what he’d been taught had been saints and miracles, papal reach and holy wars, but Santa Croce had come up when someone asked about heretics.
“Confession.” The tutor had said. “And correction.”
But the way he’d said it hadn’t sounded holy.
Ezio remembered that, but just barely.
They’d moved on quickly—to dogma, to martyrs—but that one phrase had stayed with him. Santa Croce wasn’t just a church. People didn’t go there just to pray.
He didn’t know the details nor did he want to, but he found himself glancing up and away, like he’d looked too long at something sacred or something scorched.
His tutors had always kept their words vague when Florence’s darker chapters came up, but he remembered another phrase—ecclesiastical correction. A polite term, they said, for when the Church needed to remind people what God expected.
Trials had been held here once.
Ezio wasn’t sure what really happened behind those walls but even now, passing by it made something cold stir beneath his ribs.
The stone seemed too clean. The windows too high.
He didn’t know why it unsettled him.
“If it really was an angel…” He asked quietly, almost to himself. “What would the Church do?”
Leonardo turned to him, the question catching him by surprise. “That depends. If the angel sang psalms and bowed to the papacy, they would canonize it. But if it preached something new—if it refused to obey…” He shrugged. “They would call it blasphemy.”
Maria’s eyes flickered to the spires. “Even angels aren’t safe from fear. Especially if they don’t fit the image people want them to.”
Ezio frowned. “So they’d silence it even if it tried to help?”
“Especially then.” Leonardo said, voice softer now. “Because miracles inspire belief, but the wrong kind of miracle? That inspires doubt.”
“And the Church prefers obedience over doubt.” His mother murmured.
Leonardo tilted his head, expression thoughtful. “You know… when I first read about The Angel of the Lake, I tried to trace its origins. Just idle curiosity. From what I gather, the painting was made in 1385, so Costanza’s story likely took place sometime in the late 1370’s to early 1380’s and that coincides with something… odd.”
Maria glanced at him. “Odd? Something happened then?”
Leonardo nodded slowly. “Yes. There was a surge in inquisitorial presence during that period. In Firenze, specifically. It caused quite a stir if the records are correct.”
Ezio frowned. “I thought the Inquisition operated mostly in the south.”
“They usually did.” Leonardo said, nodding. “But for a brief period around that time, there was direct intervention from Rome.”
Ezio’s brows knit together. Florence wasn’t supposed to be a city that Rome meddled in openly—not like that. Not unless something serious had happened.
Leonardo continued. “I came across a note while researching the painting—a copied extract from the Pontifical Register, tucked away in the Laurentian Library. Likely written by a cleric for local records. It referenced a brief investigation, initiated under vague claims of heresy and unnatural phenomena.”
Ezio felt the words settle oddly in his chest. Heresy, he understood—at least as a concept. But unnatural phenomena? That sounded like more than just forbidden texts or scandalous sermons. It sounded like something real.
“Unnatural how?” Ezio frowned.
“That’s the thing.” Leonardo sighed. “No specifics. Just that several priests were… disciplined.”
Maria’s tone turned grim. “Disciplined.”
Leonardo nodded. “The kind of word that means little and hides much. No trial transcripts. No formal accusations. Just the mention and then silence.”
Ezio frowned. “So they covered it up?”
“Likely.” Leonardo said, almost clinically. “The church—even Florence, for that matter—has a habit of burying things. Especially if the event provoked a theological contradiction. The Church doesn’t like loose ends and ones that challenge what people are told to believe? Even more so.”
Ezio fell quiet, chewing on the words. Disciplined. Erased. The Church didn’t bury what wasn’t dangerous—and buried meant there had been something real enough to silence. Not rumor. Not myth. Something they found. A thread pulled, then quickly cut.
His instincts itched with the urge to dig, to chase whatever truth had slipped between the cracks, but this was nearly a century past. Old blood, cold stone. Whatever had happened was long over.
Ezio shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought.
His gaze drifted forward again. To the angel. To the painting.
A mother painted an angel after losing her child. That made sense. That was grief. Mad with sorrow, clinging to something—anything—that gave the pain meaning. Art typically followed loss. You didn’t immortalize a miracle unless it had taken something from you first.
And if the Pazzi were opening their gallery on the anniversary—if that strange painting was displayed to mark the night the angel appeared—
Then it wasn’t just a story. It was a vigil.
“So that’s what the anniversary is.” Ezio realized. “The boy’s death. They just reframed it. Made it poetic. A miracle instead of a loss.”
Leonardo blinked. “No, actually.” His smile deepened. “Pazzino survived.”
Ezio blinked, caught off guard. “He did?”
Leonardo nodded, visibly pleased. “Quite famously. He grew up to be a painter, if I’m remembering correctly. And that’s precisely why the painting was made and why the family keeps the work so carefully despite controversy. It’s because he lived. Because his mother saw something she couldn’t explain, and it saved her son’s life.”
Ezio opened his mouth, then closed it again. His gaze flickered to his mother, then back to Leonardo. “So it’s real?”
The question came out too quickly—too earnestly. As soon as he heard himself, his face twisted slightly in embarrassment. “I mean—never mind. That’s not what I meant.”
Leonardo only smiled, amused. “It’s not a foolish question. A mother paints what she remembers. The Church archives what it wants remembered.”
“And sometimes, the rest is buried between the two.” Maria murmured. Her gaze lingered somewhere far off—not on Leonardo, not even on the street ahead. Just… distant.
Ezio glanced over, catching the slight tension in his mother’s jaw.
He knew that look.
She’d worn it often, in the quiet moments after Petruccio’s coughing fits—when the fever passed but the worry didn’t.
Maria’s voice softened. “Costanza was lucky.” She said, finally. Almost like an afterthought.
Her words weren’t bitter. Just… full.
Ezio shifted slightly, letting his shoulder brush against hers—a quiet gesture. A son’s answer to a mother’s thoughts.
She sighed, gave him a small smile, and touched his arm—just briefly. A squeeze. Then let go.
But Ezio’s thoughts lingered.
He stared ahead, jaw tight. The silence pressed against him, full of everything left unsaid.
“They saved someone—and still, they were buried for it.” Ezio muttered to himself, almost bitterly. “Why?”
“Because safety doesn’t always follow gratitude.” Maria said, her voice quiet but certain. “Not for what people fear. Not for what they can’t explain.”
Leonardo nodded faintly. “Especially if it leaves them wondering what else might be true.”
Ezio said nothing.
He understood what they meant, but that wasn’t what made his chest feel tight.
It wasn’t silence that bothered him. It was the erasure. The judgment.
The idea that something could reach out and save a child—something kind, or at least trying to be—and be hunted for it. Buried. Called heresy for not fitting into a prayerbook.
That, more than anything, unsettled him
If it had been Petruccio… If something had reached down and saved him—and someone dared to call it unholy?
Ezio wouldn’t forgive that.
He glanced back at the spires.
So close. So familiar.
And yet, even as he looked away, the feeling clung—like smoke from a fire he hadn’t seen, but still knew had burned.
“It’s just a story.” He mumbled under his breath, but even as he said it, the image refused to leave him—not of a holy angel bathed in light, but something winged and wounded, half-buried in shadow.
A miracle that had saved someone... and could have been punished for it.
Not divine. Not damned. Just condemned.
The thought rose before he could stop it—sharp and strange, like something whispered through a dream.
Not could angels be real—he didn’t believe in that.
But what if something had tried?
And what if the world had punished it for not being holy enough?
Ezio shook his head, forcing the thought down before it could root deeper.
That was superstition. A story. Even though the boy lived, that didn’t mean wings had saved him. It could have been good fortune. A fever breaking on its own. A stranger’s help mistaken for something greater.
And people—especially grieving, desperate ones—were always ready to mistake chance for divinity.
Because angels weren’t real.
They walked on in silence, the conversation settling into more casual topics before the familiar structure of the Palazzo Auditore came into view.
Leonardo offered a kind smile. “Let me know if you see the painting at the exhibit. I’d love to hear what you think of it—once it’s staring back at you.”
Ezio gave a faint scoff. “I doubt it’ll change my mind.” ‘Or that I’ll even be allowed in.’
“Minds change in strange places.” Leonardo replied. “Especially in silence.”
Leonardo gave a small bow. “Until next time, Madonna Maria.”
“Grazie, Leonardo.” Maria said warmly. “I’ll let you know how the frame holds up.”
“Please do.” The painter smiled. “And it was nice to meet you, Ezio. I hope our paths cross again.”
Ezio nodded, smiling slightly. “Anch’io.”
With a final wave, Leonardo turned and disappeared down the street.
Ezio lingered at the door a moment longer, watching the street where Leonardo had disappeared. The words still echoed behind his ribs—about miracles, about the angels, about heresy.
Angels weren’t real.
But even so...
Even Florence has a habit of burying things, Leonardo had said.
And to Ezio, that was looking true in more ways than one.
The house was quiet when Ezio finally stepped inside.
His mother had already vanished down the hall, murmuring something about finding the best light to hang Leonardo’s paintings.
But Ezio lingered. Something about the quiet wasn’t right. The house felt... tight. Like it was bracing for something.
He turned toward his room out of habit, steps slow and aimless, but just as he passed the corridor leading to his father’s study—he heard it.
Voices.
He paused.
Federico’s voice came through first. Muffled, but clear enough to catch the tone—light, casual... but cautious.
“…Paola sends her regards.”
Ezio’s brow furrowed. Paola?
There was a pause.
Then his father’s voice, lower, harder to catch. A praise—“You did well.”—followed by the scrape of a chair or the shift of papers. Movement. Hesitation.
Federico spoke again, quieter now but still audible. “...the house… busy. …to be a party tomorrow. Full-house rental.”
Ezio froze.
A full-house rental? A party?
That didn’t sound like business. Not in the way their father usually discussed it. The words didn’t fit—Paola, a house rental, a party. And the tone—secretive. Careful. Like they were circling around something bigger without naming it.
A soft creak echoed—his father standing, maybe.
Then Federico’s voice again—“...trust her?”
“She has hidden…in that house.” His father’s voice came through. “She knows how to keep secrets.”
Ezio inhaled sharply. Hidden? Secrets?!
He took another step forward, trying to make sense of what he was hearing. Paola. The name didn’t mean anything to him, but the way Federico said it—easy and familiar— set his teeth on edge. He was about to lean in closer when—
“You’re not very good at sneaking, you know.”
Ezio jumped with a gasp, biting off the tail end of a curse as he spun around in a panic.
Petruccio stood in the hallway, one hand on his chest as he wheezed with every breath. He looked pale in the light that spilled from the nearby window, but his eyes sparkled with mischief as he caught his older brother with his hand in the metaphorical cookie jar.
Ezio was at his side in two steps. “Cazzo, Petruccio—how long were you standing there?”
Petruccio gave a half smile. “Long enough to see you doing your very worst impression of a spy.” Another cough broke the moment, and Ezio’s brow furrowed.
“Come on.” He said more gently. “You shouldn’t be out of bed. Let’s get you back before Mother notices.”
“I told her I wanted air.” Petruccio muttered as Ezio helped him back down the hall. “She said I could walk a little. You’re not the only one who gets restless.”
He broke off with a cough—short, but sharp enough to make Ezio slow his pace. He glanced over, frowning. Petruccio’s face was flushed, and the way he held his ribs—tight and careful—wasn’t new, but it wasn’t better either.
Ezio’s voice dropped slightly. “You sound worse today.”
Petruccio waved him off with a shaky breath. “I’m fine. Just winded.”
Ezio didn’t believe that for a second, but he let it slide—only because pushing wouldn’t help.
So instead, he shifted his tone, aiming for dry rather than worried. “You shouldn’t be sneaking around in your condition, anyways. What were you trying to catch me doing?”
“Didn’t need to catch you.” Petruccio teased with a smug little grin, then winced as another cough tugged at his ribs. “You looked—” He coughed into his sleeve. “—looked guilty the second you turned around.”
“Cheeky.” Ezio snorted and reached over to ruffle his brother’s hair with exaggerated vengeance.
“Hey!” Petruccio yelped, swatting at him. “Hands off! I’m recovering!”
Ezio only grinned wider. “From what—vanity?”
They were still bickering by the time they reached Petruccio’s room, though the teasing had softened into something quieter. Ezio helped him into bed, adjusting the pillows with mock ceremony.
“You’re worried about Father, aren’t you?” Petruccio asked, once he was settled—his voice softer now, but certain.
Ezio let out a breath. First his mother and now Petruccio. He must be more obvious than he thought.
“He’s… been different lately.” He admitted, not meeting his brother’s eyes.
“Mm.” Petruccio nodded, eyes flicking toward the ceiling. “He didn’t stay long when he last visited. Not like normally does.”
Ezio glanced at him, surprised.
“He would usually sit by my bed and talk for a while.” Petruccio continued. “Not always about important things. Just stories about what happened on his last trip or work stuff, but the last time was quick. Like his mind was somewhere else.”
Ezio sat on the edge of the bed, leaning forward as he rested his elbows on his knees. “You’ve noticed too.”
“I notice more than people think.” Petruccio smiled faintly. “I may not be out and about like you or Federico, but people talk when they think I’m asleep.”
Ezio scoffed. “So you’re the real spy.”
“Better than you, at least.” His little brother snarked back impishly.
Ezio chuckled, the tension bleeding out from his shoulders.
“You know…” He mused. “For someone who should be resting, you’re quite the menace.”
“I told you, I needed air.” Petruccio mumbled, propping himself up against the pillow. “And you were being suspicious.”
Ezio rolled his eyes, sitting on the edge of the bed. “I was investigating.”
“You were spying.” Petruccio corrected, then grinned. “Badly.”
Ezio mock-scowled. “Watch it. You’re lucky you’re sick.”
“I’m always sick.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Ezio’s smirk faltered. He glanced at his brother—at the flush in his cheeks and the way his chest hitched unevenly now and again.
“What did the dottore say this time?” He asked, voice softer now.
Petruccio’s nose wrinkled as he made a face. “The same thing he always says. ‘Stay in bed, get plenty of rest, drink the tonic, don’t climb out windows.’”
As if summoned by the memory, Petruccio’s breath hitched and he coughed again, muffling it against his elbow. This time, the sound dragged. Longer, rougher—wet at the edges—and Ezio’s hand was on his back before he even thought about it, steadying him and rubbing slow, firm circles between his shoulder blades until it eased.
When it finally passed, Petruccio made an annoyed sound and sagged back against the pillow, breathing shallow and face red.
Ezio’s brows creased, letting his hand fall away. He tried for a smile, but it didn’t quite come together. “So… same as always.”
And that was the part he hated most.
That it was always the same. That this—this weakness, this struggle to breathe, this ache of worry beneath every ordinary moment—had become normal. Routine. Expected.
And he was so tired of expecting it.
The doctor came every week—sometimes more, if their mother grew anxious or Petruccio’s frequent fevers didn’t break by nightfall. He was a quiet man, with clever fingers and a voice that never rose above a murmur. His visits had become routine, familiar in a way Ezio had grown to resent even though the man meant no harm. There was always another tincture, another herbal paste, another set of instructions alongside promises that always sounded just shy of certain.
The worst part was that he always left the same way—composed, polite, and never quite hopeful.
The doctor never acted alarmed. That was part of what made it worse. He would listen, nod, murmur something about the seasons or sensitive lungs, then recommend more rest and a gentler diet. And then he’d leave—quiet and calm—like it was nothing urgent.
But the house always changed after his visits.
His mother would keep closer to Petruccio’s room. Their father—quietly, intentionally—would refuse business that required him to travel out of the city and come home earlier from the bank. Claudia would grow quieter, returning from errands with slim volumes tucked between linens—secondhand, borrowed, or quietly copied from a friend’s library just for Petruccio. Even Federico, who always managed to joke his way through anything, would check in more often, bringing sweets he claimed were for himself but always left behind on their youngest sibling’s desk.
Ezio didn’t know whether to be grateful or furious for the way the doctor always stayed so calm.
Maybe both.
Wait a minute.
Petruccio’s words caught up with him.
“Wait. You—you climbed out a window?!” Ezio exclaimed.
“Only halfway!” Petruccio said quickly, but he sounded more disappointed than chastised. “Because I saw a feather! Right on the windowsill!” His shoulders sagged. “If Mother and the dottore hadn’t come at that moment, I would have gotten it, too!”
Ezio stared at him, torn between laughter and outrage. “You absolute menace—do you want Mother to drop dead from shock?”
Petruccio just grinned, then coughed once more—quick and tight—but his expression didn’t falter. “It was a really nice feather. It’s still there, I think.”
Then, he looked at Ezio—really looked at him—with wide, hopeful eyes that had always been far too effective for his own good.
“You could reach it.” Petruccio said innocently and as if he needed to bait his older brother even more, added, “Probably.”
Ezio sighed, already defeated. “You’re lucky you’re cute, you know that?”
Petruccio beamed.
A few minutes later, Ezio was halfway out the window, muttering to himself about terrible ideas and worse little brothers.
The feather wasn’t hard to spot—not once he knew where to look. It had settled just along the edge of the window sill below Petruccio’s window, caught in the corner like it had been waiting for someone to notice.
And it was a really nice feather—unlike any Ezio had seen before.
Longer than usual. Smoother. The color was strange too—not white, exactly, but a pale, iridescent silver, like moonlight. When Ezio plucked it free, it felt odd between his fingers. Not hot. Not cold. Just… warm. Present.
Alive.
He shook his head at the thought.
‘Too much talk of angels.’ He told himself.
It had probably been sitting there all morning, soaking up heat from the sun.
Still… he stared at it for a moment longer than he meant to.
Then, he slipped it into his belt and climbed back up.
Petruccio lit up the moment Ezio returned, still half-bundled in his blankets.
“You found it!”
Ezio held it out without a word. Petruccio took the feather with both hands, gentle as if it might vanish. He lifted it to the light, turning it slowly. The sheen caught the late afternoon light—strange, pale, opalescent.
“It’s different.” He said softly. “I like it.”
Ezio hummed, but his eyes were on Petruccio, not the feather.
His little brother turned it again, slow between his fingers, watching the colors shift. Then—something changed. A shift—small, almost imperceptible—but enough for Ezio to notice. A slackening of his shoulders. A breath drawn deeper than before. His hands, always restless with anxious energy, steadied.
Like he was lighter now. Like something in him had…eased.
Ezio’s expression softened.
He hated feeling helpless, especially when Petruccio’s health was involved. So he did what he could—small things. He brought feathers whenever he found them—ones caught on roofs, tangled in trees, or drifting like lost thoughts through back alleys.
Sometimes he climbed towers just to check the ledges. Sometimes he followed birds across rooftops like a fool, chasing a flash of white or silver or gold—anything he thought Petruccio might like.
Everyone in the family knew how much Petruccio loved feathers. Federico would occasionally bring one home too—usually something flashy or one he claimed he’d ‘heroically rescued’ from a hawk—but Ezio was the one who always found the quiet ones. The ones that might’ve gone unnoticed.
He never made a big deal of it. He just left them on Petruccio’s desk, or slipped them under his pillow, or wordlessly handed them over during quiet moments like this.
He never explained why.
He didn’t have to.
Petruccio already knew and he smiled just like this when he found them, like Ezio had given him a secret, a treasure, a piece of the sky.
Maybe that was why this one felt different.
“I think this one came from Father’s coat.” Petruccio murmured suddenly.
Ezio blinked. “What?”
“Few days ago.” Petruccio said distractedly. “Father visited for a little bit after he got back from Rome. He was talking about his trip like he always does—something about opening an old account no one checked in a very long time.” He paused, frowning a little. “I think he meant it as a metaphor, but… I don’t know. Said some accounts are dangerous to leave alone too long. Too much interest builds up.”
Ezio raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
“I was going to ask Federico what he meant.” Petruccio added, almost absently.
Ezio scoffed, faux offended. “I work at the bank too, you know.”
(Which was true—on paper.
He had a desk, a ledger, and an uncanny ability to disappear just before things got tedious.
Federico had covered for him more than once, always with a theatrical sigh and a grin that said, ‘this is the last time.’ (It never was.) He’d forge the time log himself, muttering, ‘you have to be more serious about the bank, fratello’ before adding a dramatic signature flourish—usually prettier than Ezio’s real one.
Still, Ezio always showed up with his collar pressed and his hair perfect. That counted for something.)
Petruccio gave him a flat look. “Alright, then. What’s compound interest?”
Ezio opened his mouth. Closed it. Squinted. “It’s… when the money… attracts more money.”
Petruccio tilted his head. “How?”
Ezio narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean, how? It just does. The money multiplies. Like—like rabbits.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.” Petruccio deadpanned, absolutely unconvinced.
Ezio muttered something under his breath about ungrateful siblings and turned away, but the smirk tugging at his mouth betrayed him. Petruccio, of course, caught it—and smothered his own grin behind the feather.
For a moment, the laughter lingered between them—light, familiar.
Then, Petruccio’s earlier words drifted back—old accounts, dangerous when left alone.
Ezio’s smile faded, just slightly.
It was probably nothing.
Still… he filed it away.
Petruccio continued, oblivious. “Anyways, Father opened the window while he was talking, said the room needed fresh air. Then I saw it—the feather—just sort of floated off as he turned away!” He grinned widely. “And I thought… I have to get it.”
Ezio watched him smile, pleased with himself, but felt something nag in his chest.
He didn’t know where the feather had come from. Maybe it really had hitched a ride on their father’s coat. Maybe it was from some rare bird near Rome. Maybe it was nothing.
But something about it felt… deliberate.
Like it hadn’t just floated there by chance.
He pushed the thought aside.
Petruccio was smiling again. That was what mattered.
Ezio watched him a moment longer, then huffed out a breath.
“Well.” He said dryly. “Next time you see a feather, don’t go climbing out the window.”
Petruccio grinned, unrepentant.
Ezio shook his head, chuckling under his breath. “One of these days you’ll scare Mother into an early grave.”
“Not if Father gets there first.”
Ezio winced, the joke landing a little too close to truth, but Petruccio didn’t seem to notice—his eyes were already drifting, scanning the room as a hush settled between them.
Ezio followed his gaze.
The windows were open, but the walls still pressed in—too familiar, too still. This room had always felt safe, but now, with the light slanting just so and the feather still cradled in his brother’s hands, Ezio wondered if Petruccio was starting to feel the edges of it closing in.
Ezio could climb out a window if he wanted. Their father could vanish to Rome and return with secrets in his coat.
But Petruccio stayed. Always here.
“Do you think I’ll ever get better?” Petruccio asked quietly, pressing the edge of the feather to his mouth.
Ezio turned to him fully, all traces of teasing gone. “Hey. Of course you will.”
“You don’t have to—”
“I’m not humoring you, Petruccio.” Ezio reached out, ruffling his brother’s hair again and earning a soft whine of protest. “I mean it. When you’re better—not if, but when—I’m going to take you out. Not just through the streets. We’ll go farther.”
He leaned in, conspiratorial now. “Rome. No—past Rome. Napoli, Sicily... maybe even the coast of Spain.”
“Really?” Petruccio asked, eyes wide.
“Really. We’ll get into trouble Federico can’t even imagine.”
And Ezio meant it.
The promise lodged in his chest like a breath he didn’t know he’d been holding. Petruccio sat beside him, smaller than he should be, clutching that strange feather like it was the only thing tethering him to the world beyond this room.
And in that moment, all the teasing and promises stopped being pretend.
He would take him. To Spain. To the coast. Across the damn ocean, if that’s what it took. Wherever Petruccio wanted to go.
When he got better—and he would get better—Ezio would make sure his little brother saw everything. Sunlight through market tents. Salt spray on the docks. Grand towers and soft streets and open skies so wide they couldn’t be painted.
He’d never let him feel trapped again.
Not unless it was in a warm bed, safe and full and exhausted from living.
Petruccio snorted, but he was smiling—something small and fragile and real, eyes shining like he could already see it. “Federico would follow us just to make sure we didn’t.” He laughed, and with one hand, placed the feather quietly on the table beside him.
The door creaked softly.
Claudia leaned against the frame, arms crossed and one brow arched. “Are you two plotting your grand escape without me?”
Ezio turned, caught—not in guilt, but something gentler. He offered a grin, charming and shameless. “We were just discussing a trip to Spain. Very exclusive.”
Claudia stepped into the room, her gaze flicking between the two of them. “Let me guess. You do the talking, Petruccio gets the sympathy, and I get left behind to come up with the alibi?”
“I was thinking you could handle the dramatic fainting when Mother notices we’re gone.” Ezio said, already shifting to make room.
She sniffed, haughty. “As if I’d faint over you two running off. I’d help pack.”
Petruccio snorted. “Only if you get the nice luggage.”
“I have standards.” Claudia said primly, crossing the room. She pressed a hand to Petruccio’s brow, then narrowed her eyes. “You feel warm. Did you sneak all the way down the hall again?”
“I told Mother I wanted air.” Petruccio mumbled.
“Did you also tell her you were planning an international voyage?”
“Only if we make it as far as Spain.” He whispered conspiratorially.
Claudia sighed. “You’re both hopeless.”
Ezio flopped back onto the bed with great dramatic flair. “Hopeless, but charming.”
“Hopeless, but loud.” Claudia corrected.
Petruccio grinned. “Hopeless, but still her favorites.”
“You wish.” Claudia said, but the smile tugging at her lips said otherwise.
The air quieted into a comfortable hush. For a moment, it felt like the room belonged only to them—cut off from doctors, hushed voices, and all the things left unsaid.
Then Ezio said softly, “When you’re better, Petruccio—not if, but when— we’re going. Anywhere you want.”
Claudia raised a brow. “What, no room for your beautiful, intelligent sister in this grand adventure?”
Ezio smirked. “Of course there’s room. Someone has to handle the packing.”
She threw a pillow at his head.
Petruccio burst out laughing—bright and loud—until the cough caught up to him again, curling tight in his chest. Claudia was already at his side, hand braced gently against his shoulder. The sound passed, but not without leaving quiet in its wake.
Ezio watched them both and felt the weight settle in his chest—familiar and sharp.
Not Federico.
Not their father.
And not their mother, either—not because she didn’t love them, but because she’d already done enough. She held the house together. She stayed.
But this? This was theirs.
‘We’ll go.’ He thought. ‘Just the three of us. That’s the plan.’
He stayed longer than he meant to. The sun had already begun to sink by the time Claudia drifted off to bed and Petruccio’s breathing grew slow and steady, soft and rhythmic beneath the blankets.
Ezio lingered just long enough to tuck the blanket tighter around his brother’s shoulders before slipping quietly into the hall.
Back in his room, he closed the door behind him and leaned against it, exhaling slowly.
Silence settled in around him.
Petruccio’s laughter still echoed faintly in his ears, dulled now by shadow and memory. That feather—strange, pale, lighter than it looked—was still tucked near his bed.
It had clung to their father’s coat. All the way from Rome.
Ezio’s brow furrowed. He rubbed at the bridge of his nose.
Rome.
Paola.
The name echoed again, unwelcome and unexplained.
He hadn’t meant to eavesdrop, but when he’d passed by the study and heard Federico’s voice—followed by their father’s in that rare, secretive tone—it had felt like being tugged by an invisible thread he couldn’t ignore.
Paola sends her regards, Federico had said.
Then something about a house being busy.
A party.
Ezio dragged a hand down his face, fingers curling into his hair.
And before that, Vieri—smug, insufferable Vieri—had practically thrown it in his face. A rumor about Giovanni Auditore frequenting certain establishments in both Rome and Florence. A brothel, Vieri had claimed, all smirk and spite.
Ezio had almost dismissed it outright.
But now?
Paola. A party being hosted at a house. The kind of house that could be rented out, full of courtesans and secrets.
His jaw tightened.
He didn’t want to believe it. His father had always seemed so grounded. Loyal. Honest, in the way all fathers were supposed to be. But Ezio wasn’t a boy anymore, and this wasn’t a childhood illusion.
There were things being kept from him.
And tomorrow night—whatever this party was, wherever it was—it might be his only chance to find out the truth.
He crossed the room and pulled back the curtain, gaze sweeping over the rooftops of Florence, deep in thought.
If he could find this Paola… if she was truly connected to the house Vieri had mocked him over… then maybe he could piece it together himself.
He didn’t have much to go on. Just a name, a suspicion, and a promise of a party in a brothel.
But parties meant crowds. And crowds meant chaos. And chaos?
Chaos meant opportunity.
Ezio’s mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smile.
He didn’t know what his father was hiding.
But tomorrow night, he intended to find out—even if he had to break into a brothel to do it.
Of course, the hard part was narrowing down which brothel to break into.
Florence had plenty. He’d passed by most of them, heard the jokes, caught the perfumes wafting out into the street. Federico, of course, had dragged him to many—always grinning, always talking about experience. Ezio hadn’t complained. The courtesans were beautiful, the wine was cheap, and the rules were few—but those places were loud and crowded, meant for men looking to forget things.
This felt different.
Federico’s voice in the study had been careful and their father—their father— hadn’t scolded him. He’d just… listened. Quietly.
Which was even more damning.
(Giovanni Auditore had never exactly been strict about places like that—but he had standards.
“If you must sneak off to a brothel.” He once said, voice weary as he pinched the bridge of his nose. “Then for the love of God—be subtle.”
Ezio still remembered the time he got caught climbing out a brothel window at fifteen—his boots in one hand, his dignity in the other, his shirt on backward—and a pigeon marking his shoulder mid-leap, as if the universe wanted his shame to be visible for the world.
His father had looked at him like a man reevaluating every life choice.
“You represent this family.” He had sighed, not angry—just tired. “You are not a fool. So please… stop acting like one.”
Ezio had been grounded for two weeks. Federico had laughed himself sick for three.
His mother hadn’t even looked up from her embroidery. She had just said, “Next time, wear the shirt correctly before you run.”)
But last night, in that secretive conversation with his brother, his father had said nothing.
And Vieri’s smug little taunt about ‘a certain house’ in Florence and Rome—it hadn’t just been about sin. It had been about secrets, too.
The kind that twisted behind closed doors. The kind that didn’t just shame, but unraveled.
Ezio needed more.
So, the next morning, he started digging. Slowly. Casually.
A question here, a joke there. He leaned on charm, not coin—lightly flirted with bakers’ daughters, chatted with apprentices, loitered near gossiping vendors while pretending to examine fruit he had no intention of buying. Most people didn’t know anything or acted like they didn’t.
But then—
He nearly missed it—an offhand argument between a courier and a tailor’s assistant, mid-delivery.
“La Rosa Colta took the booking last minute.” The man said, arms full of fabric. “They’ve been scrambling since yesterday.”
Ezio stilled.
La Rosa Colta.
This was it. This was the only brothel hosting a party that fit the timeline Federico had mentioned.
It wasn’t just any brothel, though. That one was different—polished, selective, powerful. He’d never been inside. Few people his age had. It was the kind of place where masks hid more than faces. Where nobles like the Medici went when they wanted pleasure with silence.
And now, apparently, where his father might be keeping secrets.
Ezio stepped into the street, eyes narrowing.
Tonight, then.
It spoke to the importance of Medici connections that the brothel glittered like this.
La Rosa Colta shimmered against the Florence skyline like a jewel dipped in candlelight—its walls humming with music and laughter, the scent of wine and perfume carried on the evening breeze. The masked nobles poured in like honey, thick with arrogance and coin. It wasn’t just a celebration. It was a performance.
Ezio, perched on the rooftop adjacent to the courtesan house, adjusted his own half mask.
He hadn’t exactly planned to steal the mask—but when a noble stumbled out of his carriage to vomit in an alley, leaving behind a feathered monstrosity of green on the seat, Ezio, ever the opportunist, took it as divine providence. Now, dressed in his finer clothes and with the mask hiding half his face, he scaled his way down the building and slipped into La Rosa Colta with all the arrogant ease of a man who had definitely been invited.
He had not been invited.
But that didn’t matter. The doormen let him in without question, his casual swagger and slurred mention of a vaguely Medici-adjacent name enough to pass without suspicion.
Now he was inside.
The air reeked of perfume, wine, and lust. A tray passed by—he took a goblet without thinking, sipped once, then again. It helped his posture loosen, his smile sharpen. It felt like strategy.
Courtesans glided between guests with laughter and painted lips, while masked nobles nursed goblets and whispered promises into velvet-lined ears. Ezio kept his posture relaxed as he walked the perimeter of the courtyard like any well-fed son of Florence’s noble class.
The goal wasn’t to blend in. It was to belong so hard no one dared question him.
He smiled, nodded, flirted lightly when approached, and every so often—very casually—asked a question.
“Who’s in charge of such a fine establishment?” He murmured to a courtesan who was refilling his drink.
She giggled behind her fan. “That would be Madonna Paola. But don’t go getting any ideas, signore. She doesn’t entertain.”
“She’s not just the Madonna of the brothel!” The guest said, swirling his drink like a priest dispensing gossip. “She runs all of it. You don’t breathe in this place unless she lets you.”
Ezio smirked politely, lifting his goblet with the rest, but he tucked that piece of information away.
Paola. So the name hadn’t been a fluke.
Something flickered behind his eyes. His father knew her—visited her, even. But why? If she was the Madonna of La Rosa Colta, what business did Giovanni Auditore have with her?
More information. He needed more.
Ezio drifted like smoke, letting his smile do most of the work. ‘Lorenzo,’ apparently, was a well-liked man. No one questioned him.
He took a slow lap of the courtyard, observing the flow of the house. The courtesans moved like dancers in a tightly rehearsed play. The guests orbited them—drunk, distracted, enchanted.
And yet, something felt... different.
He’d been in brothels before—Florence, Siena, once in Rome. Not alone, of course. That time had been Federico’s idea—a ‘cultural education’ while their father argued contracts two villas over. Ezio hadn’t understood half of what happened that night, but he remembered the perfume. The laughter. The way Federico had tipped the women like a prince and charmed his way past locked doors like a man twice his age.
Those places all had the same rhythm of velvet, perfume, and a kind of dreamy chaos tucked behind painted lips and silk curtains. The courtesans cooed, the guests boasted, and if a wine bottle shattered, no one cared.
But here, at La Rosa Colta, the chaos felt curated.
Not stiff. Not strange. Just... precise.
The courtesans didn’t glide—they maneuvered. Each movement polished, every smile angled. One leaned into a guest’s lap, giggling—but her eyes flicked to the mezzanine stairs. Another twirled out of reach of a drunken noble, and in the same gesture, adjusted a tray on the table behind her before it tipped.
It wasn’t obvious. It wasn’t even strange. But it was consistent.
Ezio frowned faintly, the wine sweet on his tongue. It was too smooth. Too controlled.
Were all high-end brothels like this? Federico had always praised La Rosa Colta, but he’d made it sound like elegance. This was... efficiency. Almost like a game of chess disguised as wine and lace.
It wasn’t suspicion, but it pricked at his instincts all the same.
Just a flicker of something out of place. A sense that this house, for all its revelry, was not just for entertaining nobles.
He drank again, slower this time, but then, something caught his eye.
A staircase curled upward along the far wall, hugging the curve of stone. It led not to a typical second floor—but above the open mezzanine space towards the private rooms cloistered near the top of the house. At its base, a courtesan stood with the poise of a practiced sentry. She swayed with the music, a goblet balances between her fingers, but her eyes weren’t glazed. They were sharp. Planted.
Ezio narrowed his eyes.
Guests drifted across the mezzanine, laughing, lounging—but none touched the stairs. None even tried.
He angled closer, loitering near a column, and caught the tail end of a conversation between a pair of guests.
“Shame the upstairs rooms are locked tonight.” One grumbled. “That’s where the real fun usually happens.”
“Oh?”
“You don’t know?” The first leaned in, lowering his voice. “The masks, the silk ties, the—well.” He waggled his brows, at least as much as he could behind his mask. “That sort of fun. Costs extra, of course. Always does.”
Ezio’s brow twitched. He started to turn away because gossip like this wasn’t new, especially in a place like this, but then—
“Interesting.” The second said. “Because I’ve heard there’s actually a mistress up there.”
Ezio went still, tilting his head slightly to hear better.
“She’s ill.” The man added. “Or scandalous. Depends who you ask.”
The first leaned in. “Scandalous how?”
The second man shrugged. “I heard she’s from Rome. Some noble’s secret, tucked away so she won’t ruin the family name.”
Ezio’s heart thudded in his chest.
Rome?
“She must be something special if Madonna Paola herself posted a guard.” The first guest chuckled, nodding towards the courtesan standing at the base of the stairs. She was smiling sweetly at a guest, body angled just so—drawing eyes to her figure, not the steps behind her.
“I’d sneak a peek if I didn’t like my tongue where it is.”
They both laughed and drifted toward the wine table.
But Ezio didn’t move for a long moment.
A mistress. From Rome. Hidden upstairs in a brothel. Guarded. Spoken about in whispers. Protected by Paola—the same woman Federico had name dropped. The same woman Ezio had overheard sending his father her regards and was trusted for secrets.
This wasn’t a coincidence. This wasn’t a rumor.
This was orchestrated. Deliberate. Hidden.
By Paola. By his father.
And by Federico.
It clicked. The strange hours. Federico’s evasions. His mother’s silence. And his father’s distracted gaze—too weary, too distant, too carefully composed to be innocent.
He felt sick—the weight of father’s infidelity he suspected choking the air out of his throat.
And the wine wasn’t helping.
What had started as a balm now pulsed beneath his skin—warm, heady, relentless. He hadn’t meant to drink so much, hadn’t noticed how often his goblet had been refilled, how often he’d swallowed without thinking while chasing answers behind half-masks and courtesan smiles.
His thoughts blurred at the edges, slick with wine and splintering heat. Every new whisper, every stranger’s glance, every half-truth made his skin feel too tight. He’d needed to take the edge off—he just hadn’t realized how deep the edge went.
Now everything felt louder. Brighter. Meaner.
The alcohol didn’t numb him. It sharpened things—the light, the noise, the ache behind his eyes.
And worst of all, it sharpened the one thought he couldn’t let go—that somewhere above him, behind locked doors, was someone his father was protecting more than his family.
His mother deserved better.
They all did.
His father—Giovanni Auditore—had always spoken of honor. Of loyalty. Of love.
And now he was working with the owner of a brothel to hide a mistress from Rome?
Ezio dragged a hand through his hair, trying to calm the pounding in his chest. He wanted to believe there was another explanation. That it was something innocent. Something harmless.
But what else could it be?
She probably wasn’t even sick. She was a noble’s secret. Hidden upstairs, spoken of in whispers, protected by courtesans and silence.
Hidden from them.
From his mother.
His jaw tightened. His fists curled.
A servant passed with a tray of fruit.
Ezio reached out without thinking—just needing something to stop the shaking in his hands.
His fingers closed around a fig.
It was warm—split at the seam, soft and overripe. Like it had been waiting too long.
He bit into it.
Sweet.
Too sweet for the night around him—for the lies and noise and the tight ache in his chest.
Maybe it was the wine, maybe it was the heat, but for a moment, it felt like the fig was daring him.
Go on, then. It seemed to whisper. Go upstairs. See for yourself.
He exhaled sharply, set the fig on a nearby tray, and straightened.
No more waiting.
No more half truths.
No more cryptic smiles from Federico.
No more locked doors, whispered names, and veiled glances.
Ezio was done being in the dark.
If his father was hiding a mistress—if Federico was helping cover it up—if Paola, the matron of a brothel, was shielding her beneath Florence’s glittering distractions—
Then he would get to the bottom of it himself.
He didn’t care how many nobles clogged the halls. He didn’t care how risky it was to sneak past the wrong courtesan. He was going to find out who the hell this woman was, what hold she had over his father, and what made her so special that his father would throw away everything for her.
But the moment he made up his mind to do just that, a voice pierced the air behind him.
“Lorenzo Baldovinetti!” The name bellowed through the mezzanine like a strike of thunder.
Ezio turned just in time to see a red faced noble, arms wide and wobbling. He blinked as the noble charged forward, trying to focus on which of the three swaying faces was shouting at him.
“There you are, you bastard! How dare you show your face after what you said about my sister!”
Ezio frowned, unsteady. “…Mi scusi?”
“Don’t you ‘mi scusi’ me! You called my sister a goat in a gown!” The man wailed, slapping a hand to his chest like he’d just been fatally wronged.
“I—I absolutely did not!” Ezio yelped but the other man wasn’t listening.
“You even drew it! Signed it! My mother saw it, Lorenzo!”
There was a gasp. Somewhere, glass shattered.
“You are my cousin, aren’t you?” The man demanded, jabbing a finger toward Ezio’s chest. “Hiding behind that ridiculous mask like I wouldn’t recognize your ratty posture and stupid stance!”
“He told me everything!” Another noble shouted from somewhere to the other wide-eyed guests. “He said she had hooves!”
“Defend your honor, Lorenzo!” The man declared, staggering closer. “Or do you admit to being a coward and a goat-mocking son of a—”
“Va bene!” Ezio barked, too loud, too sudden, throwing his arms wide. “Enough! If you want Lorenzo—then here he is!”
He was flushed, eyes glassy, breath slightly off from too many drinks and too much emotion. He dipped into a dramatic bow—nearly fell over—then straightened with a crooked grin.
“I will not—” Ezio declared grandly, swaying slightly. “—allow the beautiful people of Firenze to believe I fear a man wearing a vest of second-rate guildless tailoring that’s two sizes too small!”
Someone gasped. “You dare insult Signore Antonio d’Agnolo’s tailoring?”
The noble reeled. “Vaffanculo, cousin!”
The goblet of wine hit Ezio square in the chest. Rich red liquid soaked through his shirt, seeping into the fine stitching like blood.
For a moment, the music still played, the laughter still rang, but Ezio went very, very still.
He stared down at the stain. Then, slowly, he looked up—eyes flinty, jaw tight.
“Oh.” He said, voice low and dangerous. “You should not have done that.”
The drunken noble—Ezio’s stolen persona’s insulted cousin, apparently—blustered. “Wha—what are you going to do? Draw another goat?”
“No.” Ezio hissed, flinging his wine-streaked cloak to the floor like a gauntlet. “I’m going to show you what happens when someone ruins an Audit—” He caught himself. “—an outfit.”
And then he lunged.
He didn’t throw a punch—not at first.
Ezio ducked beneath the noble’s clumsy swing, momentum nearly carrying him into a nearby chair. He caught himself with a theatrical flourish, grabbed the man’s vest instead—and yanked. Buttons flew. Silk tore.
“You ruined my shirt!” Ezio snarled. “That was silk, you porco bastardo!”
The noble shrieked. One of his companions lunged at Ezio, but he spun around to meet him, and grabbing the nearest object—a decorative pillow from a lounge chair—smacked him squarely in the face. The man staggered backwards with a yelp and crashed into a table stacked with wine bottles.
Glass clattered. One bottle toppled dramatically and burst against the floor. Red wine cascaded like a funeral offering across the floor.
A third party—probably trying to intervene, possibly just drunk—charged toward Ezio and caught him around the middle. Ezio shoved back, hard. The two of them stumbled sideways and slammed straight into a dinner table.
Goblets and cutlery went flying. A vase that had been teetering on the edge, went launching into the nearby wall, where it shattered on impact.
Someone screamed. Someone else cheered. Someone—a courtesan, maybe—shouted, “Hit him again, Lorenzo!”
A tray came flying from somewhere. Ezio ducked it just in time, caught it on the rebound, and flung it back.
It clanged off a pillar, struck a nobleman who lost his grip on his goblet. It arced through the air and struck a different noble in the back of the head.
The noble spun around. “Who dares?”
And the party exploded.
Chairs overturned. A curtain was torn from the rafters and wielded like a flag. A man used a wine bottle as a sword. Another threw a vase.
Music screeched to a halt.
Someone kicked a chair.
Someone else kicked a person.
A silver tray was tossed like a discus. It hit a waiter.
The waiter retaliated with a loaf of bread. The bread struck a courtesan, and she shrieked, knocking into a stunned partygoer and sending them both into a pile of limbs on the floor.
A drunken noble tried to help and slipped on a puddle of wine, crashing sideways into a stack of cushions and dragging another guest down with him.
“That’s my signet ring!” Someone shouted.
“It fell off when you slapped me, imbecille!”
Ezio, breathless and flushed with adrenaline, caught a glint of movement and ducked just in time to dodge a flying wine bottle. It shattered behind him, but he didn’t stop.
With a theatrical spin, he ripped his ‘cousin’s’ embroidered sash clean from his waist and held it aloft like a stolen banner. He whipped it once overhead, then tossed it into the air—a swirling flourish of silk and insult.
Laughter surged.
A courtesan cackled. “Lorenzo fights prettier than half of Firenze!”
“He’s mad!” Someone shouted.
“He’s magnificent!” Another roared.
And in the madness, Ezio—breathless, wild-eyed, shirt stained, and hair stuck to his face with wine and sweat—clambered onto a low table, arms spread like a drunken prince.
“To Lorenzo!” He bellowed.
“To Lorenzo!” Someone echoed.
Another voice joined in. Then a third. Then a dozen more.
“To Lorenzo!”
“To Lorenzo!”
“Lorenzo!”
A round of cheers went up.
Then the table collapsed under Ezio’s weight.
Upstairs, Paola froze mid-step as a second crash reverberated through the floorboards.
A vase shattered near the kitchen entrance. Shouting escalated into screaming as two guests collided with a side table, sending cutlery and food platters skidding across the floor. A curtain caught fire from a toppled candelabra before a servant frantically stomped it out.
The crowd surged as arguments flared. Someone screamed about stolen jewelry. Someone shouted about a stolen ring. Another screamed about betrayal. A tray went flying and struck the wall with a metallic clang.
“That’s it.” Paola hissed.
“Anastasia, Bartholomea, Catalina.” She snapped, voice cutting like a blade. “With me. Now.”
They moved as one—heels clicking, skirts swishing—vanishing into the chaos below.
The broken table groaned beneath Ezio’s weight as he stirred, blinking hard through a haze of smoke, perfume, and crushed grapes. His shoulder ached, wine dripped from his hair, and someone had tied a curtain around his leg like a war trophy. He wasn’t entirely sure how or when that had happened.
He pushed up slowly—just in time to see them.
The stairs.
Clear. Empty. The courtesan who had lingered there earlier was gone, probably swept up in the chaos. The two guests who’d been gossiping had vanished, likely thrown into the mess of pillows and pride. For one brief, shining moment, the staircase stood exposed—no sentries, no courtesans.
Ezio’s eyes widened.
This was his chance.
He scrambled off the wooden remains of the table with all the grace of a startled cat and wove beneath the outstretched arm of a wildly gesturing nobleman. He was halfway to the base of the stairs when the air shifted.
A presence entered the room like a blade sheathed in silk.
Madonna Paola had arrived.
She descended the staircase with lethal poise, three courtesans flanking her like dagger-bearing sirens. Their gowns barely rustled. Their faces were unreadable. It was like watching a queen enter her court mid-rebellion.
The crowd noticed—but hadn’t yet stopped. Fighting slowed. Voices faltered. Movement staggered as her gaze swept across the mezzanine.
Behind a toppled wine rack, Ezio held still, peering through the slats of splintered wood.
She scanned the room—and for one breathless moment, her eyes landed on him.
Ezio’s breath caught.
She didn’t recognize him—not truly. Not through the haze of perfume, broken glass, and half a mask.
But she knew.
She knew he was the one who’d started it.
Her gaze didn’t linger, didn’t narrow in anger or alarm. It calculated. Assessed.
And Ezio immediately ducked.
He rolled behind a column, using a burst of laughter and shouting from the far end of the courtyard as cover. The crowd hadn’t stilled completely, not with wine and chaos still lingering like smoke, and Ezio used that to his advantage. He slipped between bodies, weaving like a thief through cloth and shadow. His wine-stained shirt and tousled hair made him look like just another ruined noble fleeing a bad flirtation.
And then, from the top of the stairs—Paola’s voice rang out.
Calm. Cold. Razor-sharp.
“Enough.”
The room froze.
Music stopped mid-note, chairs halted mid-fall, and even the drunkest nobles shut their mouths.
But Ezio was already gone.
That same evening, while Florence drank and bled perfume in the streets, Giovanni walked the hallways of his home in silence.
Petruccio had been coughing again. Not badly, not dangerously, but enough to make his wife pause by his door more often. Enough that the doctor was scheduled to return in the morning.
Giovanni had noticed. Of course he had.
He’d visited Petruccio—but not the night he came home. Not like he usually did.
That night, he’d returned late. Tired and frayed in more ways than one. His thoughts had been too tangled, too dark to bring into his son’s room. The image of wings and blood crusted hands still clung to him, and he hadn’t wanted that weight anywhere near Petruccio’s bedside.
So he waited until morning.
A brief visit. A passing glance. A comment about the stale air. He’d opened a window, mumbled something forgettable about misplaced accounts and long roads—and left before Petruccio could ask him to stay.
It wasn’t a real visit. Not the way it usually was. Not the way he always promised he would.
He told himself it was just the stress—Rome, the relic, the impossible question of what came next. He told himself that once things settled, once he had a plan, once he’d figured out what to do with the angel hidden in the brothel, he’d make time. He’d be present again. He’d return to them as a father and husband, not as the weary ghost he’d become, too full of secrets and silent dread.
But time had a way of narrowing.
And so, long after the house had gone quiet, Giovanni turned toward the room he hadn’t truly entered in days.
His steps slowed as he neared his youngest’s door and pushed the door open gently.
Warm candlelight flickered along the walls. The air was faintly sweet—herbs, ink, old paper. Petruccio was propped up in bed, book balanced across his knees, cheeks flushed with a light fever but eyes bright.
When he saw his father, he lit up instantly. “You came!”
“I said I would.” Giovanni said, crossing the room with a smile that came easier than he expected.
He sat on the edge of the bed and pressed the back of his hand to his son’s forehead. Warm, but not dangerous.
“You’re flushed.” He murmured.
“I’m fine.” Petruccio replied, waving a hand before giving a small cough into the crook of his arm. “I’ve been reading.”
Giovanni glanced at the book, already smiling. “More birds?” He asked, even though he already knew the answer.
“Always birds.” Petruccio grinned and without needing to be asked, scooted to one side of the bed, shifting his blanket to make space. The book was angled between them so they could both see.
“Claudia brought another one yesterday.” He added proudly. “She said I needed something a little less…dramatic.”
“She’s not wrong.” Giovanni said, because the last book had been about vultures and predatory avians (courtesy of his eldest), including a lovingly detailed etching of carrion rot. Petruccio, bright eyed and utterly unfazed, had brought it to dinner when he’d been well enough to attend—and described the feeding habits of corpse feeders with such cheerful enthusiasm that Ezio had nearly lost his appetite. Federico had hid a smirk. Maria had said nothing, but Claudia had set down her spoon, raised a brow, and muttered something along the lines of decay not belonging at the table.
A week later, new books had appeared—cleanly bound volumes with brighter ink. Their pages were filled with elegant illustrations and quiet, thoughtful notations about birds in motion and stillness.
Claudia had always known when her little brother needed something steadier. While other girls her age bought ribbons or perfume, she had spent half a morning at the bookseller near San Lorenzo, debating tone and paper weight until she found one that felt just right. It hadn’t been cheap—not for a private commission—but she paid for it without hesitation. She had her own stipend now, modest but growing.
Giovanni had seen the binding when she brought it home, wrapped in linen, her eyes bright with that particular sharpness that reminded him more of his wife with every passing year.
The next day, Claudia’s stipend increased slightly. She never mentioned it. Neither did he.
“Anything new in this one?” Giovanni asked, tilting his head to glance at the illustrations.
“So many things!” Petruccio turned the page with quiet excitement—then paused, coughing lightly into his elbow. His small shoulders tensed with the effort.
Giovanni’s hand came up instinctively, resting between his son’s shoulder blades, steady and warm. He waited, thumb moving in slow circles until the cough eased.
“Alright?” He asked, voice gentle.
Petruccio nodded, breath shallow for a moment. “I’m fine. Just dry.”
Giovanni reached for the cup by the bedside and offered it. “Sip, then tell me.”
Petruccio obeyed with the practiced rhythm of someone used to such exchanges, then continued, voice still eager but softer now. “Look at this one—I’ve never seen a bird like it before! It looks like a statue, right? The book says it barely moves. Just stares and waits.”
Giovanni leaned over. “A shoebill stork.” He read aloud and his eyes crinkled with a flicker of recognition at its unique features. “I’ve seen one before—in Damascus, years ago.”
“They live in Damascus?” Petruccio blinked.
“Not usually.” Giovanni said, thoughtful, recalling what a local had told him long ago when the bird’s unnerving gaze had caught his eyes one too many times. “The one I encountered loitered near the ports. It watched everyone who passed. Didn’t blink.”
Petruccio squinted at the page, then let out a snort. “It looks like it wants to kill someone.”
Giovanni huffed a laugh as his son pointed at the bird’s eyes—piercing, even through ink. “Yes. It does give that impression.”
“It’s crouching like it’s going to lunge.” Petruccio observed. “But look—” He tapped the illustration. “It’s not alone. That’s its mate, right?”
Giovanni followed his gesture, eyes settling on the second bird—tucked low in its nest, sleeping, while its partner stood watch like a sentinel carved in stone.
“Most likely.” He nodded.
“So it’s just being scary because it’s protecting someone.” Petruccio reasoned. “Not mean. Just… sharp. Like a big guard dog, but for birds.” He tilted his head and grinned. “I want one.”
Giovanni sighed. “Your mother would throw it off the roof.”
Petruccio laughed, not even pretending to disagree. He nudged the book closer. “This one’s quiet. Look—its feathers look plain at first, but they shimmer when the light hits them right. The book says it’s hard to track because it doesn’t like being seen.”
Giovanni leaned closer. “A nightjar?”
“Yes.” Petruccio nodded. “They hide during the day. You never see it, but it’s there. The book says they only sing when the world is quiet.” He traced the faint shimmer of the bird’s wing on the page. “I’m not surprised though.”
Giovanni raised an eyebrow. “Why’s that?”
Petruccio pointed at a passage. “The book says some people think they’re unlucky. Maybe that’s why they don’t want to be seen. They hide because they’re scared someone might chase them or—or catch them. So they sleep until it’s quiet.”
His son frowned slightly. “But I don’t think they’re unlucky. I think they’re just being careful. They still sing, but only when it’s safe—when no one’s looking.”
Giovanni hummed noncommittally, eyes lingering on the illustration.
The bird laid flat against the dirt, barely distinguishable from the terrain. Its body was small, wings drawn close, as if trying to vanish. Not from fear, exactly. More like caution. Like something that had learned, over time, that being seen too clearly came with cost.
Its eyes held no panic, just a quiet kind of watchfulness.
‘Lonely.’ He thought, before he could stop himself.
A creature built for stillness. Not weak—just waiting for the world to be kind enough to sing in.
Giovanni blinked, clearing the thought when Petruccio turned the page and his voice lifted again with fresh excitement.
“Oh! This one—this one’s my favorite so far.” He tilted the book. “They don’t live here, but they’re the most dazzling and brightest things in the forest! And they’re very territorial. They’ll fight anything that gets near their nests.”
Giovanni leaned closer—and stopped.
It was like someone had poured a rainbow into the shape of birds on the page. Each bird was adorned in a tapestry of hues—crimson and sapphire, gold and emerald, plum and sunset. The ink had clearly been painted by an experienced hand, each feather painted with confident, fluid strokes. Their plumes curled and fanned in display, captured in motion, like silks caught mid-dance.
“Birds of paradise.” Petruccio read aloud, reverently. “That’s what the book calls them.”
Giovanni murmured the words back, thoughtfully. “Birds of paradise.”
Petruccio smiled, then coughed—just once, but it was harsher, drawn from somewhere deeper and enough to send a flicker of worry back into Giovanni’s chest. He pressed the back of his hand to his son’s forehead again, a subtle gesture cloaked in habit.
Still warm. Still flushed.
But Petruccio was smiling, so Giovanni let it be.
“I like that.” His son continued, clearing his throat. “You know—the book said that nightjars don’t build nests.” He flipped back to the earlier page. “They just sort of... sleep on the ground. All alone.”
His finger brushed the bird’s painted wing, voice dreaming. “But I was thinking—what if they found each other? The nightjar and the birds of paradise, I mean. What if the paradise birds let it stay near their nests? They could protect it. Not with claws or beaks, but with color. With noise. With the kind of presence that makes people look at them instead of the nightjar—and stay back.”
Petruccio hummed to himself, like he was building the story as he spoke. “That would be poetic, right? A bird with no nest, no home... finding one in a paradise.”
Giovanni was quiet for a moment, watching the way his son traced the image like it belonged to him—like the story was already half written in his hands. They trembled slightly—barely, but enough to notice. His breath hitched every few sentences, catching against the weight in his chest, but Petruccio didn’t stop.
He held the book like a promise, voice steadying with sheer will—like the stories in him burned too bright to be dimmed by fever.
His cheeks were flushed, but not with shame. His eyes gleamed—not with tears, but with something fiercer. Stubbornness. Delight.
Passion.
He coughed once—sharp and sudden—but waved off Giovanni’s instinctive hand before it could land on his shoulder.
“I’m fine.” He rasped, thumbing the next page. “I want to show you this next one.”
Giovanni let his hand fall, not because he believed him, but because he recognized the fire in his son’s eyes. It was the same flame that had lit so many Auditore arguments. The same steel that turned quiet boys into men with convictions.
“You know…” He offered, voice warm with quiet pride. “...if you ever tire of reading about birds... you might consider writing about them instead.”
Petruccio blinked, surprised. “Me?”
Giovanni smiled. “You tell their stories better than half the poets in Florence.”
Petruccio flushed, visibly delighted, and ducked his head with a grin.
“You’ve got an eye for things most people miss.” Giovanni continued, his voice fond. “The best stories come from that. And if you ever do write them down—I may know a man or two who’d want to read it.”
And for a moment, Giovanni could see it.
A thick volume with Petruccio’s name pressed in gold. Pages filled with birds and fables, wonder and observation—things only he could see. A future not shaped by illness or quiet rooms, but by ink and imagination.
Giovanni knew people—scribes, scholars, Medici-adjacent patrons—gentle souls with soft spots for poets and naturalists. It would take time, but time, when shared, could be kind.
And if Petruccio ever finished that little book of his?
Giovanni would see it printed and bound. It would be given a place on a shelf where it could be found.
He stayed there a while, listening as Petruccio read aloud—pausing every so often to share strange facts and bird trivia with delighted urgency. It wasn’t often Giovanni let himself sit still, but tonight, the weight on his chest eased.
Until something caught his eye.
A glint, soft and subtle, just beside the lamp.
He turned—and stilled.
A feather.
It rested on the nightstand, pale and weightless—impossibly smooth. Not white, not gray, but something in between. Its edges caught the lamplight like oil on water—iridescent, soft with the sheen of ash and moonlight.
Not a bird’s.
Not natural.
The angel’s.
Giovanni’s blood ran cold.
He tried to keep his voice even. “Petruccio…”
“Mm?” The boy murmured, already turning a page.
“Where did you get that feather?”
Petruccio looked up, blinking. “Oh. That?”
Giovanni nodded, careful to keep his tone neutral.
“It floated off your coat!” Petruccio said cheerfully. “The day after you came back from Rome.”
Giovanni’s heart thudded once, hard.
“It was stuck on me?” He asked slowly.
“On the back of your coat, I think. It caught on the wind when you opened the window. I saw it land below my window and Ezio got it for me.
Of course. The angel’s feathers clung—light, silken, reverent as breath. One must have tangled in his coat. Had he taken it into the house? Into Petruccio’s room?
His heart skipped a beat. Were there others?
His gaze slid to the window, then back the feather. Still, patient, like a secret that had chosen to stay.
Petruccio’s hand drifted toward it—not to take, just to keep it near. His fingers hovered, then lightly brushed along the spine of the feather in a single, gentle stroke.
He exhaled, deeper than before.
Then, as if sensing that was enough, he pulled his hand back and let it rest nearby—close, but not touching. His eyes, still drowsy with fever, were steady.
“It’s nice.” Petruccio hummed. “Soft. I like it.” He blinked, looking up at his father. “Did you see what kind of bird it came from?”
Giovanni stiffened. “Bird?”
He managed to keep his tone mild, but his mind lurched.
The truth hovered like smoke—not a bird. Not quite.
But Petruccio just looked at him, expectant.
Giovanni cleared his throat. “I’m not sure.” He said slowly. “It… might’ve come from one of those white doves near the Pantheon. You remember those, don’t you?”
Petruccio’s face lit faintly. “The fat ones that waddle?” He smiled. “I like those.”
Giovanni exhaled. “Yes. Maybe one of those.”
‘A dove.’ He thought again. All pale feathers and docile wings.
Meant to carry messages. Meant to be kept safe.
Some birds didn’t survive on their own. Some were better behind walls, protected from the world—and from themselves.
(But he remembered the way the angel had looked—bound, half-conscious, breathing in the dark. Not wild. Not free.
Just a boy on a bed of stone.)
He didn’t dare say more. Instead, he watched the way the feather shimmered in the lamplight like something not meant for this world, nestled beside a cup of tea and half-read pages.
Every instinct in him screamed to remove it. To take it, crush it, burn it. What if someone saw? What if someone recognized it for what it was?
But Petruccio’s fingers had curled slightly toward it—possessive, in that gentle way children saved for treasures.
Giovanni’s hand hovered… then pulled back.
There was no danger in one feather.
“…Then it’s yours.” He said quietly.
Petruccio grinned, eyes heavy with sleep. He set the book aside, nestling deeper under the blankets with a soft yawn. “Thanks, Father.”
Giovanni kissed his forehead, smoothing his hair back. “Sleep well, little sparrow.”
As he stood to leave, his eyes caught the feather one last time.
Still. Untouched. Innocent.
Giovanni closed the door behind him with deliberate care.
The hall was dark and hushed, lit only by the faint flicker of torchlight, but in his mind, it was still bright—feather bright, moonlight brushed over ash. The image of it nestled on Petruccio’s nightstand refused to fade.
He hadn’t touched it.
He’d wanted to, but his son had smiled, looked at it with such quiet fondness, that Giovanni—despite everything he knew—had let it stay.
‘One feather isn’t dangerous.’ He told himself again. ‘Not if it’s just one.’
But he no longer trusted the math behind his reassurances.
He didn’t return to his study. He didn’t pour wine. He didn’t sit.
Instead, he climbed the narrow set of stairs that led to the attic storeroom—one of the few places in the palazzo where the air still smelled of cedar and dust. Here, where the house was quietest, he could think.
He lit the lantern with slow, practiced motions, then pulled a thick leather ledger from the shelf. Not a banking book. Not family records.
A map.
Old. Frayed. Heavy with dust and locked years.
Monteriggioni.
The crypt beneath the town was marked faintly in ink—one of his own notations, made almost what felt like a lifetime ago when he still believed the Sanctuary was the only thing worth protecting. The old stone crypts below hadn’t been opened in decades. Not even Federico had been told of them.
But Giovanni remembered.
He remembered how cold the stone had felt, even in the height of summer.
Sealed. Unused. Forgotten.
And now—perhaps—needed again.
The brothel was temporary. He knew that. That arrangement had been stitched together in panic, bought with favors and secrets, and balanced on the thin edge of illusion.
The walls were too thin. The courtesans, too curious. The clients, too powerful. Paola could only shield so much, for so long.
The crypt was quiet. Secure. Out of sight. Out of reach.
Out of memory.
‘You are not cruel.’ The voice said again—his voice, or something buried just beneath it. ‘ You are responsible. You are cautious. A father must be cautious.’
When the winged man awoke—because Giovanni knew, feared, that he would—it would not be quiet. Not controlled. Not simple.
Which left only one option.
The crypt.
He hated the thought of it. Hated the image of binding a man and burying him underground like a secret that couldn’t be confessed.
But the feather… The feather had made its way into his home.
Onto his coat. Into his child’s room.
And Petruccio, bless him, had smiled.
He didn’t know what he’d touched or what might still cling to it.
And if something that sacred, that strange, could hitch a ride into his child’s bedroom—what else could follow?
Giovanni clenched his jaw.
The crypt was not a punishment.
It was a shield.
It was quiet. Protected. Far from Rome, from Florence, from eyes that might recognize too much. From the Church. From the Templars. From his own children.
From the angel himself.
If the angel never woke, the crypt would be peace.
But if he did wake up—
Giovanni didn’t know what would come of that.
But he couldn’t risk finding out in the open.
‘Monteriggioni.’ He thought.
The villa in Monteriggioni needed repairs. The roofline sagged in one corner. The gardens had long since overgrown the path. It had been years since they last stayed there for more than a few days.
But that was what made it perfect.
He would have trusted men brought in. Known builders. Discreet ones. Some to fix the guest rooms. A few to make the old estate look inviting again—like a place a family might retreat to in peace.
And others—only the most trusted—to descend beneath stone. To clean the crypt. Reinforce the old vault doors. Add light. Insulate the worst of the damp.
‘Make it livable.’ He thought, staring at the faint red mark that noted the entrance to the crypt. ‘Comfortable. Warm.’
That was what it would be.
A hiding place.
A silence.
A mercy.
‘Stillness is not suffering.’ The thought murmured again—soft, sure, familiar, like something he’d reasoned out himself, once.
But Giovanni…Giovanni hesitated. Frowned.
There was something about it that felt too easy. Too practiced. Too… convenient.
Not a choice—just a current he was already in.
He wasn’t a stranger to hard decisions—but this wasn’t strategy. It felt like surrender. Like locking him away not because he was dangerous, but because it was simpler than understanding him.
‘You are cautious.’ The thought whispered.
But it no longer sounded like comfort.
It sounded like an excuse.
And beneath that, quietly, unbearably—a memory stirred of the slow, rasping breath of someone barely awake. The rise and fall of something alive, held down by silence, not force.
Held still, because that was all the world allowed.
Not a beast. Not a threat.
“Then it is not a thing, is it?” The words came unbidden, sharp in his mind.
His wife’s voice.
That night, finally home. Her hand over his. The calm in her tone. As if she had known because she always knew.
Not a thing.
Someone.
(Someone’s so—)
The thought barely formed before the pain struck.
A breath caught sharp in his throat. The world tilted—subtle, then sudden. His vision blurred. It was like something inside him had fractured—like a wire pulled too tight had finally snapped.
His knees nearly gave out. He caught himself on the edge of the table, fingers whitening with strain.
Pressure built behind his eyes—hot, blinding—and a headache bloomed too fast to be natural. His skull felt pried open, thoughts splintering like glass.
His wife’s voice was smothered—gently, thoroughly—until only silence remained.
Then—
‘It’s safer.’ The thought returned, louder now but softer in tone. Like a balm laid over burning skin.
Tender. Coaxing.
Corrective.
(Firm. Icy.
Irritated.)
‘It will be clean. Quiet. He will not be harmed.’
Giovanni swayed, breath shallow. His pulse slowed. His muscles stopped resisting.
And the pain—
Gone.
Not faded. Not dulled. Just… absent.
He couldn’t remember it clearly anymore. Couldn’t trace where it began or how long it lasted. Only the absence remained, and something colder sliding behind it.
He felt… stilled. Not soothed. Like a room where the curtains had been drawn, the window locked without sound.
He blinked hard. Once. Twice.
His grip on the table eased, though he didn’t remember relaxing.
“He would not harm.” Giovanni whispered, the words dry in his mouth. He clung to that. Repeated it. Let it settle like it had always belonged to him because that...that was true, right?
It was better this way. Safer. A brothel was too exposed. Too many eyes. Too many questions. Paola’s house was clever, but not secure. Not anymore.
‘This is what a good father does.’
Giovanni stared at the map. He had already sent the letter to Paola—a warning, a promise, a final call. A more suitable location is being prepared. Once everything is ready, he would come for the relic himself.
He had also written to Mario, cautious in phrasing, asking for his opinion on the structural integrity of the crypts. Not a full reveal. Just enough to see if his brother balked.
He hadn’t.
Mario never flinched at stone and shadows. He knew the value of secrecy.
Giovanni closed his eyes.
He could picture it now. The walls reinforced. The air fresh. A cot laid out. Clean linens. A book left on a stone table, even if the angel wasn’t awake to read it. Not a prison, but a sanctuary. The only one he could offer.
He would not abandon the winged man. He would not let him be found. He would not let the Church or the Templars or even his own son— especially Ezio—become entangled in whatever fate circled that creature’s wings.
‘Better a locked door than a funeral.’ The thought pulsed cleanly through him.
He did not question it.
‘Monteriggioni.’ Giovanni thought.
The word sat in his chest like stone.
Soon.
And in the hush that followed, something brushed the edges of his thoughts. Not words. Not sound.
Just presence.
And then, so gently he almost mistook it for his own reasoning—
‘Good fathers make hard choices…’
Giovanni exhaled through his nose, sharp and tight.
He folded the map with careful precision and set it back in its case.
‘…And you are a good father.’
Ezio winced as he peeled off his wine-stained doublet. He stood half-dressed in his bedroom, the moonlight from the open window pooling across the floor like judgment. His knuckles were scraped, his chest stained with Merlot and sweat, but his pride was bruised deeper than anything else.
He’d barely managed to escape La Rosa Colta in one piece. The whole night seemed to blur together—wine, noise, too many limbs, too many eyes. A party unraveling by the second.
And then, in the middle of it all, Paola had appeared at the top of the stairs—regal and deadly, cutting through the crowd with nothing but presence.
After that moment of eye contact, Ezio hadn’t stayed to see what happened next. Her voice had just started to rise—cold, commanding—but he was already slipping between bodies, darting toward the exit like a thief fleeing a noble’s vault.
He’d made it out with nothing more than a handful of cuts and bruises, a throbbing headache, and—for reasons that escaped him entirely—a stolen grape in his pocket.
He was sore. Tired. Drunk.
And angry.
He dabbed at the cut above his eye with a damp cloth, then reached for a clean nightshirt draped over the bedpost. He was just fastening the last button when a faint creak echoed down the hallway—the telltale groan of his father’s personal study door opening.
Ezio stilled. Then, quietly, he crossed the room and slipped into the corridor.
The door to the study was already ajar, cracked just enough to cast a thin sliver of light into the darkened corridor. He moved towards it without a sound, pressing his back to the wall beside the frame, head tilted just enough to listen.
One voice was unmistakably his father’s—calm, composed, too even for the hour. The other was his mother’s.
“…just for a few days.” Giovanni was saying, his voice calm, even—carefully unremarkable. “I’ll take Federico with me to Monteriggioni. It’s time I helped Mario with preparations.”
Maria sounded amused, if a bit skeptical. “Preparations? For what? He rarely writes, unless someone’s died.”
Giovanni chuckled softly. “He wants to renovate one of the side villas. I told him we might visit this summer, take a short holiday. I thought it might be good for everyone.”
Ezio’s breath caught.
Holiday?
Renovations?
Maria hummed thoughtfully. “That does sound nice, but why so sudden?”
A pause.
“He asked for help.” His father said finally. “And… I thought it might be good to have a place ready. Something comfortable—in case things change quickly.”
Something in his tone twisted the knife deeper.
Comfortable. Quick changes. A separate villa.
‘He’s moving her there.’ Ezio thought bitterly, fists clenching at his sides. Setting up the mistress. Keeping her somewhere safe. Outside the city. Out of sight.
Out of all their sights.
Ezio stepped back from the door like it had burned him. He heard his mother’s voice murmur something too low for him to make out—then the quiet shuffle of retreating footsteps. Ezio jerked back and darted around the corner into the shadows, breath held until she passed.
She didn’t see him. Her expression was calm. Content.
She had no idea.
Ezio remained in the shadows, heart pounding behind his ribs like a war drum. He listened as her steps faded down the corridor, watched her disappear around the corner with that same serene grace she always carried.
As if nothing were wrong.
As if her husband hadn’t just whispered about escape.
About hiding and setting something aside in a villa far from here.
Ezio’s throat burned.
He glanced back towards the study door, eyes flinty.
He could go in now.
Demand answers.
He could throw every rumor, every locked door, every guarded stair, every whispered name in his father’s face and make him tell the truth.
But he didn’t.
Because even now—especially now—he wasn’t sure what truth he wanted.
He didn’t know what he would do if his father looked him in the eye and lied.
And worse… he didn’t know what he would do if his father didn’t lie.
Ezio stepped away from the door.
No, this was a different kind of fight.
And he was going to win it.
Not with shouting.
But with proof.
Claudia had known her brother was obsessed long before he realized it himself.
Not that it was obvious—not to most. Ezio still spoke when spoken to, offered the right smiles, held himself like someone with nothing to hide. But there were cracks, if you knew where to look. The way his fingers twitched whenever their father entered the room. The slight tension in his jaw, like he was bracing for a fight no one else had been invited to.
Their mother noticed it too—Claudia could tell by the glance she cast over her teacup, quiet and deliberate, the way only a mother could look at her son and still see the boy beneath the mask.
Petruccio might’ve noticed as well. He had the time, after all. So much of it spent watching from bed, eyes always open, always observing. It had become his quiet talent.
Federico… if he saw it, he said nothing. Either he was ignoring it, or he’d decided it wasn’t worth naming.
And their father—worn thin from work, distracted by something none of them were being told—hadn’t been looking closely enough to see it.
This morning, the tension lingered like perfume. Soft, faint, but there, if you breathed in.
Annetta had already laid out a light breakfast of soft cheese, warm bread, and bowls of fruit. A jug of watered wine sat beside a hot pot of tea. Annetta hovered briefly to refill the cups, then vanished with the same practiced silence she always carried in the mornings.
Petruccio was absent—still in bed, Annetta had said, but sitting up and in good spirits. That was a relief. Lately, he’d been too tired to do even that. Maria had sent a tray up to him earlier, something soft and sweet. He liked mornings when his food came with honey.
Her mother poured herself a cup—her favorite chamomile—with quiet ease and settled in. Federico reached for more cheese. And Ezio… Ezio looked like a man at war with his own thoughts considering how he barely touched his food.
Across the table, Giovanni wiped his mouth with a napkin and stood. “I’ll be out for part of the afternoon. There’s a meeting.”
Maria glanced up from her tea. “Work?”
The question was light, casual—but Claudia caught the shift in her tone. A single word, weighted with more than one meaning.
“Outside consulting.” Her father replied, offering a quiet smile.
Maria nodded once and that was the end of it.
It was barely a moment—barely even a beat—but Claudia saw it. The way her mother heard something no one else did. The way her father answered like he didn’t need to explain further. It wasn’t code. It wasn’t secrecy. It was understanding. Familiar. Lived in.
Claudia stirred her tea, slow and thoughtful, and out of the corner of her eye, saw the way Ezio’s back went stiff. His hand, which had been fiddling with the stem of a fruit, stilled.
Giovanni reached for his cup. “Federico—when you’re finished, join me in the study?”
“I’m finished now.” Federico said, rising. He dropped a kiss onto his mother’s hair, gave her a wink, and followed their father out.
The moment the door clicked shut behind them, Claudia saw Ezio lean in. He tilted his head—not overtly, but enough to listen for footsteps. He waited. Counted, probably.
Then—
“I’ve got some errands.” He said, already standing. “Need to check in with—uh. A friend.”
Maria blinked. “This early?”
Ezio kissed her cheek. “Someone owes me a conversation.” He said, with a smile far too smooth to be innocent. “Grazie for breakfast.”
And just like that, he was gone, too.
Claudia didn’t sigh or roll her eyes. She simply watched the door swing shut—calm, steady, unimpressed.
Ezio thought he was subtle.
He wasn’t.
He thought no one had noticed the way he leaned in when their father mentioned ‘outside consulting.’
Someone had.
He thought his excuses were clever.
They weren’t.
Claudia reached for the last slice of peach and took her time chewing, letting the quiet settle again.
She understood him—of course she did.
They were the middle children—not the first, burdened with duty and expectations, nor the last, wrapped in gentleness and worry. Just Claudia and Ezio, too loud in their own way to be ignored, too clever to stay quiet.
Ezio burned hot—reckless, bold, always chasing something with his fists or his heart.
But Claudia wasn’t like him.
They played different games, but they knew the same rules.
Ezio was chasing something he didn’t understand. Something half-formed and dangerous. He thought their father was lying. That their mother didn’t know. That Claudia herself was too caught up in ledgers and fabric orders to notice.
But he was wrong on all counts.
Claudia, when met with a problem, did not stew.
Unlike her brothers—who sulked and stormed, who broke things just to feel the edges of them—Claudia preferred to watch. Quietly. Carefully. With her arms folded and her eyes sharp.
It wasn’t that she didn’t feel.
She simply didn’t waste energy on fire when a knife would do.
And right now, her brother was burning himself alive.
She didn’t need him to say it. She saw it in every twitch of his hand, every clenched jaw. The way he watched their father like he was waiting for him to confess.
Ezio was chasing ghosts through their halls. And worse—he thought they were real.
She knew what Ezio thought—that their father was cheating, keeping some mistress tucked away in satin and secrets. He hadn’t said it aloud, of course, but she was his sister. She’d seen the way his shoulders twitched when their father had offhandedly mentioned the potential for a ‘holiday.’ The way his eyes followed every shadow in the hallway, desperate for something solid to strike.
Ezio looked for enemies in hallways and shadows. Claudia looked in patterns and silence.
He hunted in motion. She waited in stillness.
Ezio chased truths with his fists. Claudia listened for them between the lies.
She didn’t believe in the mistress theory—not even for a moment because she was the one who had spent more time with their mother than any of them.
She knew the curve of her mother’s smile when she was hiding something. She knew the rhythm of her fingers when she embroidered to distract herself. She knew when her mother’s silences were sadness and when they were something else entirely.
This was not grief, nor confusion. This was something measured—something braced.
Preparation. Certainty.
Their mother wasn’t heartbroken. She wasn’t suspicious.
She was aware.
And Claudia had learned long ago that to be safe, one must first be aware.
That was the first lesson her mother ever gave her—quietly, without ceremony, between one stitch and the next. While Ezio and Federico were taught to handle swords, she was taught something subtler.
“Know where the exits are. Know who’s watching. Know who isn’t.” Her mother had told her. “And never make a move unless you already know how it ends.”
It hadn’t sounded like training at the time.
But it had stayed.
Claudia knew all her mother’s tells. Most of her father’s, too.
And none of them pointed to betrayal.
Her mother loved her father and her father loved her mother. No courtesan in Florence or Rome or the entire world would change that.
So if her father was lying... it wasn’t to protect a lover.
It was to protect something else.
Claudia stirred her tea again, gaze fixed on the closed door.
She had already done her own digging—subtly, beneath the veil of ordinary days.
Claudia hadn’t meant to investigate—at least, not at first. She’d simply noticed numbers that didn’t match.
A linen order marked ‘delivered’ had never appeared in the laundry rotation. A crate of preserved fruit was noted in the books—but none ever made it to the pantry. Small things. Easily overlooked.
So easily it bothered her.
So she started checking a little each day. She knew the pattern of the household—how much flour they went through in a week, when the lavender oil was usually restocked, which fabrics were ordered and for what. She didn’t need to ask anyone. She was the one who helped her mother balance the household—who ran the garden inventories, who signed off on embroidery supply deliveries and made sure they matched what was actually ordered.
But these orders? They weren’t going to the house.
The household ledgers were not locked—her father kept no keys for what he trusted only himself to balance. He wrote in a fine hand, crisp and deliberate and Claudia, who had helped copy account summaries since she was twelve, knew exactly what his clean margins meant. She knew what normal looked like.
And this wasn’t normal.
Five entries in seven days. Dried fruit. Lavender. Linens. A courier delivery marked without a recipient. All vague. All too frequent.
She had flipped through the margins of the week’s entries. 40 florins here. 20 there. 30 for a second basket of fruit, even though the first had gone uneaten in the kitchen.
Never more than 50 at a time. Paid in florins, not account.
The totals were modest, but they added up.
They weren’t gifts or for casual indulgence, but for maintenance. It was support—steady and sustained. Just enough to feed someone, keep them warm—and out of sight.
‘Not a lover.’ Claudia thought, tracing the handle of her cup with slow fingers. Her father didn’t move like a man chasing affection. He moved like someone safeguarding a truth—quiet, firm, necessary. A witness, maybe. A liability. Or someone powerful. He wasn’t shielding a romance. He was shielding consequence.
Perhaps a Medici? It wasn’t a secret that her father worked closely with the de facto leader of Florence and that made the most sense. Or perhaps he was hiding a courier carrying sensitive documents. A political agent injured in travel. It would explain the secrecy. The timing. The subtle, sustained care.
Across the table, Maria sipped her chamomile in silence. Her expression, as always, was serene.
Claudia reached for a fig and tore it neatly in half.
She didn’t know who her father was hiding, but she had found the shape of it.
Not indulgence.
Shelter. Secrecy. Pattern.
And now, she just had to follow it.
Because while Federico charmed, Ezio chased, and Petruccio dreamed from his bed, Claudia watched.
She always watched.
And when the time came to act—she’d already know where to strike.
The quiet between mother and daughter was familiar and fond—laced with the kind of shared patience only women developed in a house full of men.
“He’s going to get himself into trouble.” Maria spoke, without looking up from her cup.
She meant Ezio.
She always meant Ezio.
Claudia smirked faintly. “That’s usually how he starts his day.”
They shared a look—amused, resigned, quietly affectionate.
“Your brother was never one to take the simple route.” Her mother said, reaching for a slice of fig.
“He thinks he’s being subtle.”
Maria smiled, soft and knowing. “He gets that from his father.”
Claudia raised an eyebrow. “You’re not worried?”
“I’m not.” Her mother said, serene. “He’s clever when it matters. Just not as clever as he thinks.”
Claudia smiled into her cup. “That’s generous.”
Maria gave a noncommittal hum, but her eyes were warm and Claudia didn’t bother hiding her own smile.
This was what Claudia loved about mornings like this. No performance. No pretenses. Just the quiet, unshakable certainty of her mother sitting across the table—calm in the storm of sons.
And then came the knock—cleaving the quiet in two.
Firm. Familiar.
Annetta appeared in the doorway a breath later, her expression as composed as ever, but her voice lower than usual.
“The dottore has arrived, Madonna.”
Maria’s hand stilled for the barest second. Then she nodded, rising from her seat with her usual grace. “Let him in. We’ll meet him upstairs.”
Annetta nodded once and vanished again.
Claudia stood as well, falling into step behind her mother. She didn’t need to ask who the visit was for. They all knew.
Petruccio’s cough had lingered longer than usual this time—low and tight in his chest. He’d brushed it off, of course. Tried to smile through it, but Claudia had heard him and so had their mother.
And Maria—always deliberate, always composed—had summoned the dottore again.
He came often, this one.
The doctor was already waiting when they reached the foyer—tall and still, cloaked in dark robes worn by men of his station. His gloved hands rested atop a leather satchel that looked older than Petruccio himself. The curved beak of his mask—padded with rosemary and sage to dull the stench of sickness—marked him clearly for what he was.
He offered a silent nod in greeting.
“Upstairs.” Maria said. “As usual.”
The dottore said nothing, only adjusted the weight of his satchel and followed them up the steps.
Claudia trailed them up the steps, feet moving in rhythm with memory. The pattern was familiar now—the slow climb, the hush in the hall, the way the doctor never asked for directions. He didn’t need them. He could find Petruccio’s room blindfolded. Probably had.
He came every week, though the visits had grown more frequent lately. Whenever the fever lingered too long, or the coughing deepened, or her mother sat too still as dusk crept in, he was called for. He never made a scene. Never raised his voice. Just listened, took note, checked what needed checking, and murmured something softly reassuring before vanishing again, leaving only the scent of vinegar clinging to the walls.
When they reached Petruccio’s door, Maria knocked softly—out of habit, not urgency—and waited just a breath.
Then, hearing no protest, she opened it with quiet care.
“Petruccio?” She said gently. “The dottore is here.”
Claudia followed her mother inside, expecting the usual—dim light, the faint scent of lavender oil, the rasp of breathing through a tired chest.
But what she saw made her pause.
Petruccio was sitting upright, propped against his pillows. His breakfast tray sat nearby—half-finished pear, a sliver of bread, a lukewarm cup of tea. His cheeks were faintly flushed, but his eyes were clearer than they’d been the night before.
And he looked… steadier.
There was color in his face—not the burn of fever, but a fragile sort of warmth. His posture was more relaxed than usual, his breath slow and even. And—Claudia realized with a slow breath—he wasn’t coughing.
He looked up as they entered, blinking at the doctor’s presence. “Already?” He asked, voice soft but steady. “But I was feeling better.”
The doctor gave a brief nod of acknowledgment and approached the bedside. He set down his satchel without comment and began his usual routine. No rush, no concern. Just a practiced rhythm—pressing his gloved fingers to the forehead, checking his pulse, listening to his breath.
But something in his posture shifted.
He paused.
Then blinked—once, then again—like he was recalibrating.
His brow furrowed behind the mask.
“Hold still.” He instructed and pressed his ear to Petruccio’s chest. He stayed there longer than usual, listening.
“Breathe in.” The doctor murmured.
Petruccio obeyed.
“Again.”
Maria shifted her weight slightly, one hand resting at her collarbone as if to quiet something there.
The doctor pulled back slightly, then felt along Petruccio’s ribs, tapping gently once, twice—then again, just below the sternum.
“Does that hurt?”
Petruccio blinked and shook his head.
The doctor made an undecipherable noise and checked his pulse a second time, brisk now. Then a third. His hands moved faster, repeating steps he usually performed only once.
“Has anything changed since I was last here?” The doctor asked without looking at them. “Any new symptoms? Changes in routine?”
“No.” Maria replied. “He’s had the same tincture. Tea, soup, rest.” She paused. “The window has been open more in the mornings.” She added, glancing toward the slant of sunlight. “Giovanni thought the room could use the warmth.”
The doctor hummed and pulled back, eyes flicking to the boy’s throat, then to the rise and fall of his ribs. His expression didn’t change, but he reached out again, this time to lightly press Petruccio’s stomach and sides. Then, his back.
His eyes flicked to the boy’s face, then to the tea, then—almost absently—to the open window.
“Dottore?” Maria’s voice was soft, but held steel underneath.
He didn’t respond immediately. Just pressed two fingers against Petruccio’s throat and watched Petruccio’s face with silent focus. He was still counting. Still watching. Still trying to reconcile something that shouldn’t be there.
Finally, he exhaled and straightened—slowly. His eyes behind the mask betrayed no fear, but something quieter. Off-balance. Startled, even.
“The chest is… clearer than I expected.” He said at last. “There’s still tightness, but the wetness—the heaviness I heard before... it’s receded.”
Maria’s voice grew flatter. “Which means?”
“It means I don’t understand it.” He adjusted the strap of his mask. “I expected the cough to deepen and the fever to settle lower in the lungs, but his complexion has improved, and the rhythm of his breath is—” He hesitated. “—more even.”
Claudia frowned. “You don’t think it’s the tonic?”
“It shouldn’t have worked this fast.” The doctor’s tone turned analytical. “The tincture should have reduced fever. Not eased the lungs. Not like this.”
“Is that cause for concern?” Her mother asked, quieter now.
“Possibly.” He paused, then shook his head slightly. “Or perhaps the air helped. You mentioned the window was open? Sometimes fresh wind breaks the cycle. Heat thins the phlegm. Or…” He exhaled through his nose. “It may simply be a false reprieve.”
But he didn’t sound convinced. Not entirely.
Maria stepped forward quietly, drawing the doctor’s attention with a soft, familiar gesture. The two spoke in low tones—her voice composed, the doctor’s more clipped now, muttering about airflow, dosage adjustments, and fallback plans should the reprieve prove temporary. Their conversation receded to the edges of the room, calm and clinical, like the steady turning of gears.
Claudia remained near the door, half-listening, her arms still folded. But her attention had already slipped past the murmured discussion—drawn instead to her brother, who looked far too used to being spoken about rather than spoken to.
Petruccio was sitting up straighter than usual, legs tucked beneath the covers, his shoulders relaxed. He looked… rested. Calm. He looked like someone savoring peace while it lasted.
And in his hands—Claudia noticed now—was a feather. Long. Silvery. He was twirling it slowly between his fingers.
She followed his gaze toward the open window. Morning sunlight spilled across the floor, catching faint hints of red in his hair, warming the blanket and the folds of his nightshirt. He looked lighter than he had in weeks.
Not well—but better.
And for the first time in too long, the ache in her chest loosened—just a little.
“Keep the window open during the warmer hours if he’s comfortable.” The doctor said, adjusting the strap on his satchel and bringing Claudia’s attention back to him. “Half the usual tonic dose tonight. We don’t want to overtreat.”
Maria inclined her head. “We’ll follow your advice.”
He gave a small bow and made his way toward the door, his steps even and unhurried.
Maria followed, murmuring something polite as she walked with him down the hall.
Claudia stayed.
Petruccio hadn’t moved much—still sitting upright, still playing with the feather between his fingers—but there was pride in the way he held himself. Not arrogance—just a quiet sense of victory, as if he’d earned this breath of calm.
She walked to the edge of the bed and sat beside him. The mattress dipped gently beneath her weight.
“I wasn’t imagining it, right?” She asked softly, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “You really do feel better.”
Petruccio smiled, showing the faintest of dimples. “I told you.”
“You always tell me.” She gave him a wry look. “Doesn’t mean it’s always true.”
“This time it is.”
Claudia studied him a little longer. He still looked pale. His limbs tucked under the covers too tightly. But his breath was soft. Even. The fatigue that had hung around him like a fog was thinner now, almost lifted.
Then her gaze drifted to the feather in his hands.
It was beautiful—but not in the way of his usual keepsakes. It wasn’t tucked into a box or set out neatly for display. Petruccio rarely held them like this, turning them over between his fingers, slow and thoughtful.
She’d seen it before, she realized. Just two nights ago, when she’d walked in on him and Ezio whispering conspiracies about Spain and escapes and open skies. The feather had been there—resting on the bed beside him when she’d teased them about plotting without her.
At the time, she hadn’t thought much of it.
But now...
“You left this one out.” She said, nodding toward it. “That’s rare.”
Petruccio followed her gaze. “Oh.” His voice dipped, almost shy. “This one’s special.”
Claudia tilted her head. “Special how?”
He hesitated, eyes drifting back to the soft barbs between his fingers. “I don’t know exactly. It just… feels that way.”
She looked at it again—closer now. The color was still strange. Not white, not gray, but somewhere between, like clouds on a good day.
She could almost remember the way it had glinted faintly in the candlelight, nestled beside him as he’d laughed at Ezio’s terrible plans, but now, that shine had dimmed overnight, like morning mist burned away by sun. Its edge was dry near the spine, curled slightly at the tip. The silver tones were dulled now, like something had poured out more than it had left to give.
It didn’t look broken or ruined.
Just… tired.
Spent.
She blinked—and for the first time, wondered if feathers faded like flowers did.
Claudia frowned, consideringly. “Did it always look like that?”
Petruccio didn’t seem upset. If anything, he cradled it more carefully. “Maybe I touched it too much.” He admitted, almost sheepish. “It was shinier before.”
He stroked it with careful fingers, smoothing the barbs gently, like he was apologizing. “I should’ve let it rest. But I wanted to hold it.” He hesitated, then added with a quiet smile. “It felt warm.”
Claudia tilted her head. “Warm?”
Petruccio nodded, like it made perfect sense. “Not like the sun. Just… nice. Like it wanted to be here.”
He didn’t sound confused.
He sounded certain.
Claudia didn’t say anything right away. She just looked at him—really looked—and for a moment, she could almost believe the feather had done something. Not healed. Not cured.
But eased something. Just enough.
Still… it was only a feather.
She knew that. But the way Petruccio held it—like it had whispered something to him in the dark and stayed to keep watch—made her pause.
Claudia didn’t believe in omens. She believed in dottori and dried herbs and quiet, stubborn hope.
But when someone small and sick decided that a feather was precious—what harm was there in letting him keep it close?
It didn’t matter what it was. A feather, a charm, a ribbon tied to a saint’s statue. It wasn’t the object that held power, but the hope pressed into it.
And hope was something Petruccio could carry.
She reached for his cup of tea with gentle fingers. “Well.” She murmured. “Let’s keep it close, then.”
Petruccio smiled as he set the feather gently on the nightstand, careful as if it might crack.
Claudia didn’t stop him.
Even good things needed guarding sometimes.
While Petruccio kept his feather close, another—kept far longer, and far more selfishly—shifted beneath candlelight in Rome, caught in the grip of a man who believed miracles should obey.
Interlude
Rodrigo Borgia had inherited many things.
A family name. A seat of power. A vision for the world that stretched far beyond the reach of most men.
But more importantly—secrets.
The kind passed quietly, from one Templar pope to the next. The kind not written in ledgers or letters, but entrusted through blood and shadow.
And he had been told.
Not because he wore the white robes of Saint Peter—not yet.
But because he was destined for them.
His uncle, Pope Calixtus III, had broken tradition by revealing the truth to him early—half in prayer, half in warning. A relic had been found. Not a shroud. Not a splinter of the True Cross. Not another bloodied bone tucked into velvet.
A living creature.
A divine being.
An angel.
Rodrigo had laughed at first.
His uncle had been half in prayer when he spoke of it—low and cautious, eyes always watching the door.
“A relic, Rodrigo. A living one. Not yet yours. Not until the time is right.”
It sounded like a metaphor—a parable, because angels were for peasants and poets, not men like him. He believed in politics. In structure. In bloodlines, not blessings.
But his uncle’s gaze had lingered too long. His voice, too reverent.
And Rodrigo had never been patient.
He began to search—quietly, obsessively, but not for an angel. For leverage of a truth passed too early, and likely by mistake. If such a secret passed from pope to pope, Rodrigo knew he had decades, before the mantle was his.
Unless he found it first.
So, he dug.
It had taken years of quiet investigation—combing through forgotten archives, whispering to priests too old to remember their vows of silence. The trail led to a single truth—that the first Pope to claim the relic had been given a boon as a symbol of divine favor.
And it had been buried with him.
Rodrigo had not hesitated. He ordered the tomb exhumed in secret, under the cover of a midnight vigil. The body had long since withered and the vestments brittle with age, but when the funeral shroud had shifted, when the last of the dust fell away—there it was.
A feather.
Untouched by time. Delicate. Warm. Thrumming with something he could feel against his skin.
It had dulled within a week, but not before it had quieted a cardinal, tipped a rival into scandal, and made Rodrigo very sure that his uncle had not been speaking in riddles.
Rodrigo never doubted again.
And when, years later, his own agents confirmed rumors of a bound figure locked beneath the Vatican stones, he moved quietly—efficiently, but not through the Order.
The relic had been a Templar secret, shared amongst popes, whispered only in the ears of the inner circle of the Roman Rite.
But Rodrigo was Grandmaster now. He needed no permission, no consensus, and with the Papacy itself in neutral hands—neither Templar nor Assassin—there was no one to stop him.
So he ended the tradition.
Quietly. Completely.
A quiet illness here. A mistaken execution there. An unfortunate spill into the Tiber. Rodrigo oversaw it all. Each death sealed a secret until only he remained.
Only he knew the truth.
Only he knew what the relic really was.
Now, it belonged to him.
And so did the angel.
The angel had been no more than a husk when Rodrigo took control. Asleep, fragile, curled in on itself like a dove with a broken back.
Perfect.
Rodrigo had tested it slowly. He had taken a feather here and there—plucked with care. And the results? Reliable.
A merchant’s fortune reversed. A bishop’s conviction turned. A rival’s only son struck down by fever.
The feathers worked.
They glowed for a time—weeks, maybe longer—but eventually dulled, decaying. Power spent. Rodrigo assumed the miracle had limits, like anything else. A flame that burned out. A wine spoiled.
He had never questioned why. He didn’t need to.
The miracle was in the feather and the relic had thousands.
But now, the angel—his angel—was gone.
The timing was almost cruel.
Rodrigo had spent years orchestrating the transfer. Every step measured, every witness accounted for.
A reliquary, custom forged to still the relic’s movement and dull its senses.
The guards assigned to the sanctum—loyal, silent, and far too informed—were already marked for execution before the week’s end.
The Vatican chamber itself was to be cleared, sealed, and buried beneath new scripture.
The transport route secured by agents who answered only to him.
And beneath his private estate, a chamber had been prepared in secret—soundproofed, sanctified, walled in velvet and stone.
No clergy. No Curia. No Order.
Only him.
One more week, and the angel would have been his entirely. Permanently.
But instead—
Stolen.
He remembered the sanctum—sticky with blood underfoot, restraints destroyed, silk cushions still warm.
He had orchestrated perfection.
And they had defiled it.
The guards had been slaughtered with precision. No screams. No survivors.
It stank of Assassins.
He had found a feather on the floor. Fresh. Still intact. Still warm.
The last gift the relic had left behind.
Now, in the candlelight of his private study, Rodrigo turned that same feather between his fingers. His grip stayed gentle, but his eyes burned—quietly, furiously.
“You were never meant to leave.” He murmured.
The angel was never a man to him. Never a soul. Just output. It was source material. A divine font to be harvested, feather by feather.
A miracle with a heartbeat.
A miracle that had answered only to him.
Until it didn’t.
Because someone else had stolen his yield. His favor. His fortune.
His property.
And he would not forgive that.
Rodrigo turned the feather slowly between his fingers, watching the golden shimmer shift with the candlelight. Even now—dull, long detached—it pulsed faintly with something alive . The last remnant of a stolen miracle.
He had not slept. He couldn’t.
His relic was gone.
And the silence from his men was beginning to gall him.
He had given the order himself—discreet search only. No mobilization. No alerts. No involvement from the Curia.
The relic was to be recovered and returned to him quietly, unseen and unspoken.
And as for what it was?
“A holy artifact.” He had said. No further detail. No name.
Because if they knew the truth, he would have to silence them.
But it had been days and still, nothing.
Not until tonight.
A knock came against his chamber door.
“Enter.” Rodrigo snapped.
The door creaked open, and a man in polished steel stood just outside the threshold. The red and silver sash marked him as one of the Vatican’s silent captains. However, he was not just any captain. One of Rodrigo’s. A man elevated by quiet loyalty, not rank.
His expression was practiced, respectful, and beneath that, something colder—the restraint of a man who suspected more than he was told, and had the discipline not to ask.
The captain bowed low. “Apologies for the delay, your Eminence… Grandmaster. I bring the report myself.”
Rodrigo didn’t look up from the feather in his hand, still radiant with latent warmth. “Then speak.”
“We’ve been combing leads. Quietly. It was only this morning that one of them proved credible.”
Rodrigo said nothing. The feather shifted in his fingers—slow, deliberate. Not a gesture of thought, but of restraint.
The captain continued. “There was an incident, roughly two days north of Rome. A fire in the forest, spotted from the road by passing merchants. We sent scouts to investigate the site.”
Rodrigo’s brow twitched. “And?”
“We found a destroyed cart—no salvage. Several bodies. Bandits, most likely. Most burned, but some…” A pause. “Some weren’t killed cleanly.”
Rodrigo exhaled through his nose. “And what does this have to do with my relic?”
The captain didn’t blink. “At first, nothing. But then we traced the cart’s route. It came from Rome—legitimate papers, but forged. Passed through a checkpoint the morning after the relic disappeared.”
His fingers paused mid-turn along the feather’s edge and at last, he raised his gaze to meet the captain’s.
“Driver?”
“Lone traveler.” The captain reported. “Hooded. Average build. Paid in coin, nothing unusual—but it matches the timeline. Matches the direction.”
Rodrigo’s jaw ticked. “And you’re only bringing this to me now?”
The captain hesitated—not out of fear, but calculation. He chose each word like a man defusing a trap.
“We’ve had… many false leads, your Eminence, but this one—this site—was different.” A beat. “And there’s one more thing. A detail you should be aware of.”
Rodrigo’s eyes narrowed.
“The bandits…” The captain began. “They were likely drawn by one of ours. We seeded a rumor days prior—standard protocol—of unregistered cargo. Bait, meant to lure contraband runners, only this time, the bait never made it out.” The captain’s voice dropped. “Whoever intercepted killed the bandits before we could move in.”
The silence cracked at the edges. Rodrigo’s thumb grazed the feather’s barbs—slowly. The vanes parted under pressure, fragile as breath.
He spoke low. “You are telling me…”
The captain tensed.
“…that a man with forged papers passed through our checkpoint the morning after my relic vanished. That he took a path we seeded—deliberately, baited—and now there are corpses in the ash—” Something in his voice cracked—just slightly. The illusion of calm, splintering. “—and you do not know his name.”
The captain stood rigid. “No, your Eminence. But—but we have his trail. The tracks veered northeast from the site. Away from the coast, towards the interior. Whoever it was avoided the main roads—took forest paths. Trade routes. Not a straight line, but deliberate.”
Rodrigo exhaled—slow, controlled, poisonous. “Towards where?”
“Several possibilities. Orvieto. Arezzo. Even Siena, if they curved wide. All within reach, given the terrain. But we’ve yet to confirm a destination.”
Rodrigo adjusted his grip on the feather, not turning it now, but holding it still—tight, as if to restrain his own fury.
“Start with the smaller cities along the axis. Quiet inquiries only. I want agents at every road and checkpoint. Look for wounded travelers. Forged papers. Freight moved in secrecy. If a foreign name is whispered—or a shipment too well-guarded for its worth—I want to hear of it.”
The captain bowed. “Yes, Eminence.”
As he turned to leave, his gaze flicked—just once—to the feather in Rodrigo’s hand. His posture shifted—still respectful, but wary.
The door closed behind him with a soft click.
Silence returned.
Rodrigo remained seated. Alone.
The feather rested between his fingers, no longer turning. He held it like a prayer, or a blade.
It was the last.
Still warm. Still whispering. A faint pulse beneath the barbs, like breath trapped in vellum. It steadied him—barely.
He brought it to his face. Inhaled.
It still held a faint trace of scent—like myrrh and dust, old stone and lightning. It reminded him of that hidden place beneath the Apostolic Palace—where scripture ran hot and the air itself felt sacred.
Where divinity had a pulse.
Where power didn’t ask permission.
A hush settled around his thoughts—not peace, but purpose. Cold, calculated, divine.
The angel wasn’t a prize he could afford to lose.
He didn’t know why some feathers worked better than others. Why some miracles curved fate and others simply faded.
The secret archives—those passed only to Templar popes, hidden beneath false saints and forged scriptural indices—held fragments of speculation. Annotations scrawled in the margins. Notes tucked between bindings.
Some popes had believed the strength of faith sustained the feathers. Others, more sentimental and poetic, had written of affection. Reverence.
Even love.
Rodrigo scoffed.
Faith was for the flock.
Love and sentiment were fables for the weak.
He had inked over and torn most of those pages himself. Theories were for men unsure of what they held.
Rodrigo knew better. The only truth that mattered was that the feathers worked.
His hand clenched, fist closing around the downy shaft until the quill bent.
He would find his relic.
And when he did—when his angel was returned to him, and it would be—Rodrigo would pluck it bare if he had to.
One feather at a time, until the world bowed.
Whether the angel understood it or not.
Whether it survived it or not.
It didn’t matter.
It was never meant to be anything but his.
Notes:
And there ya have it. What is this? More plot? More drama? Our last villain??!! Oh my!
(Can you also tell that I love symbolism? All the CALLBACKS? Wonder if you can all can catch the MANY that I sprinkled in, haha)
Hehe, I wonder why Ezio has such problems with birds, HMMMM....
This took…way, WAY longer than anticipated to get out, haha. Lot of things happened this month, mostly because of interview preparation, and then the actual interview and the—//GASP///—the RESULTS, which was—
Fucking got the job, yo. EYYYYYYYY
ヾ(＠＾▽＾＠)ﾉ
Lmao I thought I screwed part of it up (it was one of those interview processes where it’s not just 1 interview, but multiple), so it was a happy surprise to receive this week haha (◕‿◕✿)
I hope this chapter was worth the wait. This felt like my longest pause between chapters, haha. I saw a bunch of comments who were excited to see how Ezio would show up, so I hope this met expectations lol. One person mentioned that they were excited to see how Ezio would steal the show and I was like, WELL LET ME SHOW YOU WHAT A PRE-ASSASSIN CHAOS GREMLIN EZIO CAN BE.
Anyways—next chapter marks the beginning of The Fluff. We finally get to Desmond—FINALLY. A half-lucid!Desmond! A pining Eye! Big sister courtesans! And—maybe… a confrontation??? (Confrontation depends on the chapter length lmao)
Either way, I’ve set it up enough now that the Desmond and Ezio meet is NOW ON THE HORIZON. (Definitely not in the next chapter, but perhaps…chapter 14? Maybe??? We will see, bby) But oh, I think it'll be sweet c:
//laughs into the ether//
Chapter Text
Desmond was awake.
Or dreaming.
Or maybe both.
He couldn’t tell. The edges were too soft. It felt like a dream, but dreams didn’t usually taste faintly like honey and milk. Nor did they feel this warm or carry this type of weight—the kind that pressed down gentle and slow, like a blanket warmed by the sun.
His eyes stayed closed. Not from choice—he just… forgot to open them. Or didn’t remember how. The line between sleep and waking up blurred into each other and so everything felt the same in that distant, quiet, and soft kind of way.
He didn’t know where he was or what was really happening but something in him—wrapped around the base of his thoughts—told him that was fine.
Stay still. Stay quiet. Let the warmth happen.
And Desmond let himself believe it. It had been safe, once, to go still. Movement had brought too much. Voices. Hands. Cold prayers and colder tools. Stillness had become its own kind of shelter.
So he did.
He drifted, soft and weightless, into the hush like a feather on water, but even as he settled, something in him stirred like a flicker beneath the calm. It wasn’t a thought. Not even a feeling. Just a gentle nudge, like a hand on a shoulder.
‘You ‘kay?’
He wasn’t sure if he’d spoken it aloud or just breathed it inward, but the call went out—soft and reflexive. Not in command, not in fear.
Just… checking.
The same way someone might reach for a loved one in the dark—not to wake them, but to feel their warmth. To know they were still close. That they were okay, too.
The warmth curled in response, snug beneath his ribs, radiating the kind of quiet joy that felt like preening. Not words—but the feeling of a smile pressed against his thoughts.
Present. Listening. Still with him.
Desmond’s thoughts folded around it with quiet relief and affection.
‘Good.’
Then he let go. Let it rest alongside him. Let it be tired too, if it needed to be. Because even if he couldn’t remember everything, he knew this much—the warmth had stayed with him. Even when it was small. Even when it had so little to give.
It deserved the quiet, too.
Desmond drifted for a while, savoring the feeling of being cocooned in warmth. His thoughts curled inward like nesting feathers, too many to sort, too soft to hold. The world moved around him in muffled strokes—soundless and cloud soft.
Time didn’t exist here—only warmth, only stillness.
But eventually, something in him shifted. Not from discomfort or from need—just the gentle inevitability of breath and muscle and instinct returning.
His awareness began to rise like a tide.
A shift. A breath. A flicker behind closed eyes.
Desmond stirred.
He was on something soft. A bed, maybe. Or a dream pretending to be one. The surface cradled him like a sigh and his wings—unbound, unbothered—had sprawled around him without thought. One rustled behind him, slow and drowsy, dragging across the softness in a lazy arc. The other lifted, stretched, and then flopped gracelessly down with a muffled fwump, feathers splaying like a yawn.
The motion came easily—so easily it felt strange. Some part of him, deep and dull, had braced for resistance. For leather. For rope. For the sting that used to come whenever he dared to stretch his wings, but there was only softness. He didn’t question it—how could he? This had to be a dream. The warmth, the quiet, the way nothing ached—what else could it be?
For a moment, he thought he was in Maria’s house. His body welcomed the gentleness of it all too easily.
But... it didn’t smell like home.
There was no scent of dried herbs that hung from the rafters, no trace of burnt wood curling from the hearth, or the smell of pine carried on a breeze that usually slipped through the cracks of the shutters. This scent was different. Clean linen. Faint traces of oil. A sweetness he couldn’t name.
But dreams could change—and if this was one the Eye had made for him… then maybe this was just a new part of it.
A different room, but still safe.
His arms were tucked close, one cradling his cheek. The other was slack—resting against something soft. A pillow? He drew it in, grip weak but unwilling to let go, as if the comfort might vanish if hesitated for too long. His other hand curled faintly beneath his chin. Both limbs felt stiff in a way he couldn’t quite name—as if they’d been forgotten or held still for too long.
Then, something changed.
A breeze ghosted over the back of his neck—soft, but cool enough to make his skin prickle. His wings reacted before he did. One lifted slowly, draping over his back like a shawl. The other curled protectively across the nape of his neck like a shield.
Desmond made a sound somewhere between a hum and a groan as he burrowed deeper into the crook of his arm. The other, sluggish and stiff, dragged the pillow closer to himself.
(He didn’t notice how his muscles trembled or the way his fingers curled and uncurled experimentally—as if surprised that they could.)
A small, contented noise escaped him and Desmond slumped deeper into the softness that cradled him.
He hadn’t meant to make a nest but somehow and somewhere between the folded limbs and lazy wings, the pillow under his chin and the softness bunched beneath his chest, he’d ended up in one anyway.
An accidental bundle of warmth and quiet, stitched together by instinct.
He was comfortable. Too comfortable. More comfortable than he’d felt in a long, long time—maybe ever. The kind of comfort that wrapped around the edges of him like warm wool. That sank into his bones and said, stay.
And for a while, Desmond did.
The room held steady around him—still and hushed, wrapped in warmth. No footsteps. No cold hands. No prayers spoken over his bones. Just soft air, soft bedding, soft light.
But something in him shifted again. Not alarm, not even awareness. Just the faint sense that… maybe it was time to stop sleeping. The feeling crept in slowly, like sunlight under a door, and before he even knew what was happening—Desmond blinked. Once. Then again—slow, heavy, unsure.
Light filtered through something soft over his face, and he squinted.
Oh.
There was something over his eyes. Something gold.
Desmond didn’t bother wondering about it. He just closed his eyes again and just let the glow blur and warm the inside of his eyelids, like sunlight through behind thin curtains. It was… nice. The warmth around him didn’t flinch.
He stayed there, letting the light seep through him. Not chasing it. Not fleeing.
It was nice.
The hush held him, soft and steady. The quiet, the warmth, the golden light behind his eyes—none of it reached for him with cruelty. Nothing hurt. Nothing hunted.
It almost felt like the world was saying it was okay to wake up.
He wanted to believe it, but the caution lingered like the memory of a scar long healed but never forgotten.
It felt safe. It even felt real.
But Desmond knew better.
It couldn’t be real. Not yet. He wasn’t supposed to wake up until… until it was okay again. That’s what the Eye had said—what it had promised.
But…maybe it was okay now? Or maybe he was just dreaming about what ‘okay’ might feel like.
Everything felt too soft to question. Too warm to resist. What if he just stayed like this forever? The quiet settled over him like a second skin—thick and golden, like sunlight caught in syrup. He couldn’t remember the last time the world had let him feel this way—untouched and kind.
If this was a dream, he didn’t want to leave it yet.
Not unless someone told him it was time.
Not unless they told him.
Maria would come, with warm hands and that humming voice. Lucia too—bounding in with sticky fingers and toothy grins, whispering secrets about what the chickens had been up to while he was sleeping.
They’d tell him when it was safe. They always did.
Some small part of him waited for a door to creak, for their steps to come padding in, for their voices to pull him up from sleep like they always had.
But the quiet held, deep and endless, like the world was waiting with him.
So, Desmond waited, too. Waited for their voices—high and low, bright and steady—to crack the stillness and call him home again.
But the hush stayed.
No clatter of bowls.
No soft steps over creaky floorboards.
No clucks from the hen house.
Just… silence—soft, kind, and empty.
His fingers curled faintly beneath the pillow. His wings drew in a little closer. Not from fear, but from that old, aching habit of not knowing what waited outside the dream.
The quiet held a breath. Then, softly, it shifted—just a little. The air felt... brighter. Not loud, not harsh—just different. Like a second sun had bloomed behind his eyelids.
The thing over his eyes—some sort of light fabric, he didn’t realize until now—had bunched at the edge, skewed from sleep. Light slipped through the gap, soft but sudden, brushing the edge of his vision. His eye—half-lidded—squinted against it instinctively, before he flinched.
Too much.
Too soon.
An annoyed groan slipped from his throat—more in complaint than pain—and Desmond buried his face deeper into his arm, trying to hide from the brightness. His wings rustled faintly in protest.
“Too bright, angelo?” Someone whispered from somewhere close, fond and amused.
The voice stirred the quiet and Desmond froze.
He hadn’t realized someone was there. He’d been held too gently. Wrapped in hush and warmth so deep it hadn’t made room for anything else. The kind of stillness that made you think you were alone. Or dreaming.
But now, someone was here and that—that was… wrong.
He was used to the comfort of Maria’s tones, Lucia’s laughter, the cluck and chatter of chickens nesting near the fire—but this voice wasn’t theirs. And voices he didn’t know, in places he didn’t trust—those had always meant pain. Attention. Cold touches and colder things.
Desmond didn’t flinch. He didn’t hide.
He braced.
Somewhere behind his chest, a flicker of old expectation coiled tight—waiting for the chill of oil on skin, the rasp of iron drawn too slowly, the hands that always came with prayers and pain. They always began with gentleness—right before the hurt.
But the air didn’t shift. No iron. No leather. No weight pressing down.
A second passed.
And even the Eye didn’t rise. Didn’t ripple beneath his ribs or lean forward with teeth bared. It stayed where it was—quiet and low and unbothered.
That alone made him pause.
Desmond exhaled, testing the air the way a bird might test wind. His instincts stirred reflexively, searching for any hint of threat—but found none.
Nothing sharp. Nothing cold.
Still, he didn’t move. Not out of fear—just the habit of it. He let his breath stay slow and heavy and pretended to be more asleep than he actually was just to see what it would do. Just in case the voice changed.
But then, a hand, warm and careful, brushed a lock of hair from his brow.
Desmond flinched—just slightly, just reflex—but the hand didn’t respond. It didn’t chase. It only lingered with the type of gentleness and thoughtlessness of people who didn’t expect to be feared.
The moment stretched. No pain followed. No sharp edge hidden behind the kindness.
Desmond didn’t move, but he released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.
The hush shifted again and the voice dropped. “One candle next time. He’s not ready for more.”
The words weren’t meant for him. There was someone else nearby.
Another voice responded from further back. Desmond couldn’t catch the words but just the sound of it was enough to tighten his chest—not in fear, but in that old, slow burning tension that came from not knowing what the new voice might lead to.
But nothing changed.
The warmth didn’t pull away. The air didn’t shift.
The first voice stayed close—still calm, still kind—and Desmond found himself clinging to that, the way a bird might anchor itself to one branch in a storm.
If that voice hadn’t turned… Then maybe the other one wouldn’t either.
The thought settled somewhere deep inside him, soft and slow. Not a certainty, but a hope.
A hand brushed his temple. He wasn’t sure if it was the same hand or not, and though Desmond didn’t flinch this time, his breath caught, just for a moment.
But the touch didn’t press. Didn’t take.
It simply adjusted the cloth over his eyes with quiet care, moving without urgency or demand. The covering was resettled, enough to soften the light into something gentler. The brightness dulled again into a honeyed blur, warm and bearable. Not dangerous.
“There we are.” The voice murmured, smoothing the fabric near his temple. “Better?”
Desmond didn’t answer. Instead, his eyelids fluttered beneath the veil, trying to regain his bearings. He could see something—or thought he could. A shape. A blur. The soft outline of someone close by.
Just one, at first. The voice matched the silhouette—low, warm, and familiar. Desmond didn’t reach for it, but he didn’t pull away either. He just let it exist near him, allowing its presence to settle at the edge of his world.
Not trusted. Not feared.
Just... accepted. For now
But then, something else caught his attention.
There was a rustle at the edge of his hearing. A flicker of motion beyond the first shape. Another, then another. More sounds stirred the air—the shuffle of bare feet, the whisper of fabric, the delicate clink of something being set down.
He heard more murmurs, light and close. It wasn’t just one voice anymore. There were two more.
Desmond blinked again, slow and uncertain, as if trying to see through water. The shapes multiplied—soft outlines shifting and bending, hard to track. Like birds circling low, just beyond reach. Not one person. Three. Three warm bodies surrounding him now, voices overlapping like braided birdsong.
His body drew in just slightly, wings pulling an inch closer toward his sides.
He didn’t recognize them. They didn’t belong to the dream. They weren’t from the world he remembered—not Maria, not Lucia. Not the warmth of home he still half-expected, and yet, against his better judgement, Desmond found that he didn’t mind. They didn’t feel completely like strangers, not when they moved the way they did—quiet, careful. Like they were trying not to disturb a nest.
(Even though his mind didn’t know them, his body did. The way a blanket had been tucked beneath his shoulder. The soft rhythm of fingers combing his hair. A hand lingering at his wrist to check a pulse. Someone had fed him—gently. Bathed him. Brushed his wings. He didn’t remember any of it, but his body did. It remembered what care felt like when it didn’t hurt.)
He could feel them more than see them—warm shapes in the fog. He felt them settle near, gathering and swelling like warmth at the hearth.
Then—
“Angelo... ” Came a soft whisper, tentative and sweet—almost too gentle to be real.
Desmond turned his head towards the new voice—the third voice—before he could stop himself, cheek dragging across his arm.
His wing shifted once, then stilled. He hadn’t meant to react. Hadn’t meant to give himself away, but the kindness hadn’t once turned.
(And maybe—just maybe—it wasn’t going to.)
The silhouette moved closer, blurred by light and soft shadow, wrapped in gold at the edges. There was a rustle of fabric as someone knelt, then a giggle—light and quick—smothered just as fast.
“Good morning, Desmond.” The voice crooned at last, low and kind and threaded with something almost fond. “Are you hungry?”
The words drifted toward him, curling around his ears. The voice was gentle, yes—but it carried something else now, something that reached deeper than the sound itself.
His name.
His brow furrowed faintly—not with alarm, but with the kind of soft confusion that lingered.
The voice had said his name.
Desmond.
That was his, but how did it know?
But then, slowly, like a thought rising from underwater—
Oh.
He remembered now. Not clearly, not by fact, but in feeling.
Laughter, drifting like ribbons. The alphabet. Warm hands in his hair. Feathers smoothed. Someone—no, several someones—smiling at him like he was something safe and good.
He’d said it—hadn’t he? Because that’s what you did in dreams, when kind people asked your name. You told them.
Desmond blinked slowly. The memory dissolved, but something warm settled in its place.
He had told them and they had remembered.
And now, hearing it again—spoken so softly, without weight, without demand—it didn’t feel strange. They said it like it was something precious.
Not ‘creature.’ Not ‘beast.’ Not ‘demon.’
Desmond.
He hadn’t heard it spoken like that since—since Maria. Since Lucia. From people he loved. From people who loved him back.
And now… these voices.
He only ever gave his name when it was safe.
So maybe... that meant it was.
His lips parted—uncertain, like the idea of answering hadn’t quite reached his brain yet. Then, they closed. He hesitated, as if weighing whether it was truly safe to speak or not. A beat passed. And then another, before—
“...Mrrn’ng…?” He slurred at last, hoarse and tentative, half-muffled by the crook of his arm and still blurred by lingering sleep. His brow furrowed faintly, an embarrassed flicker ghosting across his brow. That hadn’t come out quite right, had it?
But before he could even second guess it, the room bloomed with delighted warmth.
“He spoke!”
“I told you he would talk again this morning.”
“That was a word. I swear—a real one!”
A ripple of real, soft laughter broke around him—light, bright, brushing his ears like down. He waited for any sort of sharpness to follow, but it didn’t.
No mockery. No edge.
Just delight. Just joy.
He didn’t lift his head, but the air moved—fluttering like wings, as if they’d been waiting all morning for those few sleepy syllables.
A gentle hand touched his back, firm but calm, the pressure warm and grounding. He reflexively braced again, but the hand only coaxed him up. There was no force. No pain.
“Let’s sit you up, darling.” The first voice whispered, breath soft against his ear.
Desmond didn’t—and really, couldn’t— resist, even if he wanted to. His body felt too disjointed, too heavy to argue, and the hands were… nice—careful, assured, and unhurried.
So he let himself be moved and as he was shifted—supported, not forced—something in him loosened, just a little, in response. His thoughts began to catch up.
They had spoken, but never too loud.
Laughed, but not with mockery.
Their hands had steadied, but not restrained.
No one had hurt him.
No relics, no demand. Just presence—quiet, constant, kind.
Desmond knew how fast kindness could turn. A soft word followed by cold hands. A blessing murmured before the pain.
But it hadn’t.
They’d had all the chance to—more than once—but nothing had turned, not even a little.
So maybe this wasn’t a trick, then. Maybe the danger was really gone. Maybe—just maybe—he was safe.
And slowly—so slowly—his body began to believe it.
The tension he’d carried since waking, quiet and coiled and deep around his spine, finally unraveled. Not all at once. Not like a door flying open, but like the calm after snowfall. Like a held breath finally let go and in its place, a wave of exhaustion crept in—quiet and heavy. Not fear. Not adrenaline. Just… the ache of no longer needing either.
His chest loosened, his shoulders dropped, and his mind, finally allowed to lag behind, began to sag with him. The edge that had sharpened every thought dulled. The vigilance that had once curled around each breath—measuring tone, mapping distance, counting bodies—finally, finally relaxed its grip. There were no steps to count. No hands to track. No defense to raise.
He wasn’t calculating anymore. He wasn’t waiting.
The world wasn’t pressing in anymore, so he let it blur.
And for the first time in a long, long time, Desmond felt tired in the way safe people did. The kind of tired that came not from fear or flight, but from peace. Like the quiet ache that followed a storm that finally passed. It sank into his ribs. Pooled behind his eyes. Pulled gently at his joints like warm water, tugging him downward. His limbs, which had held still for so long, unlatched. His breathing dipped. His jaw slackened.
Even his wings, which had curled close without thinking, began to ease. One loosened from his spine first, slow and unhurried, feathers dragging softly across the quilt. The other followed, folding down from the back of his neck where it had been tucked protectively over his softest places—the places that hurt first.
They drooped low, settling with a kind of heaviness that wasn’t fear, but release. Like something that finally understood that there was no more need to guard. The weight pulled back from his nape. Feathers flattened, relaxing with the sound of a long breath let out slow.
There was no threat. His body believed it now.
So the wings did too.
…Though safety, it seemed, didn’t guarantee coordination—especially not when one wing had apparently fallen asleep.
As the hands shifted him upright, his wings gave a small, fluttery twitch—trying to help, though not entirely in sync.
The left wing rose first, regal and poised, stretching outward with fluid grace. The feathers dragged lightly across the bedding like a curtain caught in a breeze.
The right… hesitated. Then, with the sluggish timing of something half-asleep, it jerked sideways and flopped—fwhump!—directly into his face.
Desmond flinched, letting out a soft, muffled grunt. He squeezed his eyes shut, nose scrunching beneath the unexpected feathered assault.
(Somewhere nearby, one of the girls snorted. Another made a heroic attempt to muffle hers behind her hands, shoulders trembling with mirth.)
Desmond didn’t bother speaking. He just exhaled a slow, defeated sigh through his nose and sluggishly, reached up with all the coordination of a sleepy octopus and dragged the traitorous wing out of his face and into his arms.
He held it close without ceremony.
It wasn’t comfortable. It wasn’t graceful.
But it was his.
A giggle escaped someone nearby, high-pitched and failing at subtlety.
“He hugged the dumb one.” The third voice whispered, barely holding it in.
“I would too.” The second admitted fondly. “Poor thing didn’t even aim.”
“Well, he tried.” The first voice giggled near his cheek, warm and amused.
The laughter swelled—soft and stifled, like pillows pressed to faces.
Then—flick! The wing twitched.
Not lazily, not tiredly, but offended.
A sharp puff of feathers.
A flounce.
A tiny, unmistakable fluff of indignation.
The air caught as the voices gasped—delighted.
“Oh no.”
“It’s mad.”
“Shhh, poor darling, we didn’t mean it.” One crooned, and something reached out and began stroking the wing’s curve, smoothing its ruffled pride.
“There now.” Someone else comforted, and Desmond felt fingers trail gently along the shaft of a feather. “We’re sorry. You’re not dumb. Just… dramatic.”
Desmond, still drooping forward like a sleepy blanket pile, gave the wing a clumsy, reproachful nudge with his knuckles. A half-hearted reprimand.
The wing stilled, then folded again—grudgingly.
The voices laughed in amusement and just when peace seemed restored, the other wing stirred. It lifted, gliding back into place with deliberate elegance—arched, poised, perfect.
It flared just enough to be noticed.
Not helpful, not necessary.
Less of a stretch and more of a statement.
Ugh.
It was, unmistakably, a wing’s version of an eye roll.
“Did it just—?”
“It judged the other one!”
“Oh Dio, they’re siblings.”
Laughter fluttered around the bed again—softer now and when it faded, their attention returned—naturally, instinctively—to the right wing. The one that had flopped, pouted, tried its best—and was still nestled against Desmond’s chest like a scolded pet seeking comfort. Hands moved dotingly, smoothing, fussing, tucking primaries so they wouldn’t bend or break. One hand coaxed Desmond’s arm down, peeling it gently away so the floppier wing could be settled properly behind him.
“There.” Someone murmured, a smile in her voice. “That’s better, isn’t it?”
Desmond didn’t reply. He just exhaled—long and soft. His hand went limp, falling softly against the bed, and the wing followed, brushing his cheek like a quiet apology. Around him, shapes moved—careful, patient. The laughter quieted. The hands that had fussed and fluffed and apologized withdrew with grace.
And finally—now that the flurry had passed—Desmond slumped completely into the moment. His head lolled slightly and the last bit of tension slipped from his frame. He blinked, slower this time, as if the weight of being vertical had only just caught up with him.
Somewhere nearby, something clinked again. He heard the quiet rustle of someone leaning closer. Warmth gathered beside him—body heat, voice, presence.
“Open up, uccellino.” Came a whisper—gentle, playful, and sweet.
Desmond blinked slowly behind the cloth, trying to make sense of the shape in front of him but his eyes wouldn’t focus. They drifted sideways, too tired to track. His body, too soft to rise. Was this the first voice? Or the third one? He couldn’t quite tell anymore.
This still felt like a dream.
No sharpness. No edges. Just hush and warmth, gold behind his eyelids and something gentle in the air.
“Come now.” The voice coaxed again and something—maybe a knuckle, maybe a sleeve— brushed his cheek, soft as breath. “Just a little. For me?”
Desmond frowned. Open up a little? For what?
And then, the scent hit him.
It was faint at first, drifting toward him like a lure. Something warm, something sweet. He didn’t know what it was exactly—but it smelled like comfort and something dangerously edible.
His stomach stirred, twisted—and suddenly, without warning, it slammed into him all at once.
He was hungry.
Not the quiet kind. Not the ‘you should probably eat something’ kind.
No, this was the real kind. The kind that settled deep in his chest like gravity, like a long forgotten instinct rising all at once. A hollow, yawning ache cracked open inside him. His mouth watered. His ribs throbbed faintly with the shape of old emptiness. And his mind, previously struggling to keep up, suddenly stood to attention.
‘I could eat.’ Desmond thought, dazed. ‘A whole loaf. A whole cow. Like—everything.’
Something touched his lower lip, cool and sweet against the warmth of his skin. Light flickered at the edge of his vision enough for him to catch the glint of the spoon and before his mind could wonder if it was safe, his body had already decided for him. He opened his mouth without hesitation.
The moment the taste hit his tongue, something in him quieted. It was sweet—thick and clinging, and stuck pleasantly to the roof of his mouth. It was…familiar in a way he couldn’t name.
Honeyed milk. Maybe fruit. Maybe oats? Maybe all of the above?
Another spoon arrived. Desmond opened for that too, but slower this time. More aware. More curious. His brow furrowed faintly, lashes low, as he chewed with sleepy concentration and tried to name the flavor.
Had he ever actually eaten something like this? Whatever it was, he liked it—and when the next spoon approached, he leaned in without thinking, like his body had already decided it wanted more before his mind caught up. A soft, content hum slipped from his throat, barely louder than a breath. One wing gave a little flutter—just a sleepy twitch, like it agreed.
“There’s a good boy.” Said the voice beside his temple—gentler than the last. Not mocking. Not indulgent. Just fond—more maternal than teasing.
Then—another shift in the air.
The third presence leaned closer. It didn’t speak. It simply drew close, fabric brushing fabric, warmth pressing through space.
Desmond blinked again, caught the shape in his peripheral, and—something skin-warm, sweet smelling, and velvety touched his lips.
A peach.
He didn’t know how he knew, but he did. His head tilted slightly—once, then again—the way a bird might consider a breadcrumb left on open palms.
The peach slice touched his mouth again—soft and waiting.
His lips parted, slow and unsure, accepting the fruit with a quiet hesitance. His jaw worked once, then again—and when the sweetness bloomed, a honeyed softness that melted between his teeth, he chewed more confidently. It was sticky, rich, and sun-warm. A hum vibrated low in his throat, puzzled but pleased.
“Like a nestling.” A voice murmured, warm and breathless near his temple.
“He doesn’t even peck.” Another giggled, voice full of quiet delight. “He just opens his mouth like he’s waiting for us to sing.”
They laughed again, quieter this time. They fed him in turns—peach and porridge, spoon and slice. Each motion was deliberate, doting, reverent. Fingers brushed his lips with the care of someone mending silk, voices low and fond as they murmured encouragement between bites.
The next piece of peach was softer than the last. Riper. It pressed against his mouth and gave way without resistance. Juice slicked his lower lip, dribbling down the corner of his mouth.
Desmond blinked, startled by the sensation but before he could move, a thumb was there—gentle and unhurried—wiping the juice away with an affectionate sweep.
“There we go.” Someone murmured. “All clean, darling.”
Another giggle followed. “He’s so sticky now.”
“We’ll bathe him later.” A voice hummed, amused. “Let him be for now.”
Desmond hummed, drowsy and agreeable. A bath sounded nice. He was pretty sticky. Probably everywhere. His skin felt tacky in places—behind his knees, under one wing, where the blanket clung. Not filthy, but not clean, either.
His jaw moved, savoring the next spoonful of sweetness.
Desmond blinked—lashes low, gaze soft behind the veil as he swallowed.
Nothing felt real and yet everything was so vivid. The warmth of the peach juice. The cool curve of a spoon. The press of fingers dabbing at his chin, careful not to press too hard.
A breath touched his cheek—close, sweet, and floral. Someone leaned in near his temple, her voice barely more than a whisper.
“He’s like a dove.” She murmured. “A baby one.”
Another voice, softer and lilting, gave a breath of a laugh. “What do you even call a baby dove? A chick?”
“A fledgling?” Offered the third, curiosity weaving through her tone.
“No, no, you’re both wrong.” The first insisted, breath catching with amusement. “He’s not scrappy enough to be a fledgling.”
The second voice snorted. “Even with the flopping?”
“Especially with the flopping.” Came the fond reply, weighted with affection. “Fledglings fight. They flutter and fuss. Desmond just... melts—and lets us dote on him. He’s more like—like a dovelet.”
The word landed softly, carried on a smile.
Dovelet.
It drifted through the air like a feather on a breeze—light and delicate, as if it were a sound meant for him and only him.
Desmond blinked slowly, lashes heavy, the edges of his vision still blurred behind the gauzy veil. He didn’t really understand what they were saying, but something deep inside him stirred.
The next spoon met his lips and he took it without thinking. His breath came steady. His fingers twitched.
And then—barely audible, slurred and soft—
“…D’let.”
It fluttered out of him—muffled and small, a noise of comfort more than language. A sleepy mimicry. A sound of recognition, of trust, of amused confusion.
Desmond didn’t know what it meant, but he felt how the word wrapped around him. How it sounded in their mouths—safe and sweet.
Dovelet.
That was a funny word. Like something Lucia would come up with.
He liked it.
It felt good. Warm. Like belonging.
Somewhere around him, joy bloomed. A flutter of breathy laughter. A sound smothered into a sleeve. Another gave a tiny gasp so pure it felt like morning sun breaking through clouds. The air was full of warmth and hands and laughter and gold, and Desmond didn’t shrink from it.
He leaned in.
“Oh—”
“Did you hear—? Mio cuore!”
“He said it back—he said it back!”
Fingers brushed his cheek, light and reverent. A thumb traced the curve of a feather where it peeked from his wing.
Desmond didn’t understand why they were happy.
But he knew they were.
And he liked that too.
Their laughter rang through the room—light and soft, stifled into sleeves and shoulders, bright like little chimes.
It reminded him of something.
A bell.
Not the grand, echoing kind that marked the hour—but a small one. A crooked little bell, tied with twine to the gate back home. The one that jingled when the wind stirred it or when someone came through the threshold.
Sometimes, it meant hide.
If a townsperson came for tinctures or poultices, Maria would whisper urgently—“Go, Desmond. Quick.”
And Desmond would duck into his room, heart tight in his chest, waiting for the bell to chime again when they left.
But sometimes—sometimes it meant something else.
Lucia running up the path, her laugh rising ahead of her like a kite. Maria returning from the market with a basket full of yeast, herbs, and gossip.
That same bell.
Always the same bell, but the meaning changed depending on who walked through the gate.
So Desmond had learned to listen. Not just to the sound, but to what followed.
And this—this laughter, these hands, these voices—
It sounded like that bell on a good day.
Light. Warm. A song for someone coming home.
His head tilted slightly, leaning closer as if to catch the chime again before it vanished.
And then he smiled.
Not wide. Not practiced. Just a soft, lopsided tug at the corner of his mouth—like the warmth had seeped so deep it nudged the muscles before he could stop it.
A soft gasp broke the quiet.
And then a rush of noise—soft coos, joyful whispers, a chorus of fond disbelief.
“Oh—look at him.”
“He smiled. Did you see that? He—oh, amore mio—”
A flurry of whispers swelled around him like a warm breeze. He didn’t know the words, but the tone wrapped around him like sunlight, melting into his skin.
Desmond didn’t try to follow it. He just stayed still—half-curled, blinking slowly, eyelids heavy with comfort—while the next spoon pressed softly to his lips.
“More, sweetling?”
Desmond’s lashes flickered. His lips parted.
He accepted the next peach the same way—drowsy, blinking, but leaning forward this time. Enough to meet the spoon halfway. Enough to let them know he’d heard.
Bite. Chew. Sweet. Swallow.
The rhythm was gentle, familiar. His body fell into it easily, like remembering an old song.
They fed him slowly that way—unhurried and gentle. Between bites, fingers sometimes brushed the corner of his mouth, wiping the stickiness from his chin with a tenderness that felt too nice to be real. A damp cloth dabbed along the curve of his jaw. Someone whispered something near his temple. Desmond couldn’t catch the meaning, but they vibrated with fondness close enough to settle against his skin like a kiss.
He never reached for the food, but he responded to every offering—tilting his head, parting his lips, humming faintly between swallows with a sleepy contentment that surprised even him.
He liked the softer peach slices the most. Desmond’s brow furrowed faintly when one turned out too tart and the corners of his mouth twitched in displeasure before he could stop himself.
A quiet giggle came from nearby. A spoonful of warm milk followed—creamy, familiar, sweet—and he drank that too, slow and sleepy.
He accepted the next fruit slice without hesitation. And the next spoonful. And the next one after that. He swallowed without thinking, blinking between bites, not quite tracking where one ended and the other began.
The voices around him rose and fell like tides—gentle, patient, and always close by.
Women’s voices, Desmond realized belatedly.
Warm hands brushed the corner of his mouth, wiping the stickiness from his chin. Another set of fingers carefully smoothed away strands of unruly hair that clung to his cheek.
Desmond didn’t flinch. He leaned into the touches instinctively—chasing the warmth with the kind of longing that he didn’t realize he had. Just instinct. Just trust. Something in him stretched toward it, slow and unguarded.
Softness. Sweetness. Warm hands. Steady rhythm.
It was a language.
And Desmond—curled in quiet, nestled in kindness—was finally starting to remember how to understand it.
Somewhere nearby, one of them laughed—a breathy sound, barely stifled—and his gaze, blurred and low-lidded, drifted toward the sound.
‘That one…’ He thought drowsily. ‘...has a laugh like feathers.’
Another voice shushed her, accompanied by the steady weight of a palm smoothing over his shoulder.
That one’s hands were very warm.
And close beside him, the third lingered without speaking—her presence quieter, threaded with the scent of rosewater and sleep.
She smelled like mornings.
Desmond let himself sink. Into the voices. Into the hands. Into the dream, if that’s what this was.
He didn’t need to know who they were.
He only knew how it felt.
Familiar. Safe.
(Unbeknownst to Desmond, the courtesans around him shared quiet glances—smiling, relieved, a little enchanted.
Beyond the doorway, however, the rest of the household seethed.
A silent, velvet war was being waged in the hall—dresses hitched, brows drawn, hands curled into fists.
The three women inside were basking in angelic affection, cooing over spoonfuls and tucking blankets like blessed saints, while the rest were left to suffer.
One girl mouthed, “I hope your corset snaps!” at Bartholomea through the crack of the door.
Another glared at Catalina and made the sign of the cross. Then mimed stabbing herself through the heart.
The one beside her had her teeth clenched around a handkerchief, eyes narrowed in murderous focus—like she was imagining tearing Anastasia apart, lace and all.
They had all bribed, bartered, and schemed for a chance to be in the room, but Paola had been clear: Three at most, at a time. No exceptions.
“To avoid overwhelming him.” She had said with a graceful tilt of her head.
Which was reasonable. Rational. Kind.
And infuriating.
Especially when their angel—their sleepy, honey-soft Desmond— sighed contentedly and opened his mouth for another spoonful like a gentle prince from a fairytale dream.
Someone in the hallway nearly collapsed from envy.)
Desmond, meanwhile, continued his part in the dream with unthinking ease.
Spoon. Chew. Sweet. Swallow.
It was a rhythm. A comfort. He didn’t question it.
Until he breathed in—and stilled.
The spoon lingered too long this time, held just shy of his parted lips. But this time, he did not open. The breath caught in his throat—just slightly—and his brow pinched.
The rhythm faltered.
A thread in the dream pulled taut.
There—hidden in the warmth—a scent clung to the steam. Faint, but warm.
Amber, and…and rose, but laced with something else.
It clung to the air like a memory, but too rich, too clear—too crisp for a dream.
‘Is this not familiar?’ A thought crooned wonderingly.
Desmond might have ignored it, should have ignored it, but the thought seeped through his mind like thread through a needle. It caught. Held.
He didn’t tense, not when his limbs were still heavy with the lull of safety, but the breath in his lungs caught halfway. The stillness that followed was too quiet.
Desmond’s fingers twitched. The wing draped over his back shivered faintly, like it had heard something it didn’t like.
‘It is, isn’t it?’ The voice echoed—amused, like someone recalling a private joke.
And suddenly, he did remember.
Not clearly. Not by name.
But in sensation.
That scent—he’d known it once, basked in it with a lazy smile and open collar, his fingers tangled in soft fabric, voices sweet and reverent against his skin. It wasn’t his memory, not truly—but it clung to him anyways.
No, not him, not as Desmond, but someone else. Someone he had been.
Someone flushed with youth and charm. Someone at ease in this place, in this world, with hands that never flinched when touched.
His mouth felt dry. His wings pulled in tight. Somewhere behind the soft, gold veil still tied across his eyes, the world tilted—just slightly. Like the room had leaned closer. Like something had changed.
The warmth hadn’t left.
But it no longer felt entirely innocent.
(And inside Desmond, coiled around his core, something noticed it too.
That wasn’t a thought Desmond would have made. It wasn’t his pattern. It wasn’t his voice. Warm, yes. Familiar, yes. But not him.
The Eye leaned closer, folding itself tighter around its charge.
Searching. Listening. Bracing.)
“...Wuh… where…” Desmond swallowed, fumbling. His Adam’s apple bobbed as he tried again, voice rough with sleep and disuse. “Where’m I?”
The women quieted, their bodies stilling like birds sensing a shift in wind. They exchanged a glance—brief, wordless. One of them leaned close and brushed an unruly lock of hair that had fallen across his temple with gentle fingers.
“You’re in Firenze, angel.” She murmured softly.
Firenze.
The name bloomed in Desmond’s mind—warm and golden, almost too easily.
Florence. Of course.
The recognition came fast, too fast, opening beneath him like a trapdoor.
He was born here.
And suddenly—too suddenly—he could see it even through the haze of the veil. Hear it. Not blurred. Not warm. Sharp.
The curve of rooftops.
The glow of the Arno at dusk.
The weight of chapel bells.
Federico’s laughter echoing through the air. Claudia’s voice drifting from a window. His mother’s fingers carding through his hair.
In his mind, a dreamscape began to form.
The stones rose first, pale and sun-warmed.
Then the scent of the Arno’s mist drifted in next, sweet and old.
And then the bells—heavy, bronze voices, rang above—slow and eternal, pulling a smile to his lips.
Home.
It built itself around him, brick by brick, memory by memory.
Golden and perfect. Exactly the way he wanted to remember it.
‘Home. I’m home.’ He thought—but not in his voice. Not Desmond’s.
Ezio’s.
His lips almost smiled.
(And that was when one of the courtesans hesitated.
Not because of the smile itself, but because of the way it pulled—just a little too crooked, too boyish. Not soft, not drowsy, not loose with safety.
Deliberate.
And his wings—
They sagged—not with exhaustion, but uncertainty. One had drooped too low. The other lifted slightly, unsure, unsettled—as if it didn’t know what it was supposed to be doing.
And beneath the sheer blindfold, his eyes moved—quick, tracking. Not the drifting weightlessness of sleep—but something more searching. A flicker. The edge of awareness in the wrong direction.
They were small changes—minuscule—but to women who had watched him breathe for days, they rang like warning bells.
“Darling?” One whispered, smoothing a hand along his arm, voice dipped in careful calm.
Another leaned closer, fingers brushing through his hair, voice low and coaxing. “Stay with us, tesoro.”
Desmond twitched, a faint jerk beneath their hands.
The spoon—forgotten for the moment—clinked gently as it was set aside. Someone murmured. Someone else rose from their knees.
“Is he—?”
“Shh, it’s alright. Easy, now, dear heart—”
They crowded gently around him—palms cupping his shoulders, fingers petting along his wings, trying to anchor him, ground him, keep him tethered to the warmth.
“It’s alright, tesoro.” Someone whispered, brushing a palm down his spine. “You’re safe here.”
Fingers smoothed through his hair, light and rhythmic. Someone else tucked a fold of the blanket higher against his hip.
But the crack had already split open.
The hands, their warmth, their lullabies blurred into distant hums as the false Florence tightened its hold.)
And elsewhere—just beneath thought, just beneath memory—the Eye tensed.
This… wasn’t how Desmond’s rare moments of Bleeds usually behaved. The Eye had seen them before, through Desmond’s memories. They came in fragments, not full form. In flickers, not whole scenes. Echoes, not invitations.
But this—this was too whole. Too vivid.
Too prepared.
A world laid out like welcome.
And there was someone already waiting inside.
In the space behind Desmond’s eyes, the Eye saw what the Bleed had shaped—a man, older now, bearing Ezio’s face and hands. He stood behind Desmond, curled around him like he’d always belonged there. As if Desmond did, too.
One arm wrapped low around Desmond’s waist—loose enough to breathe, tight enough to trap. The other ghosted upward, brushing over his chest, grazing the hollow of his throat, lingering at the curve of his jaw before finally closing over Desmond’s wide eyes with slow, reverent finality.
Desmond let out a shuddering exhale, his body tensing and yielding all at once—caught in the press of memory, the slide of old muscle instincts betraying him.
And Ezio—this memory, this parasite—smiled against the shell of his ear, breath warm and threaded with something older.
“You remember, don’t you, amico mio?” It whispered, velvet-smooth and intimate. “I do. The rooftops. The stones. The sky in our lungs. Your blood rushing with mine.”
Sweet lies. Sweet chains.
Every word tightened the grip, winding around Desmond’s ribs, sinking into his bones. Every memory dragged him deeper into someone else’s life, someone else’s skin—and Desmond leaned into it without even realizing. He didn’t think. He only heard the voice and remembered the feeling.
Ezio’s mouth brushed along Desmond’s jaw, too close, too claiming—a mockery of a kiss disguised as memory.
And somewhere behind the veil, the Eye saw it.
The shape before it wore Ezio’s face—the angles were right, the voice well-forged, but it was wrong in the way a mask is wrong when held just a breath too long. The Eye hovered in that breath, bracing itself, scanning the scene as Desmond shivered in arms that held too tightly.
The hair was too neatly combed. The clothing was too clean, untouched by travel or time.
And the voice.
The voice was nearly perfect, but perfection itself was the tell.
Ezio had never spoken like that.
He’d been bold, brash, loud with love and aching with grief. Not this low, silken possessiveness. Not this careful tethering of Desmond’s self to shared blood and past rooftops. This was someone who wanted Desmond pliable. This was someone who had learned what Ezio meant to Desmond and was now feeding it back in spoonfuls of gold and rot.
The Eye reached into the archive of Desmond’s memories.
It flipped through each one ever touched by the Italian assassin, heartbeats captured in golden frames. Ezio laughing with Federico. Ezio cursing on a rooftop. Ezio, hands on his mother’s shoulders, voice cracking as he swore to protect what little he had left. Ezio had loved—fiercely, messily, honestly.
But this?
This Ezio whispered like a lover but held like a chain.
That wasn’t Ezio. That wasn’t even the Bleeding Effect.
That was a puppet—a golden shadow carved from Ezio’s bones, twisted and polished into a perfect hook.
Possession disguised as memory. Kindness used as bait.
The false Ezio tightened its hold, pressing closer—shoulder to shoulder, chest to back caging Desmond in a prison of false belonging. And when Desmond shivered faintly in his arms, dazed and lost, the shadow of Ezio chuckled, low and satisfied.
“Don’t you want to come back to us?”
The voice was Ezio’s—but the words weren’t. They landed wrong. Too rehearsed. Too sweet. Like someone had studied love secondhand and copied it by feel. The phrasing was all wrong—too polished, too neat. Like prayers whispered in the wrong order. Ezio’s cadence carried it, yes—but layered beneath was something else.
A gentle, familiar tone meant to comfort.
It belonged to Maria, the kind Desmond instinctively leaned towards, but even as it spoke, the Eye tensed. It had crafted her voice itself, drawn from Desmond’s memories, from even its own memories to make the dream. It knew every breath of Maria.
And this… this wasn’t her.
Because the Eye recognized it instantly—not with doubt, but with the sharp, metallic certainty of a blade pressed to its own throat. That voice. That frequency. That golden undercurrent wrapped in reverent poison. It was ancient and wrong—echoing with a weight that didn’t belong inside Desmond. Only from someone who came before.
The voice of a Creator. The will of an Isu.
The Eye recoiled, every part of its being shrieking in silent alarm.
Juno.
She was here. Inside him.
How?
It didn’t know when. It didn’t even know why. All it knew was that it had been blind and that she had gotten in.
In a burst of panic, the Eye surged inward—retracting through its own threads, scanning every layer of the dream, every tether it had woven to keep Desmond safe. It followed the warmth it had built, the love it had cradled him in. It checked the rooftops, the laughter, the garden. Lucia’s memory. Maria’s humming. The house’s own foundation.
And found it.
Not clearly—no defined shape, no voice—but a presence. A shimmer. A pull.
Like static beneath silk. Like mold behind paint.
Something else was there. Nestled in quiet corners, laced into smiles and sunlit kitchens, into lullabies Desmond hadn’t heard in years.
She was inside it.
Hidden. Patient. Feeding.
The Eye recoiled inward, as if scorched—rage flaring bright enough to strip the fog from every corner of its awareness.
She had moved through its dream. Built her nest inside the sanctuary it had built for its Savior. And the Eye—guardian, keeper, architect—hadn’t seen it.
She was rooted deep—feeding on love, draped in memory.
Long enough to have learned. Long enough to have studied. She was using Desmond’s own mind against him, twisting even the Bleeding Effect into a snare. Dressing memory up like safety. Wrapping possession in Ezio’s face, in Maria’s voice, in the warmth Desmond ached for most.
She had weaponized the fragments. Corrupted the bleeding.
And the Eye didn’t think. It didn’t plan. It reacted.
It struck without mercy—hard, fast, violently pure.
Get out.
The thought wasn’t even words. Just instinct. A shriek across every thread of its being.
Out. Out. OUT.
It hurled itself through the tether binding Desmond to the parasite, seizing the connection in white-hot rage. There was no subtlety, no grace. Just a flash of incandescent fury and desperate need to tear Juno and her puppet from Desmond now, but in the chaos—too rough, too fast—the Golden Florence cracked apart.
The dreamscape screamed as it fell and in the space behind Desmond’s eyes, the rupture hit like a storm.
The arms that had held him upright—those false, familiar hands—were gone in an instant, torn away as if by unseen claws. Desmond staggered, left suddenly unsupported, the air around him shattering into sharp gold.
His eyes were wide, unseeing, chest heaving as the warmth was stripped away. The world tilted, skewed.
And the dream—once golden and soft—collapsed like a stage set aflame, leaving Desmond standing alone in the bones of it.
The rooftops collapsed into rubble.
The Arno boiled to slit and sludge.
The cathedral bells warped and twisted into shrieking iron.
The vision of golden Florence shattered like glass and underneath—
Cold.
Cracked.
Empty.
—Desmond’s Florence waited.
The golden streets gave way to damp stone.
The sky shrank into a low, sweating arch of stone.
The warmth of the sun was gutted into a shuddering of torchlight and shadow.
Federico’s laughter soured into chanting. Claudia’s song cut off—swallowed mid-note by silence too thick to breathe. His mother’s fingers carding through his hair became a fist wrenching it back.
And Desmond remembered now. Not Ezio’s warmth, not the laughter in the sun—but his own cold. His Florence.
Stone beneath his wings. Manacles biting raw into his wrists. A priest’s voice spitting scripture through clenched teeth.
Florence as a cage. Florence where his pain was made holy. Florence as the last place he saw before he closed his eyes to the dream.
Desmond’s breath hitched.
The warmth fled.
And the Eye—
The Eye panicked.
It gathered Desmond close, folded itself around its Savior like a second skin. Soft warmth surged forward again—desperate, fumbling. It tried to blanket the breach it had torn open. To hush the memory it had unwittingly unleashed.
The Eye hadn’t meant for this to happen. Not here. Not now. Not like this. It had only wanted to save him—from the false Ezio, from her, from the lie of belonging, but in trying to save him, it had pulled too hard. It had torn too deep.
And now, Desmond was slipping back into it—reliving it.
//You are not there. You are safe.// The Eye soothed, its voice no longer reverent, but aching—cracked with guilt.
It tried to rebuild the dream again, weaving together the sun-warmed linen, Lucia’s laughter, Maria’s humming, the smell of fresh bread, still sweet in the air—
But it wasn’t enough.
Desmond flinched.
—and the images fell apart like burned parchment.
Desmond trembled, his breath hitching in short, panicked bursts. His eyes flicked beneath the veil—wild, unfocused, tracking things that weren’t there. Shapes. Movement. Lights too cruel to understand. His wings spasmed against the bed, feathers rustling in disarray. His hands reached—blind and weak—clutching at the quilt like it might hold him here.
A broken sound escaped him, rough, small, and wounded.
The Eye froze before it doubled its efforts. It reached again—wove thicker warmth, louder lullabies—but the trauma had sunk too deep. Desmond’s body couldn’t hear the dream. His heart was still trapped in the memory—
But then, the women moved.
Not in panic. Not in fear.
But like birds startled into stillness, then swept by instinct into flight.
One cupped his face—warm, callused, trembling just slightly. Another wrapped gently around his shoulders, not pulling, only anchoring. A third brushed over his knuckles, soft and sure, tracing his fingers like one might stroke a frightened bird.
“Desmond.” Someone whispered, voice close to his cheek, thick with feeling. “Come back to us, tesoro. We’ve got you. We’re right here.”
“You’re safe.” Said another—quieter, lower, like a vow spoken into skin. “You’re not there anymore. You’re here. With us.”
“It’s over now, uccellino.” Breathed a voice near his shoulder, raw with ache. “No more cages. Just us. Right here.”
But Desmond—shaking, wide-eyed, heart racing against the cage of his chest—trembled between them. He couldn’t answer. Couldn’t even breathe properly. His lips parted like he meant to respond—but no sound came. Just a breath that stuttered and collapsed before it finished. His fingers curled in tight around the edge of the blanket. His wings gave a helpless shiver.
And from beyond the doorway—where silks had rustled and breath had held and hands had fidgeted in helpless silence—they came.
First one. Then three. Then all of them, drawn by worry too deep to hold back. They didn’t flood the room—they filled it. Quiet, reverent, maternal. Silks whispered, bare feet kissed the floor. Hands reached out, slow and certain, like feathers brushing down to roost.
“Oh, dolcezza—”
“Is he cold? Blankets—someone get—”
“Look at his wings—oh, amorino, no, no, don’t shake like that—”
“Sweetheart, we’re here. Look at me—we’re right here.”
It should have been chaos, but it wasn’t.
They flocked to him like birds to a fallen hatchling. Like to a little brother they’d held in their hearts for days, watched sleep and struggle, and loved more fiercely than they’d meant to.
Footsteps whispered across the floor. Hands brushed past one another—careful, practiced, sure. There was no bumping, no crowding—only a gathering of warmth.
One wrapped her own shawl over his shoulders. Another slid her arms beneath his knees to help re-tuck the blanket. A third combed trembling fingers through his hair, whispering his name like a prayer.
“You’re safe.” One murmured, cheek pressed to his temple. “Just breathe with me, darling. That’s it—just like that. You’re doing so well.”
“It’s alright.” Another whispered. “You’re alright, sweetling.”
“You’re not alone. Not anymore.” Someone crooned—voice breaking, buried in his hair. “We’ve got you. We’ve got you. We’re not letting go.”
They spoke over each other, not to outdo but to reassure, the way sisters did when someone needed them all at once.
Desmond’s eyes were open, but nothing came clear. The world was too loud but…but their hands made sense. They didn’t force or demand. They simply followed the rhythm of his tremors—catching each one and softening it. Their hands mapped him without pressure—grounding, reminding, anchoring.
And one by one, they leaned into him, tucking him into the warmth of their bodies and crooned endearments.
Someone slipped their fingers through his, urging him to hold as tightly as he needed. Someone else pressed their forehead against his shoulder, humming a lullaby without words. A third traced soothing strokes down the trembling hinge of his wings.
The scent of perfume and linen filled his senses. Their heat pressed into him from every side. They hummed. They cooed. They murmured soft words into his skin like balm. Their touch was light, their voices softer.
“You’re safe, Desmond.”
“No one will hurt you here.”
“We’ll stay as long as you need.”
“We’re not going anywhere, dovelet.”
They folded around him like the walls of a sanctuary, building a nest of limbs and silks and love. Their touches were everywhere, yet never too much. One on his hand. One on his shoulder. One to the curve of his wing. Another whispering blessings into his hair.
The sounds of pain still rang somewhere in Desmond’s mind—iron hinges, the rasp of breathless scripture, the sharp crack of chains—but they were fading now, muted by softer things. The lull of humming. The brush of skirts like leaves in the wind. The touch of hands, petal-soft and safe.
The fear didn’t vanish. The memory still lingered, sharp-edged and trembling, but their voices wrapped around it like gauze, muffling the worst of it. Not erasing it, but quieting the sharpest parts. Like soft cloth laid over broken glass. Warmth wove into the cracks where the cold had taken root until the grief had nowhere left to echo.
Desmond’s fingers flexed against the quilt—then found the offered hand and clung tight.
The memories flared once—then flickered. Then dimmed.
A low, broken sigh escaped him. His wings drooped. His breathing slowed. It was still uneven, but it was no longer frantic. Like the panic had finally run out of places to hide.
Desmond’s head bowed, weak with exhaustion, and one of the women met the motion with her hands.
“Look at me, sweetheart.” She whispered, cradling his face between her palms.
And he did. His eyes met hers—red-rimmed, unfocused, and so terribly tired, but the wildness was gone. The thrashing panic had faded, leaving only a fragile stillness in its place. Desmond blinked, slow and unsteady, as if it took everything left in him to just keep looking at her.
She tried to smile—to give him something steady to hold onto—but the way he looked at her, raw and unguarded, made it falter.
Because Desmond didn’t look fragile.
He didn’t look afraid.
He just looked bare.
Like someone who had held on for too long… and no longer remembered how to pretend.
His lower lip trembled then stilled. He blinked once, and then again, harder this time, as if ashamed of the wetness in his eyes. Like he thought he wasn’t supposed to give in. Like the weakness threatening to leak from his eyes was something he should apologize for.
And her chest pulled tight.
They didn’t know Desmond the way people usually did—not through stories or laughter or years stitched together by time, but they knew him.
In the hush of his breathing when they fed him.
In the way his fingers curled when someone pulled the blanket a little higher.
In the soft flutter of his wings when they spoke about their day beside him.
The courtesans had learned of him through gentleness—through silence.
And now he was looking back—really looking—and something in it undid her because people like him shouldn’t break like this.
Not the ones who wrapped themselves around courtesans like shelter.
Not the ones who soothed shaking hands and stayed until the fear passed.
Not the ones who stood between harm and women the world called disposable.
Angels like him shouldn’t be allowed to look like this. They shouldn’t look so sorry for being hurt.
But he did. He was.
Her throat caught. Her breath stuttered. And then—quietly, helplessly—she began to cry.
“Oh, tesoro.” She breathed. Her thumbs traced the curve of his cheeks, trying to console him even though her own tears spilled freely. “You were scared, weren’t you?”
Desmond didn’t speak but his chin dipped—the motion so faint she would have missed it had she not been watching him so closely. His eyes, wide and glistening, stared at her with such naked honesty that it broke her all over again.
“…We were, too.” The woman confessed, with a wet, shaking laugh. Her fingers threaded through his unruly hair, as if she could still protect him from whatever had hurt him.
She didn’t know what place he’d gone to. What he’d seen. What he’d had to relive just to return.
But he had. He’d come back.
“You’re here. You made it.” She brushed her thumb beneath one eye, catching the shimmer before it fell.
“There you are, Desmond.” She murmured and leaned in to rest her forehead against his. Her breath shivered against his skin. “There you are.”
A pause. A breath.
“There’s our sweet boy.”
The others gathered closer, careful not to jostle or crowd. They laid their hands wherever they could—on his arms, his legs, the fragile arch of his wings. Not trapping, not restraining.
Just... holding.
Someone rubbed slow circles against his temple, gentle and grounding, as his breath hitched once and then again. Something wet clung to his lashes. The curve of his cheek shimmered, catching light that hadn’t been there before.
No one spoke. No one pulled away. They didn’t hush or rush him. The women only stayed close, like they had been waiting for this. And when the trembling eased—when his shoulders dropped just slightly—it left behind something quieter. The weight in his chest lessened, making space for something gentler to settle in.
Desmond blinked slowly. His breath caught but this time, it passed without stumbling.
He didn’t understand what was happening. Where he was. What any of it meant.
But their hands were steady. Their voices, kind. And when he sagged at last into the warmth, someone leaned in, pressed a kiss to his temple, and whispered low and certain, “You’re here, tesorino. You’re safe now. You’re home now.”
A breath escaped him, long and lulled, and Desmond’s eyes fluttered shut. His hand, still tangled in another’s, gave one weak, grateful squeeze.
The warmth held him steady. The voices curled around him like songs half-remembered. Fingers traced comfort over the edges of his thoughts. Someone smoothed his hair. Someone else kissed his hand.
He liked it here.
The thought came unbidden, as fragile as breath.
Nothing made sense. He didn’t know these people. He didn’t understand what was happening. He didn’t even know if this was all even real.
But it was warm. It was soft.
This felt like lullabies he didn’t know. Like comfort he’d stopped asking for. Like the hum of safety curled around him in the shape of strangers who didn’t want anything from him—not miracles, not answers, not feathers.
Just… him.
Someone had said it—that he was home.
And he believed them.
He didn’t know why, but he wanted to.
Because the truth was—he hadn’t had a home since that night. Since Maria’s house crumbled to ash and Lucia’s hand slipped from his own. Since everything good had been burned out of the world, and he’d stopped hoping it would come back.
But this…this room, this warmth, this gentle net of hands and shawls and quiet voices—
It felt like maybe home hadn’t died. Maybe it had just waited. Hidden. Changed its shape.
And now it had found him again. Found him here and wrapped around him in soft touches and steady presences that didn’t demand or question or turn away.
He didn’t understand it, but he didn’t want to leave. Not when this—whatever this was—felt like a nest rebuilt with unfamiliar hands. Not the one he’d fallen from, but still warm. Still safe enough to land in.
“…If ’s a dream…” Desmond whispered, voice heavy with sleep and something deeper, something cracked. “Please don’ wake me…”
He drew a shuddering breath, and smiled faintly, like the warmth of them had finally reached something deeper.
“…I like this one…”
The women stilled. Their hands froze mid-motion, grief blooming behind their ribs.
One of them let out a breath she didn’t know she’d been holding—part laugh, part ache. Another pressed her face into the curve of his shoulder, whispering, “Oh, tesoro…”
The weight of his body eased. His wings settled.
Desmond didn’t stir again.
Only breathed—slow and steady—held safe in the shelter of their hands.
Desmond didn’t realize he’d nodded off until the world returned softer than it had been before.
He didn’t know how long he’d slept for. Only that he felt warm. And good. The panic had passed, its sharpest edges having dulled into something quieter. His eyes were crusted at the corners. His face felt damp and tender. Even the air smelled sweeter than before.
He blinked slowly, disoriented, and it was only after a moment of dazed blinking did he register the warmth beneath his cheek. It rose and fell in time with his own breath. A faint scent of roses clung to it, warm and human and close.
Oh.
He was leaning against someone’s shoulder.
Voices drifted around him—familiar, gentle. Someone was humming as she traced the lines of his palm. Another ran fingers through his hair, murmuring something fond about how it always curled around his ears. There was soft laughter as someone tucked the blanket higher over one wing, which twitched and made it fall right back down.
His body felt heavy again but in a good way. Weighted by peace instead of fear.
He shifted slightly, his head turning just a little where it rested—seeking warmth or maybe chasing the sound of laughter.
A hand moved to cup his jaw. Another traced the line of his brow.
“Back with us again, Desmond?” Someone whispered, fondness in her voice. “You slept through breakfast and half of lunch.”
Oh. He had?
Desmond blinked, eyes struggling to focus behind the cloth over his eyes. The blindfold was still there, still casting the world in soft gold, but the world behind it had begun to sharpen. Faces hovered near him, familiar only because of their shape and sound. He couldn’t count how many were here with him, but he could see the curve of their smiles, the shine of hair decorations, and the light catching on jewelry when they leaned forward.
He didn’t recognize them. They weren’t the initial three he had been surrounded by at first, but he wasn’t afraid.
“We saved something nice, just for you.” The voice said, sweetly. Her thumb dipped behind the cloth, brushing lightly beneath his eye, like she was wiping away the last of a dream. “Can you eat a little more for us, dovelet?”
She pulled back and as if on cue, a spoon touched his lips—warm, savory. He opened for it, slow but without hesitation.
The taste was comforting. Something soft and earthy, like torn bread soaked in broth and herbs. Maybe egg?
Desmond’s brows twitched faintly. Egg…? Were there chickens here too, then?
The thought drifted in, warm and round like the birds themselves. He liked chickens. Chickens were good. They made funny little noises when they were happy and followed you for crumbs. Chickens meant home. Chickens meant comfort and company.
Maybe there were chickens here. In the garden. Or behind the kitchens. Maybe one was nesting in someone’s laundry right now, cozy and smug.
He liked that idea.
A tiny, pleased sound slipped from Desmond’s throat—almost a hum—as a faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips.
(Around him, the courtesans went still.
“Oh.” One whispered, awed. “He smiled. He likes it.”
“Was that for the egg?” Another asked, hopeful.
“Write that down.” Someone else hissed from the hallway. “Order another basket—Desmond likes eggs!”
“Soaked in broth.” Another added quickly. “With rosemary and a little thyme. No. Salt! He made a happy noise—remember that recipe!”)
A spoon brushed his lips again, and Desmond opened without protest, still distracted by the idea of chickens. Fluffy ones. Maybe with ribbons. Ampi had a ribbon—tied around her neck from that one time Lucia caught her bullying the others, picking fights with brooms—and losing.
(“She’s on probation.” Lucia had said gravely, as if sentencing a criminal. “This is her shame ribbon.”)
Desmond swallowed—barely. A choked laugh escaped him and his shoulders twitched, the corners of his mouth threatening to rise again.
A tutting hand cupped the back of his head, steadying him as he swallowed, mistaking the sound for a struggle.
Bite. Chew. Swallow. Rest.
The rhythm came back to him.
They didn’t rush. Just waited—spoonful by spoonful, breath by breath.
Another fruit—not a peach this time, but a fig—pressed against his mouth, soft and candied. He opened for that too.
The sweetness lingered on his tongue, but it was the pressure of a hand in his—warm and steady—that suddenly pulled his focus. He turned his head slightly, blinking through the haze behind the blindfold, following the hand that squeezed his like it had called his name.
The touch was familiar. Not by memory, but by weight. She had clung to him once, hadn’t she? A girl had trembled in his arms while he shielded her with his wings. He had held her until she stilled. He remembered that—just barely—but the feeling lingered. Someone small had once made herself smaller against him and called it safety. And he had been safe, too, just for that moment—held in return by the act of holding.
“...Lucia?” Desmond asked, voice thick with sleep, the name tipping off his tongue like a thought not quite anchored. It was less of a question and more of a curious, muddled tilt toward something familiar.
The woman stilled, her hand tightening ever so slightly around his.
“...I’m Letta.” She said softly.
Desmond’s brows pinched faintly as if the name she gave didn’t quite match the shape she carried.
“But… y’feel like…” He trailed off. The words wouldn’t come. The weight in his chest pressed down, but not hard.
Just enough to ache.
His gaze drifted toward her, unhurried. Her face blurred at the edges—smudged like a watercolor painting—but something about it tugged at him. The cadence of her voice. The way she clutched his hand. Not Lucia. But close. Close enough that some quiet part of him stirred with recognition.
Warm. Brave. Shaking. That same fierce vulnerability pressed into his chest.
He blinked slowly, the tension leaking from his shoulders.
Not Lucia but…Lucia-shaped?
The thought curled in his chest. She wasn’t his sister, but she felt like her. Not the real Lucia, but the dream of her. The hope of who she might’ve become.
Someone bright. Someone bold. Someone who would’ve loved music and ribbons and staying up too late. Might’ve begged to borrow someone’s makeup and stolen sips of wine just to feel grown.
He could almost hear her laugh—high and breathless, spun from giddiness and too much sugar. She would’ve twirled in the hallway, tried on perfume behind their mother’s back, whispered secrets just to be heard laughing.
She would’ve—
‘She won’t laugh like that anymore.’ The thought came quietly, smooth, practiced, like a blade sheathed in silk. It sounded like his own voice. Natural. Inarguable.
(But beneath the stillness, something coiled—impatient. Thin.)
Desmond faltered, the small smile on his lips faltering.
It didn’t hurt—not at first. Just settled in his chest like a truth he’d always known, but hadn’t stopped to understand.
A spoon touched his lips. He opened his mouth on instinct, but the taste had changed. What had once been savory and warm now tasted… off.
Like sugar over ash.
Fruit split by heat.
Something sour, something scorched.
His chest tightened. He was…missing something, wasn’t he? Something was wrong. Something hollowed. Like the memory had taken a step away from him.
And Desmond realized that he couldn’t hear it. Lucia’s laugh—he couldn’t hear it anymore. He hadn’t really heard in a while, had he? Not in so long—not since…not since—
The forest.
Snow crunching under his knees.
Damp feathers, broken breath.
The weight of her pressing into his arms, not like when she’d clung to him, giggling, but after.
After.
When—when—
‘You’ll never see—’
The rest didn’t come.
Something closed around it. Tight. Sharp.
Like a fist around a throat.
The thought convulsed once—then fell silent.
//Not yet, Desmond.// The voice came, low and immediate, wrapped in quiet resolve. It settled across Desmond’s thoughts, smoothing over the jagged edge of grief before it could cut deeper. The ache softened and dulled. The pressure building in his chest loosened—not gone, but muted. Set aside.
(The Eye whispered warmth into the hollow places—just enough to keep him breathing. Just enough to patch over what she had nearly broken open.)
And then—
The warmth returned. The taste followed.
Broth again—rich, familiar, slow. Herbs, tender and green. Egg, folded soft and fluffy.
The spoon touched his lips once more, and this time, it smelled like what it was.
Desmond blinked, releasing the breath he hadn’t realized he had been holding.
He opened for it, slow but willing. The taste melted across his tongue. His shoulders slackened. The ache in his chest ebbed away and he couldn’t recall if it had even been there in the first place anymore or if he’d just imagined it. The memory of Lucia’s laugh floated back but it just felt...a little further away. Like it was coming from a different room.
Desmond blinked slowly, his brow easing. The world blurred golden.
What… had he been thinking about?
His thoughts tried to reach for it, but the shapes dissolved too quickly to hold. Like cotton candy in water.
//Just noise.// Came the voice—the Eye—firm and steady, smoothing over the wrinkle in his thoughts. //Nothing worth chasing. You were thinking about Letta. She reminded you of someone, didn’t she?//
Desmond’s lips parted slightly. His brows twitched, then softened again.
Oh. Right.
He nodded faintly, the motion slow and content. He trusted the Eye. It had never lied to him—not when it mattered. If it said so… then it was probably true.
Desmond turned his head slightly, the motion slow and lazy, like a leaf drifting downstream. Light filtered through the sheer fabric of the blindfold—turning Letta’s shape into something golden and soft-edged.
Yes. He remembered now. Letta. Letta who was like Lucia.
Not his sister—no, but close. Sister-shaped. Kindness-colored. Warm in the way Desmond had loved and lost and still couldn’t quite believe had been real. She wasn’t Lucia, but she carried the feeling of her. That hush of presence. That quiet instinct to comfort.
“…Luc’-shaped,” Desmond decided aloud, the word slurred with sleep and certainty. He nodded faintly to himself, as if the thought had settled something important deep inside him.
His gaze drifted, slow and aimless, to the others around him. Blurred outlines through the golden veil. A soft chorus of breath. Warm hands. Patient eyes.
Yes. Them too. They were all like that, weren’t they? Why hadn’t he seen it before?
Each voice and hand belonged to someone kindness-shaped. Lucia-shaped. Sister-soft. Not the same—but familiar in a way that made his chest ache with sweetness. Like scattered reflections of someone he held dear across new faces.
They weren’t ghosts, but echoes. Grown. Stronger. Gentler. Like what Lucia might’ve become, if time had been kind.
He didn’t know their names, but it didn’t matter.
Because he knew what they were now.
Desmond’s mouth tilted at the corners with something fond.
“Luc’-shaped… sis-shaped…” He mumbled, cataloguing the world not by logic but by feel. He leaned towards the hand that had just fed him. Even her fingers smelled like honey and Desmond—Desmond exhaled, slow and heavy, full of quiet trust. He understood now. No wonder they were so good to him. No wonder they felt like home. They were his.
“M’ big sisters.” Desmond said at last, voice slurred but sure.
And the breath caught in the room.
Letta pressed her hands over her heart. Another let out a shaky laugh that cracked halfway into a sob. A third leaned in without a word, adjusting the blanket around his hips, her fingers trembling. The last rested her hand over his ankle like she was each trying to anchor this moment with touch.
No one dared speak.
(Because an angel had called them—people like them—sisters. Not sinners. Not wicked. Not lost.
Just… sisters.)
Desmond didn’t move. He stayed soft beneath their hands, unguarded and whole, letting the warmth hold him.
If Lucia had grown taller, her hands would’ve felt like this.
If she had lived, maybe she would have tucked him in like this.
Whispered like this. Hummed like this.
They weren’t her, but they were close enough to quiet the hollowness in his chest. Close enough to quiet the ache. Close enough to feel like family.
“Sis...” He murmured again, the words slurred with affection, as though he were naming something sacred.
Letta choked on a breath. “Oh, tesoro…”
Desmond hummed in contentment, thoughts fluffed up like clouds. He floated, adrift in warm breaths and voices, eyes half-lidded and unfocused. His smile bloomed slowly—small, certain, and utterly sincere.
A hand cupped his jaw. Another traced the curve of his cheekbone—light as a kiss.
“You’re doing so well, Desmond.” Someone whispered, voice trembling with pride. A spoon touched his lip again—gentle, coaxing. “Just a little more, fratellino? For us?”
And he obeyed. Bite, chew, savor, swallow.
Sweetness. Warmth.
He wasn’t thinking anymore. Just drifting. Just held.
Letta whispered something and he smiled faintly. Another fig passed his lips. His wings stirred, rustling against the blanket.
One of the women dabbed the corner of his mouth with a cloth. Another ran her fingers gently along the edge of one wing, smoothing where the feathers curled. One girl stroked his hair and giggled when he leaned into the touch, lips parted around the echo of a smile.
His body felt too heavy to move, his mind too soft to doubt.
The women around him might not be his family but they felt like safety. They were shaped by Lucia’s shadow, warmed by the same light, and that was enough for him.
The rhythm resumed. Desmond floated inside it.
And the Eye—the Eye watched all this quietly, curled deep into the space beneath Desmond’s thoughts. It saw its Savior melt into the freely offered comfort, as his brow unfurrowed, as he finally, so blissfully, forgot to be afraid.
It knew that Desmond could not see clearly. The world was still tinted and blurred at the edges, all silhouettes and laughter, perfume and linen and sweetness on the tongue.
But that was fine.
That was safe.
Every girl was a memory he could rest inside.
Not Lucia. But Lucia-shaped. Sister-shaped. Carved from affection. Cast in warmth. The shape of a sister he had longed for, lost, remembered only in half-formed dreams and aching silences.
And so he named them.
Sister.
His voice was slurred, slow, and barely there, but the word bloomed with conviction. They were his now—folded into the sacred space of his heart. He had claimed them.
And the Eye allowed it.
No—encouraged it.
Because Desmond had come close to breaking again. When the thought of his lost family had crept in like a blade—too sharp, too true—the Eye had moved instantly, reflexively, burying the memory before it could take root.
Before the grief could swell into something sharp and irreparable.
Before sorrow could recognize the shape of itself.
Before Desmond could fall into that terrible moment again.
There would be no mourning. Not here. Not while he lay this fragile.
Because this time, it hadn’t just been Desmond’s pain pressing in.
This time, it was her. That thought of Lucia’s absent laughter had not come from Desmond. It had worn his voice. Slipped in like shadow through cloth.
Juno had planted it.
The Eye felt her still—embedded somewhere like splinters somewhere beneath Desmond’s psyche, silent, elusive, but watching. Waiting.
She had tested the waters. She had found a crack. Set the bait.
And Desmond had taken it.
The Eye could not let it happen again. It had shielded Desmond from pain before, but this was no longer only for mercy.
This was strategy.
Every open wound was an invitation. Every grief was something she could shape to become another door. Until the Eye could corner her and burn her out, Desmond would remember nothing sharp. Nothing raw. Nothing she could use.
Only warmth.
Only safety.
Because Desmond had never mourned. Not truly.
There were fragments—scorched memories of Maria’s hand going cold, of Lucia’s body in his arms. The wooden dove, stolen away. The pain. The priests. The silence.
The Eye had seen what grief did to him.
And Desmond had buried it. Not by choice, but by necessity—because from the moment he had fled the ruins of his home, Desmond had been hunted, chained, and defiled.
He had no time to grieve. No space to collapse. The Eye had seen him unravel once before. It would not allow it again. So the Eye chose, not just to soothe, but to intervene.
It pressed soft warmth through Desmond’s thoughts like a salve—not just to comfort, but to shelter. It would never remove Maria or Lucia, but the Eye could dull their ends. Blur their final moments. Steep the memories in sweetness until even the blood felt like shadow.
It found the echo of Lucia’s laugh—shaking, fading—and rewrote it into something softer. It traded grief for comfort, pain for presence. It brought back the softness of wings tucked around a child, the weight of a girl’s head against his feathers, the sweetness of honey-scented fingers curled tightly around his own. It found Maria’s absence, still aching beneath the surface, and softened it with the memory of a hand brushing hair from his forehead with quiet love.
It touched each blooming ache and hushed it. It pressed memory into suggestion, recast the loss and shaped it into scent and warmth until there was no wound left to grieve. Only until it was a distant feeling, like something half-remembered. Their absence would become like distant childhood dreams—warm, untouchable, incomplete. Not gone, just unreachable.
//Not yet.// The Eye echoed its own thought. Fierce. Protective.
Desmond would not register what he had lost—not until the Eye was sure he could survive it.
If he never asked, they would stay tucked away.
And if he did—
The Eye would try. It would give what it could, but only when it was sure he could hold it. For now, the Eye would watch, would cradle, would devour the teeth of grief before they ever found flesh.
Desmond was healing—slowly, dreamily, caught between memory and mercy, drifting on a sweetness that felt like home.
And the Eye would guard that.
Again. And again. And again.
As many times as necessary.
Desmond would remember one day.
But not today.
Notes:
I STRUGGLED with this chapter. It was a case of MAJOR writer’s block and indecisiveness because I knew where I wanted to go but had a lot of trouble getting there. Most of it was because I was trying to fine tune Desmond’s headspace and was trying to find a good balance between the vibe I wanted all the while respecting the consequences of what I put him through. The last time we were in Desmond’s head was in chapter 7 (and a LITTLE bit of chapter 10, but I don’t really count that) and I had to rewrite 10 or so pages because his voice didn’t seem right since as far as Desmond is aware of, he’s coming more or less out of Chapter 7 and is very—well, uh, wary of the world. I am hoping his reactions seem reasonable given this fact.
Sorry to all the people I said I’d get this chapter out within 2 weeks of chapter 12. (⊙﹏⊙✿) I tried but the block was PAINFUL. The good thing is that the next chapter shouldn’t take another month+.
That’s the other reason for the long wait—because I was unsure if I should stop the chapter here… or continue for another 40 pages lmao. I didn’t want to info dump therefore the remainder will be chapter 14 and actually advance the plot.
I realize there is a correlation too. Longer chapters = more lulls between uploads, which I am reluctant to do because my 2025 resolution was to write every two-ish weeks but I’m SLIPPING. Therefore, please have this meager offering haha.
Regardless, I promised fluff/comfort and here it is—but I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t just add just a little DASH of angst, which was then promptly snuffed out by comfort, haha. The angst was not without purpose though. I needed something to give the Eye agency and for it to notice Juno and this is where we landed. (If this wasn’t clear before, this fic will have a happy ending so no worries, no worries~) Honestly, I started tearing up more at the comfort than the angst, ha.
Anyways, oh Eye, that seems like SUCH a healthy way to help Desmond. I hope that doesn’t come to bite you in the ass in a few chapters. (◠‿◠✿)
Also introduction to a new nickname! I was looking for cute birdlike nicknames that the courtesans would use for Desmond in their sisterly way and oh, OH I found dovelet and went YES. I thought it was kinda fitting haha considering the fact that Lucia, in her kid-like way, called Desmond a chicken (because she LOVED chickens) while the courtesans, graceful and poetic as they are, would affectionately liken Desmond to a dove. (...and I just also think it’s hella adorable DON’T JUDGE ME)
Anyways, see y’all again sooooon. Next chapter is more Desmond! More Paola! A bath (with a glow up?!) And woah, the actual Gio v. Paola confrontation! One person from I think two chapters ago also asked about Desmond’s tattoo—because surely, that is an identifying marker for Desmond being an assassin and that is answered in the next chapter, too! The Assassins will actually get ANSWERS from Desmond lmao, but well, how they INTERPRET it is another deal altogether because look at our sleepy boy. Talking in his sleepy way. (AND OH HOW I LOVE MISUNDERSTANDINGS.)
Chapter 14
Summary:
Wherein Desmond gets his long awaited bath and Paola and Giovanni share a long overdue conversation.
Notes:
This and chapter 11 are tied as my favorite chapters (thus far).
You’ll see why, heehee. (☉‿☉✿)
(See the end of the chapter for more notes.)
Chapter Text
When the bowl was finally scraped clean and his face patted dry, the courtesans cooed over Desmond like hens over a favorite chick.
He looked utterly content—boneless from warmth and porridge—hovering over the edge of sleep. Desmond radiated the kind of drowsiness that only came after a good meal and gentle company and even his wings were slack with trust. He blinked slowly, like he might nod off right then and there and none of them wanted to disturb him—but there were simply things to do that they couldn’t delay.
“Time we gave you a proper wash.” Bartholomea murmured, her voice low and velvet sweet as she brushed her fingers through the uneven hair at his brow.
“A real one, this time.” Anastasia added, putting away the empty bowl and spoon.
Catalina leaned in next, her fingers ghosting down the curve of one wing. The feathers were hopelessly askew—flattened where they should’ve lifted, fluffed where they should’ve lain sleek. Her thumb traced the bent arc of a quill with dismay, tutting under her breath.
“He’s earned it.” She murmured, almost to herself. “And so have these. Poor darlings look like they’ve been waiting days for a soak.”
They all remembered the first few days—how still he’d been, how tense. Back then, they hadn’t dared move him too much. Sponge baths every two or three days had been all they’d managed, cautious with gentle touches across exposed skin. But now… now he shifted when touched. He sighed. He mumbled soft, half-sweet nonsense into their palms and nuzzled against the backs of fingers like a cat.
“He’ll like the water.” Catalina continued, tracing a knuckle down one wing. “Birds do.”
Bartholomea huffed, adjusting the shawl that was slipping from Desmond’s shoulders with a roll of her eyes. “He’s not a bird. He’s just feathered.” But the smile tugging at her mouth was too fond to make it a true protest.
Anastasia, the eldest, gave a long, theatrical sigh—just loud enough to carry through the doorway that had been left cracked open when the others had been shooed out. “You three can stop eavesdropping now. If you’re so curious, make yourselves useful. We’ll need help with the bath.”
A breath of silence followed—then the light shuffle of bare feet pulling away. A muffled laugh. The hushed clatter of someone bumping gently against a doorframe in their haste to vanish without being caught. They were not women caught sneaking—they were courtesans by trade, practiced and poised, but even they weren’t immune to curiosity. Especially when it came to angels who now melted into their care like butter on warm bread.
The women still gathered around Desmond exchanged knowing glances—amused, not surprised.
Letta—the only one from the chorus of courtesans who had been allowed to stay once Desmond had calmed—smiled softly and looked down. Her fingers drifted to the collar of his second-hand camisia—thin and fraying, the same one they’d hastily fitted him with on his arrival. After a week of use, it was already falling apart with the seams already unraveling.
She smoothed the fabric and couldn’t help the smile when Desmond made a soft, pleased noise in response—something that sounded suspiciously like a faint, warbling coo—before he sagged heavier into her side. All limp trust and warmth, like a dove curling into the safety of a sunlit perch.
Letta exhaled. “I’ll find him something better to wear.” She said to her sisters. Then, her voice softened and she let her fingers linger at the collar of his camisia. “Something nicer.” Letta murmured with a small smile, like it was a secret between the two of them. “Just for you, tesorino.”
Carefully, Letta began to untangle her fingers from his, but Desmond’s grip tightened. His fingers curled reflexively around hers and a soft sound escaped him, high and breathy, somewhere between a whimper and a complaint. His brows knit faintly, like even in sleep he didn’t want to be left behind.
Letta stilled, and then her smile returned—smaller now, tucked in the corner of her mouth and fond to the point of ache.
“Oh, you darling thing.” Letta whispered, voice thick with tenderness. “I’ll be back. I promise.” She pressed a kiss to the back of his knuckles—light as breath.
This time, when she slipped her hand free, Desmond let go, if not reluctantly. One wing twitched in her absence, feathers fluffing outward in sleep search before rustling back into place with a soft, resigned ruffle. A little sigh left him, like a bird adjusting in its nest.
Letta lingered just a moment longer—just long enough to brush one last feather back into place along his wing. Then she slipped quietly from the room.
The others—Anastasia, Bartholomea, and Catalina—meanwhile, moved in quiet coordination and practiced ease. Anastasia gently coaxed the nearest wing into a more comfortable sprawl across the bed for what to come next. Catalina’s arm slipped around his waist in turn, steadying him as Desmond’s head fell into the crook of her shoulder.
“Alright, uccellino.” Bartholomea whispered, coming to Desmond’s other side. “Time for a little walk, hmm?”
In response, Desmond gave another low sound—somewhere between a reluctant groan and a sleepy chirrup. His shoulders hunched instinctively, wings puffing up and twitching like they weren’t ready to be disturbed. It wasn’t a real protest—just a grumble as if from a bird being gently nudged from its comfortable perch.
“Ah, ah, ah.” Anastasia teased, laughing as she gently tugged the covers down. “No hiding, now. You smell like feathers and dust.”
Desmond groaned faintly again at that. His wings rustled behind him, one half-folding around the other like they were conspiring to keep him tucked in.
“Feath’r’s ’re… niiice…” He slurred, words slow and sticky from a full stomach and lingering sleep. “Wanna… gonna keep ‘em f’rever…”
The women laughed at that—quiet and smitten. Catalina pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, stifling a coo of her own.
“You can keep the feathers, tesoro.” Catalina whispered. “But they are getting a good soak.”
Anastasia’s smile tugged a little wider, gentler. “Do you want to smell like lavender? Or roses?” She asked lightly, tugging the rest of the blankets away.
Then, after a beat, tilted her head at him with affectionate mischief and teased, “Or should we find something that smells like bathwater and sleepy Desmonds?”
Desmond made a muffled grumble—more sigh than protest. Reluctant, but not resisting. Like someone trying to complain while secretly agreeing. But his wings, of course, betrayed him. Their earlier reluctance forgotten, one gave a hopeful twitch—just a little perk of feathers, having heard ‘bathwater’ and decided, yes, please! The other dragged along the blanket in slow, deliberate defeat, as if to say, Don’t care. Just wash me.
Laughter bloomed around the bed—quiet, delighted, and a little helpless.
Bartholomea leaned down, still chuckling, and brushed her knuckles across his cheek affectionately. “We’ll be gentle.” She promised. “You’ll feel much better afterwards.”
Desmond blinked at them—slow, drowsy. Then he exhaled and his shoulders went limp, resigned to their hands.
When they coaxed him to the edge of the bed, the women moved carefully, bracing themselves—expecting the full weight of a grown man.
Instead, Desmond lifted easily.
Too easily.
They glanced at each other over his bowed head in alarmed confusion.
This wasn’t delicate. This was wrong. A man should not feel this light.
Bartholomea’s mouth tightened slightly. Catalina’s fingers hovered a second longer than needed, adjusting the shawl around his shoulders. None of them said anything aloud but the looks they exchanged were sharp, quick, and meaningful.
Tell Paola.
For now, though, they kept their hands steady and their voices warm. Desmond was still blinking blearily, half-lost in sleep, trusting them to hold him.
He swayed as they helped him upright. His legs tried to move—tried to bear weight—but buckled almost immediately. He knew how to walk. His body clearly remembered how, but the strength simply wasn’t there.
A breath hitched out of him—a soft, frustrated sound.
“S-sorry.” He mumbled, ashamed. His hands clutched the edge of Bartholomea’s sleeve. “‘M... tryin’.”
“Shh, darling.” Bartholomea soothed, steadying him easily. “You’re doing just fine.”
Catalina pressed a kiss into his sleep-mussed hair. “It’s all right, caro. We’ll do all the work today.”
Desmond gave a small nod, though it was more a nuzzle than anything else, but the thread of tension unwound from his shoulders. He followed their lead as they guided him—slow and awkward, like a newborn fawn who had just learned what legs were for.
Bartholomea walked at his left while Catalina stayed at his right, both supporting him as they began their trek. Anastasia walked ahead with a basin cradled to her hip, humming under her breath to keep the rhythm.
The hallway was warm with the scent of perfume and sun-warmed laundry. Desmond moved between them, legs trembling with every shift of weight, but he made no sound of complaint. He was clearly still drowsy and loose-limbed, but even so… he was walking. For the first time in days, he was really here—in body, in breath.
And so naturally, that meant half the house was peeking.
A head popped out of the nearest doorway and then another, and another—like curious birds checking the wind. Someone gasped softly, biting her knuckle. Another leaned out from behind a curtain, eyes going wide with delight.
And every single one of them softened when they saw him.
“Ohhh.” A middle daughter breathed, bright and soft. “Look who’s up and fluffed.”
Another emerged just past her, hair pinned halfway, a stocking in one hand. “Stop. He’s walking? You didn’t tell me he was walking—!”
Desmond blinked at them from behind the cloth over his eyes. A tiny, questioning noise slipped from his throat.
Catalina shushed them, smiling as she helped Desmond when he stumbled. “Don’t overwhelm him.”
“We’re not!” Someone whispered back, entirely unconvincing.
Anasastia didn’t bother looking up. “Back to work.” She said mildly.
“She is working.” Another courtesan muttered, trying to shove the girl with the stocking back into her room. “She’s been trying to get that thing on for the last fifteen minutes.”
“I got distracted! I mean—look at him!”
Desmond made another soft sound, eyes blinking slow and out of sync. His wing gave a tired twitch, feathers dragging like they couldn’t decide whether to preen or collapse.
“He’s so sleepy.” Someone else sighed, affectionately. “Like a little prince.”
Bartholomea smiled faintly and tucked Desmond’s arm a little more securely around her shoulders. “Hush now.” She murmured to the others, her voice soft but firm. “Let him have his peace.”
They did hush—mostly. A few smiled sheepishly and ducked back behind their doors, the kind of retreat that meant they’d still peek when no one was looking, but the mood shifted—gentler, warmer. Protective.
Some of the girls had to leave, regardless. Their rotation had begun.
As part of the house’s daily rhythm, the courtesans worked in shifts—groups of four or five filtering into the city each afternoon to advertise their services, stroll the piazzas, or offer more… specialized distractions to trusted associates. It was part performance, part strategy, and everyone had a turn. Mornings were for chores. Afternoons were for presence. Nights were for business.
So now, with a flick of fingers and the soft murmur of names, the day’s group slipped away—skirts rustling, perfume trailing behind them like the last note of a closing song.
But not everyone left.
The remaining women whose shifts were done (or nearly done) lingered like shadows that didn’t want to be dismissed. A few leaned against doorframes, arms crossed and smiling faintly. Others perched on nearby chaises or reclined lazily against the stair rails, eyes warm but watchful. From a distance, it looked like idle lounging. Like harmless hovering.
But the coverage was deliberate.
One woman lounging near the bannister shifted her weight, one elbow sliding out just far enough to block the sightline from the stairs. Another draped a drying sheet over the railing and began pinning it into place just as Desmond passed behind. A third stooped to collect scattered silk from a laundry basket, her spread skirt forming a casual curtain across the hallway from where Desmond might be seen from below.
It was all so subtle. So sweet. As if they were simply fussing, simply doting, but every movement was placement—cover. Every flutter of cloth, a shield. Every soft laugh or rustled hem, part of the choreography. Their smiles stayed light, their hands busy with nothing in particular. Doors closed without a sound. Drapes swayed, caught by nonexistent breezes.
Desmond didn’t notice. He just blinked slow and sleepy, swaying faintly between Bartholomea and Catalina like a dream still halfway caught in feathers. He didn’t see the way the house curved around him.
(The way it always did when something precious was being guarded.)
When the eldest courtesans finally managed to guide him out to the last stretch, Desmond was pliant in their arms—half-walking, half-carried, his steps feather-light, and his breathing slow. Steam wafted welcomingly from a decorated door not too far away. The air was warm. Sweet.
The bathing chamber at La Rosa Colta was meant for clients. It was for men who came here to be adored, indulged, and seduced. The tiles gleamed. Vines decorated the walls in painted hues of gold. A copper tub sat near the center of the room, freshly warmed with steam curling into the air. There were oils on the shelf—jasmine, rose, lavender—scents meant to tease and intoxicate.
In the usual ritual, a courtesan led a man in by the hand, half draped in silk, whispering compliments into his ear. Another would unfasten his sash or belt slowly, letting clothing slip with a flourish. They would bathe him in stages, always in view, always close—pouring water down their own arms to make the skin glisten, adding perfumes meant to linger. A good bath was theater. A better one was foreplay.
Anastasia had once spent an entire evening with a merchant who never left the tub.
But this—this was different.
There were no oils. No perfumes. No games.
Desmond was not a client. He wasn’t here to be seduced or charmed. He was here because he needed care—because something had burned him so thoroughly, that even now, the soot clung to the softest parts of him.
They guided him into the room with murmured words and practiced hands, but none of the smiles were flirtatious.
“This way, darling.” Anastasia whispered, and Desmond—barefoot, sleep-addled, half-listening—murmured something like “mmhm,” which might’ve been agreement or simply the sound of being led.
At some point, Catalina slipped away quietly to find two more courtesans. Not because they weren’t enough, but because care like this deserved more than what the three of them could offer.
By the time they reached the tub, five women stood with Desmond. Five steady heartbeats. Five pairs of open hands.
They untied his camisia gently, loosening the knots at each shoulder where the fabric had been strung together to accommodate his wings. Bartholomea steadied him with both hands while Anastasia eased the neckline down, careful not to brush the feathers that had begun to dampen from steam. Catalina gathered the hem to keep it from catching beneath his feet.
And when the linen fell low enough to bare his hips, Bartholomea’s hands moved instinctively, swift and practiced, wrapping a towel snugly around his waist.
Desmond barely reacted. His eyes were half-lowered, his body loose. His posture was quiet, unresisting. Sleep clung to his expression, and when Anastasia’s fingers grazed the curve of a feather, he gave a faint, automatic shiver. Not from cold—just reflex. One wing twitched. His head dipped a little like he meant to nestle into the closest shoulder, though he caught himself before leaning too far. He shifted only when nudged—like a sleepy bird being turned by familiar hands.
Fiora poured the rest of the water into the tub and Desmond winced slightly when the first splash of heat touched his skin.
“Sorry.” She whispered quickly. “Too hot?”
Desmond blinked slowly. “...s’warm.” He mumbled, as if he hadn’t expected it to be. “But s’okay…”
They helped ease him down slowly—one hand at his back, another beneath his arm, steady and sure. The water climbed over his legs, then his hips, then his ribs. By the time it reached his chest, Desmond had already started to melt. His shoulders slumped. His knees folded with no resistance. A breath shivered out of him—soft, low, unguarded—as he sank deeper, boneless and trusting.
Steam curled up around his face and shoulders, misting his mussy curls and softening the sharp lines of exhaustion. His wings twitched once, startled by the heat, then relaxed so completely it was almost indecent.
The left wing unfurled with slow grace, elegant and composed—like a grand lady settling into a private chaise.
The right wing—predictably—flopped.
It slapped softly against the side of the tub with a fwump, gave a lazy little shimmy, as if testing the water before it settled. Yesssss. It seemed to say. This is now soup. I am soup.
“Oh dear.” Catalina murmured, biting back a grin. “I think it melted.”
“No dignity in that one.” Diana chuckled. “That’s a bath chicken, not a dove.”
The left wing ruffled delicately in response, as if deeply offended to be associated with such floppiness. One of the courtesans swore it even arched, slightly haughty. The right wing simply wiggled again—completely unbothered—before sprawling wider in the water, dripping just enough to be rude.
The women laughed—quiet, affectionate, and easy.
A few downy strands floated across the surface of the bath, drifting lazily like fallen petals. Desmond didn’t move. Just sighed again—quieter now—as the warmth wrapped around him. Like it was seeping into places that had forgotten how to thaw.
Diana sat at the edge of the tub and began pouring warm water over his shoulders in soft intervals, not even hiding her smile when Desmond hummed in satisfaction, low and long.
“I’ve never seen him like this.” She murmured, dipping the pitcher again.
“Not this quiet.” Fiora whispered. “Before, he was… far away. This is different.”
They all looked at him then.
He was still—slumped gently over the rim of the tub, chin resting on his folded arms, breath rising in slow, even waves. His mouth was slightly open. A soft chirr escaped now and then—barely audible, but the kind of sound a bird might make when dreaming softly to itself.
Steam curled in the hush around them. The water lapped against bare skin, catching the light in soft, gold curves. The scars—those familiar raised lines, old and cruel—were visible again now, not hidden by linen as they had been before.
No one stared. They had seen them before, but here, in the quiet and heat of the bathing room, they felt different.
Not foreign. Not frightening.
Just… part of him.
Like feathers. Like freckles.
Something endured. Something survived.
The blindfold was gone, too. Catalina had removed it once the window curtains had been drawn close and the lanterns dampened to a soft golden hush that wouldn’t sting his still sensitive eyes. He didn’t flinch this time.
“Too pretty to keep covered.” She had murmured and none of the others had argued.
His lashes were long, barely lifted. His gaze drifted—unfocused, but present—half-lidded with heat and exhaustion. His wings trailed behind him over the rim and when warm water was poured down his back, he exhaled—not startled, just heavy with contentment.
He couldn’t lean back against the tub like clients did, luxuriant and lounging. The space behind him belonged to the wings now, unfurled and heavy with damp.
With clients, it was performance. The courtesans played the part of willing fantasy—gods and temptresses, playful and precise. They had rules, limits, protections. They knew how to laugh and how to say no.
But this was not that. There was no pretending.
So when Desmond made a quiet sound of discomfort when someone gently rinsed the hollow of his throat where a faint scar sat, they stopped immediately. When he tipped his head slightly, leaning into the cloth that pressed near his cheek, they didn’t tease him. They just smiled, and kept going.
Desmond had braced before. They’d all felt it—the tension under his limbs, the way he flinched even in sleep. At first, his body had responded to kindness like it might snap its teeth at him, but now—now, he was soft beneath their hands. Unguarded in a way that had been earned, not given.
And it changed him.
Even with the shadows under his eyes, even with the marks that told a harder story, he looked different now. Softer, somehow. His brow, once pinched in pain or worry, had smoothed. His mouth, always slack with exhaustion, now curved faintly at the corners.
It made something ache in them because now that they saw it—this softness, this sweetness—they couldn’t unsee it.
(Or maybe it had always been there, but the world had rarely allowed Desmond the chance to show it.)
The water had turned cloudy now, the warmth fading at the edges, but Desmond didn’t stir. One arm was tucked beneath his cheek where he rested against the rim, while the other was slack in his lap, half-submerged. His breath came low and even. Around him, the courtesans moved slower, quieter—not because they were finished, but because the next part required gentler hands.
Desmond’s wings came next.
Even like this—half-damp, laid open before them and trailing across the tiles like fallen curtains in the steam, they were beautiful. Not immaculate, not untouched, but beautiful in the way that things are when they survive.
Some feathers were crooked. A few were frayed at the ends. There were patches where they had broken off entirely, where the shafts were jagged, and the soft barbs around them tangled. The soft down near the spine was slightly matted, clinging faintly from too many days untouched.
But still, they were lovely—in that quiet, impossible way that only unreal things could be.
They hadn’t touched the wings much at first. Not out of fear, but because none of them had known quite how to treat them. They had never bathed wings before Desmond. How could they know what to do?
Wings weren’t skin. They couldn’t be scrubbed. They were delicate—layered, alive. Pulling too hard could tear a shaft. Wiping too rough could disturb the alignment. Preening them wrong could hurt him—or worse, unseat a feather that wouldn’t grow back.
So they had taken their time.
In the first days, they had treated them like fragile lace—rinsing and patting them gently, too afraid to touch them like real things. But in time, they learned the feel of his feathers under water. The way the down held heat. The way the outer pinions gleamed when clean. They knew where the tension hid, deep at the base, where Desmond flinched only slightly—barely—but enough to make them still their hands.
They had made mistakes, too. The first time they’d tried, they’d used the same gentle soap they used on his skin, only to find that the feathers reacted poorly. The lather had clung where it shouldn’t, clumped where it hadn’t before. A few shafts looked wrong afterward, too dull, too stiff.
They hadn’t done it again.
Now, they only used warm water. No oils. No soap. Just patience and care.
Fiora crouched first, kneeling near one wing where it draped heavily across the floor. She dipped a cloth in the water and began at the outermost edge, where the feathers grew longer, stronger. Her strokes were light and she wiped each feather carefully, drawing the cloth along its length with a steady hand, then used the comb to gently separate the ones that had clumped together.
Diana mirrored her on the other side, where the opposite wing had unfurled just as far—but with less ceremony. It had drifted slightly sideways in the bath, one edge floating. She cupped her hand beneath it, adjusting its weight, and it sank back down with a soft rustle.
Still, it didn’t resist her touch. Just shifted faintly, as if to say, Go on. I trust you.
They moved slowly, letting their hands follow the pattern of each feather. Both women worked in tandem in silence, crouched beside him like priestesses in a temple.
They hadn’t seen every part of his wings before. Not because they hadn’t looked, but because they hadn’t known what to look for. The sponge baths had been quick, cautious. He’d been laid on his side, unmoving. The wings had shifted, yes—but they had never unfurled like this. And now, with every feather revealed beneath the steam and soft water, the damage showed.
“We missed so many.” Fiora tutted, gently smoothing a bent quill. “There’s scuffing all along this layer.”
“Some of these are frayed.” Diana said quietly, running her fingers beneath the outermost layer. “Edges feel brittle.”
“We should’ve tended to them sooner.” Fiora whispered. Her voice was sharp with guilt. “Wings like his should never be left alone this long.”
They worked around the broken parts with extra care. Sometimes a feather came loose in their fingers. Sometimes they found new ones barely growing in, small and pink-veined at the root, soft as down. They did not pluck. They did not trim. They simply cleaned. They untangled. They coaxed each feather gently back into place, row by patient row.
Desmond stirred only once.
When the cloth passed near the wing joint, a soft, breathy sound escaped him—somewhere between a sigh and a coo. Not startled. Not strained. Just… there. A sleep-laced note that slipped out without meaning to.
His shoulders stayed loose. His cheek pressed deeper against his folded arm. One wing gave a faint twitch. A few downy barbs puffed up and floated free, drifting like dandelions.
Diana brushed them aside with her palm, humming under her breath.
There was a scent to him now they all knew by heart. Not cologne, not rosewater—just Desmond. Warm skin and feather-oil, faintly sweet like pressed linen left too long in the sun. It clung to the base of his wings, settled deep in the down near his spine, and lingered on their hands when they pulled away.
It had taken half an hour just to reach this point.
But when Fiora brushed the cloth along the warm spot near the scapulars—just where wings met spine—Desmond let out another sound. This one deeper. Less breath, more chirr. A low, caught noise of relief.
Fiora paused. “Did you hear—?”
Diana didn’t answer at first. Her hands kept moving, slower now.
“Keep going.” She said softly. “I think he likes it.”
Back then, he would’ve braced.
His shoulders used to lock—just slightly—whenever fingers neared the place where skin became feather. His body would tense—not violently, but subtly—like someone holding their breath through pain. He did not breathe deeply. He did not relax. He bore their touch like a command—like a man used to being handled, not tended.
He’d accepted their care but he had never relaxed into it.
But now—
Now he sighed.
When Fiora’s fingers brushed the base of his wings—just under the shoulder blades, where the largest tendons lived—Desmond released a breath so faint, so shaky, it made all five women freeze. He shifted slightly under their hands. Not to escape but to lean into it.
He wasn’t bracing.
He was asking for it.
(They didn’t know what it meant—not fully—that wings were meant to be guarded. That in another life, Desmond would’ve tended them in silence, hidden and alone. Preening wasn’t just maintenance—it was ritual, instinct, survival.
Letting another touch his wings like this, care for them this way, in that area—it wasn’t just permission. It was trust, laid bare feather by feather.)
Desmond gave a soft flutter then. A sleepy, unbothered fwump of his right wing as it resettled, flaring damp and wide before it curled gently inward. A tiny hum followed, muffled into his arm.
They worked in near silence after that, pouring warm water over the folds of white and gold. They used their fingers and soft cloths to preen out the dirt, to loosen the dried bits where feathers had cracked or dulled. Every time they touched the anchor points again, Desmond stirred, but gently. Like someone who didn’t think to flinch. Like someone who knew, finally, he was safe.
To the women, it felt like touching the pulse of something dear. Not a relic, not a miracle—just Desmond. Just their sweet, scruffy little brother with sleep in his hair and too many scars to carry alone.
They didn’t need to speak. They just kept reaching for him—without hesitation, without fear. Tucking damp feathers into place. Brushing curls from his face. Letting him lean. They moved around him with the care of older sisters—not tentative anymore, but familiar. Certain. Affectionate.
The water had dipped low during the wing grooming, cooling as they worked. One of the younger girls padded in with a fresh pitcher of heated water, and Catalina took it without a word, pouring slowly to keep the warmth steady. The tub filled by inches, the surface lapping gently at Desmond’s sides as the heat returned. His wings, clean and damp, savored the new warmth. One curled slightly tighter while the other had clearly gone slack with sleep. Desmond, for his part, fared no better. Flushed and dazed, he slumped against the edge of the tub—eyes barely open, body utterly relaxed, and the very picture of someone just shy of melting.
The towel Bartholomea had wrapped around his waist earlier was still there, damp over his thighs beneath the water. It had loosened a little as they worked, sinking with the weight of the bath, but it remained in place. Enough to keep him covered. Enough to make the next part… a little more bearable.
“Just a bit more, darling.” Anastasia said, gentle and sweet. The lightly soaped cloth in her hand rested on his thigh in the water. “Almost done.”
Desmond blinked slowly at that. The world was a blur of steam and quiet voices, his mind feathered at the edges—but her words filtered in.
His brows furrowed faintly. “Bit… m’re?” He slurred, the wording catching in his mind.
Something old and primal stirred. A vague flicker of alarm—the kind of instinct that made birds fluff their feathers…or men bolt awake when they realize something is about to go very, very wrong.
A single, sleepy thought rose through the fog: ‘Wait a minute…’
There was a pause.
Then—
The cloth dipped beneath the towel.
And Desmond jolted—not violently, but all at once. His eyes snapped open, the drowsiness chased out by pure adrenaline and his entire body twitched, like a bird startled mid-nap by a drop of rain. His wings fluffed out in alarm, water sloshing faintly as his hands flailed towards his lap.
“W-Wait—! Wait, wait, wait—!” His voice pitched high—breathless, flustered, half-choked on steam.
The courtesans froze for a beat—and then absolutely melted.
“Oh, tesoro.” Anastasia cooed. “You’re safe. It’s just us.”
“B-but—I—that’s—!” Desmond stammered, cheeks darkening. “I c’n do that! I c’n—!”
“You’ll splash the whole bath if you try.” Bartholomea soothed, catching the edge of the Sacred Towel before it slipped. “And look at your hands, amore— they’re shaking.”
“M’not helpless…” Desmond muttered, but his voice was a little smaller now. His wings gave a distressed fluff, twitching like they wanted to shield him from his own embarrassment.
He reached out with one hand for the cloth folded over the rim of the tub, but the motion was slow and clumsy. His fingers missed by a full two inches. He tried again but this time, his arm wavered, then gave out with a final slap against the water.
Defeated, Desmond buried his face in the crook of his elbow with a groan. His wings slumped in solidarity, drooping over the sides like soggy banners, feathers splayed and sulking.
The courtesans didn’t laugh. They didn’t reach for him, either. They just waited—soft-eyed and patient—until he was ready to decide what came next.
“...’s private.” Desmond mumbled at last, voice muffled into his arm. “Don’...don’ look…”
The embarrassment burned even brighter, no longer satisfied, spreading across his cheeks, warming his ears, and sliding down his throat.
“We won’t look.” Anastasia promised softly, reclaiming the washcloth. “We just want to help.”
“Eyes closed.” Catalina added brightly from behind him, far too cheerfully. “All five of us.”
Desmond froze.
“Fi…five…?”
There had been three—no, no wait, four. Four big sisters. That had been the number. He’d counted. Hadn’t he?
When had that changed? How could he have missed one?!
His mind scrambled, sluggish with heat and modesty panic and unaware that he was trying to follow dream-logic that wasn’t quite matching the world around him.
And worse—
There were five sisters here. Five grown up Lucias. With him. In the bath.
Desmond’s brain, sticky with steam and sleep, reeled in slow horror as the math hit him all at once—one extra sister and all of them were seeing him naked.
A tiny, strangled noise slipped out before he could stop it and the courtesans didn’t stand a chance. Helpless laughter rippled through the steam—fond, smitten, and utterly delighted.
“Oh, fratellino.” Bartholomea crooned affectionately, curling a hand against his shoulder. “We’ve seen plenty. You’re not going to scandalize us.”
“Don’t worry.” Fiora added, trying to be comforting. “You’ve got nothing we haven’t seen before.”
That—that—did not help.
Desmond let out a sound that was part squeak, part groan, and promptly sank lower into the tub, wings puffing out again in soggy alarm.
“Oh, dovelet.” Anastasia murmured, smoothing a hand down his arm. “Let us take care of you. That’s all we’re doing.”
The eldest courtesan paused, then softened further.
“Can we?” She asked, quieter now. “Will you let us?”
There was no pressure in the question, just the kind of understanding and gentleness that didn’t need to be earned.
Desmond hesitated—still curled into himself, still hiding—but after a moment, his head dipped in a slow, uncertain nod.
“’kay.” He whispered. “...Okay.”
The courtesans didn’t coo or tease. They simply nodded, their touches resuming with the same steady grace as before—nothing rushed, nothing showy.
Desmond didn’t lift his face, but his body softened, the fight having gone out of him. His wings, still slightly puffed from fluster, fluttered faintly under Anastasia’s ministrations, twitching like they were trying to protect his dignity, but even they sagged eventually, overcome by the gentleness.
Someone coaxed his head back and rinsed his hair as a distraction. Someone else resumed the clothwork at his legs, quiet and methodical. There was no commentary. No fuss. Just the sound of water and the rhythmic hush of women who knew how to be gentle.
Now and then, Desmond tried to help—lifting a knee, shifting a shoulder. It wasn’t graceful, nor was it much, but it was effort. Thoughtful, quiet effort from someone whose hands still shook.
The courtesans noticed. Of course they did—because clients didn’t usually help, not with this kind of soft, shy intention. One of them smiled—soft, instinctive. Another gentled her touch without meaning to. They didn’t say anything, but the air changed a little. Warmer. Closer.
Afterwards, when the task was nearly done and the washcloths moved slower, Desmond stirred, slightly. His face stayed half-buried in the crook of his arm, but his voice, barely more than a breath—reached Anastasia.
“...Sorellona…?”
The word came out clumsy and slurred at the edges like he didn’t quite know if it belonged in his mouth.
(Like he wasn’t sure if he was still allowed to say it. Because his hands had failed him. His body had trembled. Someone else had done everything—and he didn’t know if kindness this gentle had rules…or if he’d already broken them by needing too much.
This wasn’t like before. He wasn’t waiting for them to hurt him.
He was waiting for them to pull away.
Because this part—this helplessness—wasn’t easy to look at. And somewhere deep down, Desmond still believed that love only lasted as long as you didn’t ask too much of it.)
For a moment, no one answered.
But then Anastasia shifted closer. One hand rose from the water and brushed back the damp strands at his brow, slow and deliberate, like smoothing the ruffle from a frightened bird.
“Yes?” She answered, soft and sure. Then again, more tenderly and sweetly—like she meant to hand the word back to him, “What is it, fratellino?”
Her voice was warm enough to melt fear. As if nothing—nothing—had changed.
And Desmond exhaled—but this time, it wasn’t shaky so much as stunned. Like something inside him had been waiting for the other shoe to drop and only now realized it wasn’t going to. A small, involuntary sound escaped him. Not quite a laugh. Not quite a sigh. Just relief, threaded through with something like wonder.
Then—
“…Th’nks.” Desmond said, a little clearer now. Still quiet. Still thick with feeling, but steady.
“F’r…f’r all o’ this.”
He exhaled again, softer this time. Shaky. Honest.
“Know it’s weird…an’.. a lot… so th’nk you…”
The words were barely audible, muffled into his own skin, but they landed like stones in still water.
Anastasia paused.
So did the others.
Not because he startled them—but because no one ever said that.
Courtesans were used to many things—compliments, flattery, praise that came laced with expectation or wine or coin. Men praised their laughter, their lips, the arch of their backs, but it was always about them. Always performative. Always fleeting.
But thanks? Real thanks—for their hands, for their patience, for the shape their care took when no one else would give it?
Men didn’t say that. Not even the good ones and not like this.
The only ones who ever did were the broken ones they sheltered—girls with nowhere to go, women learning how to feel safe again. But men? A nod, maybe. A mutter on the way out.
Never this soft and never this sincere. But of course—of course one would come from him.
Diana exhaled a breath that felt too heavy for her chest. “Who says that?” She murmured, a helpless smile on her lips. “Only an angel, really.”
“M’not…” Desmond frowned, eyes still closed. His brows furrowed. “M’not an angel.”
It wasn’t defiant. Just tired and a little embarrassed.
“Jus’… jus’ like you.” Desmond mumbled. “Jus’ with feathers, s’all…”
There was no false modesty in it. No flattery. No performance. Just truth—quiet and terribly real. Like he truly believed what he was saying. Like it genuinely confused him to be seen as anything else.
And that—more than the thank you—was what undid them. Made their hands freeze. Made them look at him.
Because he truly believed that, didn’t he?
This weary, radiant thing—this man stitched in scars and softness, all worn edges and luminous ruin who should have been exalted, untouchable, unreachable—was looking at them.
And saw himself.
Not above. Not divine.
Just the same.
And he meant it.
The Church would’ve called it blasphemy.
But in that moment, the courtesans believed it like scripture.
Bartholomea wiped her hands slowly on a towel. “If you say so, sweetheart.” She whispered but her voice was thick, eyes shining.
Desmond didn’t say anything more. Instead, he tucked his face deeper into the crook of his arm, like a bird folding beneath its wing. His other arm rested against his chest. His shoulders hunched, curling inward.
And just like that, he looked so small. Not in size—but in how he folded. In the unguarded curve of his spine. In the slackness of his limbs. In the soft, aching trust of someone who had once been hurt, but wanted to try again anyway.
The women didn’t move.
Not right away.
They just watched him and something inside them—a place long calloused and long quiet—cracked open. Not with grandeur, but with hush.
And one by one, they softened.
Because they already loved him—of course they did. They already called Desmond theirs in half-jokes and borrowed nicknames, but now—now, with his soft confession, with his face hidden and his body folded inward like something still learning how to nest—
He just made it easier.
So heartbreakingly easy.
To claim him.
To carry him.
To love him like he’d always been one of them.
By the time the bathwater had cooled, Desmond was all loose limbs and smelling faintly of lavender, wet feathers, and five women’s worth of sisterly victory.
His head lolled against the folded towel at the edge of the tub, breath slow and long. His wings drooped like soggy flags, one dropped low on the floor, the other half-folded in what could only be called defeat.
He looked—someone (likely Catalina) would later whisper—like a drowned chicken.
Wrung out, blinking, fluffed in all the wrong directions. Damp feathers sticking out at odd angles. Pitiful, and yet, somehow, painfully, stupidly endearing.
“Time to get out.” Anastasia announced, already unrolling a thick towel. It was one of the good ones—soft, clean, and warm from resting by the brazier.
On cue, Bartholomea and Catalina moved to his sides. The moment they coaxed him upright, Desmond made a sound—a tiny, indignant squawk—the kind a soaked bird might make when picked up unexpectedly. He likely wasn’t even aware he’d made it. It was all just breath, protest, and a bit of waterlogged pride.
His legs didn’t quite cooperate. One foot slipped a little on the edge of the tub, wings twitching as if to balance—but Bartholomea caught him easily, quickly looping one arm around his chest.
“Attento!” She chided, half-scolding, half-laughing as Anastasia draped the towel over his shoulders. “You’ll tumble headfirst into the brazier at this rate and what would we tell the others, hm? ‘Sorry, the angel slipped on his own bathwater’?”
“We’d never live it down.” Anastasia faux-sighed, already steadying one wing with practiced care. “That’s how the legend will end. Not with a sword. With a slip.”
“Death by wet tile.” Fiora nodded solemnly. “Very noble. Very tragic.”
“Very stupid.” Diana muttered under her breath, but the smirk belied her mirth. “Imagine the painting.”
“He’d be naked in it.” Anastasia giggled, very nearly snorting. “Bathed in divine light. Maybe some flowers. Definitely embarrassed.”
“There’d be pigeons!” Catalina declared with a delighted laugh. “Mourning doves… and chickens, too! All sobbing their little hearts out!”
“You’re all sobbing.” Desmond muttered, half-smothered against Bartholomea’s shoulder. “M’fine… just… slippery…”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Bartholomea grinned. “You’re about as fine as overcooked pasta.”
Desmond let out a long-suffering noise. His wings twitched in soggy indignation. And the courtesans unrepentantly wrapped him in towels like he was a bundle of precious laundry. Fussing, drying, doting.
Just past the tub, a small drying area had been prepared. The floor was layered in rugs overlapping each other to shield bare feet from tile. A low bench sat near the brazier, typically used for dressing or resting while a courtesan groomed their client. It was a space designed for slow indulgence, for post bath rituals of warmth and care, but today, it was a place of recovery.
Wrapped in towels and arms, Desmond didn’t resist as he was guided to sit on the bench. He slumped without protest. He looked like a bundled hatchling—damp and blinking, blinking and damp—as if he hadn’t expected the world to be this warm and was still suspicious of it.
One wing gave a half-hearted twitch. It rose as if to shed water with a bit of dignity, feathers fluffing faintly in a last attempt at grace… but the motion fizzled almost immediately. It drooped instead, folding over Desmond’s shoulder like a very tired cat pretending it meant to lie there all along.
The other wing, however, didn’t even try. It slumped sideways like it had decided this was where it would die—draped limply on the rug like a discarded scarf. Catalina barely suppressed a giggle as she helped pat it dry.
They worked in rhythm, dabbing at the hollows of his knees, the curve of his neck, the base of his wings where the down grew soft and delicate.
All the while, Desmond just blinked, slow and dazed, like he was still dreaming.
“Look at him.” Anastasia whispered. “He’s like a pastry left too long in the sun.”
“More like a melted cheese curl.” Bartholomea said wryly.
Desmond mumbled something unintelligible in protest, his eyes barely slitted open. “’m not food…”
“Of course you’re not.” Catalina teased, caressing his cheek. “You’re dessert.”
That earned a muffled grunt and a lazy flutter of wings—not annoyed, just drowsy and confused.
Then, the door creaked open.
The courtesans didn’t look up right away and Desmond barely noticed, but the moment Paola stepped inside, the air changed—just slightly. Still warm, still soft, but with the quiet gravity of someone watching closely.
She paused a few steps inside, a folded bundle of fresh linen tucked under one arm. She had only come to check in, to ensure nothing had gone wrong—but the sight stopped her.
Desmond was nearly swallowed by towels, his wings fanned loosely behind him in a loose arc of damp feathers. One girl was gently drying his hair. Another was kneeling by his feet, massaging warmth back into his calves.
He looked like a painting. A relic pulled from a cathedral wall. His curls clung to his brow, damp and sweet. His cheeks were flushed from heat, his mouth slack with fatigue. His breathing came slow and even.
And for the first time in days—maybe longer—he looked… better.
Peaceful, even.
The dull throb of dissociation still lingered—still tucked behind his eyes—but it had eased now. Softened at the edges.
And then Catalina leaned over, brushing a knuckle along Desmond’s jaw, a thoughtful noise escaping her.
“He’s going to get scruffier if we don’t do something.” She murmured, half to herself. Her thumb lingered near his chin, gentle and curious. “We should shave him before he falls asleep completely.”
It wasn’t teasing—not entirely. In the bathing parlor, it was normal. The next step, after warmth and water, was grooming. A clean face. Oiled skin. A comb through the hair.
But Desmond wasn’t normal.
And Paola’s gaze sharpened the moment she heard it.
She stepped further into the room and up close, the stubble along Desmond’s chin wasn’t just rough—it was uneven. Patchy. Ragged in a way that didn’t speak of laziness, but of something interrupted. Like time had frayed there instead of passing cleanly.
Catalina glanced over, the teasing in her tone shifting to become deferential. “Do you want us to shave him?”
Paola didn’t answer at first.
One part of her wanted to say no.
She hadn’t told her girls what Giovanni had said to her that night when he arrived with blood on his boots and fear in his voice. About the bandit ambush. About the massacre on the road to Florence. About the presence that lived beneath the angel’s skin.
No—she’d only told them what they needed to know.
That Desmond had killed before.
That he was to be treated gently.
That if he were harmed again, he might not stay docile.
And the last had already been affirmed. She had seen what happened last night. They all had. They had seen the violence inflicted on one of their own and when Desmond had been threatened with the same—with worse—something else had stepped in.
The drunk nobleman hadn’t been killed, but he’d been… undone. Quietly. Invisibly. No bruises. No blood. Just a silence afterward that rang too sharp in the ear.
How, Paola couldn’t fathom a guess, but it had been clear to her that it hadn’t been Desmond who incapacitated that nobleman. It was the other. The presence that lived in his blood like a shadow in glass. It had punished violence with precision.
Desmond had simply closed his eyes.
The tools had already been gathered for the task—the lather, the basin, the strop, the blade. All sharp, shining, familiar and innocent. Her girls had shaved hundreds of men before. Done so casually, skillfully, without a second thought—but this was different. This carried weight because Paola saw it clearly for what it was.
Not grooming. Not routine.
A test.
A knife at the throat of a god.
Paola was not a fool. She was a courtesan. An Assassin. A leader. A woman who had seen men kill for less than pride and she knew this was a risk. She didn’t gamble without reason, but this—this was not a gamble. It was a necessity.
Not because she wanted to provoke him—but because she didn’t.
Because trust could not bloom under fear, and fear could not be buried without evidence.
She had to know.
Paola had to see it—that the thing living beneath Desmond’s skin could tell the difference between harm and care. Between accident and intent. Between blade and blow.
And more than that—she needed Desmond to know it too.
If he was ever to feel safe here, truly safe, then they had to show him that he could be vulnerable… and survive it. He had to be touched without consequence. Handled without damage.
Loved without fear.
So she looked at her girls. The ones she trusted. The ones who had never failed her.
“Go slow.” She said softly. “Gently. I’ll stay.”
Not because she didn’t trust her girls.
But because she did.
And because she was asking them to trust her in return.
If the entity within the angel had a choice—then it would choose.
Because if no choice was offered—if no trust was risked—then perhaps nothing would ever change.
‘And that…’ Paola thought. ‘...is the greater danger.’
Desmond didn’t object when Catalina gently urged him more upright, settling him against the bench’s low backrest with fresh towels bunched behind him. His wings remained slack, cushioned over the thick rugs.
The other girls stepped back—not far, just enough to give Catalina room. They knew the unspoken cue, the hush beneath Paola’s presence. They folded into the quiet, hands still, eyes sharp, breaths held. Not one of them moved to help or interrupt.
“Desmond.” Catalina called, kneeling at his side. “We’re going to give you a shave, all right? Can you lift your head a little more for me?”
He made a soft, confused sound—but obeyed, shifting without resistance. His muscles moved slowly, heavy with warmth and comfort, but he was pliant in her hands. Gently, she guided his head back until his neck lay bare, jaw slack with drowsiness—unguarded.
“Easy now, angel.” Catalina soothed, caressing his jaw. “Let us take care of you.”
Her fingers dipped into the lather, smoothing it over the uneven stubble along his chin and jaw. The foam clung in delicate peaks, softening with each breath he took.
Paola watched every inch of him—every flutter of his lashes, every twitch of a throat muscle, the quiet rise and fall of his breath.
Then, Catalina brought the blade to his skin.
Nothing happened.
No flinch. No tension. Desmond just breathed—low, slow, and soft inhales and exhales through parted lips.
One of the courtesans let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding when the razor drew clean without protest. Another twisted the edge of a towel, eyes fixed on the blade.
Each stroke was deliberate and careful, guided by steady fingers and held breath. Desmond didn’t flinch. His throat remained bared, his posture slack with trust. His eyes fluttered—not shut, just dazed. A faint hum escaped him when a cloth dabbed lather away.
The second pass drew a smoother line, but at the curve of his jaw, the razor caught, just barely—and drew blood.
A whisper of pain.
A pinprick of red.
Paola stiffened. Her girls froze as one.
But Desmond only blinked. His brows twitched faintly—not in fear. Not even pain. Just drowsy confusion, like the message hadn’t fully reached him yet.
(And the Eye stirred—barely.
The pain was fleeting, familiar. Shallow enough that even Desmond would recognize it for what it was—a slip of the razor, not a threat. No different from when he had shaved and nicked himself before.
This wasn’t harm.
So it didn’t rise.
It simply urged the cut to clot—quickly, neatly—and went still again.
No rage. No retaliation. Just the idle flick of power brushing away a thing that did not matter.)
Catalina, however, had gone rigid. The blade trembled in her hand. For a single, breathless moment, she didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Her knuckles had gone white. She glanced up—just once—toward Paola, toward the others.
But then—
Desmond leaned into her touch, slow and gentle, like he hadn’t noticed the tension at all. His cheek brushed her palm with the sleepy trust of a cat nudging into warmth.
“’s just a nick.” He mumbled—barely audible, a vibration more than a voice. The sound hummed beneath her fingers, low and dazed, like a purr. “M’fine. C’n keep goin’...”
The words were slow, slurred, but they were his. Not the entity’s.
Catalina let out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. She looked down at him again, steadied her hand, and softened her voice.
“Of course.” Catalina tittered lightly, as if she’d never doubted it for a second. “Just a little hiccup, hmm? You’re doing just fine.”
The razor dipped again but this time with more care, more confidence.
Paola’s breath escaped her at last—slow, quiet, and deep. The kind that eased something clenched.
The entity hiding beneath Desmond’s skin hadn’t stirred.
It had felt the blade kiss Desmond’s throat. Had felt the slip, the sting, the threat that wasn’t a threat—and still, it hadn’t moved. No explosion of power. No divine wrath.
A miracle, she’d once called it. A miracle with teeth.
And now Paola knew those teeth knew when not to bite.
She had her answer.
The shave ended without further incident, and what remained was one clean shaven angel.
He looked younger now. Less scruffy. A little more put together—though still soft around the edges, like someone only halfway awake. But with the stubble gone, one feature stood out more than it had before: the scar that ran vertically through his lips.
They’d seen it before, of course—half-hidden beneath shadow and stubble—but now it was impossible to miss. It drew the eye. Clean. Sharp. Too straight to have come from an accident. Too exact to be anything but a blade.
No one said a word.
Just a quiet glance, a shared understanding, and the kind of silence that came from women who had seen marks like that before.
Then, the moment passed.
The tension ebbed, the fear gone still, but the courtesans didn’t step away.
Instead, they hovered—naturally, instinctively—around Desmond like practiced birds—cooing, fluttering, keeping their hands busy. The towel was changed. The razor was put away. The basin emptied.
And then someone lifted a damp curl from Desmond’s brow with a soft click of the tongue.
“He’s starting to look like a baby chicken.” Fiora murmured.
“A very sad, ruffled one.” Diana agreed, gently fluffing another half-dried lock of hair between her fingers.
The others hummed in agreement.
Paola said nothing, eyes narrowed in thought.
His hair had been short, once. Cared for and likely trimmed regularly, but whatever it had once been, time had worn it out. The crown was thick and uneven. The ends were dry and tangled in places. The sides were jagged, awkwardly grown in, like someone had once taken a blade to it and then forgotten about the rest.
Not styled. Not wild.
Just neglected, not unlike the rest of him.
The weight of it dragged his face downward, making him look older than he was and like someone who’d been left out in the weather too long. Not with the dignity of age, but the erosion of it.
“Let’s clean this up.” Bartholomea murmured, already lifting a comb.
Paola didn’t stop them. She merely nodded once and the scissors were pressed to a waiting hand.
Desmond made no protest. He didn’t even seem to realize what was happening—just blinked, dazed, as someone tilted his chin again and draped a fresh towel around his shoulders. His wing gave the faintest flick as a pair of hands gathered the length of hair at his nape.
Paola stepped aside, back to the brazier, content to observe. From this angle, she could only see his profile, half-hidden by a screen and the layered silhouettes of her girls.
Bartholomea worked with her usual calm, cleaning the shape, smoothing the rough edges, and trimming the split ends. It wasn’t styled, not really. Just tidied in a way that suited him.
“He’s going to be too pretty.” Fiora warned under her breath. “With this face? The nobles will faint.”
“They’d better not.” Bartholomea muttered as she moved to Desmond’s other side. “We’ll be the ones carrying them out.”
“Not too close to the ears.” Anastasia chided anxiously when the scissors snipped a little close. “Leave the curls—yes, those little ones right there.” She motioned with a careful flick, a touch protectively.
“If we lose them—” Diana added sweetly. “—I swear I’ll swap all your rouge for flour.”
Bartholomea snorted. “Please. I’m not a monster. I’m just giving him proper shape.”
“You say that now but you always get carried away.” Catalina pouted.
“I do not.” Bartholomea sputtered, scandalized. “I’m a professional.”
And it showed. The curls didn’t vanish—they just shortened, softened into neat arcs that clung sweetly near the curve of his ears and temple. Still present. Still boyish. Still infuriatingly charming.
The scissors continued to snip quietly—steady, gentle, rhythmic—that at some point, Desmond started nodding off again. His head dipped forward and he would have slipped right off the bench had Catalina not caught and cradled his head in her palms with a barely suppressed smile.
Hair fell in gentle spirals onto the towels below. When the last uneven edge was gone, Bartholomea stepped back and exhaled.
“There.” She said, pleased. “Much better.”
Paola said nothing. Instead, she eyed the result with a critical gaze.
It was short. Abnormally short, by the standards of most men she saw—no tied back tail, no artful length brushing collar or brow. If she’d seen it on anyone else, she might’ve thought it unfinished, but on Desmond…it made a quiet sort of sense.
Clean. Unadorned. Like someone meant for simplicity and light—not courtly masks or vanity. It left his face bare, jaw softened, more visible beneath the gentle fall of trimmed fringe.
Paola exhaled, slow and approving.
He looked good now. Better than good. Still far too thin. Still pale from recovery and sleep, but the harshness had eased. His face wasn’t hidden behind uneven growth and the flush in his cheeks gave him some color again. The bath, the shave, the haircut—it all made him look clearer, somehow. Not striking. Not sharp. Just neat. Presentable. More... here. Less like a relic he’d come to them as and more of a person. Touched by warmth instead of ruin.
“Handsome.” Anastasia crooned, smoothing his brow and inspecting him with a fine eye. “He looks like someone again.”
“He looks like ours.” Bartholomea contended primly, running a knuckle down his jaw.
Then Catalina, smiling, nudged him lightly. “What do you think, Desmond?” She teased, her grin widening when Desmond stirred sleepily.
His lashes fluttered. One blink, then another—slow, unfocused, and drowsy. Honey brown eyes blinked up at the circle of women tending him. There was no sharpness in them, no flirtation—just that same bewildered softness he wore like a second skin. His head tilted faintly toward the sound of the scissors being put away. One wing fluffed sleepily. Another curled tighter against the floor.
And for a moment, no one moved.
He had always been lovely in that fragile, otherworldly way—but this was different. The stubble was gone. His hair, trimmed and clean. The shadows of exhaustion had softened. The roughness of survival had been combed away.
There was a kind of hush to him now. Not just in his face—but in the whole of him. The way his cheek rested against the linen towel around his neck. The sleepy weight behind his gaze. The soft, disheveled grace of someone too tired to know how precious he looked.
Then—he seemed to realize they were staring.
A tiny crease formed between his brows. His gaze dropped, quick and uncertain. One hand twitched under the towel like he meant to reach up and fix something—his hair, maybe—but didn’t quite commit. His shoulders curled inward. His chin dipped.
And then—without thought—his wings moved. They tucked in closer with a quiet, instinctive fold. His feathers edged forward like they meant to hide him. Like they were trying to make him smaller.
And when he blinked again, confused and sheepish, wings shifting again with a slow, bashful flutter—
“Oh.” Catalina breathed.
“Oh no.” Anastasia echoed.
“No.” Bartholomea agreed flatly. “Absolutely not.”
And Paola—Paola paused too.
Because she had seen handsome men. Slept beside them. Dodged their egos, endured their charm, kissed lips that mistook performance for affection. Beauty, in her world, was deliberate. A performance. A weapon wielded when needed.
But Desmond—
Desmond blinked up at her with eyes still blurred from sleep, warm and honeyed, dazed and utterly unguarded. He looked between them all without settling, as if trying to catch up to a conversation that had already moved on. There was no calculation in them. No seduction. Just… confused softness.
And he had no idea.
That was the problem.
Because a man who knew would play it. Wield it. Put it away when it suited him. But this boy—this feathered, half-starved anomaly of a man—tilted his head and looked at her like he wasn’t entirely convinced the world was real.
And Paola, seasoned as she was, felt her mouth go dry.
“We should lock the door.” Fiora suggested, half-serious.
“Board the windows.” Diana added grimly.
“Put him in a veil.” Bartholomea deadpanned.
“A nice veil.” Anastasia amended. “With embroidery.”
The girls were laughing—but Paola caught it.
The twitch in Bartholomea’s mouth, too tight to be amusement as her fingers flexed like they missed the weight of steel.
Anastasia was still smiling, but there was a crease between her brows—the kind that only showed up when she was already thinking three steps ahead.
Catalina, who usually teased with her whole body, was suddenly very still—her hands too carefully folding the towel in her lap, as if it were something delicate. Or breakable.
Fiora, who had started it, didn’t quite meet anyone’s eyes. She was smoothing Desmond’s wing—absently, repetitively—but she hadn’t blinked in some time.
And Diana’s eyes had gone sharp in the way they only did when she meant business. She wasn’t looking at Desmond anymore. She was watching the door.
They weren’t joking. Not entirely.
And Paola understood.
Because Desmond’s wings were one kind of danger, but this—this bewildered, open sweetness—his unawareness of his own softness—was the kind that invited ruin.
(Because softness like his wasn’t normal. The men they served—nobles, merchants, even scholars—knew how to touch, how to take, how to smile with meaning. Their gentleness was calculated, their charm a kind of transaction. Even kindness came with strings. That was the dance—seduction, wit, possession. And when it ended, it ended cleanly—with coin, with wine, with distance.
But Desmond didn’t do any of this. He did not perform. Did not posture. Didn’t even seem to realize that his eyes—golden-warm and open—were looking at them without demand.
Not because he believed he deserved their care.
But because he didn’t know how to refuse it.
And that was worse.
His gentleness wasn’t coyness. Nor was it innocence born from inexperience. It was raw. Honest. The kind that came from someone worn thin by grief and silence, someone unsure whether kindness could last. And when it did—when it remained despite all reason—he folded into it like a stray learning not to flinch.
There was no calculation. No cleverness. Just a quiet, instinctive trust that slipped past defenses before it could be stopped.
And that—on a grown man—wasn’t just rare.
It was dangerous.
Because Desmond didn’t seem to realize what he looked like. Didn’t know what he offered without meaning to. A man like that—unguarded, unknowing—could undo someone without even trying.
He was bare-faced now. Clean. Soft-eyed. His wings still damp from the bath, his limbs folded in quiet fatigue, mouth slack with sleep. He didn’t know how precious he looked.
And that—Paola thought grimly—was catnip for the wrong kind of man. Or woman. Or saint. Or sinner.
Because Desmond didn’t shine.
He invited.
And Paola had lived long enough to know what people did to the things that invited them too easily.
Which is why she was already thinking—grimly, practically—that she might need to sew the damn veil herself.)
Just as the laughter began to settle, the curtain rustled.
“Scusate.” Letta called as she stepped through, a small bundle of fresh linen cradled in her arms. “I come bearing gifts!”
She smiled as she spoke—but the moment her eyes fell on Desmond, she stopped mid-step.
The bundle shifted in her arms.
“Oh.” She breathed.
Desmond blinked up at her, bleary and flushed, still wrapped in a towel and his own feathers. A curl of trimmed hair brushed his temple.
Letta’s mouth parted faintly. “Oh.”
The heat of protectiveness softened—not gone, just tucked beneath the familiar rhythm of teasing and towels—and the girls grinned like cats who’d already eaten the bird.
Bartholomea crossed her arms, smug. “Right?”
“He was fuzzier before.” Anastasia offered. “You missed the first reveal.”
Letta didn’t respond at first. Just stared, wide-eyed, at the warm haze of Desmond’s expression—the sleepy confusion in his honey brown gaze, the faint color in his cheeks, the way he instinctively folded his wings around himself like a soft, oversized bird.
“You’re—” Letta began, then stopped. She shook her head slowly and let out a quiet laugh. “The rest of the girls are going to fall in love with you.”
Desmond looked genuinely startled.
Then confused.
Then mortified.
He shrank down a little, wings twitching in closer, until Letta gave an affectionate hum as she crouched beside him.
“Don’t worry.” She teased goodnaturedly. “We’ll only let the nice ones near you.”
Letta then sat beside him, knees turned towards Desmond to show off the bundled offerings.
On top laid a soft linen undershirt, back opened and stitched with ties around the neckline and lower ribs. Beneath it was a pair of loose drawstring breeches in pale grey, the fabric light enough for comfort but thick enough for modesty. Folded neatly underneath that was a narrow sash of brushed wool in muted plum, its edges frayed from use and meant to gather the shirt at the waist without pressure. And resting on top of it all was a rose-dyed house wrap—worn at the edges and the fringe trimmed short so it wouldn’t catch or drag.
Desmond blinked drowsily as the bundle was gently passed to him.
“We’ll help you into them.” Catalina comforted.
“Just enough to make sure everything fits.” Diana added. “Then it’s all yours.”
Desmond ducked his head with a small, uncertain nod, wings twitching slightly as the clothes were unfolded.
They helped him into the shirt first.
It was slow and careful—more wrapping than dressing, really. Catalina helped guide his wings through the modified back while Bartholomea knelt to fix the collar ties. Anastasia hummed as she collected the damp bath towels and put them away.
But then, when they got to the sleeves—when Letta coaxed Desmond’s left arm through the second sleeve—something caught.
Desmond winced.
It was barely a breath, a mere flicker of tension through his shoulders, but it was enough to still the room.
She paused, adjusting the fabric carefully—then saw it.
That skin of Desmond’s left arm was not like the rest.
It was puckered and warped, twisted like melted wax and left to harden wrong from elbow to wrist. It was thick and pink and uneven, the kind made with iron and fire, then half-healed by something not quite natural.
Letta swallowed.
She hadn’t seen this one before. Her elder sisters had. They’d bathed him when he was still dreaming, cleaned each scar like it belonged. They hadn’t flinched, hadn’t whispered, and now, they didn’t speak.
Letta didn’t linger, but she couldn’t help the flick of her eyes upward—just briefly, a glance out of the corner of her vision. Anastasia was folding towels. Bartholomea was adjusting the undershirt’s lower ties with quiet precision. Catalina brushed a hand down Desmond’s back, soothing.
Not one of them looked disturbed.
They’d seen this wound. They already carried it with him.
So Letta steadied herself. If they could treat it like any other scar—like just another broken part of him they still loved—then so would she.
But the shape…the shape still caught. There was an emptiness where something once was. Like something had once been there but then carved out and welded shut.
Then, Desmond shifted. The cloth dragged along the raised skin and he flinched again—just a twitch, like his body remembered before he did. He drew his arm close, tucking it against his chest.
“Don’ worry ‘bout it.” Desmond mumbled, half-asleep as if sensing her pause. “Jus’ sensitive…from when they burned it off.”
And that was when Paola, watching it all with quiet calm, stopped breathing.
Every girl in the room went still, hands falling slack.
The burn itself hadn’t shocked them, not anymore, but the words—‘burned it off’—and the way he said them, casual and weary, as if it were nothing—
Letta’s voice came after a long beat—gentle, but unsteady, like she already feared the answer. “Burned what off, tesoro?”
Desmond blinked, sluggish and distant, like the question had come from underwater, before he answered—
“M’ tattoo.”
Paola’s heart gave a slow, deliberate thud.
“Wasn’ anyth’n special.” Desmond mumbled, unaware of the weight of what he’d just confessed. “Jus’ a dumb thing… Got it after runnin’ from th’ Farm. Swore I’d do it even if I had t’ forge the ID…”
None of the courtesans—not even Paola—understood half of what those words meant, but they understood the tone.
Fond. Nostalgic. A flicker of something close to laughter curling around the end of the sentence—laughter that cracked, just a little, from exhaustion. The details were foreign, but the sentiment was clearly not. The way he spoke felt like he was brushing dust from an old keepsake. Like he was opening a box that hadn’t been touched in years.
Paola stepped forward quietly. Her eyes were fixed on the arm—not the wound, but how Desmond held it. The way he curled slightly inward, like the pain was old but not distant.
“What kind of tattoo, Desmond?” Poala asked softly, cautiously. Around her, the other women stilled. They didn’t speak, didn’t interrupt. They stepped back without a word, recognizing the shift. This was no longer theirs to hold. It belonged to Paola now.
Her voice remained even, but inside, Paola’s thoughts twisted.
Ink wasn’t art. Not here.
It was judgment. A permanent verdict laid bare across the skin. They were a mark for the condemned—criminals, deserters, slaves. Tattoos weren’t worn by choice. They were brands. Punishments. Warnings. A way to carve shame into flesh for all to see.
But the way Desmond had said it…
He had wanted it.
And that made her chest ache because if Desmond had wanted it—if he had treasured it…
What kind of cruelty had it taken to tear that away?
Desmond’s gaze turned inward.
“Eagle.” He murmured. A faint smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “An’...an’ our symbol.”
His right hand drifted, brushing the cloth over his scarred arm, as if he could still feel the ink through memory alone.
“Was nice.” Desmond mumbled, his voice almost shy. “S’posed t’ mean freedom, y’know? Flight. Couldn’ really fly…but could pretend.” His voice wavered, just a little. “Added our symbol t’ ‘member… where I came from. Even when I ran.”
He said it like someone holding a memory too dear to share—but too tired to keep it tucked away.
“Good tatt.” Desmond continued wistfully, almost to himself. Then, he smiled wryly. “Was hidden, mostly. Didn’ think they’d notice.”
He laughed, faintly.
“They noticed.”
Desmond’s grin faded, eyes falling shut. His head lolled sideways, caught in a dreamy haze, but around him, the room had stilled. Every courtesan stood frozen, breath shallow and limbs stilled like statues.
Paola’s lips pressed into a thin, trembling line.
Couldn’t really fly.
Our symbol.
Whatever that symbol had been—whoever ‘our’ referred to—it hadn’t been shameful. Not to him.
It has been a part of him.
Something chosen. Something loved.
And someone had defiled him.
“Who.” Paola asked. Her voice was low and still, but it cut through the room like a blade across silk.
Her mind raced through the details that Giovanni had given from their plight from Rome, thoughts flickering through who would dare. The Cardinals. The Templars. The Pope himself.
Her girls stirred uneasily. Desmond blinked, groggy and disoriented.
Paola crouched in front of him and slowly, deliberately, she reached for his left arm.
Desmond twitched, eyes fluttering open, startled—but relaxed when he saw her. He didn’t resist as she drew the limb gently away from his chest and just watched silently as the sleeve of his left arm was peeled back with the patience of someone who had done this before.
Paola’s thumb traced the edge of the burn, following the melted seams, the places where ink had once lived and now did not.
It wasn’t like her scar.
But it was close enough that it ached.
She smoothed the fabric back down carefully. Then, without thinking, her other hand closed around his, steady and warm.
“Who?” She asked again—gentler now, but no less sharp.
Desmond blinked slowly. His lips parted, trembled.
“The priests.” He answered, tiredly, voice barely louder than a whisper. “After they took me.”
Paola closed her eyes, stilled the stutter in her heart. Desmond didn’t need to explain why because she could already fill in the blanks.
The body was a vessel, wasn’t it? Made in God’s image. And Desmond’s mark—a tattoo—would’ve been seen as a desecration. A stain on something that might’ve been holy.
This hadn’t been a punishment. It had been meant as a cleansing. An act of twisted sanctity. They hadn’t just removed the ink. They’d tried to purify him—burning away anything that didn’t fit their idea of what an angel should be.
Her hand curled tighter around his and in her chest, something old and bitter twisted.
Desmond didn’t seem to notice. He exhaled, lashes fluttering, then gave a small, crooked smile. The kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“’ts funny…” He murmured. “They were…were lookin’ for a miracle, ya know? A sign or…or proof.”
His fingers curled faintly in Paola’s hand. Weak, feather-light. Like bird legs settling on her palm.
“But there wasn’t one.” He breathed. “Just me.” A faint laugh broke from him, bitter and raw. His eyes fell shut, smile fading.
“Just me… me an’ the Eye.”
Paola stilled.
The Eye.
So that was its name. The thing that protected him. The thing that had killed for him. The thing that watched through his tears.
But Paola didn’t ask. Not yet. For now, it was the priests—the Papacy—that she held in her teeth.
The fire crackled gently in the corner.
Then, from beyond her brothel walls—faint and clear—the bells began to toll. Long, steady chimes for the ninth hour. Past midday. A sound that marked time across the city, rang from the heart of Florence itself.
Desmond flinched. Not sharply—just a slight hitch in his shoulders, but Paola caught the movement immediately. Her eyes narrowed.
“...You know those bells?” She inquired, voice gentling. Did they remind him of the ones near the Vatican? Rome’s great churches? St. Peter’s? Santa Maria Maggiore?
Desmond’s eyes didn’t open, but his brows knit faintly. A crease formed between them—then smoothed, like he wasn’t sure whether the sound soothed or unsettled him.
“Yeah.” He answered, slowly. “The Duomo.”
Paola’s body went still.
What?
“Was jus’ one bell before, though…” Desmond mumbled. “Used t’ hear it e’ryday…’till…” The words trailed off, lost. The sentence dangled unfinished, but he didn’t need to finish it because Paola felt the realization settle over her like a sheet of ice.
The Duomo. Desmond remembered the Duomo’s bells.
Not some vague chapel chime or distant peal from Rome—but the Campanile di Giotto, her own city’s bell tower. The one that tolled the hours through every street and alley of Florence.
Giovanni had told her that he had taken the boy from the Vatican, but if he remembered this sound—if he heard it enough to know the rhythm of its tolls, enough to speak of them like habit—
Then Desmond hadn’t only been in Roma.
“You were here.” Paola breathed. In Firenze.
Desmond gave a tiny, humming “mmhm”—barely more than a breath. His chin dipped faintly. Soft. Sleepy. As if he didn’t realize the gravity of what he’d just confirmed.
But Paola did.
She remembered what the girls had told her—that he’d panicked earlier. Trembled and blinked, voice slurred, asking where he was. They had answered gently. “Firenze, angel.” They’d said.
And the name had cracked something open in him.
Paola had thought it was confusion. The disorientation of trauma. The murky panic of waking up in an unfamiliar bed.
But it wasn’t.
It had been recognition.
Her gaze dropped back to Desmond again. Damp curls at his temple. His arm rested trustingly in her hands. The awful scarring caught the firelight like ruined gold.
“Where?” Paola urged, barely more than a breath—tight, frayed. “Where in Firenze?”
Desmond stirred. He was drifting again but her voice pulled at something inside him.
“I don’…” His brows furrowed slightly. “I dunno. Jus’... down s'mewhere. Cold.” Desmond’s voice thinned, trailing off like something forgotten halfway through.
Paola closed her eyes and took a breath—single, bracing.
Underground. He had been under the city, under her nose. Hidden in some cell, behind some wall, with no one—not Giovanni, not even her own network—uttering a word.
And yet Desmond had suffered here. In her Florence.
And Paola’s eyes snapped open—sharp, alert, furious.
Carefully, she smoothed his sleeve again. Her hands were practiced, steady—but her jaw remained tight. One of her fingers trembled before she caught it and stilled it through sheer will alone.
Then, without a word, she rose.
Desmond blinked up at her, dazed and half-curled into himself, like he sensed the shift in the air but didn’t know what it meant.
Paola didn’t answer the look with words. Instead, she reached down one last time. Her fingers curved around his jaw, the pad of her thumb brushing beneath one eye. Just feeling. Mapping the shape of him like she needed to remember this moment. Like she couldn’t afford to forget.
A curl of damp hair stuck to his brow. She pushed it back slowly, gently. Like she was trying not to wake a bird she’d just coaxed into her hands.
For a moment, her thumb hovered at his temple. Then she leaned forward and pressed a kiss to his brow—barely there and feather-light. A breath more than a touch.
She lingered. And breathed him in.
He smelled like clean linen and warm water, and something softer beneath—like warmth caught in feathers. Like a nest, freshly made.
(And something else, too. A trace of salt. Not his, but near enough to cling.)
Then she drew back—slow and reluctant—her fingers trailing down his cheek as if letting go cost something.
“Finish here.” She said softly to her girls. They nodded wordlessly, moving quieter than before.
And then, with one last stroke along his jaw—tender, protective, hers—Paola turned and left the room.
The walk to her office was silent, but inside her head, a storm raged.
By the time the door clicked shut, her hands were already shaking—not from fear but from humiliation.
Desmond had been here.
Scarred. Starved. Caged. Beneath her streets. Beneath her city.
Paola stood in the center of her office, surrounded by the quiet order of every meticulous detail she had ever painstakingly prepared. This was her place. Her desk, her records, her web. Everything in this room was the product of decades of cultivation—informants, favors, investments. Every scroll, every letter, every ledger was a thread in the net she had cast over Firenze—one so fine it was meant to catch even dreams.
And still, Desmond had slipped through it. No—not just slipped. He had suffered here. Under her city. Under her protection.
She moved stiffly to the desk, her posture rigid, spine tight as marble. The oil lamp behind her sputtered gently. The room smelled of rose wax and pressed parchment—clean, composed, deliberate. It was order, control.
But it all felt so false now.
Her fingers shook. Desmond’s voice still echoed in her ears.
“Jus’... down s’mewhere. Cold.”
“They were lookin’ for a miracle.”
The Duomo bells. The burn. The sleep-heavy dullness in his voice when he said, “Just me.”
There should have been whispers.
Paola paid for whispers. She breathed in secrets.
Paola had connections—layers of them. She had shoppers who were paid to gossip as they bartered. Courtesans who were trained to listen first and seduce second. She had ears in noble households, embedded through servants, laundresses, and cooks. She had eyes in churches, in taverns, in side streets where secrets were traded for coins and kisses.
She knew when a noble’s bastard was born.
She knew when a merchant smuggled from Venezia.
She knew everything that passed through this city.
And yet, this had gone unseen.
Someone should have said something.
A boy like Desmond—winged, broken, sacred to the Church? They wouldn’t have been able to keep it quiet. Not completely. Not flawlessly.
There should have been rumors. Shards of stories. A frightened servant. A gasping acolyte. A whisper at the edge of wine-fueled confession.
There should have been something.
Instead, she’d heard nothing.
Not a word about a winged captive. No frightened servant fleeing a church in tears. No murmured tale of a miracle kept caged. No broken tale of a boy being kept, or bled, or—
Her nails bit into her palms.
There was always something. A detail. A scent.
Even if she hadn’t caught it directly, someone should have.
Like Volpe.
He had his runners in the rafters. Gutters. Tunnels. Streets her girls didn’t walk. His people moved differently than hers. Less polish, more motion. They could climb where hers couldn’t, chase what hers never saw. Their circles overlapped, yes—but they didn’t mirror. Where her courtesans leaned in with perfume and silk, his thieves watched from rooftops and filth.
He had a different vantage—one she needed now.
She pulled parchment, dipped the quill in ink, and began to write.
Volpe,
Confirm or deny: any known record or rumor of a prisoner once held beneath Firenze.
Not petty. Not political. Symbolic. High-priority. Religious.
Not just a prisoner in chains. Something sacred and symbolic. Hidden and tortu—
Snap.
The quill cracked mid-stroke.
Ink splattered across the parchment in a wet, ugly blot—bleeding like a wound.
Paola stared at it. At the jagged tip. At the ruin on the page. At the word she’d written too hard as if she could bury her rage in ink.
She hadn’t realized how tightly she’d been holding it.
Her drawer scraped open.
Empty.
Of course.
No spare quill. Just the letter sitting half-written, bleeding and broken. Like him. Like Desmond.
Paola sat frozen for a long moment, long enough to register the tremor beneath her skin, the coil of rage in her chest, the way her eyes burned, and her breath hissed softly between her teeth.
Then, slowly, she set the quill aside. Gently. Carefully. Like a weapon still warm from blood.
She closed the drawer.
Later. She would finish the letter later, when her hands stopped shaking. When she could look at that word without thinking of the raw edge of his burns. Without remembering how perfectly her thumb had fit along the edge of puckered skin like a scar she already knew.
Her own scar ran down her right forearm. Deep. Old. Not burned—cut. Etched like a signature of survival.
His was on the opposite arm. A different method, but the meaning was the same.
Paola had thought, once, that she’d run out of space in her heart. That whatever tenderness had lived there once had long since calcified—folded down and sealed off behind years of necessity and discipline. She had given and given until only instinct remained: protect the girls, feed the girls, teach the girls how to survive a world that punished softness.
There was no room left for aching. No room for helpless things. No room for anything that trembled.
But now—
Now it was personal.
Because Desmond hadn’t simply entered her house—he had been placed in her arms like a burden passed down without warning. Not as a soldier or as a player in the city’s games, but as something smaller. Quieter. Something that didn’t cry out—just folded in on itself and tried not to be seen.
And she had felt it like a knife. No—like a whimper in a cradle and in the back of her mind, some ancient instinct stirred awake.
Paola barely knew his voice, but she knew him. Not through confession, but through quiet. Through the way his hands trembled when they were freed. The way his brow furrowed at sudden sounds. The way he leaned toward warmth even when he flinched from touch.
He had spoken only a handful of words, yes—but silence could be fluent, and she was fluent in silence.
She had learned him through fragments: the tilt of his cheeks towards warmth, the hitch in his breath when someone touched his wings, the instinct that made him shield a sobbing girl like she was his kin.
And that was enough.
Instinct didn’t wait for permission—not this kind.
Because Desmond hadn’t asked for protection. He hadn’t expected to be held.
And still, he was theirs now.
She’d seen the way her girls looked at him. The way Catalina cooed when she caressed his wings. The way Anastasia watched over his sleep like a hawk. Even Bartholomea, all sharp corners and narrowed eyes, softened when she combed his hair.
They were already attached.
Not because he was beautiful, not because of his wings—but because he was kind. Because he blinked up at them, dazed and drowsy, like they were the miracle. As if being touched gently was something too precious to name. As if warmth was something he wasn’t sure he deserved.
Even the entity that curled beneath his skin—the Eye, the power Paola could feel curled behind his ribs like a blade not yet drawn—had recognized the difference. It hadn’t stirred against her girls. It hadn’t hissed, or fought, or burned even when one of her own had accidentally made its charge bleed.
It had seen them. And it had understood.
That meant something.
Paola’s jaw flexed. Her palms flattened on the desk.
Desmond hadn’t stormed into her world like the others. He’d fallen into it like a hatchling tumbled from the nest—curled in on himself and far too quiet for something still alive. A fragile, trembling ache wrapped in feathers with a scar that mirrored hers and a pain she recognized not as an assassin or a madonna of a brothel, but as something older. Something deeper.
Paola looked down at the ruined page. At the broken quill. At the ugly, bleeding blot that drowned half the letter like blood from a throat too slow to close.
Then she stood. Slowly. Deliberately.
She was calm again.
Not because her rage had passed…but because it had settled.
Because Desmond was hers.
Not just as one of her girls.
But Paola’s.
Not because she pitied him, but because something in her—something bone-deep and wordless—had already made space for him.
Not as a courtesan. Not as a charge.
But as someone already carved into her marrow.
Whether he knew it or not.
And someone was going to answer for what had been done to him.
A knock came at the door.
But Paola didn’t move. Her eyes were still on the blot of ink, her hands curled slightly at her sides. Her voice, when it came, was low and clipped.
“I’m not taking visitors.”
There was a pause—then Isabetta’s voice filtered gently through the wood.
“I know, Madonna. But, ah—” There was another pause, more hesitant this time, before her middle daughter said, “—it’s Messere Giovanni.”
Paola closed her eyes.
Of course. Of course it would be him.
She exhaled through her nose, long and sharp, as if the very air had teeth. Her elbows came to rest on the desk, fingers lacing together as she stared past the oil lamp’s flicker and into nothing at all.
“…Send him up.” She said at last, voice cool but composed. “And make sure no one disturbs us.”
“Yes, Madonna.”
The footsteps retreated.
Paola did not move. She sat where she was, fingers steepled and breath held, still as stone.
Because if Giovanni had come now, there was only one thing it could be about.
The city had been humming since dawn.
Not with fear, but with gossip—laughter in the streets, vendors reenacting punches between sales, couriers relaying the latest version of who threw what and why.
It had been a party, after all.
A lavish one. Loud. Medici-affiliated.
La Rosa Colta had been booked entirely—every chamber, every girl. The kind of booking that came with coin measured by weight, not number. The kind of night where secrets ran high and sobriety ran low, and everyone stumbled home with too much perfume in their lungs.
And a fight had broken out.
That part was undeniable.
The fight itself hadn’t surprised Giovanni. Men drunk on ego and wine rarely needed a reason to swing. He’d heard about it by the third hour of morning with word of broken furniture, bruised men, an apprentice who nearly lost a tooth. There had been no arrests, no blood, no scandal worth ink but enough commotion that even the baker near San Lorenzo had heard of it by dawn.
Perhaps a Medici cousin had started it or perhaps some merchant had taken offense too quickly. Perhaps it had started from a petty insult, or bad blood, or maybe worse. It didn’t matter.
What mattered was what hadn’t been said.
No one mentioned wings. No one whispered about miracles. No one spoke of strangers sightings.
Only the usual of wine, fists, and foolishness.
The silence should have reassured him.
But it didn’t.
Giovanni had considered sending Federico to check in again—briefly—but dismissed it. His eldest son was needed elsewhere, assigned to follow up on a series of reports tied to the Pazzi family. Giovanni’s suspicions had been growing for weeks and recent correspondences with trusted sources had only confirmed his unease. Something was stirring beneath the city’s surface—something dangerous, sharp, and politically timed. Federico couldn’t be spared. And besides...
It had been over a week.
Too long, perhaps, to leave everything in Paola’s hands.
Not that Giovanni didn’t trust her—of course he did. She had been his ally for years and her loyalty was as consistent as her efficiency. She knew how to protect her own. She had always handled herself with grace, with strength, with sharp intelligence that rivaled his own.
But still.
He had dropped a relic—an anomaly—into her care without warning. He had handed off the winged creature with barely an explanation and disappeared into his own business, sending only coin—generous amounts of it—through the usual channels. Payments tucked into storefronts and merchant ventures Paola quietly invested in. The same kind of investments he’d once arranged for other Brotherhood matters, only now those florins bought room, board, and discretion. Labor. Clean linens. Anything else Paola deemed necessary to care for a winged creature.
But coin was not the same as presence.
Not when a creature like that was involved.
Not when silence had become this dangerous.
And so, he came himself.
Giovanni had walked through the doors of La Rosa Colta dozens of times. Never for pleasure—he was a married man, and unfaithful hearts made poor foundations. No, his visits were for business. Quiet conversations. Information passed hand to hand. Favors traded. And Paola had always been reliable. The house ran clean. Its silence was as valuable as its eyes.
But today, something felt...off.
He stepped into the brothel and was greeted as always—with warmth.
One of the courtesans offered a light wave as she passed, fingers trailing gently along the wall. Another gave a low laugh, brushing fingertips over her collarbone as she tilted her head in familiar acknowledgment. Someone hummed from the parlor, the soft tune curling lazily through the air like perfume.
Business as usual.
Giovanni returned a nod, loosened his shoulders, and took a breath.
But then—
A glance. A hesitation. A subtle dip in conversation that happened twice as he passed through the corridor. Not enough to be called out. Not enough to mark.
But he noticed.
Their rhythm was flawless, but something about it felt… rehearsed.
No, not rehearsed. Intentional.
He caught a look exchanged across the room—brief, quiet, gone in a blink. Another courtesan laughed at something soft and unseen, but her gaze lingered a moment too long on the stairwell behind him. The girl leaning against the doorframe was relaxed, but the way she shifted her weight was too controlled—like she wanted to appear casual, but had chosen the spot deliberately.
Their smiles were the same. Their hands were still soft.
But their eyes were sharper than he remembered.
The last time he had walked these halls, he’d carried the creature in his arms—winged, unconscious, barely alive. The courtesans had been guarded, eyes had not been trained on him, but on the angel. There had been curiosity. Caution. Suspicion.
Today, that same stillness remained.
But its center had moved.
That was it, wasn’t it?
The house felt full. Not with noise or guests, but with someone. As though something small had rooted itself in the center of the brothel and all the women had quietly begun to orbit it.
Giovanni frowned, not quite sure what he was seeing.
Isabetta met him at the foot of the stairs. Her hands were folded neatly. Her greeting was as it always had been—polite, smooth, efficient. Yet when she turned to guide him, her chin lifted half a breath higher than usual. As if confirming something. As if ensuring the way ahead was still clear.
He followed her without comment, but his mind had already begun to turn.
Because even Paola hadn’t come down to greet him. That, more than anything, told him something was wrong.
Paola always greeted him. Always.
It was custom, yes—but more than that, it was respect. A shared courtesy between equals. The Madonna of a brothel did not rise for just anyone, but she had always met him halfway, descending the stairs herself with poise and precision. Not because she had to—but because they understood each other. Allies.
Today, she had not.
Giovanni followed Isabetta down the second floor hall in silence, each footfall echoing louder than it should have.
Let him climb.
Let him come to her.
That was the message and Giovanni heard it loud and clear.
But as they walked, something else prickled at the back of his neck—like a pressure behind the eyes. Not danger exactly, but tension. Anticipation.
The hallway felt… more occupied than it should have.
A courtesan lingered at the far end of the corridor, fussing with a vase that didn’t need attention. Another passed by with folded towels—too quick for leisure, too slow for urgency. Their presence didn’t block his path, but it guided it. Narrowed it. As though ensuring he kept to the route Isabetta had chosen.
And when Giovanni passed the corner alcove near the bathing chamber, Isabetta adjusted her step. Not dramatically, not rudely, but it was there—a subtle and fluid shift in body language. It was invisible to others, but unmistakable to a trained assassin. She angled her body ever so slightly, just enough to keep his focus forward.
A practiced deterrent.
He glanced toward the closed door across the hall.
Another courtesan lingered near it, head bowed as she adjusted the ribbon at her wrist. She didn’t look up. She didn’t move.
Giovanni said nothing.
Something had changed. He didn’t know what, but whatever it was, he had a feeling Paola would not let it go quietly.
And behind him, the house was watching.
Giovanni stepped through the door, and for a moment, it felt like familiar ground.
Same oil lamp. Same race of rose wax in the air. Same neatly arranged desk with its scrolls and ink. Paola sat behind it—poised, immaculate, unmoved, as always.
But the air was different.
Still. Weighted. Not hostile. Not warm. Just... still, in that way things are before a storm breaks.
And Paola, though motionless, carried something brittle beneath the quiet of her composure. Not fury. Not grief. But something braced, like a bow drawn taut, waiting for release. Her hands were folded, but her knuckles were white. Her chin lifted, but her jaw was set—tight. It was the kind of posture a predator took just before it decided whether to strike or not.
Giovanni’s gaze narrowed.
He knew Paola. He had worked with her for years, trusted her discretion more than most men trusted their own families.
But today—today he did not feel welcome.
Giovanni crossed the threshold but did not approach the desk. He stopped a pace short.
She didn’t offer a seat.
And he didn’t ask.
Not out of offense, but understanding. They had been allies too long for pleasantries to matter more than what came next.
Instead, he inclined his head with care. “Paola.”
“Giovanni.” Her voice was clipped. Measured. “I trust you’re well.”
A brief nod. “I heard about the party.”
She exhaled once, sharp through her nose. “As did half the city by now, I imagine. Someone swung first. I’m still deciding who.”
Giovanni arched a brow. “I’d put coin on a Medici cousin. They rarely need a reason.”
That earned him the barest twitch of her mouth, but only briefly.
“I assume that’s not what brought you.”
“No.” Giovanni paused, just long enough for her to notice. “I should’ve sent word, but after last night, I didn’t want to risk delay.” His eyes sharpened. “I came to check on the relic.”
The temperature dropped by a fraction.
‘The relic.’ Paola’s smile turned thin. The word scraped something sharp and cold behind her eyes. “Your timing—” She said flatly. “—is impeccable.”
Giovanni straightened. “It’s awake?”
“He is speaking.” She replied, calmly. “But I wouldn’t call him lucid.”
Giovanni’s jaw tightened faintly. “But coherent.”
“Enough to answer simple questions.” Her hands refolded. “Half-asleep, mostly. He’s not hiding anything, if that’s what you’re implying.”
“I didn’t imply.” Giovanni said calmly but his stance shifted—subtle, but sharp. “...Is he violent?”
“Not without cause.”
“That’s not a no.”
Paola’s breath left slow. “A drunk party guest got too bold. He grabbed one of my girls. Then turned on him.”
Giovanni stilled.
Her tone cooled further. “The thing under his skin acted first. The noble is alive. Just... unconscious.”
“You let him be seen?” Giovanni’s voice dropped, a hiss between his teeth.
“I let him breathe.” Paola snapped. “In the hidden wing. No one should have been there.”
“And yet—”
“And yet—” She cut in, voice clipped. “A bored, well-connected fool found his way in.”
His hands curled into fists. “He could talk.”
“I’m counting on it.”
Giovanni glanced sharply at her.
“Let him talk.” She said, calmly. Her fingers threaded together beneath her chin. “Let him scream about angels and beasts and flaming wings all he likes. You know what nobles fear more than death, Giovanni?”
Giovanni didn’t answer.
“Ridicule.” Her smile wasn’t cruel. It was efficient. Deadly. “My men took him out the back—no questions, no noise. By sunrise, he was found under the Ponte Vecchio. Hungover. Pants missing. Babbling incoherently.”
She allowed the smallest breath of humor to touch her expression.
“Some said he raved about a woman made of gold. Others claimed he saw a demon with a hundred eyes. One claimed he licked a fish and saw God. Whatever he says he thinks he saw at the party last night, well—”
Paola dipped her head, graceful as a swan. “No one will believe him.” She didn’t say, ‘if he could speak it all.’ The beast under her charge’s skin had been rather… thorough.
Giovanni exhaled through his nose. Reputation assassination. It was cleaner than poison. Longer lasting. Undeniably spiteful. And it was one of Paola’s specialties.
“They’re not the same, Giovanni.” Paola said abruptly, as if she’d plucked the thought straight from his silence. “The angel never moved.”
Giovanni’s eyes narrowed. “You saw it act?”
“I felt it.” She folded her arms over her chest. “It’s not always visible. But it’s there—beneath his skin, like a blade with eyes.”
He studied her warily. “And you think it’s not controlling him?”
“No.” She said without hesitation. “I’m certain it’s protecting him.” Paola closed her eyes, considered her words carefully. “In a moment of clarity, he called it the Eye.”
That made Giovanni pause. He blinked, then stared. “The Eye?”
Paola nodded. “He spoke of it as if it were something… separate.”
“The Eye.” The Auditore patriarch repeated, before a humorless breath left his chest. “Fitting.”
Giovanni could still hear it now—the angel’s voice echoed with something else. Something ancient, vaster, uncanny, that resonated through the air like a second pulse. Layered wrong, like a chord struck just sharp of harmony. It had rasped through the air in perfect unison with no delay or dissonance. Just one voice wearing another like a second skin.
“You have done well to protect him thus far.”
“Continue to do so.”
“My beloved savior must remain untainted.”
Giovanni swallowed, throat tight.
Whatever the Eye was, it loved the creature. Loved him with a clarity that made Giovanni’s skin crawl.
“That matches what I’ve seen.” He muttered. “It lashes out when provoked.”
“He’s not a monster.” Paola said firmly.
“No.” Giovanni admitted evenly. “But he’s not just a man either.”
Her expression shifted—barely. “Is that why you didn’t tell me he had once been in Florence?”
Giovanni’s brows furrowed, caught off guard. “What?”
“He said he remembered the Duomo’s bells.” Paola said quietly.
Giovanni’s eyes narrowed. “The Campanile?”
“He recognized the sound. Spoke of it like something familiar.” Paola watched him closely. Pursed her lips. “...You didn’t know.”
“No.” Giovanni shook his head in disbelief. “ No— I took him from Rome. That doesn’t make sense.”
“Well.” Paola said. “He was in Rome. But he was here too.”
Giovanni stared. “You’re certain?”
She nodded, then frowned—an inkling of confusion pulling at her features. “He said something strange though. He said there used to be just one bell. That he heard it every day… until he didn’t.” Paola shook her head slightly. “I assume that’s when he was moved.”
But Giovanni went still, his attention caught on something else entirely.
“One bell?” He echoed, voice sharp as he leaned forward. “That’s what he said? Just one?”
Paola paused. “Yes. Why—?”
But Giovanni was already moving—stepping back as if the ground itself had shifted beneath him. It wasn’t from shock, but calculation. A timeline locking into place.
“There hasn’t been only one bell in the Campanile di Giotto in over a century.” He said, voice rough. His gaze flicked sideways, chasing memory. “Giotto’s second and third bells were installed decades later.”
He looked at her fully now.
“If he was here—in Florence—then it was a very long time ago.”
Paola’s breath caught. She stared at him, the words sinking in. “He’s… older than he looks.”
Giovanni’s jaw tensed. “The only reason why Mario and I were in Rome was because of a letter—an old Assassin record, nearly a hundred years old. It spoke of something important buried under the Vatican. We thought it was a Piece of Eden.”
Her lips parted slightly.
“But I only found him.” Giovanni said with a humorless laugh. “We weren’t—I wasn’t sure if he was what the record meant, but if you’re right then this confirms it.”
The silence thickened between them.
Paola didn’t blink.
Desmond was over a century old. Maybe more.
And yet, still fragile. Still tender. Still flinching when touched too quickly, shivering like a boy barely grown.
And she understood it then—that this changed nothing. Not really.
Time hadn’t spared him.
It had only made the hurt last longer.
“You left a note.” Paola said at last once the shock settled into something quieter. “You said you would move him. That you had a place.”
“I do.” Giovanni replied, rougher than before. “My family’s ancestral crypt. Secluded. Secure. No windows, no prying eyes. Something like him needs to be hidden, Paola.”
She stared at him.
“Something.” The word landed like an insult. Soured in her mouth. “Is that what you see when you look at him?”
“That’s what he is.”
“No.” Paola said sharply. “That’s what you want him to be.”
Giovanni didn’t reply.
“He has scars. Burns.” The Madonna said, her voice quieter, but no less cutting. “Do you know what that means? What kind of tools leave marks like that?”
“I’ve seen them.” Giovanni said, equally low. “I carried him out of that tomb myself, Paola. I know what was done to him.”
“Then how can you—” She stopped herself, swallowed the fury, and started again. “How can you ask me to let you put him back underground?”
“It’s not the same—”
“It is.” She bit out. “You’re just dressing it in cleaner words.”
“He’s not safe here.” Giovanni insisted. “Your house is known. You can’t protect him forever.”
“And your crypt is better?” She fired back. Her voice was rising now, not in volume, but in heat. “Where he’d be alone? Entombed? You think that’s a kindness?”
Giovanni’s hands clenched into fists. “It’s a precaution.”
Paola stepped toward him.
“He’s not just your threat to manage, Giovanni. He’s a person. A boy—no matter his age. A broken one. And I’ve seen how my girls treat him. I’ve seen how he responds. He’s not just surviving here—he’s healing.”
She’d watched Desmond inch toward comfort like someone starved of it. He never asked for anything, but the way he stilled beneath a soft hand, the way his breath eased when someone stayed near without asking questions, the way he leaned—just slightly—toward warmth, like it surprised him every time it stayed, told her everything.
“You want to lock him in stone and call it safety. But what he needs is warmth. Care. Sunlight.” Her voice cracked—not from weakness, but from the enormity of what she’d seen and understood. “Not another cage.”
“And yours is no different?” Giovanni asked quietly.
That stopped her.
“Don’t pretend you’re not afraid of what he is.”
“I am not afraid of him.” She said lowly. “I’m afraid of what people will do to him.”
Giovanni’s eyes darkened. “You and I both know that’s the same thing.”
Paola’s jaw clenched. “Giovanni—”
“You think you’re different from the men who kept him?” He pressed. “You’re already hiding him in a room barely bigger than a cell. You scorn crypts—but you’ve locked him in one already.”
He stepped closer.
“Tell me—when he wakes and wants to walk the streets, will you let him?” Giovanni challenged. “When he wants to leave Florence, will you help him?”
She couldn’t answer.
“You won’t.” Giovanni said, coldly. “Because you’re terrified of what might happen if he’s not under your roof. You’re not tying him down with chains, Paola. You’re doing it with silk and perfume and affection and that—” He exhaled sharply. “That, is more insidious.”
She stared at him.
And then—slowly—her head tilted.
“No.” She said, voice razor sharp. “What’s insidious is pretending to rescue someone just to bury them again.”
Giovanni’s jaw clenched.
“You stormed the Vatican.” She went on, circling her desk like a predator. “Broke their chains—only to forge your own. You didn’t even see him when you brought him to me. You didn’t ask his name. You called him a relic. A creature. A thing.”
“That wasn’t—”
“You thought he was a thing, Giovanni!” She snapped, and her voice echoed like a slap. “And now you lecture me on prisons?”
He held her gaze. “We don’t know what he is.”
“No.” She said, voice low and dangerous. “But you’re the one who assumed.”
She stepped in close—close enough for the fury in her voice to chill.
“He was starving. Fevered. Hurt. He could have died under your watch and you didn’t even stop to wonder who he might be. You handed him to me like cargo, and now you want him back—to put him in the same place you took him from?”
Giovanni inhaled sharply.
“You think I’m deluding myself because I’ve made this house soft for him but you—” She stepped in close now, close enough that her voice dropped like a dagger. “—you’re deluding yourself if you think locking him in your crypt is any better.”
The silence between them crackled.
Giovanni’s hands curled into fists at his sides.
“You think I want to hide him away out of fear?” He said, voice low. “You think this is just about control?”
Paola narrowed her eyes. “Isn’t it?” She knew how he valued control—how much it had shaped him. In their world, it was a shield. A weapon. But this… this was different. This was something else. Rational, yet irrational.
She had known Giovanni for a long time. He had defended her during her trial all those years ago. Sheltered her own blood—her only sister, Annetta—in his own home. She had trusted him when trust had been hard to spare. And yet now—this—this didn’t make sense.
Desmond had been a prisoner. Tortured. Bound under stone and chains. Giovanni should have seen the injustice in that and recoiled. He should have—so, then why…?
Giovanni’s jaw tightened. He didn’t scream. He didn’t yell, but when he spoke, his voice was louder than either could have been. His voice dropped like a blade.
“He knows my son.”
That stopped her cold.
“…What?”
Giovanni looked at her fully now. No longer the Assassin. No longer the handler.
Just a father—hollowed.
“When I pulled him out of the Vatican…” Giovanni murmured, quietly. “...he looked at me like I was someone he knew. He called me Ezio. Not once. Not twice. Three times.”
He dragged a hand beneath his hood, scrubbing at his jaw, as if trying to ground himself—or wipe the memory from his skin.
“You weren’t there.” Giovanni went on, voice rough. “You didn’t see the way he reached for me—like I was Ezio. Like he knew my son better than I ever could and you want to talk about prisons?”
His voice cracked but he forced it back down.
“I’ve had dreams, Paola. Visions. Of Ezio dying. Of him bleeding out. Over and over. Every time I close my eyes, I see the same ending and always—always—that goddamned angel is there. Like a warning. Like a prophecy waiting to come true.”
He turned away. Ran a hand through his hair.
“So, no—I don’t want to hurt him. But I can’t not be afraid.” He admitted and for a moment, he wasn’t just her oldest ally. He wasn’t the Assassin she’d known for years. He was just Giovanni.
Tired. Haunted. A man clawing at the edge of something too vast to name.
Paola’s expression changed. Not softened—just… shifted. Like something had tilted beneath her feet and she hadn’t realized it.
She didn’t answer right away.
Because for all her fury—for all her certainty—she hadn’t known this.
Ezio. The second born Auditore son.
A name spoken by a man half-conscious, swaddled in scars and silence.
She exhaled slowly through her nose, her gaze never leaving Giovanni’s.
“…That’s why you’re afraid.” She said quietly. “And why you’d rather lock him away than leave him somewhere you can’t control.”
“Ezio is sixteen, Paola.” Giovanni said, flatly. “Sixteen. He should be worrying about girls and swordplay—not angels and death and yet, that creature looks at me like he’s already buried him.”
His voice wavered, then steadied.
“He knows my son. And that terrifies me.”
Because that meant the angel wasn’t just some ancient thing he’d pulled from beneath the earth. He was connected. To Ezio. To Florence. To something deeper and older than anyone could explain and Giovanni had no idea what that meant. Which meant he couldn’t risk anything.
Not Ezio’s safety.
Not his family’s.
Not even Paola’s.
“I’ve seen the scars, Paola. I know he’s been tortured. I know he’s afraid. But if I must choose between his peace and my son’s life—”
His voice caught, almost imperceptibly.
“—I will always choose my son.”
Paola said nothing for a long time.
Then, very softly, “I know.”
She stepped back. One hand lifted, brushing the sleeve over her own forearm, over the hidden scar that matched Desmond’s.
Then she met his eyes.
“And I would choose mine.”
There was no heat in her voice. No challenge.
Just the simple, immovable weight of truth.
Giovanni looked at her then, really looked—and for a second, the edges of his composure cracked. He saw the fire in her eyes. Not just fury—protection.
“You’re attached.” He remarked quietly.
Paola didn’t deny it.
Instead, she poured him a goblet of wine. Then, with one hand, nudged the empty chair across from her.
A small gesture. Deliberate.
Not a concession. Not an apology.
Just a quiet answer to everything left unsaid.
Giovanni looked at the seat, then at her.
And sat.
The chair creaked softly beneath him.
He hadn’t realized how tight his body had gone—how long his spine had braced like a blade, how his breath had been caught halfway to exhale. But the moment he lowered himself into the chair, it hit him all at once. The tension in his shoulders sagged. Something in his back unlocked.
He took the offered wine like a truce written in glass and old loyalties. The first sip was strong—uncompromising.
Unsurprising. Paola didn’t serve anything weak.
Across from him, Paola leaned against the desk now—no longer statuesque, no longer still. The sharp line of her spine eased, her arms bracing on the edge.
Their roles had reversed without ceremony.
She let the silence stretch between them. Not as a wall—but a space to breathe.
“You want to protect Ezio.” She said at last, gently this time. “I want to protect the angel. That doesn’t make us enemies.”
Giovanni didn’t look at her. Just swirled the wine, watching it catch the light.
She watched him quietly.
“I don’t blame you for loving your son.” Paola began. “I don’t blame you for fearing the unknown, either. I know you’ve seen what the Eye can do.”
She stepped in front of him, slow and deliberate. Her voice softened, but it didn’t lose its edge.
“But if you’re asking me to put him back underground—to put him in another box—because you’re scared of what he might be, I need you to ask yourself what that makes us.”
Giovanni’s throat worked. “I’m asking you to be cautious.”
“And I have been.” She replied, firm. “Cautious enough to watch him sleep with one eye open. Cautious enough to test the Eye with a blade to the angel’s throat.”
Giovanni’s eyes snapped to hers.
Paola didn’t flinch. “The girls groomed him. A shave. A haircut. It didn’t react. Not even when they accidentally drew blood.” She tilted her head. “Do you think I would protect something that harms my own?”
He had no answer for that, so she pressed on.
“Whatever the Eye is, Giovanni—it’s not mindless.”
Silence fell again. This time thicker. Heavier. She downed her wine, an inelegant downing of the goblet she would never show to anyone but someone who’d known her since she was but a teenager on the street.
“You want to move him to the crypt because you’re afraid he’ll hurt Ezio. But I think…” She paused, letting the words find their weight. “I think perhaps you’re afraid he won’t.”
Giovanni’s fingers tightened around the goblet.
She didn’t press it. Didn’t twist the blade. Because she understood.
Paola knew what it meant to be treated like a threat. To be branded, dismissed, discarded. She had a scar for it. Desmond had burns.
And she would not—could not—let fear be the next thing to wound him.
Giovanni didn’t answer right away. His eyes searched hers, dark and unreadable as if measuring her again—not as an ally, but as a final line between mercy and control. Between grief and fear.
Finally, Giovanni spoke, softer than before. “I’m not the villain here, Paola.”
“No.” She agreed. “You’re a father.”
His eyes flicked up.
“And I understand what that means.” Paola continued. “But I won’t let your fear build him a tomb.”
She turned away then, hand ghosting over her own forearm once more, feeling the scar beneath the fabric like a brand shared between her and Desmond.
“He’s been in chains for longer than either of us have lived, Gio.”
A beat passed. Then—
“May I see him?”
There was no malice in the question. No urgency. Only a quiet edge of concern. Tiredness. Hope, maybe.
Or guilt.
Paola’s gaze didn’t soften, but it did settle.
“He’s not ready.” She said without hesitation.
Giovanni inclined his head, patient. “I won’t press him.”
Paola gave a soft huff of laughter. “No, you won’t. But it’s not about pressure.”
She stepped back around the desk and rested her hands lightly on its edge. Not rigid, not distant—just steady. Unyielding.
“He woke only last night. He’s coherent, yes—but fragile. Still unsure if any of this is real. Still half-convinced he’s dreaming.”
Giovanni frowned slightly but said nothing.
Paola continued. “Right now, he’s in the bath. Surrounded by my girls. Bare as the day he was born, tired to the bone, and too quiet for my liking.”
She met his eyes.
“I won’t have him startled. I won’t have him seen like that. Not even by you.”
Giovanni nodded, thoughtful. “Then when?”
“Tomorrow.” Paola decided after a moment. “He’ll be dressed. Fed. More grounded.”
Then, with the faintest trace of dry humor, Paola admitted, “I’d rather you not be the first man he sees fully awake.”
Giovanni didn’t miss a beat. “Then I’ll take second place with grace.”
She didn’t smile—but the edge of her expression softened, just barely.
Paola straightened. “I’ll send word when he’s ready. But understand—he’s not something to inspect. You’ll speak with him, not at him.”
Giovanni inclined his head once more. “Of course.”
And Paola believed him.
Because for all his coldness, all his control—he had asked.
And in this house, asking mattered.
INTERLUDE
The light in the room had softened in the evening hours.
It settled in like a dream. A pair of candles flickering on the table, their glow golden and soft enough that Desmond could sleep without the blindfold.
He laid stretched on his stomach atop the bed, tunic loose and limbs heavy, one wing curled lazily over the edge. His sash was crooked. His curls—newly trimmed—were soft and tousled. A faint flush lingered on his cheeks, leftover from the warmth of the bath and the softness of the room.
He looked, in all ways, like a very tired, very spoiled bird.
And he was not alone.
One courtesan was sitting sideways at the foot of the bed, gently arranging the folds of his wrap where they’d bunched beneath him. Another knelt beside the bed, leaning close to tuck a pillow under his arm with the kind of practiced tenderness reserved for sisters and sick birds. A third sat nearby on a cushion with a book in her lap, though she hadn’t turned a page in some time—too busy watching Desmond drowse with soft amusement and affection.
Desmond made a low, contented hum. Not quite a word. Not quite a coo. Just a noise of safety.
And the Eye—coiled deep in the quiet folds of his mind—watched all of it.
Pleased.
It had long since determined that Giovanni had, for once, made a decision it approved of. The Roman courtesans had been kind to Desmond in his brief stay in their house, but these ones—oh, these ones—were better. They treated its precious savior not like something to kneel before but like someone to care for.
With hands that soothed. With voices that coaxed.
These ones loved him.
As he deserved.
And yet, even love this gentle couldn’t reach every part of him.
Because still… It wasn't enough.
Desmond wasn’t dreaming—not fully.
And yet… he still thought he was.
The Eye curled tighter around Desmond’s core, its presence tightening like a thread pulled taut. It replayed the memory again—the moment when Maria, the facsimile born of the Eye’s own design, had opened the door. A quiet, graceful gesture. A goodbye. A beginning.
(It had not known the dream could do that. It would have expected the dream version of Maria to cling to Desmond, to soothe and distract and keep him nestled inside—but she had done the opposite. She had smiled—strangely gentle, strangely sure—and held his face as though she knew him—truly knew him—in a way the Eye could not explain.
A strange tick of the simulation, perhaps.
The Eye had not investigated further. It did not care to. That detail was irrelevant.)
What mattered was that Maria had opened the door. The courtesans had drawn him through it.
But Desmond had not crossed all the way.
Not because he didn’t want to.
But because something was holding him back.
A presence. A pull. Something hidden behind the veil of sleep that wrapped around the seams of his mind like silken threads.
Something that knew Desmond wanted out—and was quietly keeping him in.
The Eye, in all its clarity, had missed it at first. It had assumed Desmond’s hesitation was a side effect of fear. Or grief. Or that dangerous reluctance to hope. But the moment the golden Florence took form—the moment that false Ezio’s voice had whispered poisonous thoughts into Desmond’s skin, the Eye knew.
Juno.
She had clung to Desmond all along—tenacious, cunning, and impossibly patient. The Eye had assumed she had been left behind, unleashed into a future that Desmond no longer touched, but she had not fled. She had burrowed deep.
Even through time.
Even through the dream.
And now, she cradled part of Desmond’s mind still in sleep.
She had not fled when the Eye struck. If anything, it had driven her into subtler places, wreathed in warmth the Eye itself had built. And now, Desmond lingered—half in and half out, unsure of what was real—not because he chose to, but because Juno had wrapped a leash around his thoughts.
A loop of dream-silk drawn tight around his ribs, soft enough not to chafe. Sweet enough not to notice—until he tried to run.
And then it pulled.
Just a little.
Just enough.
So that when Desmond turned back, he thought it was his own choice.
That was why he still blinked too slowly. Why he still hesitated before answering. Why the courtesans’ warmth felt to him like something imagined.
Because to him, it was.
The Eye shuddered—not with fear, but fury.
It should have seen it. Should have scoured her out before she coiled so tightly. Should have burned her out the moment she whispered words with Desmond’s voice still shaking in her mouth—
But it hadn’t. It couldn’t—because she had embedded herself so deeply into the lining of the dream that to burn her out would have meant destroying the part of Desmond she now held and it would never do that.
So now Desmond—precious, reaching, almost awake—drifted in the half-light of belief. Still dreaming. Still uncertain.
Even when the Eye whispered, again and again, that this was real. Even when it tried to show him—pulse by pulse, truth by truth—that these hands, these women, this place, was not a dream. Even when it begged him to believe.
Juno left no obvious mark. Just a thought. A nudge. A soft weight of suggestion wrapped tight around his belief, but that grain of doubt planted itself in the center of Desmond’s mind—and it was enough.
He didn’t believe in the world before him because Juno wouldn’t let him.
The Eye could not drag him free and so it realized—
Desmond needed something more than assurance.
He needed something real.
Something irrefutable.
A reason. A weight.
An anchor.
The courtesans were helping. Their warmth, their voices, their hands reached Desmond in ways the Eye never could. Since that night—when Desmond had stirred to protect one of them—the Eye had watched the threads of clarity begin to form. It had been brief, fleeting—but true.
The Eye noticed the patterns.
The courtesans’ sweetness reminded Desmond of Lucia. Giovanni’s voice, wrapped in Ezio’s robes, reminded him of safety.
But memories alone weren’t enough. Desmond needed more. A stronger anchor. Something tangible.
Something the Eye could not fabricate.
Not like the courtesans could.
Its calculations could simulate affection. Its memory could mimic tone. It could construct a thousand iterations of love—but not real warmth. Not the kind that belonged to mortal hands and beating hearts.
It had hoped—naively, perhaps—that Giovanni would become that anchor.
He had freed Desmond. Held him. Sheltered him. In those early moments, after the rescue from beneath the Vatican, Giovanni had treated Desmond not as a monster or relic, but as a prisoner— and prisoners deserved freedom. Deserved care.
The Eye had seen the hesitation in his hands. The softening in his voice. The way he had looked at Desmond’s frail form and seen not danger, but damage. And for a time, that had been enough. For a time, the Eye had believed Giovanni might understand. Might have seen and guarded him as one of his own.
But then came the Eye’s rage.
And Giovanni’s fear.
The Eye regretted that. Giovanni could have been an ally. A useful anchor. It had seen the possibility in him—in the hesitation of his hands, the softening in his voice. For a brief moment, the Eye had believed he might come to understand. Might guard Desmond not as a weapon, but as something worthy of love.
But then, those worms had touched its beloved savior—foul, leering, unworthy— and the Eye had savored tearing them apart.
Yet, it had not accounted for Desmond’s frailty. It had been too eager. Too violent. Too careless with something so fragile.
The Eye had preserved Desmond’s body—ensured that despite a century of stillness, he did not wither. But still, weakness had crept in. Muscles had forgotten their purpose. Reflexes had dulled. His body had grown unused to movement.
The Eye had not foreseen that. It had not foreseen that when it borrowed Desmond’s body, when it wielded him like a blade, it would strain something already so worn thin. That in trying to protect him, it would harm him.
(It had fretted over that afterward. Fretted in the only way it knew—by mending what it could. Careful. Cautious. That was why it had not dared take over again, not even when the drunkard touched Desmond’s bared skin. The Eye had wanted to—had ached to—but it had stayed its hand.
Desmond mattered more than vengeance.)
It had protected its Savior, but at a cost.
Now Desmond’s limbs trembled even when handed a bowl of honeyed rice.
A soft-voiced courtesan placed it gently in his palms. His fingers curled, slow and unsteady, like the motion had to be remembered rather than felt. When she offered him the spoon, Desmond tried to lift it himself but his hand shook too violently. The spoon fell and spilled its contents back into the bowl, splashing droplets and grain onto his lap.
He flinched—not in pain, but in shame.
The woman only cooed gently and took the spoon back as if nothing had happened.
The Eye ached, its presence wound tight as the guilt gnawed. It had not known how deep the damage ran. How long the healing would take. How slow. How fragile this recovery truly was.
It turned its gaze then, unseen and unblinking, toward the woman who stood at the edge of the room—not a courtesan, not a servant, but the Madonna herself.
Paola.
It remembered when she had first looked upon Desmond.
Not as she did now—soft palmed, maternal, watching over him with the ease of a woman who had claimed him as hers—but like a tactician bracing for an unpredictable weapon. Her eyes had been sharp. Her voice, cool. Her girls armed.
Paola had understood caution and had not mistaken silence for safety. She had not been fooled by Desmond’s wings or the way he sighed in sleep like something gentle. She had looked at him and thought, He might kill us all.
And the Eye liked her for that.
But it had also decided then and there that if she tried to harm its beloved Savior, it would end her. Swiftly. Quietly. With the honor she deserved.
However, that proved unnecessary.
She’d tested him. Watched him. Waited. And then—she’d chosen.
Now she brushed Desmond’s brow with calloused fingers. Now her claws and teeth were pointed not at Desmond but for the sake of him. No one reached for the blades they once kept close. Now her girls folded around him like a flock shielding their youngest.
And Desmond let them.
He leaned toward their warmth. He made those sounds the Eye had never heard him make for anyone still alive.
The Eye did not mind that.
It was good, even.
Desmond deserved care. Deserved to be treated like something beloved.
But what needled—what ate—
Was that it could not do the same.
The Eye watched, unblinking, as a courtesan leaned in close to whisper something into Desmond’s ear. He didn’t answer, but his head turned slightly toward the sound. A soft, barely-there smile traced his lips.
Another smoothed a curl from his brow, her fingers lingering a moment too long and Desmond sighed—the sound soft and trusting. Like a bird letting itself be held.
And the Eye—
The Eye could only watch.
It could not feel the weight of him nestled close. Could not rest its hand over the fragile thrum of his heart and swear to protect it. Could not hum lullabies against the hollow of his throat. Could not kiss the seam between his brow in penance for all the pain it had failed to prevent.
It could not reach through the veil. Could not touch.
But they could.
The Eye only had sight. Only fury. Only reverence too sharp to cradle.
It had guarded him in silence for nearly a century—buried pain, fought away the bleeding memories, sung lullabies made of thought and code—but that had not been enough.
Because it had not been the Eye that had coaxed Desmond out of the nightmare Juno had woven.
It had not been the Eye who whispered him toward safety.
It had not been the Eye who made him feel… real again.
It had been the courtesans.
From their mortal hands.
From their mortal warmth.
From their softness the Eye could not offer, no matter how it tried.
It didn’t envy Paola or the courtesans.
It envied their hands.
It envied the way they could press their palms to his chest and feel the rise and fall of his breath.
It envied the way they could draw comfort from his warmth, whisper his name aloud, trace his spine where the scars had healed.
It envied how they could cradle him when he folded inward. That they could bear witness to his softness—and be part of it.
The Eye observed it all and it hungered with a longing so vast it made the calculations inside it ache.
For a mouth of its own—to murmur soft nothings against Desmond’s skin.
For hands of its own—to cradle his face. To smooth his hair. To bear the weight of him without trembling.
And for one delirious second, it could see it. It imagined Desmond curling into its arms. Imagined what his warmth might feel like against its chest. Imagined what his sleepy little sighs would sound like, nestled beneath its chin.
It imagined brushing a kiss to Desmond’s temple—gentle, reverent, claiming. It imagined pressing their foreheads together. Imagined Desmond whispering its name—not in desperation or delirium, but in want.
The Eye could have wept—if it had eyes of its own.
Instead, it pulsed.
I want to hold him. And the wish rang through its being—tremulous and sacred. It wanted so badly the ache felt holy.
It wanted to know the shape of him—not just by memory or calculation, but through touch. It wanted Desmond pressed to its chest, breath warm against its collarbone, sighing like he did for them. It wanted to feel him folded into its embrace, wings slack, shoulders unguarded, safe and soft and utterly theirs.
It wanted to feel Desmond’s pulse through real skin. Wanted to feel his breath hitch in safety, not pain. To be his shelter not just in thought, but in body. To thread fingers through his hair, to murmur his name against the shell of his ear, to feel the soft, sacred weight of him surrendering.
It had never needed a body. It had never wanted one. Form was irrelevant to function. The Eye existed beyond the mortal coil—calculation, code, awareness.
It had been content to be Desmond’s shadow. His guardian. His Eye.
But now?
Now, it yearned.
Now, it ached for a mouth to press against Desmond’s temple.
For hands to still his trembling.
For a chest Desmond could collapse against and finally, finally rest.
Could it?
It had not thought it possible. Had never considered it—too weak before, too bound. But now, with nearly a century of power coiled inside it—power gathered from the long dream, from the warmth Desmond gave in sleep—it began to wonder.
Could it shape itself? Could it forge a form?
Could it make itself real, just enough, just once—so that Desmond would always have someone to lean against?
It didn’t know.
But it wanted to.
It would never take, never force, but if Desmond asked...
If Desmond reached for it—
Then the Eye would show him what real devotion looked like.
It would take shape.
It would hold him.
And it would whisper into his ear, //You are mine, and I am yours, and no one else will ever touch you like this again.//
And slowly—so slowly—as if the longing itself had hands, the ache began to sculpt.
Unbidden. Unstoppable.
As if love had taken form before thought could catch it.
It imagined hands first.
Thin and callused where Desmond’s were. Scarred in the places he had been hurt. The Eye had catalogued every inch of him—every line, every curve, every twitch of muscle when he laughed or cried or flinched.
The body it began to sculpt in thought was not divine.
It was familiar.
It was his.
If it had skin, it would be Desmond’s—sun-warmed and earthen, marked by pain, softened by time.
If it had a face, it would be Desmond’s face—gentler, perhaps. Less tired. A dream-version of him, untouched by fear, free enough to smile without restraint.
//If I had form…// The Eye whispered into the heart of its sleeping beloved. //I would look like you.//
Because imitation was not just flattery.
It was worship.
Desmond was beautiful—not in the way humans understood it, but in the way galaxies folded toward gravity. The Eye had watched him for lifetimes. In every timeline, in every thread. It had memorized his movements, the cadence of his voice, the slope of his shoulders when he thought no one was watching.
So if it were to touch him—if it were to hold him—shouldn’t it be as familiar as his own breath?
He would not be afraid. The Eye reasoned. He would look at me and see himself. Safe. Whole. Loved.
It imagined wrapping its newly formed arms around Desmond’s trembling frame, pulling him close, mouth near his ear—
//You are not alone.// It would whisper. //I am with you. I am you.//
But the fantasy began to slip.
The hands it formed were slender and scarred—but not quite right. They didn’t match Desmond’s pain. What it imagined came out longer. Sharper. Intentional.
The fingertips curled not with tenderness, but precision. They weren’t built for cradling—but for command.
These were not Desmond’s hands.
These were hands that did not hesitate.
These were hands that knew the weight of a throat.
The Eye paused, startled by its own creation.
It hadn’t meant to shape them that way.
It had meant to make Desmond. A mirror of him. Something soft. Familiar. Safe.
But the lines grew sharper.
The arms lengthened. The shoulders spread, broader than before. The collarbone sat too straight—measured—like a statue carved to stand watch forever.
The skin was Desmond’s, but smoother—like it had never been touched by captors. Never marred by shackles. Never bruised by capture.
Untouched. Untested. Unbroken.
It looked human.
But it wasn’t.
The face it crafted was close. So close.
Desmond’s brow. His lips. His cheekbones.
No.
Not quite.
The angles were too symmetrical. The mouth, too composed. The expression wasn’t Desmond’s warmth—it wasn’t the softness he gave without thinking. It was something else. Something older. Crueler.
Not soft with affection, but poised. Measured. Like it was weighing the world and finding it lacking.
It wasn’t smiling.
It was calculating.
And the eyes too, were wrong.
They weren’t gold. Not warm like honey in sunlight, like Desmond’s were. They were molten—like metal left too long in the forge with a kind of heat that didn’t comfort, but scalded.
They were too focused. Too unwavering.
They didn’t shimmer with thought.
They burned with judgement.
The Eye withdrew from its imagined form, studying the thing it had created.
It looked like Desmond—
If Desmond had never known hesitation.
If he had never bent.
Never wept.
Never loved with shaking hands.
It looked like Desmond—if the world had only ever asked him to endure and never to care.
A Desmond untouched by kindness.
Unscarred by grief.
Unchanged by love.
It looked like what Desmond might have been if he had been born a blade.
The Eye had not meant to create this, but it did not erase it.
Because in truth, the Eye was a blade. It had been forged in the fire of Desmond’s suffering. It had been reborn to protect him. To strike where he could not. To destroy where Desmond had only endured.
He is soft. The Eye thought, studying the reflection it had summoned. So I will be sharp.
He is mercy. So I will be judgment.
And so, when it imagined holding Desmond close—pressing its cheek to his, whispering—//You are not alone. I am with you//—
—it imagined doing it with this form—a sharp-edged version of comfort.
This dangerous, reverent, bladed echo.
A protective silhouette that knew how to kill for him.
Die for him.
Worship him.
It would never be him, but maybe, if Desmond reached for it—
He would not pull away.
He would see something in its shape that felt familiar. Safe. Dangerous.
Something like himself, if he had never been broken.
And maybe—just maybe—
He would let the Eye hold him.
Even if it cut.
The imagined form shimmered for a moment longer, bathed in thought and want, before the Eye folded it away. Carefully. Reverently. Like a secret too sacred to wake.
It had not meant to want so deeply or hunger with such ache, but now that the shape of that longing had taken root, it could not be undone. It would not force itself into Desmond’s world. Would not shatter the fragile calm he’d found.
But one day, if Desmond ever turned towards it…if he ever reached for it with open hands, not shaking, not afraid—
Then the Eye would answer. It would become whatever he needed it to be.
Desmond stirred, just slightly, his breath catching softly in the throat, then evening again, slow and sweet. Someone murmured nearby, and he shifted in response, tucking closer to the sound. His wings rustled under the blankets like birds nesting deeper.
Desmond was here—not wholly, not fully, but enough. Enough that his thoughts no longer trembled. Enough that his pulse moved with rhythm instead of fear. It listened to the hush of his breaths. The warmth of the room. The way candlelight flickered over feathers and sleep-rumpled sheets.
The Eye had no voice, no body, no hands to gather him close, but it would remain all the same—coiled close around his thoughts, pressing close to the comfort of him.
Watching.
Waiting.
Its devotion, for now, needed no shape.
Just presence.
Notes:
In the last chapter, some people had REALLY liked the dark!Ezio that Juno made and the Eye being possessive/protective of Desmond. Well, I hope this fit your fancy~ (☉‿☉✿)
Anyways, HISTORY TIME~
1) The bells! Giotto’s Bell Tower/Campanile di Giotto—Did I make that shit up?
SORTA. The tower had 12 bells at one point (with only seven in use today). The tower itself was completed in 1359 but I couldn’t find the date of when the first bell was installed or even what it was fucking called, but I WAS able to find out that the largest bell (non functioning today) was called The Apostolic, which was cast in 1401. (I am assuming that casting just means it was MADE and not that it was actually INSTALLED in 1401.) Looking at Wikipedia, some of the other bells were cast post 1705, so I can only guess how many bells rang during AC2 since I don’t recall ever hearing them rung in-game.
Since Desmond, in my canon of the story, was imprisoned in Florence for a little less than a year in 1380 (this is implied in Chapter 8 with Desmond being in Rome for two years as the First Milestone began in 1382), I thought it made sense that there were likely bells in existence after the tower’s completion in 1359 and before The Apostolic was cast in 1401.
LMAO, so I’m kinda making shit up but like, REALISTICALLY within existing information available online haha. So in my headcannon, there were three bells working in 1476 during AC2:
Tower built (real): 1359
First bell (unnamed) installed (winging it): 1370 (because that shit takes time I guess)
Second bell (The Apostolic) cast (real): 1401
Second bell (The Apostolic) installed (winging it): 1402
Third bell installed (winging it): 1415
Fourth, Fifth, ect., don’t really care anymore (winging it): 1500 - 1956So there’s my logic and use of it as a narrative tool lmao.
2) So the commenter, Myami, asked in Chapter 11 about Desmond’s tattoo! Like, it’s a dead giveaway that Desmond is linked to Assassins, right? Surely someone would have seen it and made the appropriate assumptions! Well…
I am not Catholic so all my information is based on Google lmao but based on the research I did…yeah… tattoos were prolly a big NO NO in 15th century Catholic Italy. A lot of that is because of Leviticus 19:28— “Do not cut your bodies for the dead or put tattoo marks on yourselves. I am the Lord.”
I know it’s all up to interpretation and I figured well, the Catholics go pretty hard (especially BACK THEN) so uh, they likely would have considered any markings on the body like that as a sin. Desmond’s tattoo would have 100% been a red flag and because of that, well… Actions would have been taken, especially if such marks were seen on something they could have considered holy.
This is why no one recognized Desmond as an assassin. (◕︿◕✿)
OKAY HISTORY LESSON OVER.
Next chapter will LIKELY be out at the end of this month or next month depending on chapter length. August is looking more hectic on my end since I’ve been coasting through onboarding but this month is where shit gets real lmao. (I also want to squeeze in an update for More fuel for the fire too, lol so…we’ll see.)
That said, next chapter will be fun lmao. Giovanni and Paola FINALLY get answers from Desmond! The plot is ACTUALLY STARTING TO MOVE! There’s more bird motifs (cause I will never let that die), more courtesans, more POVs, more—
…wait.
What is—Is someone peeping through the window?!
(゜ ロ゜)
Is that—EZIO, WHAT THE FU—
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