Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The restaurant is all soft lighting and the gentle clink of cutlery. Ava sits, her fingers tracing her water glass. A nervous, buzzing energy thrums under her skin. She checks her phone again. Beatrice is five minutes late, which is unlike her. The new job at Arq-Tech, the one with the permanent contract, must be keeping her.

When Beatrice finally appears at the host’s stand, Ava’s breath catches. She’s wearing the slate-grey pantsuit, her dark hair swaying with her quick, purposeful steps as she crosses the room. She looks powerful and beautiful, and Ava’s heart swells with a possessive, adoring pride.


“Buenas noches, Beatrice Silva. Tengo una reserva para dos.”, Beatrice says confidently, her voice calm and clear, the Spanish fluid and natural on her tongue.

The host smiles, “Ah, sí. Su esposa ya la está esperando. Por aquí, por favor.”

Ava sees the faint, familiar surprise on Beatrice’s face, the slight hesitation as she follows him. As they approach the table, Ava stands, a wide, loving smile on her face.

Beatrice reaches her and immediately corrects the host, her tone polite but firm, “No es mi esposa. Solo compartimos el apellido.”

The host offers an apologetic nod and retreats. Beatrice turns to Ava, a wry, almost shy look on her face as she explains, “They thought we were married. Again.”

 
A familiar, fond exasperation tightens Ava’s chest. 

Always has to point it out.

Beatrice seems to realise her misstep. She leans in, brushing a quick, apologetic kiss against Ava’s cheek, “I’m so sorry I’m late. The teleconference ran over.”

“It’s okay.”, Ava says, but her hands are already moving, plucking at the lapels of Beatrice’s jacket, straightening them, “But you owe me a proper hello.” She doesn’t wait, leaning in to press a firm, deliberate kiss to Beatrice’s lips, right there in the middle of the restaurant, “There. Now you’re forgiven.”

They settle into their seats. The menus are opened, small talk is exchanged, but Ava can see it- the slight distance in Beatrice’s eyes, the way her mind is still clearly back in a lab or behind a computer screen.

“Hey…”, Ava says softly, reaching across the table to still Beatrice’s hand, “You’re here with me. No bringing work to the table. House rules.”

The gentle chastisement works. Beatrice’s focus sharpens, the professional veil lifting as she truly looks at Ava, “You’re right. I’m sorry.” She smiles, a real one this time, “How was your class?”

Ava waves a dismissive hand, “We’re not talking about that tonight.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because it’s our anniversary!”, Ava says, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

Beatrice’s brows furrow in genuine confusion, “Our anniversary was in February.”

“I know that.”, Ava says, her voice dropping into a more intimate, earnest register. She braces herself, her heart hammering against her ribs, “But this… today… this is the anniversary of the day our lives really began. The day we got to start living them. Outside. Together.”

She can feel the weight of the small, felt box in her pocket. This is it. She takes a slow breath, pouring all her love and certainty into her gaze.

“These last three and a half years have been the best of my life, Bea. There’s no one else I’d want to share every single stupid, boring, perfect day with.” She thinks of Adriel, the dream realm, the long wait for a letter from the Vatican, the Umbrae- all the battles that led to this quiet restaurant, “We’ve been leading this life for a while, we have worked for it. For this peace. And I’m so sure. I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

Her hand slips into her pocket. She pulls out the small, black felt box, her movements deliberate, but slightly trembling.

She doesn’t open it yet, just holds it on the table between them, her eyes locked on Beatrice's.

“After I graduate… I want a future that’s even more… official. I want you to be my wife.” Her voice is thick with emotion, “And I really, really want you to stop correcting people when they assume you already are.”

With one hand, she snaps the box open, away from her.

A soft gasp escapes Beatrice. Her eyes are wide, fixed not on Ava’s face, but on the contents of the box.

“Camila helped me.”, Ava rushes to explain, her nerves making her babble slightly, “The band is supposed to look like the Halo, see? She had some of the inert Divinium from the old stores reforged to hold the stone. And she helped me pick the stone itself, because I had no idea what…”

“Ava…” Beatrice whispers. Her voice isn’t filled with the joy or tears Ava expected. It’s strained. Tight. Her face has lost all its colour.

Ava’s confidence wavers, “Beatrice? Will you marry me?”

But Beatrice doesn’t look at her. She just shakes her head, a tiny, horrified motion, and slowly, she reaches out and turns the box around on the tablecloth so that Ava can see what she’s seeing.

Nestled in the black velvet, the delicate silver-like band is indeed crafted to resemble the Halo. And set within it, the stone Camila helped her choose is glowing with a fierce, familiar, celestial blue.

The Divinium around it is alive.

Chapter Text

Nestled in the black velvet, the ring is beautiful. A simple silver band holds a lovely marquis-cut stone, but it’s the delicate, lace-like filigree encircling the gem that catches the light -a miniature halo, perfectly crafted from the inert Divinium. Except it is no longer inert. The tiny Divinium halo is glowing with a fierce, familiar, celestial blue.

For a moment, they are both frozen. Then, Beatrice’s training slams back into place. Her hand darts out, snapping the felt box shut with a sharp, final sound that makes Ava flinch. Her eyes, wide and alarmed, scan the restaurant, assessing if anyone else has seen.


“Beatrice?”, Ava’s voice is small, fractured. The glow was one shock; Beatrice’s reaction is another, colder one. “I asked you something…”

But Beatrice isn’t hearing her. She’s already flagging down their waiter, her voice a tightly controlled mask of calm as she asks for the bill, insisting they’ve had an emergency. She pulls out enough cash to cover the meal and a generous tip, not waiting for change.


The walk home is a silent, hurried blur. Beatrice’s hand is firm on Ava’s back, not a lover’s touch but a guide’s, steering her through the Madrid streets with a grim urgency. The romantic evening has been vaporised, replaced by a chilling, familiar dread.

The moment their apartment door clicks shut, Beatrice is in motion. She doesn’t even take off her shoes, striding straight into their bedroom. Ava follows, her own hurt and confusion beginning to boil over. She watches as Beatrice yanks open her nightstand drawer and pulls out a small envelope. She tears it open, and the Divinium cross necklace -the one she’d stopped wearing, because it felt like a relic of a painful past- tumbles into her palm.



It, too, is glowing with the same impossible, celestial blue.



Beatrice turns, her face pale and severe in the eerie light, holding up the necklace as proof.


As if Ava needed any.


“Bea, please…”, Ava pleads, her voice trembling as she reaches out, trying to steady her, to bring her back, “Talk to me. What does this mean? And what about… what about my question?”


But Beatrice is already on the move again, brushing past her toward the door where she’d dropped her work bag, “It means the world is breaking again, Ava.”, she says, her tone clipped and distant, already consumed by the crisis. She retrieves her phone, her thumb already swiping to find Camila’s contact.

Ava stands alone in the middle of their living room, the unopened ring box still clutched in her hand. The glow from the bedroom feels like an accusation. The sound of Beatrice’s phone ringing, and her tense, urgent greeting of “Camila? We have a problem.” is the final, shattering blow.


The question that was supposed to begin the rest of their life hangs in the air, unanswered.

*

The Spanish countryside rolls past their car, a blur of sun-drenched fields under a clear Saturday morning sky. The silence inside the vehicle has calcified over the past few days, becoming a thick, unbreachable wall. This trip required scheduling- Beatrice taking the Friday off from Arq-Tech, Ava missing her Saturday shift at the café.

Ava sits curled against the passenger door, staring out at the landscape without seeing it. The ring box is a cold, heavy stone in her jeans’ pocket, a constant, aching reminder of the life that had been so perfectly within reach.

Beatrice’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, her knuckles white. She has spent the week consumed: her face lit by the eerie blue glow of her laptop screen long into the night in their apartment after work. She coordinated with Camila, arranged for lab access at the Cradle for the weekend. She has managed the crisis with flawless, devastating efficiency.


She clears her throat, the sound loud in the quiet car, “I had Camila check the Divinium in the main reliquary.”, she says, her voice all clinical focus, “The Divinium at the Cradle… it isn’t glowing. It’s still completely inert.”

Ava doesn’t turn from the window, “Just ours, then.”


“It appears so. The activation is localised to objects in our immediate possession...”


Ava lets out a slow breath, her forehead resting against the cool glass. Of course. Of course it’s about them. It always is. She thinks of the untouched, home-cooked meals of the last few days, the silence stretching across their dinner table, where laughter used to live. She thinks of Beatrice, so close and yet galaxies away, already fighting a war Ava can’t even see.

Beatrice’s phone chimes with a new email. She spares a quick, glancing look, “Jillian is sending the preliminary spectrographic data. The energy signature is consistent, but there are anomalous quantum fluctuations. It’s not just a reactivation; it’s a transformation.”

Ava finally turns her head, her eyes tracing the sharp, focused profile of the woman she loves. The woman who hasn’t -not once- in the three days since their world fractured, looked at her and seen the heart she was holding out. There had been no physical contact, no absent-minded brush of hands while making coffee, no goodnight kiss, not even the comfort of a hug. Beatrice had been a fortress, and Ava had been left standing in the cold outside its walls.


“Beatrice.”, Ava says, her voice quiet but clear, cutting through the scientific jargon.

Beatrice hums, a distracted acknowledgment, her mind clearly already dissecting Jillian’s data.

“You haven’t even asked me how my class was on Thursday.”

Beatrice’s focus wavers. Her grip on the wheel loosens slightly. A faint line appears between her brows. She looks genuinely confused, “I… I didn’t realise. I’ve been… preoccupied.”

“I know.”, Ava says softly, the words laced with a profound hurt, “You’ve been preoccupied with the end of the world.” She pauses, letting the truth of it hang in the air between them, “But my world didn’t end. It was just asking you a question.”



The car fills with a silence heavier than any that came before. Beatrice’s analytical fortress finally shows a crack. Her jaw tightens, but she has no data, no theory, no immediate tactical response for this. She just keeps driving, the unspoken proposal and the celestial blue now a third, silent passenger on the road to Cat’s Cradle.

*

The familiar, imposing stone walls of Cat’s Cradle rise before them, a sight that sends a conflicting jolt of nostalgia and dread through Ava. As the car rolls to a stop in the courtyard, the main doors burst open.

“¡Por fin!”, Camila exclaims, a wide, genuine smile on her face as she hurries to them, Yasmine following close behind with a more restrained, but equally warm expression, “We were beginning to think you’d gotten lost!”

“It’s so good to see you both.”, Yasmine adds, her gaze taking in Beatrice and then Ava.

For a moment, the tension in Ava’s chest loosens. This is family. This is home. She manages a small, tight smile as she gets out of the car.

Camila immediately pulls her into a brief, fierce hug. As she pulls back, her eyes, full of excited curiosity, dart to Ava’s face in a silent, pointed question. Well? Did you ask her? What happened?

Ava gives a tiny shake of her head, her eyes shadowed with a pain that makes Camila’s smile falter into confusion and concern.

The moment is shattered by Beatrice’s door closing with a firm thud. She has already rounded the car, her work bag slung over her shoulder, her expression all sharp, professional focus.

“It’s good to see you too.”, Beatrice says, her tone polite but devoid of warmth, bypassing any further pleasantries, “We need to see the main reliquary. Now. I have to see it myself.”

Camila and Yasmine exchange a quick, startled look. The joyful reunion they had anticipated has been instantly commandeered by the crisis.

“Right. Of course. This way.”, Yasmine says, recovering first and turning to lead the way, as if Beatrice hadn’t spent six years of her life at this very same convent.

As they move towards the ancient entrance, Beatrice strides ahead, following Yasmine.

Camila falls into step beside Ava, her voice a low, worried murmur, “Ava? What’s going on?”

But Ava just shakes her head again, her eyes fixed on Beatrice’s retreating back as they cross the threshold into the cool, dark silence of the Cradle.

The answer is too big, too painful to say out loud.

The air in the reliquary is cool and still, smelling of old stone, polished wood, and centuries of silence. The familiar cruciform sword rests on its stand, the ancient shields and relics of the OCS lining the walls like sleeping soldiers.

And there, propped up on a custom-made stand in the centre of the room, is the suit.

The Osmium-Divinium suit. A monument to their most desperate hour. A ghost from a past Ava has tried so hard to outrun. Seeing it here, preserved like a knight’s armour, sends a cold shiver down her spine.

Beatrice, her focus absolute, strides towards the main display case containing several inactive Divinium shards and the cruciform sword.

“The baseline state here is complete dormancy. The energy signature we’re witnessing is-”, she doesn’t get to finish her sentence.

The moment Ava’s second foot crosses the reliquary’s threshold, a soft, collective hum fills the air.

It starts with the cruciform sword on its pedestal. A flicker, then a steady, fierce celestial blue glow erupts from its blade. The effect is instantaneous, a wave of light washing through the chamber.

The shields on the walls, the relics in their cases, the scattered shards- every last fragment of Divinium in the room begins to pulse with the same impossible, vibrant energy.

The eerie blue light illuminates the stunned faces of Camila and Yasmine, and reflects in the wide, horrified eyes of Beatrice.

The hum rises to a resonant frequency that Ava feels in her very bones. It is a sound she hasn’t heard in three years, a sound she never wanted to hear again.

And then, all eyes -wide with shock and a dawning, chilling understanding- dart from the glowing arsenal to the woman who just walked into the room.

They land on Ava.

The source of the storm stands frozen in the doorway, the glowing reliquary casting her in an ethereal, terrifying light.

The unspoken realisation hangs in the air, louder than the hum: It isn’t their Divinium. It’s her. Just like before.

Her presence alone is a catalyst, awakening a power they had all believed was finally, peacefully, put to rest.

*

Camila leads them down the familiar stone corridor, an innocent look on her face, “So, funny story…”, she begins, stopping in front of the unmistakable door to Ava’s old room, “We had to convert Beatrice’s old room into a new archival space. Yasmine’s research, you know? It’s a mess. So... we’re a bit stretched. You’ll have to share for the weekend. Hope that’s okay!”

She beams at them, clearly expecting some form of blushing or comment.

Beatrice doesn’t even blink, “Understood. Thank you, Camila.” She pushes the door open, ushers a shell-shocked Ava inside, and closes the door firmly in the nun’s still smiling face.

The moment the latch clicks, the thin veneer of Beatrice’s control shatters. She turns, her eyes wild with a frantic, scientific urgency.

“Take off your top.”, she commands, her voice tight.

Ava freezes, her back against the door, “What?”

“Your top. Take it off. Now.” Beatrice takes a step forward, her hands twitching as if she’s about to do it herself.

That single movement breaks the dam inside Ava. All the hurt, the confusion, the three days of being treated like a variable in an equation instead of a person, comes roaring out.

“Whoa, what the fuck, Beatrice?”, she snaps, slapping her hands away, “For three days you haven’t looked at me! You haven’t talked to me! You haven’t even touched me! You’ve been in another dimension, and now the second we’re alone, you’re trying to take my clothes off? What about the sacred space of the convent? What about your precious propriety? Or does that only matter when I’m the one who wants to touch you?”

Beatrice stares at her, genuinely baffled by the outburst, as if Ava is speaking a foreign language about something utterly trivial, “Ava, this isn’t -I’m not-” She shakes her head, frustration overriding her patience, “I need to look at your back!”

The words hang in the air between them.

And for a single second, it dawns on Ava. The Halo. Beatrice isn’t making a crude advance; she’s conducting an examination. She’s looking for the source of the energy surge.

The realisation doesn’t calm her. It ignites her further.

“Oh.”, Ava spits, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tremor, “Oh, I see. It’s not me. It’s the Halo. Of course. That’s all you've been able to see since it started glowing, isn’t it? The problem. The anomaly.” She takes a step forward, her eyes blazing with tears of fury and pain, “Did it even occur to you for one second that I might be terrified? That I might need you to be my girlfriend and not my... my scientist? That I asked you to marry me and you haven’t said a single word about it? You just need to look at my back?”

Beatrice finally goes still, Ava’s words landing like physical blows. The frantic energy drains from her face, leaving behind a stark, pale shock. She looks at Ava -truly looks at her- and sees the raw, gut-wrenching hurt she has caused. Her command hangs in the air, exposed for what it was: a cold, clinical act that completely disregarded the woman standing in front of her.

The silence in the room is louder than the hum of the Divinium had been.

Beatrice just stands there, stunned into stillness by the truth of Ava’s words.

She opens her mouth, but no sound comes out. 


There is no data, no theory, no protocol for this.

That silence is the final answer Ava needs.

“Right.”, Ava scoffs, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a cold, hollow certainty.

She turns, her movement stiff, and yanks the door open.

“Ava, wait-”, Beatrice’s voice is a strangled thing, finally breaking through her shock.

But Ava doesn’t wait. She doesn’t look back. She walks out into the corridor, pulling the door shut behind her with a sound that echoes like a gunshot in the quiet hall.

She stands there for a moment, alone, the cold stone seeping through her clothes.

She can hear the faint, frantic sound of Beatrice’s movements inside the room- a muffled sound of frustration, of a hand hitting a wall, maybe.

But the door doesn’t open.

Ava starts walking.

She doesn’t know where she’s going. Away from the reliquary, away from the room, away from the woman who saw a crisis where Ava had offered her a future. The ancient, familiar halls of Cat’s Cradle, once a place of refuge, now feel like a beautiful, inescapable trap, and she is once again at the centre of a storm she never asked for.

*

Ava’s aimless, hurt-filled walk through the halls leads her towards the main entrance, a place she associates with coming and going, with freedom. She just needs air. She needs to be anywhere but within these suffocating stone walls.

The large, heavy door swings open, just as she approaches, framing Mother Superion as she steps through, back from her outside appointment. She brushes dust from her sleeves, her face softening into a warm, genuine smile the moment she sees Ava.

“Ava, child.”, she says, her voice rich with affection. She opens her arms without hesitation.

It’s that simple, unconditional warmth that shatters the last of Ava’s composure. She stumbles forward into the embrace, burying her face in the older woman’s shoulder, and the tears she’s been holding back for days finally break free in silent, shuddering sobs.

Mother Superion holds her tightly, saying nothing, just letting her fall apart. After a long moment, she gently guides Ava, “Come. Let’s go to my office.”

Once inside the quiet, book-lined sanctuary, Mother Superion closes the door and gestures to a chair. She sits behind her desk, her gaze steady and knowing, “Now.”, she says, her voice gentle but firm, “Tell me what is wrong.”

Ava swipes at her tears, taking a shaky breath, “You… you know. The Divinium. It’s all glowing, it’s… it’s starting again…”

Mother Superion waves a dismissive hand, a gesture so certain it cuts through Ava’s panic, “Pah. This face…”, she says, pointing at Ava’s tear-streaked cheeks, “Is not about glowing metal. That is a problem for Beatrice and Camila to fuss over in their laboratories. This is something else. So, tell me.”

The directness, the refusal to be sidetracked by the cosmic crisis, unlocks something in Ava. With a trembling hand, she reaches into her pocket and pulls out the small, black felt box. She just places it on the desk between them, the simple object speaking volumes. She opens it.

“I asked her.”, Ava whispers, her voice thick, “A few days ago. I had a whole speech… I was so sure.”

Mother Superion’s eyes drop to the box and its contents. There is no surprise in her expression, only a deep, profound understanding. She looks from the box back to Ava’s heartbroken face.

“And she saw the Divinium in the ring begin to glow.”, Mother Superion concludes softly, piecing the story together with terrifying accuracy, “And in that moment, the scientist saw a phenomenon, and the warrior saw a threat.”

A fresh wave of tears wells in Ava’s eyes. That was it. That was the entire, devastating truth, articulated more clearly by Mother Superion than she had even been able to formulate in her own mind.

“She hasn’t mentioned it since.”, Ava chokes out, “The proposal. Not a word. It’s like it never happened. All she sees is the problem. She doesn’t see… me.”

Mother Superion leans back in her chair, her gaze turning inward, a shadow of old pain crossing her features, “The burden of a guardian is that they are trained to see the fire, and sometimes, in their haste to put it out, they fail to see the person standing in the flames.” She looks back at Ava, her expression full of a weary compassion, “She loves you, Ava. Do not ever doubt that. But you are asking a soldier, who has just heard the battle drums sound again after years of peace, to sit down and plan a wedding.”

Ava shakes her head, the words offering little comfort. “That’s not good enough. She could have still acknowledged it. She could have said something. Anything other than just... treating me like a mission parameter.”

Mother Superion leans forward, her elbows on the desk, her gaze intensifying, “Ava.”, she says, her voice dropping into a lower, more grave register, “Aside from the scientist and the warrior, have you stopped to consider the third person trapped in that room with you? The one who is terrified?”

Ava blinks, the protest dying on her lips.

“Can you imagine…”, Mother Superion continues, her words deliberate and sharp, “That the woman who held your lifeless body in her arms, who lived for weeks with the certainty that your death was her fault, who has only just begun to breathe easily again... can you imagine what the blue of a Divinium glow does to her? This ‘business’ is what got you nearly killed. Twice. Of course this is all she can think about. It is not just a simple problem to be solved. It is her greatest nightmare, returned.”

The truth of it hits Ava harshly. She had been so wrapped up in her own pain of rejection, her own fear of the past returning, that she hadn’t seen the deeper, more primal terror driving Beatrice.

She wasn’t being cold on purpose; she was in a state of sheer, unadulterated panic, and her only coping mechanism was to hyper-focus on the threat, to try and control it, to stop the tragedy before it could repeat itself.

*

Beatrice finds Camila in the communications room, frowning at a monitor displaying the now-familiar energy signature from the reliquary. The sight of it makes Beatrice’s stomach clench.

“Camila, have you seen Ava?”, Beatrice’s voice is strained, her usual composure frayed at the edges.

Camila spins in her chair, raising an eyebrow, “Uh, yeah? I just left you two in your room, like, ten minutes ago. Did she phase through the floor?”, the nun jokes, lightheartedly, not knowing how it’s landing on the other woman.

“We had a fight. She left.”, the words are clipped, heavy with unspoken emotion. Beatrice hesitates, the confession fighting its way out, “Ava asked me to marry her.”

Camila doesn’t react with surprise. She doesn’t gasp or smile. She simply goes very still, her expression turning carefully neutral. She says nothing, her silence a clear, patient invitation for Beatrice to continue, to confess the rest of it herself.

The silence stretches, and in it, the final piece clicks into place for Beatrice.

The help with the ring.

The knowing look.

Camila’s lack of shock.

The air leaves Beatrice’s lungs in a defeated rush, “But you knew that already.”, she whispers, the statement a quiet realisation. It wasn’t a question.

“Of course I knew.”, Camila says softly, her posture finally relaxing into something sadder, “She asked for my help eight months ago. She’s been saving up from her café job, designing the ring, practicing what she was going to say. For eight months, Beatrice.”

Eight months.

The number makes it the more serious. This wasn’t a whim. It wasn’t a spontaneous, romantic gesture. It was a carefully considered, deeply held decision, a secret project of hope and certainty that Ava had carried close to her heart for most of their peaceful year together.

“And I…”, Beatrice’s voice breaks. She looks down at her hands, seeing only the image of the glowing ring box being snapped shut, “When she asked the question- When she showed me the ring… all I saw was the Divinium. I saw the threat. I didn’t... I didn’t answer her.”

Camila’s face fills with a profound, aching sympathy, “Oh, Bea.”

She hesitates for a long moment, choosing her next words with extreme care, “Beatrice... do you not want to marry her?”

The question is so simple, so direct, it cuts through the layers of guilt and panic.

Beatrice’s head snaps up, her eyes wide with a new kind of horror. “No-”, she says, the word coming out too fast, too sharp. She immediately shakes her head, correcting herself, “I mean yes. Yes, I do. I... I have not thought about it, to be honest. Not in a concrete way. But the thought of marrying anyone else... it’s impossible. It’s only ever been her.”

The confession hangs in the air, raw and true. She wants to. The desire is a fundamental, unchangeable part of her. But it had been a quiet, background constant in their peaceful life, a ‘someday’ she never felt the need to rush. 

She never imagined ‘someday’ would arrive in the middle of a restaurant, moments before the sky began to fall again.

*

The communal dining hall is noisy and warm, filled with the familiar clatter of the OCS. Ava sits between Camila and Yasmine, pushing food around her plate, doing her best to seem normal. She feels more than sees Beatrice enter the room, a familiar presence that now sends a jolt of anxiety through her.

Beatrice gets her food and, after a visible hesitation, approaches their table. She doesn’t sit directly next to Ava, but takes the empty seat opposite her, next to Dora.

The table falls into a slightly strained silence for a moment.

Beatrice is the one who breaks it. She looks directly at Ava, her voice low but clear, cutting through the ambient noise, “Ava. Can we speak? Alone? After dinner?”

Ava’s fork stills. She keeps her eyes on her plate for a second longer before meeting Beatrice’s gaze. There’s no anger there now, just a deep, weary caution. She gives a single, slow nod, “Okay.”

It’s not a reconciliation, but it’s a thread. A chance. The tension doesn’t vanish, but it shifts, making room for a fragile, tentative hope.


As if on cue, Dora, ever pragmatic and perhaps sensing the need to fill the silence, turns to Ava, “So, Yasmine mentioned you’re almost done with school. How are the classes going? When is your graduation, finally?”

Ava latches onto the normalcy of the question like a lifeline, “It’s going okay. A lot of math. My graduation is in a few months.”, she says, managing a small, genuine smile, “Just finishing up the requirements for the Bachillerato.”

Dora grins, a real, impressed look on her face, “That is seriously cool. After everything? Going to school and getting it done? That takes guts. You should be proud.”

Yasmine, seizing the opportunity to draw Beatrice into the conversation, turns to her, “And you, Beatrice? Camila said you’ve taken a permanent position with Arq-Tech. What are you working on over there?”

Beatrice seems to pull herself back from a great distance, “Oh. It’s... logistical analysis for their sustainable energy division.”, she says, her voice regaining some of its professional polish, though it sounds hollow, “Supply chains, resource allocation. It’s... fine. It’s what pays the bills.”

The conversation continues, stilted but functional, a thin veneer of normalcy painted over the chasm that has opened up between the two people at the table who matter most.

Then Dora, ever direct, asks the question everyone is avoiding, “So, the glowing Divinium. Any theories yet? Ava, have you... you know, felt anything? Like the old days?”

The question makes Ava’s blood curdle. Her mind flashes back to the reliquary, the terrifying hum, and then to Beatrice’s clinical command in the bedroom “Take off your top”. Her face pales, her posture tightening as she visibly withdraws into herself, “I... no. Not like that.” she mumbles, staring fixedly at her plate.

Beatrice watches the change come over her. She sees the fear and the memory of their fight clouding Ava’s eyes.

And in that moment, the scientist and the warrior recede. The lover takes over.

Without a word, Beatrice reaches across the table. Her hand covers Ava’s, which is clenched into a fist on the wooden surface. The touch is firm, warm, and unequivocally public.

Ava flinches at the contact, her eyes darting up to Beatrice’s face in shock, then quickly scanning the table. Camila suddenly becomes very interested in her food. Yasmine takes a slow sip of water. Dora gives a small nod of understanding, smiling at them. They are all witnessing this, and they are all choosing, as one, to grant them this moment of privacy.

Slowly, carefully, Ava’s fist unclenches. She turns her hand over, and her fingers slide between Beatrice’s, interlacing them tightly, holding on as if to a lifeline.

Beatrice’s thumb strokes the back of Ava’s hand. Her voice is calm and steady, a protective shield as she answers Dora’s question, her gaze never leaving Ava’s, “We haven’t figured it out yet. But we will be staying for the weekend to run more diagnostics.”

The statement is a promise. Not just to the OCS about the Divinium, but to Ava. We. They are in this together. For the first time since the glow appeared, it feels like it might be true.

*





The air in Ava’s old room feels different. Lived-in again. Beatrice, already in her pyjama, stands by the small desk, methodically running a brush through her hair. Ava, dressed in an old t-shirt and shorts, sits on the edge of the bed. She noticed it immediately- the bed is subtly larger than the narrow cot she remembers. Someone, probably Camila, swapped it out. She doesn’t comment, the observation just another stone in the heavy, quiet space between them.

She watches Beatrice’s familiar, precise movements. It’s a ritual of peace, of normalcy, that feels miles away.

The former nun finishes, places the brush down, and turns. Her expression is raw, stripped of all its professional armour.

She crosses the few steps to stand before Ava, who looks up at her, her own face a canvas of guarded hope and lingering hurt.

Gently, Beatrice cups Ava’s face in her hands, her thumbs stroking her cheeks. She holds her gaze for a long, silent moment, her eyes shimmering.

“I am so sorry.”, Beatrice whispers, her voice thick with emotion, “For being absent. For not seeing you. For the last few days… I wish I could take every second of it back.”

Ava’s eyes well up. She brings her own hands up to cover Beatrice’s, “I’m sorry, too.”

Beatrice blinks, startled, “What for?”

“For not getting it sooner…”, Ava says softly, “I was so wrapped up in my own hurt, I didn’t see yours. I understand, Bea. I really do. That blue glow… it doesn’t just mean trouble. It makes you see red, doesn’t it? It takes you right back to the worst moments of our life. I understand the trauma it triggers.”

Beatrice’s breath hitches.

She braced for anger, for a list of her failings. She was not prepared for this profound, painful empathy. This understanding that sees the scared woman beneath the warrior.

Overwhelmed, she leans down, her intention clear- to seal this fragile understanding with a kiss, to lose herself in the comfort of Ava’s forgiveness.

But Ava stills her, a hand coming up to gently press against Beatrice’s chest, holding her at a breath’s distance.

“Wait.”, Ava breathes, her own voice trembling, “I want to… I really do-”, she refers to Beatrice’s advance, “But Bea, you pulling away from me… from us… that hurts. The proposal… you not saying anything… it feels like a rejection. And that hurt isn’t just gone because I understand why it happened.”

Beatrice doesn’t pull back. She keeps her hands on Ava’s face, her gaze steady and earnest. “I know.”, she says, her voice low and clear, “And I would never want to diminish that hurt. It was real, and I caused it.” She takes a slow breath, “And I want to give you another chance to ask. A real one. But Ava… right now, with this… this threat hanging over us… my head is not in a place to give you the answer you deserve. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”

She sees the flicker of fresh pain in Ava’s eyes and leans her forehead against hers, “Please, do not take that as a rejection of you, or of the idea. It is a rejection of the timing, of what it means to see the Divinium glow again.”

Beatrice pulls back just enough to look into Ava’s eyes, her own filled with a vulnerable sincerity, “So, when you ask me again, at a more proper time… the prospect of my answer being ‘yes’ is… significantly high.” A faint, almost shy smile touches her lips, “I do not reject the idea of being your wife, Ava. I only ask for the space to be able to truly imagine it, without the shadow of a looming war.”

The words hang in the quiet room- not the romantic, sweeping acceptance Ava had dreamed of in the restaurant, but something perhaps more profound.


A promise. A certainty of intention, wrapped in a plea for patience. It isn’t a closed door.


It’s a door held open, waiting for the right moment to walk through together.



Beatrice, her expression raw with hope and apology, leans in slowly again. Her voice impossibly gentle, “Ava... may I kiss you now?”

It lands on a heart that is still deeply bruised.

Ava doesn’t move her hand on Beatrice’s chest, holding her at bay. Her eyes are full of a pain that the understanding hasn’t yet erased.

“No…”, she whispers apologetically, “Not yet. I believe you. I understand why you did what you did. But I... I need a little time. To process this.”

She sees the flicker of hurt in Beatrice’s eyes, quickly masked by a nod of acceptance.

As Ava lets the words wash over her, she just can’t seem to find it in her to forget the rejection.

Chapter Text

The first thing Ava is aware of is warmth. A solid, familiar warmth presses against her back, and the gentle weight of an arm that drapes over her waist.

Beatrice.

In the hazy, grey light of a Cat’s Cradle dawn, filtering through the single small window, the memory of the previous night is a dull ache.

The fight. The devastating silence. Walking out. The feeling of being a problem to be solved.

The somewhat failed reconciliation, because Ava just could not forgive the unanswered proposal.

But here, in the depths of sleep, Beatrice’s body remembers what her waking mind has been too panicked to offer. Her arm tightens around Ava, pulling her back flush against her chest with a soft, unconscious sigh. Ava feels the steady thrum of Beatrice’s heartbeat against her spine, the soft brush of her pyjama top against her skin. It is a ghost of their normal intimacy, a phantom limb of their connection. Her body yearns to sink into it, to forgive and forget in the safety of this embrace.

But the hurt is still a cold stone in her chest, refusing to melt.

She lies there, trapped between the paradise of the touch and the purgatory of her memory, until she feels the shift in Beatrice’s breathing. The slow, deep rhythms of sleep shallowed, and a soft, waking hum vibrates against her neck.

Beatrice nuzzles closer, her lips finding the sensitive skin just below Ava’s hairline. The kiss is slow, sleepy, and instinctive. A relic of a hundred Madrid mornings. It is an offer of normalcy, an unspoken apology in the language of their bodies.

And it is too much.

Ava shifts, a subtle, deliberate stiffening of her shoulders, before rolling over to face her.

The moment she turns, she sees the flicker in Beatrice’s eyes. The soft, sleep-softened affection is quickly replaced by a flicker of confusion, then a dawning, cautious awareness. The wall is back up, and Beatrice is finally on the other side of it, seeing it clearly for the first time.


“Did you sleep okay?”, Ava asks. Her voice is quiet, a little hoarse, and carefully neutral.

Beatrice blinks, her mind clearly re-engaging with the world, the crisis, the tension in the bed between them. “Adequately.”, she says, her voice also carefully measured. She clears her throat, “I need to run a comparative analysis on the Divinium this morning, in its dormant state, without your presence.”


It’s all data, protocols, and mission parameters. The language of the warrior-scientist. Ava feels the stone in her chest grow heavier.


“Right.”, Ava says, her voice flat, “The tests.”

“It’s the logical next step…”, Beatrice continues, either missing the tone or choosing to ignore it. She pushes herself up to a sitting position, the blankets pooling around her waist, “Camila has secured lab access for me.”

Beatrice’s gaze finally settles on her, but it’s with a focused, clinical intent, “I’ll need the ring for the spectrometry.”, she says, her tone practical.

Ava throws the covers back, the morning’s chill a welcome shock against her skin, a physical sensation to distract from the emotional one. She gets up and retrieves the demanded object from her bag. She hands it over equally as clinically, as it was requested.

“Thank you…”, is all Beatrice can muster up, before getting out of bed herself.


Ava just watches her, this beautiful, brilliant woman who can map the quantum fluctuations of celestial energy but seems utterly lost in the simple, human geography of her girlfriend’s heart.


“Sure.”, Ava says eventually, the word feeling utterly insufficient, “Let me know if you need help with that.”


The space between them feels as vast and cold as the void between stars.

*






The water is scalding, but Ava barely feels it. She stands under the spray, head bowed, letting the needles of heat pummel the tension from her shoulders. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to conjure the good memories, to use them as a shield against the cold hurt.

The taste of churros and hot chocolate from San Gines on a cold Madrid afternoon, Beatrice’s laugh lines crinkling as she wiped at the brown remnants on Ava’s chin.


The weight of Beatrice’s head on her lap during a lazy Sunday, watching a mundane TV show.


The look in her eyes -not a scientist’s or a warrior’s, but a lover’s- just before she’d kiss her.


I love her, Ava thinks, the words a desperate mantra in her mind. I love her, and she loves me. 

She was scared. I have to let this go. I have to let her in again.

She gives herself a final, internal shake, a pep talk that feels as fragile as glass. 

Okay. Okay. We’re a team. We’ll figure this out together.


She turns off the water, the sudden silence ringing in her ears. Wrapping a towel around herself, she steps onto the cool, damp tiles of the shared bathroom. The steam fogs the mirror, and for a moment, she’s just a blur- a ghost in the haze. She wipes a clear patch with her hand, her own tired eyes staring back at her.

And then the thought arrives, unbidden and cold.

My back.

Slowly, almost against her will, she turns. She cranes her neck, trying to see her reflection in the cleared patch of mirror. It’s an awkward angle, but it’s enough.

There it is.

The scar itself is the same, the physical reminder of the Halo’s implantation, a part of her as much as her own spine. But it’s no longer just a scar. It looks… fresh. The skin around it is flushed a faint, angry pink. And the Halo itself, usually a smooth, integrated disc beneath her skin, is now visibly etched. A delicate, impossibly intricate lacework of fine lines spirals out from its centre. It looks less like an implant and more like a living, breathing part of her, a map of a new, unknown territory burned directly into her flesh.

It’s not painful. It’s just… there. A silent, undeniable transformation.

Her eyes widen in the mirror. Her breath hitches. The fragile peace she’d built in the shower shatters.

Beatrice would want to see this. She would want to document it, measure it, add it to her data points. She would see it as proof, as a clue.

But right now, after being treated like a specimen, the thought of voluntarily offering up this intimate, physical change makes Ava’s skin crawl. This is hers. Her body. Her transformation. The one thing that isn’t being shared, analysed, and turned into a problem.

Her jaw tightens. She turns away from the mirror, her movements quick and decisive.

She pulls on her clothes, making sure her shirt covers the mark completely. She will keep this one thing for herself. A secret, for now. A piece of her own mystery, in a world that suddenly feels like it’s trying to solve her again.





*






The Cat’s Cradle lab is silent save for the low hum of servers and the whisper of the climate control. It is late, long after evening prayers, and Beatrice is alone. Spread before her on the steel workbench are the artefacts, now dark and inert: her cross, a Divinium shard from the reliquary, and the small, black felt box.

Without Ava’s presence, the Divinium is just a grey metal. The data streams on her monitors show only baseline dormancy, a flatline of non-activity. Her focus isn’t on the screens. It is on the box.

With a reverence that feels both sacred and illicit, she clicks it open. The ring lies there, silent and still. The delicate Divinium filigree is a dull, dark grey, the intricate lacework looking fragile without its otherworldly light. But for a moment, Beatrice isn’t seeing the dormant power. She is seeing the ring itself.

Ava’s choice is impeccable. The band is a simple, flawless white gold, but the gem is a masterpiece. It’s a marquis-cut lab-grown diamond, perfectly clear and brilliant. As it catches the sterile lab light, it throws off a spectacular fire, flashes of rainbow hues, but at its heart, in its deepest facets, there is a subtle, cool blue flash- a hidden depth that makes it uniquely theirs. It is a stone born of human ingenuity and patience, not mined from the earth. It is modern, ethical, and utterly beautiful. A perfect reflection of the future Ava wanted to build with her.

The thought is a physical ache in her chest.

Her eyes sting. She reaches out, her fingers steady now. She slowly, carefully, slides the ring out of its slot in the felt.

Holding her breath, she slips it onto her left ring finger.

It fits perfectly.

The band is cool against her skin. The dark Divinium and the brilliant, clear diamond sit there, a silent promise, a future waiting to be claimed. She stares at it, her hand resting on the cold steel of the workbench, the ghost of a life that feels both inches and light years away.

*





Ava finds herself standing outside a door she’s never consciously noticed before, tucked away in a quieter wing of the Cradle. A small, hand painted plaque reads ‘C. Camila’. It strikes her then, with a sudden, peculiar clarity, that in all the time she’s spent here, she’s never seen Camila’s room. She’s always been the visitor, the patient, the Warrior Nun. She’s never just been a friend dropping by.

She knocks softly.

The door opens a moment later, and Camila blinks in surprise, “Ava? Everything alright?”

“Can I come in?”, Ava asks, her voice quieter than she intended.

“Of course.”, Camila steps aside.

The room is a perfect reflection of its occupant. One wall is a meticulously organised bank of monitors and radio equipment, a smaller, more personal version of the comms centre. The other is soft and lived-in: a small bed with a colourful quilt, a shelf crammed with a mix of theological texts, sci-fi paperbacks, and a surprising number of graphic novels. A half finished mug of tea sits on the desk next to a disassembled piece of hardware. It’s a space of beautiful, harmonious contradiction, the warrior and the woman, perfectly blended.

Ava hovers awkwardly just inside the doorway, feeling like an intruder in this intimate space.

“You’ve never been in here.”, Camila remarks, a gentle observation.

“No…”, Ava admits, “It’s… very you.”

Camila smiles, gesturing to the desk chair, “What’s up? Where’s Beatrice?”

“That’s… kind of the point.”, Ava takes a deep breath, steeling herself, “I need to show you something. And you have to promise you won’t tell her.”

Camila’s warm expression instantly sobers into something more guarded. She leans back against her desk, crossing her arms. “Ava, the last time you told me a secret and asked me not to tell Beatrice, it totally backfired.”

“This is different!”, Ava insists, though the memory stings, “I will tell her. I promise. Just… not while she’s looking at me like I’m a specimen jar. I need to understand it first. I need your help to understand it.”


Camila studies her face for a long moment, seeing the plea, the fear, the determination. She finally gives a single, slow nod, “Okay. Show me.”

Ava turns, pulling up the back of her shirt. She hears Camila’s sharp, quiet intake of breath.

“Dios mío…”, Camila whispers. The clinical curiosity is gone, replaced by horror, “It’s… it’s changed.”

“It’s changing.”, Ava corrects, letting her shirt fall and turning back around, “I need you to take pictures. Document it. Cross-reference it with… I don’t know, everything. All the OCS archives on the Halo, any biological data on previous Warriors.”

The Sister Warrior is already reaching for a high-resolution handheld scanner from her desk drawer, her mind clearly shifting into analysis mode. “The patterns… they’re organic. Almost like circuitry, but grown, not built.” She pauses, looking at Ava, “Do you have a theory?”

“Beatrice…”, Ava says, the name feeling both painful and necessary, “In one of Reya’s visits, she saw how the Halo was forged. She said, it was woven, like fabric from light. What if… what if that process has started again? What if something, or someone, is trying to re-weave it? Or finish the pattern? What if the portals are open again, just a little, and this is the energy leaking through?”

Camila freezes, the scanner held loosely in her hand. Her eyes widen with a new, dawning idea. 

“Ava… if the portals were open, even a crack… have you seen them? Have you seen Reya?”

The question hangs in the air. And then, it hits Ava. A connection she hadn’t made.

“No…”, she breathes, her own eyes going wide, “But I don’t need a portal to see them.” She looks at Camila, a terrifying, audacious plan forming in her mind. “I was holed up there, Camila. My… my essence, my spirit, whatever, it was there for what felt like months. I have a bond to that place that no one else has. Reya told me so…” 

She swallows, the words feeling both crazy and utterly true, “What if I can try to visit Reya again?”

The nun nods slowly, “Okay, what do you need me to do?”

“Nothing. I need to figure that out on my own…”, Ava’s mind is already reeling, “For now, let’s get this photo-documentary started.”
 
Camila works with a quiet, efficient intensity, the scanner whirring softly as she captures high-resolution images of the intricate, glowing patterns on Ava’s back from multiple angles.

“The level of detail is incredible…”, Camila murmurs, more to herself than to Ava, “It’s not a scar anymore. It’s a… an interface.”

The clinical term sends a shiver down Ava’s spine. She keeps still, her jaw clenched. When Camila finally lowers the scanner, the silence feels heavy.

“Okay.”, Camila says, her voice returning to its normal tone, “I’m on it. I’ll cross-reference this with everything we have- the oldest bestiaries, Adriel’s original texts, even Jillian’s metaphysical energy models. If there’s a pattern here, we’ll find it.”

A sense of profound relief and gratitude washes over Ava, “Thank you, Cam.” She pulls her shirt down, the soft cotton a welcome barrier between her and the world again, “I mean it.”

“Just… be careful with this plan, Ava.”, Camila says, her brow furrowed with concern, “Beatrice will want to know about this, rather sooner than later.”

“I know.”, Ava says, and she does. The thought of telling her lover is a stone in her gut. She offers Camila a weak but grateful smile and slips out the door.

Standing in the cool, dim corridor, she takes a second to adjust her shirt, smoothing it down properly. The faint, phantom sensation of the scanner on her back lingers.

It’s in that exact moment that she looks up and sees her.

Beatrice is walking down the hall, a determined look on her face, a data tablet in her hand. She’s clearly on her way to see Camila, probably to ask for help with the Divinium research. Her eyes lock with Ava’s, and then they flicker, just for a fraction of a second, to the door Ava just closed, then back to Ava’s hands, which are still fussing with the hem of her shirt.

Ava freezes, her mind racing. The secret feels written all over her face.


“Ava,” Beatrice says, her voice carefully neutral, “What were you doing in Camila’s room?”

The question isn’t accusatory, but it’s pointed. It’s the tone of a strategist assessing a variable she didn’t account for.

Ava’s heart hammers against her ribs. She can’t tell the truth, but a flat lie would be worse. She opts for a fragile half-truth, wrapped in a deflection, “I just needed to talk to her. Girl stuff.”

She sees the immediate, subtle shift in Beatrice’s posture. The slight tightening around her eyes. The way her grip on the data tablet becomes a fraction more rigid. Beatrice’s mind, so brilliantly analytical, is connecting the wrong dots. 

Ava is upset. 

Ava is seeking comfort from someone else. 

Ava is fixing her clothes after a private, closed-door conversation.

Beatrice doesn’t say any of this. She would never voice the insecure, jealous thought aloud. But Ava sees the shadow of it cross her face, a brief flicker of hurt before the mask of calm control slides back into place.

“I see…”, Beatrice says, her tone now perfectly even, devoid of all the warmth it held just this morning, “I was just going to ask for her help with the spectral analysis.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply. She gives a small, tight nod and moves past Ava, knocking on Camila’s door and entering without a backward glance.

Ava is left alone in the corridor. The chasm between them, which she had hoped to bridge with her secret mission, has just grown a little wider, and filled with a misunderstanding she doesn’t register.

*

The cool, blue light of the monitor casts sharp shadows across Beatrice’s face in the Cradle’s makeshift lab. On the screen, Dr. Jillian Salvius looks polished and attentive, a digital rendering of calm competence.

“The data you’ve sent is… unprecedented, Beatrice…”, Jillian says, adjusting her glasses, “The quantum signature isn’t just a reactivation; it might be a fundamental rewrite of the Halo’s base energetic code... Did you run tests on the Halo itself?”

“No… But that is one of our leading theories…”, Beatrice replies, her voice crisp and professional, “Ava is the catalyst, not the artefacts. Just like before. But she doesn’t have any of her powers back.”

“Fascinating…”, Jillian murmurs, her eyes scanning the new data, “And how is Ava handling all of this? The physical and emotional toll must be significant.”

The question, so simple and human, lands awkwardly in the midst of their scientific discourse. Beatrice’s rhythm falters. Her mind, for a split second, doesn’t conjure an image of a scared Ava, but of a closed door, and Ava’s furtive hands adjusting her shirt.

“I… don’t have a full assessment on that front…”, Beatrice says, the words coming out stiffer than intended. She focuses intently on a meaningless point on her spreadsheet, “She’s been… somewhat withdrawn. But Camila is… helping her with it.”

The moment the sentence leaves her lips, she knows it’s a misstep. It’s vague, unprofessional, and reveals a personal fissure.

On the screen, Jillian’s perfectly composed expression shifts into one of gentle surprise. She leans slightly closer to her camera, “Camila? I see.” There’s a weighted pause. Jillian knows the hierarchy, the dynamics. Beatrice is Ava’s partner, her anchor. For her to openly admit she is not the primary source of support, and to frame it with such a strangely detached tone, is entirely out of character.


“Beatrice.”, Jillian says, her voice softening, cutting through the clinical facade, “Is everything alright between you two?”

Beatrice’s spine straightens. She feels exposed, her personal uncertainty laid bare under the lens of Jillian’s perceptive gaze. She quickly rebuilds her professional walls, brick by brick.

“Our personal dynamic is irrelevant to the data.”, she states, her tone becoming clipped and distant. “The priority is understanding the phenomenon. I’ll forward the latest readings from the main reliquary. Silva out.”

She ends the call before Jillian can formulate a response. The screen blinks back to the desktop, leaving Beatrice alone in the silent, blue-lit room. The data on her screen is a chaotic mess of numbers and graphs, but it’s nothing compared to the tangled, unquantifiable mess of suspicion and hurt now swirling in her chest.





*

The rhythmic thwack of wood on wood echoes in the Cradle’s training hall. Ava parries a strike from Dora, but her stance is off, her footing sluggish. The practice staff vibrates unpleasantly in her hands.

Dora doesn’t press the advantage. She steps back, lowering her own staff, a bead of sweat tracing a line down her temple, “Damn, Silva. You’re slacking.” There’s no malice in her tone, just blunt observation.

Ava lets out a puff of air, leaning on her staff, “Yeah, well. Haven’t exactly been keeping up with my daily sparring sessions between pulling espresso shots and studying for history exams.”

Dora cocks her head, her gaze thoughtful, “So, how does it feel? Not being… you know. The Warrior Nun.”

Ava considers deflecting with a joke, but the honesty of the training ground, the simple exhaustion, pulls the truth from her.

“Honestly?”, Ava says, looking down at her hands, “Most of the time, it feels freeing. Like I finally get to just be… a person. But sometimes…” She trails off, the unspoken fear finding its way to the surface, “Sometimes I wonder if stopping a Holy War is the biggest, most important thing I’ll ever do. If that’s all my life will ever be about. The one who was the last Warrior Nun.”

Dora is quiet for a moment, her expression unreadable. Then, she gives a short, sharp nod.

“You’re looking at it backwards.”, Dora says, her voice firm, “Any of us, with that thing in our back, could have been the Warrior Nun. It’s the job. But choosing to go back? To sit in evening school, after everything you’ve seen and done? To get an education?” She shakes her head, a look of genuine respect in her eyes, “That’s the choice that makes you stand out. Fighting a demon is one thing. Building a normal life after? That’s a different kind of strength. I respect the hell out of you for that, Ava.”

The words land not as pity or empty praise, but as a solid, grounding weight. Ava looks up, meeting Dora’s gaze. The knot of insecurity in her chest loosens, just a little. For the first time since returning to the Cradle, someone has looked at her and seen not a relic or a crisis, but a person making a choice. And they’ve called it brave.

*

Ava pushes the door to their room open, her body aching in that familiar, satisfying way she hadn’t felt in ages. A sheen of sweat cools on her skin, and a loose strand of hair is plastered to her temple. She smells of clean exertion and the old, dusty air of the training hall.

Beatrice is seated at the small desk, the glow of her laptop highlighting the sharp, focused planes of her face. She looks back, as Ava enters, and her professional mask falters for a single, unguarded second.

Her eyes darken, tracking the line of Ava’s throat, the damp patch on her t-shirt between her shoulder blades. The sight is a visceral punch to her gut, sending a jolt of pure, unwelcome heat through her. It’s a flashback to a different time in these very walls: the charged silence after sparring sessions, the unbearable proximity in the hallways, the way her gaze would helplessly follow the swing of Ava’s arms or the flex of her back, all while shackled by vows and protocol. The memory of that desperate, repressed want is so sharp it feels like a physical ache. Now, the only thing shackling her is the chilling distance Ava has erected between them.


Ava barely spares her a glance, moving to her duffel bag to rummage for a clean shirt and fresh underwear.

“You’ve been busy…”, Beatrice notices, her voice a little tighter than she intended. She forces her eyes back to her screen, the lines of code blurring into meaningless symbols.

“Yep.”, Ava says, her tone clipped, “Lunch with the sisters. Then a training session with Dora.”

The words with the sisters land with a quiet thud. Beatrice hadn’t been invited. She’d been in the lab, alone.

“And your visit with Camila this morning.”, Beatrice adds, the words leaving her mouth before she can stop them. She can’t help it. It’s a burr under her skin, that private audience.

Ava stills for a fraction of a second but doesn’t respond. That’s even more infuriating. Instead, she turns and walks toward the door, clean clothes in hand.


“Where are you going?”, Beatrice asks, the question coming out more sharply than she intended.

Ava pauses, her hand on the doorknob, “To change. In the bathroom.”

“Why can’t you change in here?”, the question is out before Beatrice can filter it, layered with a confusion that is both practical and deeply, painfully personal.

Ava turns her head, looking at Beatrice over her shoulder with an expression that is unreadable, a little guarded, and just a touch odd, as if the answer should be obvious, “I just... want to.”

And in that moment, Beatrice understands. Or, she thinks she does. It’s not about the physical act of changing. It’s a statement. The easy, unthinking intimacy they had built -changing clothes in the same room, sharing that casual, domestic space- is gone. Ava is walling herself off, creating physical barriers to match the emotional one. She doesn’t feel comfortable with Beatrice anymore. The trust that allowed for such simple, unremarkable closeness has been fractured.

The realisation is a cold knife to Beatrice’s heart, far more painful than any argument.

As Ava’s fingers tighten on the doorknob, Beatrice speaks again, her voice stripped bare of all its professional composure, reduced to a raw, desperate whisper.


“Ava.”, she says, the name is a plea, “What can I do? What can I possibly do to earn your forgiveness?”

She is asking about the fight, about the ignored proposal, about her absence. But in her mind, she is also begging for an answer to a question she can’t bring herself to voice: What can I do to make you feel safe with me again?

Ava’s shoulders tense. She doesn’t turn around, her hand still on the doorknob. Her voice is flat, devoid of any emotion when she finally answers, “I have forgiven you.”

The lie is so flimsy it shatters on contact with the air between them.

“No, you haven’t.”, Beatrice counters, her own voice gaining a desperate strength as she stands up from the desk, “You don’t kiss me. You barely talk to me. You flinch, when I touch you. You’re leaving the room to change clothes, for God’s sake. That is not forgiveness, Ava. That is a punishment.”

Ava lets out a short, sharp, humourless laugh as she finally turns to face her. The sound is brittle, like breaking glass, “Are you serious? That’s rich. You spent three days barely looking at me, talking to me only about data and diagnostics. You were the one who was absent, Beatrice. You were the one who built the wall. Don’t you dare accuse me of punishing you for just... finally building one of my own.”

The truth of it hits Beatrice like a physical blow, leaving her breathless. She had been so consumed by Ava’s current coldness, she hadn’t fully acknowledged the coldness she herself had projected first.

“Is that what this is, then?”, Beatrice asks, her voice trembling with a mix of hurt and frustration, “You just want to get even? To hurt me back until the score is settled?”

Ava’s eyes flash with a fury so bright it seems to illuminate the dim room, “To get even?”, she repeats, her voice dropping to a low, dangerous tremor, “Beatrice, to get even, you would have to ask me to marry you, and I would have to look you in the eye and say no.”

The silence that follows is absolute, a vacuum that sucks all the air from the room.

Ava’s own hand flies to her mouth, her eyes wide with instant, horrified regret. She hadn’t meant to say it. It was the nuclear option, the one thought too cruel to ever voice, and she had launched it directly into the heart of the woman she loved.

She doesn’t wait to see the full devastation settle on Beatrice’s face. She can’t. She wrenches the door open and flees, the sound of her footsteps echoing down the stone corridor, leaving Beatrice alone, shattered and motionless in the wake of the most painful truth either of them could have imagined.

*

The night is long and sleepless.

The moment the words had left her mouth, Ava had felt a part of her soul curdle. The image of Beatrice’s face -the raw, uncomprehending shock that froze her features- is seared onto the back of her eyelids. She waits, curled into a tight ball on the bed, for the door to open, for Beatrice to return so she can fall to her knees and beg for forgiveness.

The door never opens.

By dawn, a cold, sharp fear has replaced the guilt.

Beatrice isn’t just giving her space; she is gone. Ava’s phone feels like a lead weight in her pocket, but the shame is heavier.

She can’t call. What can she possibly say?

Sunday morning finds her wandering the silent halls like a ghost, the stone walls feeling more like a prison than a refuge. She turns a corner near the armoury and hears hushed, urgent voices. She pauses, just out of sight, listening.

“...confirmed it’s a minor incursion. A single Wraith, probably a scout. Low-level possession, but it’s causing havoc in the village market.”,  it’s Camila’s voice, all business.

Curiosity overpowering her hesitation, Ava steps into view, “A Wraith? Where?”

Camila and Dora look up, slightly startled. They exchange a quick glance.

“Just a small containment mission in the next village.”, Camila says, downplaying it, “Nothing we haven’t handled before.”

Dora grins, a flash of pride in her eyes, “We’ve been wanting to show you, actually. The tech Jillian and Beatrice developed with Camila. We’ve been using it for months now. It lets us see what you used to see. Halo sight for the rest of us.”, she gestures to a sleek, modified tablet in Camila’s hands and a pair of elegant, tech-integrated gauntlets on her own wrists, “It works… Albeit slow, but it works really well.”

“Want to come?”, Camila asks, her tone softening into a genuine offer, “See your legacy in action? It’s pretty cool, if I may say so myself.”

The invitation is a lifeline. A distraction from the gnawing worry and self-loathing. A chance to be part of the team again, even in a different way.

“Yeah.”, Ava says, her voice firm with newfound purpose, “Yeah, show me.”

*

The three of them move through the chaotic village market. It’s a scene of subtle, creeping horror. A stall owner is weeping uncontrollably, smashing his own pottery. Two farmers are locked in a silent, vicious fistfight, their faces blank. The air thrums with a malevolent energy that Ava feels pricking at her skin.

Camila holds up the tablet, its screen a swirl of thermal and electromagnetic data, “The signal is everywhere. It’s diffuse. Hard to pin down.”

“My scanners are picking up multiple energy spikes.”, Dora adds, her gaze darting behind the tech-integrated lenses of her glasses, “It’s jumping from host to host too fast for a clean target.”

Ava stays close to a wall, feeling useless. She watches them work, a well-oiled machine using tools she doesn’t understand to fight a war she thought she’d left behind. They are competent, powerful. They don’t need her.


Then, she sees it.


It’s a perception that bypasses the others entirely. A red shimmer in the air near the weeping potter, a distortion of reality that feels like a splinter in her mind. It’s a familiar, hated sensation. One she hasn’t felt in over three years.

Her body moves before her mind can catch up.

As Dora moves past her, trying to get a better angle with her gauntlets, Ava’s hand darts out. In one fluid motion, she plucks a Divinium-bladed dagger from Dora’s hip holster.

“Hey-!”, Dora starts.

But Ava is already moving. She doesn’t run; she takes three swift, sure steps and drives the blade not at the potter, but into the empty air just beside his shoulder.

There is a deafening, silent shriek that only Ava seems to hear. The shimmering distortion convulses, solidifying for a split second into the horrific, smoky form of a Wraith, impaled on the Divinium blade. Then, it dissolves into foul-smelling ash.

The market goes quiet. The potter stops weeping, blinking in confusion. The farmers break apart, panting, looking at their bloody knuckles in dazed shock.

Camila and Dora are frozen, staring at Ava. The tablet in Camila’s hand is still whirring, its targeting reticle finally, belatedly, locking onto the now-vanished spot.

“How…”, Dora breathes, lowering her gauntlets, “The tech… it was still calibrating. How did you know?”

Ava looks down at the Divinium dagger in her hand, then at the dissipating ash on the ground. The truth crashes into her with the force of a physical blow.


Oh, fuck.


She meets their stunned gazes, her own eyes wide with a terrifying realisation.


“I didn’t use the tech.”, she whispers, the words tasting like destiny, “I just… saw it.”

The Halo’s sight was back.

Chapter Text

The late afternoon sun bathes the familiar, terracotta-hued plaza of Ávila in a golden glow. 

After the mission was before lunch. 

A late lunch.

They spend most of the time brainstorming what it means to have Ava’s sight back.


But Ava only is in on the conversation half-heartedly. Ávila meant trembling beginnings of everything with Beatrice. Now, sitting at a small café table, it just feels like a beautiful, painful backdrop to a crisis. Ava was sure that she had to tell Beatrice everything. She had to tell her soon.

At some point Dora excuses herself to find a restroom, leaving Ava and Camila with half-finished plates of tortilla and a lingering tension from the morning’s mission.

Leaning in, her voice dropping to a whisper, Ava asks, “Any luck? With the… you know.”, she gestures faintly towards her own back.

Camila shakes her head, her expression apologetic, “Nothing yet. The pattern doesn’t match anything in the archives. It’s completely new.”

Ava’s shoulders slump. The hope that an answer was just around the corner deflates. Instinctively, seeking comfort, she leans her head against Camila’s shoulder for a brief second. Camila, understanding the unspoken fear, leans into her, their heads close together in a conspiratorial, intimate huddle as she whispers, “We’ll figure it out. I promise.”

It is in this exact moment that the café door chimes.

Beatrice steps in. She looks exhausted, shadows under her eyes, her posture less rigid than usual, as if she’s spent the night carrying the weight of the world. Of course she came to Ávila. It was their place.

Her tired eyes scan the room, perhaps seeking the comfort of a familiar setting, and land directly on their table.

On Ava and Camila, their heads bent together, whispering in clear, urgent secrecy.

Ava feels the shift in the air like a static charge. Her head snaps up. Her eyes meet Beatrice’s across the room.

Relief, sharp and immediate, floods her, “Beatrice!”, she says, standing up so quickly her chair scrapes loudly against the rough wooden floor.

But the expression on Beatrice’s face extinguishes the relief in an instant. It isn’t surprise, or warmth, or even anger. It is a profound, weary resignation. She takes in the scene: the intimate lunch, the hushed conversation, Ava’s guilty jolt at being discovered.

She sees everything, and understands none of it. She misreads the situation completely.

For a frozen second, Beatrice just looks at them. Then, without a word, she turns and walks back out of the café, the door swinging shut behind her, leaving Ava standing there, her call hanging uselessly in the air.

The café door slams behind Ava, the cheerful bell a mockery of the scene, “Beatrice! Stop!”

Beatrice doesn’t stop, but her stride falters, her shoulders tightening as she continues walking across the sun-drenched plaza.

“Just leave it, Ava!”, she throws over her shoulder, her voice dangerously low.

“No, I won’t leave it! You disappeared all night! I was worried sick!”, Ava catches up, grabbing her arm to spin her around.

Beatrice wrenches her arm away, the motion sharp and final.

Her eyes, when they meet Ava’s, are blazing with a hurt she can no longer contain, “Were you? It didn’t seem to stop you from having a lovely, secretive lunch with Camila.”

“It wasn’t secretive! We were just talking!”

“Do not insult my intelligence.”, Beatrice bites out, her voice trembling with the effort to keep it quiet, “First I find you in her room, now you’re whispering with your heads together- in Ávila, of all places. What is it, Ava? Is she easier to talk to? Does she look at you and see a person instead of a problem? Is that it?”

The accusation is so specific, so wrong, and so perfectly aimed at Ava’s own insecurities that it steals her breath, “That’s not fair. That’s not what this is!”

“Then what is it?”, Beatrice demands, her composure cracking, “Because from where I’m standing, the only person you’ve been truly talking to since this started is her. You tell her things you won’t tell me. You seek her out. You flinch from my touch but you lean into hers.” 

Her voice breaks on the last word, the image clearly etched in her mind.

“This isn’t about Camila!”, Ava cries out, desperation making her voice carry. A few tourists glance their way, “This is about you and me! This is about you shutting me out the second something went wrong!”

“And you’re not shutting me out now?”, Beatrice fires back, stepping closer, the space between them crackling with pain, “You wanted to get even, Ava? Well, congratulations. This? This is far more effective than any rejection could ever be.”

The words land like a physical blow. Ava stares at her, the fight draining out of her, replaced by a cold, sickening understanding of the chasm between them. Beatrice doesn’t see a mission or a secret investigation. She sees a betrayal.

Before Ava can form a response, Beatrice turns on her heel, “I’m going back to Madrid. Don’t follow me.”

This time, when she walks away, her steps are sure and steady. And this time, Ava is too shattered to stop her. She stands alone in the middle of the plaza, in the city of their happiest memories, watching the love of her life walk away, believing the worst of her.

*

Camila drives her to the train station in a heavy silence. There are no more reassurances, no more plans. Just a squeeze of the hand before Ava gets out of the car, “Good luck.”, is all Camila says, and it feels like a prayer.

The train ride back to Madrid is agony. It’s a slow, regional line that stops in every tiny pueblo, stretching the journey to three hours. Three hours for Ava to stare at her reflection in the dark window and see only the shattered pieces of the life she broke. Three hours to replay the look on Beatrice’s face in the plaza- not of anger, but of a deep, weary defeat.

By the time she uses her key in the apartment door, the sun has long set. The apartment is dark and silent, the only light a pale silver wash from the streetlights outside.

Beatrice is sitting on the couch. She hasn’t bothered to turn on a lamp. She isn’t reading, or on her phone, or even pretending to watch the dark, blank screen of the television. She just sits, perfectly still, her hands folded in her lap, staring at the void where a picture should be. She doesn’t look up when the door opens and closes.

Ava stands in the entryway, her bag slipping from her shoulder to the floor with a soft thud. The sight of Beatrice like this -a statue of grief in the heart of their home- is more terrifying than any demon.


“Bea.”, she says, her voice rough from disuse and unshed tears.

Beatrice doesn’t move. Her eyes remain fixed on the blank screen, “You came back.”, she says. It’s not a question, not a welcome. It’s a flat, observed fact.

“Of course I came back!”, Ava whispers, taking a tentative step forward, “This is my home. You are my home.”


Finally, Beatrice’s head turns. Her face is pale and drawn in the gloom, her eyes hollow, “Is it?”, she asks, and the simple question holds a universe of doubt, “It seems there are many things about your home you no longer feel the need to share.”

The words feel like daggers to her chest, but Ava doesn’t retreat. This is the line she has to cross. This is the truth she can no longer hide, no matter how terrifying.

“You have a right to be upset.”, Ava says, her voice trembling but clear. She takes another step into the room, stopping a few feet from the couch. “There is something I haven’t been sharing. But it has nothing to do with Camila, and everything to do with you.”

Beatrice’s gaze sharpens, a flicker of wary confusion breaking through her numb despair. She says nothing, waiting.

Ava’s hands are shaking. She closes her eyes for a brief second, gathering her courage. Then, she turns her back to Beatrice.

With slow, deliberate movements, she pulls her shirt up, exposing her back to the dim light of the room.

She hears Beatrice’s sharp, involuntary intake of breath.

For a long moment, there is only silence. Then, the sound of the couch creaking as Beatrice stands. Ava can feel her approach, can sense her hovering just behind her. But there is no tender touch. 

Only the weight of her gaze.

“The patterns…”, Beatrice murmurs, her voice regaining a sliver of its analytical tone, though it’s laced with awe and dread, “It’s a complete morphological shift.” The scientist in her immediately recognises the significance, even through the personal hurt.

“It’s been changing.”, Ava says, her voice thick as she lets her shirt fall and turns to face her, “That’s what I was showing Camila. That’s the secret. I was scared, Bea. And the way you looked at me after the restaurant... like I was a crisis to be managed... I couldn’t stand the thought of you looking at this…”, she gestures to her back, “The same way you did the ring. I asked her to help me understand it before I told you.”

Beatrice processes this. The logic is there. The pieces fit. The closed door, the whispers- they form a new, coherent picture that isn’t about infidelity, but about fear and a desperate search for answers. The rigid tension in her shoulders loosens, but the hurt in her eyes doesn’t vanish. It just transforms from the sting of betrayal to the deeper, more familiar ache of having failed to be a safe harbour.

The silence stretches, heavy with this new, complicated truth.

Ava watches her, and a fresh, indignant pain rises up, cutting through her guilt, “So?”, she asks, her voice gaining an edge, “Did you really think I would cheat on you? And with Camila? Beatrice, she’s a sworn-in nun. My friend. Our friend. Did you really think so little of me? Of her? Of us?”

Beatrice flinches, finally looking away. She runs a hand over her face, the exhaustion seeming to seep from her bones, “I didn’t know what to think.”, she admits, her voice hollow, “I only knew you were pulling away, and she was the one you were running to. When your world is breaking, you don’t always think rationally. You just see the fracture and assume it will be the thing that splits everything apart.”


“Okay.”, Ava sighs, the fight draining out of her, leaving only a weary ache, “How can we fix this?”

The question is so simple and impossibly complex.

Beatrice is silent for a long moment, her gaze fixed on the blank television screen as if the answers might flicker to life there. When she finally speaks, her voice is low and raw.

“You can start by promising you will never again make me feel like a stranger in my own relationship.”, she says, the words carefully measured, “And about anything that involves us… You come to me first, not Camila, not anyone else.”

She turns to look at Ava, her eyes pleading and stern at once, “And I... I will work on seeing you first. Before I see the Halo. Before I see the mission.” She swallows hard, “But you have to understand, the two are intertwined for me. The Halo getting you killed is my greatest fear. Seeing the Divinium reactivate, seeing that energy return... it doesn’t just trigger my training, Ava. It triggers my terror. It makes me feel like I’m going to lose you all over again.”

It’s the most vulnerable admission she’s offered since this began.

Ava processes this. The proposal is a separate issue to be resolved in the future; this is more fundamental. It’s about the bedrock of their partnership.

“Okay.”, Ava says again, softer this time. She takes a tentative step forward, “Agreed.” She hesitates, then asks, her voice small, “Can we... can we just hug it out? Please?”

Beatrice looks at her for a long moment, then gives a slow nod, “Yes.”

Ava closes the distance between them, wrapping her arms around Beatrice’s waist and burying her face in the familiar curve of her neck. Beatrice’s arms come up around her, holding her tightly, one hand splayed across Ava’s back. They don’t speak. They don’t cry. They just stand there in the middle of their dark living room, holding onto each other as if it’s the only thing keeping them anchored. The chasm is still there, but in this silence, filled only with the sound of their shared breathing, it feels, for the first time, like it might not be impossible to cross.



At some point the tension in Ava’s shoulders finally begins to melt, replaced by the solid, steady reality of Beatrice holding her. It’s this return to safety that gives her the courage to speak of the latest discovery.



She pulls back slowly, just enough to look into Beatrice’s eyes. Her hands remain on Beatrice’s waist, anchoring herself.

“There’s something else.”, Ava says, her voice quiet but clear in the stillness, “From today. With Camila and Dora.”

Beatrice’s expression is open, listening. The defensiveness is gone, replaced by a weary, but genuine attentiveness.

“We went on a wraith call. A small one. That’s why we were in Ávila today, it was the closest town- Anyway, they were using the tech you helped build. It was… it was really cool…”, Ava says, a small, awed smile touching her lips before it fades, “But their scanners were slow. They were still calibrating, trying to pinpoint the thing.”

She takes a shaky breath, “And I… I just saw it, Bea. Clear as day. Like I used to. I didn’t even think. I just grabbed Dora’s blade and… finished it.”

Beatrice’s eyes widen slightly. The scientist in her immediately understands, “The Halo’s sight has returned.” 

It’s not a question.

Ava nods, “It’s back. And the scar changing on my back… I don’t know what it means.”

She watches Beatrice process this. She sees the flicker of fear, the instinctive urge to analyse and problem-solve. But then Beatrice’s gaze softens. She brings a hand up to cup Ava’s cheek, her thumb stroking her skin.

“Okay. We will figure it out.”, Beatrice says softly, the words a promise, “That’s what we face. Together.”

*






Ava drifts in the soft space between sleep and waking, cocooned in the warmth of their bed. The first sound that anchors her to the morning is the sharp, precise zip of Beatrice’s trousers. She blinks her eyes open.

The room is filled with the grey-pink light of dawn. Beatrice stands with her back to the bed, dressed in her tailored slacks but still in her bra, her shoulders tense as she rummages through the closet for an ironed blouse. 

“Bea.”, Ava says, her voice husky with sleep.

Beatrice starts, turning quickly, “Ava... I didn’t realise you were awake. Do you need something?”


“Come here for a second.”, Ava demands, sitting up and pushing the covers back.

A flicker of uncertainty crosses Beatrice’s face, but she complies, crossing the room to stand beside the bed. Ava takes her hand, the skin cool from the morning air. She brings it to her lips and presses a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles.


“When will you be home tonight?”, Ava asks, looking up at her.

“The usual time. Barring any-”

“Make it the usual time.”, Ava interrupts gently, but firmly, “No staying late at Arq-Tech. No extra hours in the lab tonight.”

For the past week, every evening has been dedicated to The Problem. They have spread ancient OCS texts and Jillian’s modern data streams across their living room floor, cross-referencing the Halo’s new biological patterns with every piece of lore they could find. Ava has told Beatrice about her attempts, night after night, to quiet her mind and will herself across the divide to Reya’s realm, a frustrating exercise that has yielded nothing but a dull headache and a growing sense of futility. It has been all-consuming, a shared obsession to fix what is broken.


But right now, looking at the tired determination in Beatrice’s eyes, Ava knows that some things need a different kind of mending.

“Let’s have a night off.”, Ava whispers, her thumb stroking the back of Beatrice’s hand, “Just us. No glowing rocks, no ancient texts. Let’s just be us. Please?”

Beatrice looks at their joined hands, then back at Ava’s face. The relentless focus in her eyes softens, replaced by a dawning understanding. She nods, a single, decisive dip of her chin, “Okay.”, she says, her voice soft, “Just us.”

She leans down and presses a kiss to Ava’s forehead. But as she does, Ava’s free hand snaps up, her fingers hooking under the strap of Beatrice’s bra.

She yanks.

It’s not a violent pull, but a firm, undeniable one. Beatrice stumbles forward with a small, surprised gasp, caught off-balance, her hands landing on the mattress on either side of Ava.

Before she can utter a word, Ava captures her mouth in a deep, searing kiss. It’s not just a kiss of reconciliation; it’s a claim. It’s a deliberate, passionate preview of the night to come. It’s Ava telling her without words that she doesn’t just want her home; she wants her present, body and soul, completely hers again.

When Ava finally pulls back, just an inch, they are both breathless. Ava’s eyes are dark and sparkling with intent.

“Just so we’re clear on the itinerary for tonight.”, Ava breathes, a slow, wicked smile spreading across her face.

Beatrice, still leaning over her, her cheeks flushed and lips parted, can only manage a stunned, breathless nod. The “Okay” she whispers this time is entirely different- a surrender, and a fervent agreement.

*

The aggressive chill of the Arq-Tech conference room is a contrast to the scorching July heat baking Madrid outside. Beatrice sits across the polished table from Jillian Salvius, but her focus is miles away, back in her apartment and the memory of the kiss she and her lover shared that morning.

“Beatrice?”

Jillian’s voice cuts through the reverie. Beatrice’s head snaps up.

“My apologies. You were saying?”

“I was asking, if you’d made any progress on identifying the catalyst for Ava’s transformation.”, Jillian says, her tone neutral, though her eyes are keenly observant, “The Divinium’s reaction is a direct pointer, but the source of the change within the Halo itself remains a mystery, no?”

Beatrice straightens her posture, forcing her mind back to the data, “We’re cross-referencing the new energy signature with every archive available. The Halo’s physical structure has changed, and its sight has returned. We’re treating it as a metamorphosis, not a simple reactivation. Not yet anyway, there’s a difference to her former powers.”

“Fascinating…”, Jillian murmurs, “And how is Ava handling this... metamorphosis?”

The question, simple and human, unravels Beatrice’s clinical focus. She sees it all at once: Ava’s fear, her secrecy, the raw need in her eyes this morning.

“She is finding her way.”, Beatrice says, her voice softening despite her best efforts, “We both are.”

Jillian gives a slow, knowing nod. She doesn’t press further. She simply observes the uncharacteristic softness in Beatrice’s eyes, the slight distraction in her demeanour, and understands that the most significant data point in this entire situation is not a energy signature, but the woman who carries it.

*

The final hour of Ava’s shift at the café drags. The espresso machine hisses, and the chatter of customers blends into a meaningless hum. A sudden, deep unease prickles at the base of her skull, a feeling of being subtly out of phase with the world around her. It's not fear, not yet. It’s a dissonant hum, a wrong note in the soundtrack of a normal day.

Instinctively, her hand goes up, pressing her palm flat between her shoulder blades, right over the spot beneath her shirt. For a split second, she feels it- a faint, almost subsonic thrum from the Halo, a vibration more felt than heard, like a plucked string muffled by layers of flesh and fabric. It lasts only a moment, then vanishes, leaving behind only the lingering sense of off-ness.

She shakes her head, brushing it off. 

Not tonight, she tells herself firmly. Nothing is ruining tonight.

The moment her shift ends, she’s out the door, the strange feeling buried under a wave of determined purpose. She makes a beeline for the Mercado de San Fernando, navigating the vibrant, noisy aisles with a focused energy. She selects potatoes, some onions, a clove of garlic, the ingredients familiar and comforting in her hands. She finds the salt cod, the cornerstone of the meal. As she waits at the fishmonger’s counter, that eerie sensation brushes against her again: the distinct, skin-crawling feeling of being watched. She spins around, her eyes scanning the bustling crowd. For a moment, she thinks she sees a figure standing unnaturally still amidst the flow of people, its gaze fixed on her. But then someone passes in front of her, and when she looks again, the spot is empty. She chalks it up to stress and paranoia, pushing the thought firmly from her mind.

She makes one last stop at a small Portuguese bakery she’d scouted, emerging with a box of perfect pasteis de nata and a bottle of rich Port wine.

Back in their apartment, the strange energy of the day is finally banished by the familiar rituals of home. She showers, washing away the sweat and the lingering unease, and ties her hair up. Then, she gets to work. The apartment fills with the comforting sizzle of onions softening in olive oil, the rhythmic scrape of her knife on the cutting board. She layers the salt cod with the potatoes and cream, the act of building the bacalhau com natas itself a kind of grounding meditation. She sets the table, placing the golden pasteis on a china plate and uncorking the Port to let it breathe.

Everything is ready. The apartment is warm, filled with the savoury scent of their dinner. The only thing missing is the sound of Beatrice’s key in the lock.


The key does turn in the lock just as Ava is placing the baking dish in the oven. The door opens and Beatrice steps inside, her work bag slung over one shoulder, her phone pressed to her ear.

“...understood, Camila. Send me the data you have collected and I’ll run a comparative algorithm tonight.”, Beatrice is saying, her voice all business, her brow furrowed in concentration. She hasn’t even registered the warm, spiced air of the apartment or the set table.

Ava doesn’t hesitate. She crosses the kitchen, coming up to the entryway. With a gentle, but firm motion, she plucks the phone right out of Beatrice’s hand.

Beatrice blinks, startled, finally looking at her.

“Hey, Cam.”, Ava says into the phone, her eyes locked on Beatrice’s, “She’s gonna have to call you back.”, she listens for a second, a slow, deliberate smile spreading across her face, “Yeah, I know it’s important. But right now, she has a date with her girlfriend.”

Without waiting for a reply, she ends the call and tosses the phone onto the dish on the vanity of their entryway.

The sudden silence takes them aback. Beatrice stands there, her hand still slightly raised where the phone was, her bag dangling from her shoulder. Her analytical expression melts away, replaced by a dazed, soft wonder as she finally takes in the set table, the scent of baking bacalhau, and the determined, loving look in Ava’s eyes.

“Welcome home.”, Ava says, her voice warm.

For a heartbeat, they just look at each other. Then, Beatrice moves. She lets her bag drop to the floor with a quiet, final thud. She closes the distance between them, her hands coming up to cradle Ava’s face. Her eyes are intense, and full of love and gratitude.

She doesn’t crash their lips together. She leans in, capturing Ava’s mouth in a kiss that is devastatingly slow and deep. It’s a reclamation and apology. Ava melts into it, her own hands coming to rest on Beatrice’s forearms, pulling her closer.

After a long, breathless moment, Beatrice breaks the kiss, her forehead resting against Ava’s, “Let me just go and freshen up.”, she murmurs, her voice barely above a whisper.

Ava’s hands slide to her waist, stopping her. “Okay.”, she whispers, her gaze sweeping over the crisp white blouse and tailored slacks with open appreciation, “But leave these on. They work for you very well.”

The words, simple and full of clear intent, make Beatrice’s breath catch. A slow, understanding smile touches her lips. The message is received.





Later, the dinner is a quiet, intimate affair. The bacalhau com natas is creamy and perfectly seasoned, the Port wine a rich, dark complement.

“This is incredible, Ava.”, Beatrice says, her voice soft with genuine admiration. She takes another bite, shaking her head slightly, “It’s remarkable. Two years ago, you could barely operate a toaster without supervision. And now you’re cooking distinguished Portuguese cuisine from scratch. I’m… I’m really proud of you.”

The words are warm and sincere, filling Ava with a deep, glowing satisfaction. It feels so good, so normal, that the response tumbles out of her before she can think.

“Well, you know…”, Ava says with a playful wink, “Anything to get a girl into bed.”

The moment the flippant line leaves her mouth, a cold jolt goes through her. She freezes, her fork halfway to her plate. It’s not something she would say. Not like that. The thought felt… foreign. A cheap, slick line that didn’t belong in this moment of genuine connection.

Beatrice, however, lets out a soft, genuine laugh, the sound like music in the warm room, “A tactic I can fully endorse.”, she teases back, her eyes sparkling.

Ava forces a laugh to match hers, the sound feeling brittle in her own ears. She picks up her glass of Port, taking a slow sip to cover her confusion. The warmth of the wine doesn’t reach the sudden chill inside her. The thought hadn’t felt like her own. It felt like an echo, a whisper from somewhere else, and the realisation is more unsettling than any glowing Divinium.

The forced laugh dies in Ava’s throat, but she quickly masks it with a wide smile, shoving the bizarre, intrusive thought deep down where it can’t spoil the night.

Just stress, she tells herself. Weird day.


“So…”, she says, leaning forward and steering the conversation back to safe, warm waters, “Tell me about the most boring part of your day. The part with the most spreadsheets.”

Beatrice’s eyes light up, and she launches into a surprisingly animated story about a logistical paradox in the Arq-Tech supply chain. Ava listens, truly listens, interjecting with questions and laughing at Beatrice’s dry, witty asides about corporate bureaucracy. The conversation flows effortlessly, a familiar, comforting river after two weeks of drought.

As they clear the plates, their hands brush, and it’s just a simple touch, not a flinch. As they stand side by side at the sink, Ava washing the fine china and Beatrice drying, their shoulders bump gently. 

It’s so easy. So perfectly, wonderfully easy.

Ava looks at Beatrice’s profile, illuminated by the soft kitchen light, a small smile playing on her lips as she meticulously dries a plate. A wave of such profound love and relief washes over Ava that it momentarily eclipses the earlier unease.

How did we ever fight? She wonders, the thought so clear and true it aches. How did we ever let this get so broken?

This -the shared meal, the quiet companionship, the effortless understanding- this is all that matters. This is the life she will fight to protect, no matter what. Whatever that strange thought was, it doesn’t belong here. She won’t let it.





They settle on the sofa with the plate of pasteis de nata and two small glasses of the remaining Port. The pastries are perfect, the flaky crust shattering at the slightest touch, the filling creamy.


The peace of the moment stretches, warm and syrupy as the custard in their pastries. Beatrice’s gaze is soft, her guard completely down here in their living room, with the taste of canela on her tongue and Ava’s beautiful smile aimed only at her.


Ava sees the absolute contentment on her face and feels her own heart swell. This is what it’s all about. This right here.



“What’s on your mind?”, Beatrice asks, noticing Ava’s intense gaze.

“Nothing.”, Ava responds, her smile softening. She reaches out, her fingers gently brushing a stray crumb from Beatrice’s lower lip, “Just… you. Here. With me.”

Beatrice captures her hand, pressing a soft kiss to her palm. The gesture is slow and deliberate,  “There’s nowhere else I’d rather be.”


She doesn’t mention energy signatures or data spikes. The Divinium can glow all it wants. For tonight, the only thing that matters is the woman in front of her.


“Dinner was lovely…”, Beatrice continues, her thumb stroking the back of Ava’s hand, “The entire evening… it was perfect, Ava. Thank you. I appreciate it. Really.”


Ava doesn’t respond, instead she leans forward, the movement languid and sure. The kiss begins softly, a gentle seal on the perfect evening. But it doesn’t stay that way for long.

It deepens, fuelled by two weeks of distance, of hurt. It’s a frantic reconciliation. It’s a conversation without words.

Beatrice’s hands come up to cradle Ava’s face, her touch hesitant at first, then growing more insistent as the kiss turns heated quick. Ava meets her with equal fervour, her fingers tangling in the crisp fabric of Beatrice’s still-buttoned blouse, pulling her closer until there’s no space left between them on the sofa.

Ava can taste the Port and cinnamon on Beatrice’s tongue, feel her shirt under her hands. The former Warrior Nun breaks the kiss, her breath coming in soft pants. Her eyes are dark with desire, but a playful smile plays on her lips.

“Come down here…”, she whispers.

She gently guides Beatrice, one hand on her shoulder, the other on her waist, coaxing her to shift from sitting beside her to lying on top of her. Beatrice goes willingly, bracing a hand on the sofa back as she moves, her body slotting against Ava’s in a familiar, perfect fit.

There’s a brief, clumsy moment as they adjust -a knee bumps the coffee table, making the empty Port glasses tremble- and a soft, simultaneous giggle escapes them both. It’s a perfect, human sound that shatters the last of the intense atmosphere, replacing it with something warm and joyful.


Beatrice looks down at her, her hair slightly mussed, her professional blouse now wonderfully rumpled, and her smile is brighter than Ava has seen in weeks.


“Hi.”, Beatrice whispers, her voice full of awe and affection.

“Hi yourself.”, Ava grins, her hands sliding up Beatrice’s back, pulling her down into another deep, searing kiss.

The world narrows to the softness of Beatrice’s lips, the scent of her lightly perfumed skin beneath the crisp cotton of her blouse. Ava’s hands slide from her back to her hips, her fingers finding the tucked-in hem of Beatrice’s blouse. She works the fabric free, sliding her hands beneath it to find the warm, smooth skin of Beatrice’s lower back, pulling her closer, deeper into the kiss.

Beatrice’s mouth moves to Ava’s jaw, then her throat, her kisses a trail of fire that makes Ava arch against her. For a perfect, suspended moment, there is no past, no future. There is only this, the heat, the trust, the overwhelming rightness of their bodies finding home in one another.

Then, it shatters.

A sharp, electric prick lances through the space between Ava’s shoulder blades. It’s not pain, not exactly. It’s a jolt of pure, foreign energy, a needle of ice driven directly into the core of the Halo.

Ava gasps, her body seizing up involuntarily. Her eyes, which had been closed in pleasure, fly open, staring unseeingly at the ceiling.

Beatrice feels the sudden tension, the way Ava’s body goes rigid beneath her. She pulls back immediately, her face flushed but her eyes now sharp with concern, “Ava? What is it?”

Ava can’t speak. She can still feel the echo of the sensation, a cold, vibrating hum where the Halo rests. She blinks, the cold echo of the sensation slowly fading, leaving behind a phantom chill deep in her bones. She forces her gaze to focus on Beatrice’s worried face. She can’t voice the terrifying truth- that it felt like a signal from another realm. That feels too big, too real. So she grasps for the simpler, more clinical explanation.

“I’m okay.”, she breathes, strained, her voice a little unsteady. She tries for a reassuring smile, but it doesn’t quite reach her eyes, “It’s… it’s nothing. Just the Halo. I think it… malfunctioned for a second. A weird surge. It’s gone now.”

Beatrice’s brow furrows. She doesn’t pull away into analysis, but her gaze deepens, searching Ava’s face. The memory of countless other nights, before the Halo going inert, surfaces with perfect clarity. The golden, pulsing light, the visible manifestation of Ava’s desire.


“Ava.”, Beatrice says, her voice low and incredibly gentle, “Was it… like before?”

It takes Ava a second, her mind still rattled by the cold, alien prick, to understand what Beatrice is asking. When she does, a faint, genuine smile touches her lips, “No.”, she says, her voice a little stronger, “No, it wasn’t like that.”

Beatrice looks at her, waiting, her thumb stroking Ava’s cheekbone.

“I know what that feels like.”, Ava continues, her gaze softening as she remembers, “That was me. My whole body, my feelings, the Halo was just amplifying it. This was different. It wasn’t coming from me. It was just the Halo itself. A sharp signal. It felt cold.”

The clarification changes everything. The worry in Beatrice’s eyes doesn’t vanish, but it transforms. The intimate spell may be broken, but it’s replaced by a different kind of connection- a shared, sobering understanding that the change within Ava is more complex and more active than they had realised. The Halo isn’t just passively evolving; it's communicating. And they have no idea what it was trying to say.

They lie like that for a while, Beatrice’s weight a comforting anchor as Ava’s heartbeat slowly returns to normal. The air is still thick with the ghost of their interrupted passion.

“Raincheck?”, Ava whispers, the word both a question and an apology.


Beatrice lets out a soft, understanding sigh. She nods, pressing a final, gentle kiss to Ava’s collarbone before she carefully untangles herself. She doesn’t go far, just sits up on the edge of the couch beside her, leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees and her head in her hands. The picture of frustrated concern.

Ava sits up too, pulling her knees to her chest. The confession she’d buried all day now feels too urgent to keep.

“Bea?”, she starts, her voice small, “Today… when I was at the market, I felt… watched. It was this creepy, skin-crawling feeling. I saw a figure, just standing there, but when I looked again, it was gone.” She wraps her arms tighter around her legs, “I thought I was just being paranoid. Stressed. But now… after that… what if it was real? What if there’s something out there? Lurking in the shadows, waiting.”

The words hang in the air, sucking the last vestiges of warmth from the room. The cozy apartment suddenly feels less like a sanctuary and more like a glass box, exposed. Beatrice lifts her head from her hands, her expression grim. The scientist and the warrior are fully present now, the lover forced to step aside once more. 

*

Ava sits among a handful of other students, her notebook open, as the instructor diagrams the causes of the Spanish Civil War on the whiteboard.

She’s connecting it to a module they did the prior week on global political polarisation, her pen flying as she jots down notes about the erosion of civil discourse, the weaponisation of media, the way societies can turn on themselves. It’s heavy stuff for a Tuesday night, but she’s engrossed. Her mind is making connections, analysing cause and effect in a way that feels… sharp. Logical.

A faint smile touches her lips. I’m starting to think like Beatrice.

The thought is fond, but it’s followed by a vague unease. The instructor is now talking about the current global landscape- the deepening cultural rifts, the shocking acts of violence that seem to dominate the news cycle. She’d always just accepted it as the ugly, inevitable side of a hyper-connected world.

But sitting here, the memory of the cold prick in her spine and the feeling of unseen eyes in the market wraps around the teacher’s words, casting them in a more sinister light. It doesn’t form a coherent theory, just a deep, instinctual dread that coils in her stomach. The world feels sick, and the strange energy clinging to her life feels like a symptom of the same, unnamed illness.

The bell rings, signalling the end of class. The other students pack up quickly, chatting about their plans. Ava closes her notebook slowly, the heavy feeling lingering. She doesn’t just want to go home. She needs to. She needs the grounding presence of Beatrice, the simple, solid reality of her, to quiet the disquieting hum of a world that feels like it’s tilting off its axis.

Ava packs her notebook into her backpack, the heavy feeling from class lingering like a fog. She steps out of the building into the warm night air, the city lights a blur against her preoccupied thoughts.

She’s only a block away when the sound erupts. A sharp, guttural scream of pure rage.

“¡Es mío! ¡Todo es mío! ¡Suéltalo!” It's mine! All mine! Let it go!

She spins around. A street vendor, a man she’s seen a dozen times calmly selling churros, is in a frantic, screaming tug-of-war with a tourist over a paper bag. His face is a contorted mask of fury, his eyes wide and unseeing. It’s more than anger; it’s a raw, explosive hysteria that seems to vibrate in the air around him.

Ava freezes, her blood running cold. The scene is a violent, real-life echo of her textbook.

And then she sees it.

Across the street, standing perfectly still in the deep shadow of a doorway, is the same humanoid figure from the market. It’s just a silhouette, but she feels its gaze, a palpable pressure fixed not on the chaotic scene, but directly on her.


This time, she doesn’t doubt her eyes.


“Hey!”, she shouts, her voice cutting through the vendor’s screams.

She doesn’t think. She just runs, dodging pedestrians, her backpack thumping against her shoulders. She doesn’t look at the struggling men, her focus locked on that doorway.

She reaches the other side of the street, her heart hammering against her ribs. She skids to a halt in front of the deep shadows.

There’s nothing there. Just an empty alcove and the faint smell of old stone.

The figure is gone. Vanished. Behind her, the vendor’s screams have subsided into confused, sobbing mutters.

Ava stands there, panting, the chilling certainty settling deep in her bones.

The Halo on her back pricking in the familiar way it has the past few days.

It wasn’t paranoia. 

Something is here. 

And it was watching her.

Chapter Text

Beatrice is in a meeting when her phone vibrates on the polished conference table. A single, discreet buzz. She ignores it, her focus on the quarterly logistics report she’s presenting.

It buzzes again. And again. A rapid, frantic staccato against the wood.

A cold feeling, entirely separate from the air-conditioned room, prickles at the back of her neck. 

Only one person texts her like that.

“Please excuse me.”, she says, her voice steady even as her heart rate kicks up. She picks up the phone.

Ava: I’m at Arq-Tech.


Ava: Your office.


Ava: Now. Please.

Ava never comes here. Never. Beatrice is already standing, gathering her tablet, “A family emergency. My apologies, you’ll have to continue without me.”

One of the junior executives begins to protest, but a look from Jillian Salvius, seated at the head of the table, silences him. Jillian’s gaze is sharp, questioning. Beatrice gives a minute shake of her head. I don’t know.

“Jillian.”, Beatrice says, the name a quiet request. Wordlessly, Jillian stands and follows her out.

They find Ava in Beatrice’s small, sterile office.

She isn’t sitting. She’s pacing, her arms wrapped tightly around herself, her backpack slung haphazardly over one shoulder. She looks up as they enter, her face pale, her eyes wide with a fear that isn't panic, but a deep, chilling certainty.

“Ava?”, Beatrice is across the room instantly, her hands coming up to frame her lover’s face, “What happened? Are you hurt?”

Ava shakes her head, her gaze darting from Beatrice to Jillian and back, “No. I’m not hurt.” She takes a shaky breath, “But it’s not paranoia. It’s real.”

“Slow down.”, Beatrice says, her voice low and calm, the tone she uses in a crisis, “What’s real?”

“The figure. The one I thought I saw before. What I told you about...”, Ava’s words come out in a rushed, desperate stream, “It was outside my class tonight. It was just standing there, in a doorway, watching a man have a complete mental breakdown. And then it was just... watching me. I ran towards it, and it vanished.”

She looks directly at Beatrice, her eyes pleading for belief, “It’s not a ghost, Bea. It’s solid. It’s intelligent. It’s stalking me. Or... or us. I think something is here. And I think it’s just getting started.”

Ava gestures vaguely toward her own back, “This is not a coincidence… The Halo starts changing, the Divinium glows around me again, and now this thing appears, twisting people’s minds. It has to be connected. The energy... it has to all be linked somehow.”

Beatrice’s mind is already shifting, the logistics report evaporating, replaced by threat assessments and tactical protocols. She looks from Ava’s terrified face to Jillian’s grave one.

“Okay.”, Beatrice says, her voice low and steady, a command in the single word. She pulls out her phone, her thumb already finding the contact, “We’re not waiting for it to make the next move. We need to be prepared.”

She puts the phone to her ear, her eyes locked on Ava. It rings once before it’s picked up.

“Camila.”, Beatrice says, her voice crisp and clear, “We have a confirmed, hostile entity in Madrid. We think it’s targeting Ava. I need you and Yasmine to look into our bestiaries, get Father Vincent in on the quest. I’m passing the phone to Ava, she will describe it to you.”

Ava takes the phone, her hand slightly trembling. She closes her eyes for a second, forcing herself to picture it clearly, to be the Warrior Nun she once was, not the terrified student.

“It’s humanoid.”, she begins, her voice gaining a measure of steadiness, “Tall. But it’s... wrong. It doesn’t move abruptly. It just stands perfectly still in the shadows, like it’s part of them, and then it can vanish- just like that. And its eyes…”, She shudders, “It doesn’t have any. It’s just... dark. But you can feel it looking at you.”

While she speaks, Jillian is already seated at Beatrice’s computer, her fingers flying across the keyboard. She pulls up the secured OCS archival database, her expression focused. She types in a simple, initial query based on Ava’s first words: [HUMANOID SHADOW ENTITY OBSERVER]

Beatrice, meanwhile, is not listening to the description. Her focus is entirely on Ava. She moves to her side, placing a firm, grounding hand on the small of her back.

Ava leans into the touch almost imperceptibly, a silent acknowledgment, as she continues describing the nightmare to Camila. 

The hunt has officially begun.

*

The drive home is silent, the hum of the car engine a poor substitute for words. The moment their apartment door clicks shut, sealing them off from the city, Beatrice turns and pulls Ava into a crushing embrace. It’s not soft or tentative; it’s a fierce, almost desperate hold, as if she can physically shield Ava from the thing that hunts her.

“I’ve got you.”, Beatrice whispers into her hair, “I’m not letting go.”

Ava melts into the embrace, her own arms wrapping tightly around Beatrice’s waist, burying her face in the familiar scent. For a long moment, they just stand there in the entryway, anchored only to each other.

When Beatrice finally pulls back, her hands come up to cradle Ava’s face, “Let me draw you a bath.”, she says softly, “I think that will do you some good.”

Ava just nods, the adrenaline crash leaving her cold to the marrow.

Soon, the bathroom is filled with steam and the gentle scent of lavender. Ava sinks into the scalding water with a shuddering sigh, willing the heat to seep into her bones and burn away the lingering chill of the entity’s gaze. She closes her eyes, trying to focus on the sound of Beatrice moving quietly in the bedroom.

But the peace doesn’t come. Instead, a strange, corrosive thought slithers into her mind, fully formed and venomous.

She doesn’t really want you.

She proved it. She couldn’t even say yes.

All she saw was a problem. You’re just a mission to her. You always have been.

Ava’s eyes snap open. The thought feels alien, slick and ugly. She knows it’s not true. She knows. Beatrice’s explanation about rejecting the proposal in their room at the Cradle had been painful, but it was rooted in love and trauma, not rejection. Yet, the invasive thought clings, whispering that Beatrice’s careful, honourable hesitation was a personal slight.

She thinks she’s better than you. More disciplined.

She’s probably relieved she didn’t have to tie herself to someone like you.

“No.”, Ava whispers to the steamy air, shaking her head. But the thought persists, twisting her insides.

Another one follows, sharper, more specific. A memory of Beatrice’s face in the restaurant, pale with shock. 

She was disgusted by the ring. By you.

The thought is so jarringly wrong, so antithetical to everything she knows about Beatrice, that it finally breaks through her confusion. This isn’t her fear. This is… an intrusion.

A spike of real, sharp terror lances through her. It’s not just watching anymore. It’s here. Inside her head.


“Beatrice?”, Ava calls out, her voice shaky and too loud in the tiled room.

The door opens immediately. Beatrice appears, her face etched with concern, “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

Ava looks at her, at the genuine worry in her eyes, and the ugly whispers in her mind momentarily recede, shamed by the tangible reality of her presence. She can’t voice the thoughts. Saying them aloud would give them a power, a reality, she can’t bear. It would force Beatrice to confront a grotesque parody of her own feelings.

So she doesn’t. She just shakes her head, a desperate, pleading look in her eyes.

“Just... Can you come in?”, she whispers, the request encompassing so much more than company.

Beatrice’s gaze softens. She doesn’t press. She simply nods, “Of course.”

She undresses with a quiet, efficient grace and steps into the bath, the water sloshing as she settles behind Ava, drawing her back against her chest. She wraps her arms around Ava, holding her firmly, her chin resting on her lover’s wet shoulder.

Ava lets her head fall back, closing her eyes. The ugly whisper about pity tries to slither back in. She grits her teeth, concentrating with every fibre of her being. 

No. This is Beatrice. My Beatrice. She loves me.

She focuses on the physical sensations, using them as a shield. The solid warmth of Beatrice’s body against her back. The steady, reassuring thump of her heartbeat. The slick, wet slide of skin against skin.

And slowly, the whisper recedes, fading like a bad signal. The silence in her own mind is a profound relief.

In that quiet, other thoughts, her own thoughts, begin to surface. She becomes acutely aware of the nakedness, the intimacy of their position. The smooth plane of Beatrice’s stomach against the small of her back. The firm pressure of her thighs.

It’s been over three weeks since they were last together like this, the stress and the distance leaving no time for romance. A different kind of heat begins to bloom low in her belly, this one familiar and entirely her own- a deep, longing ache for the woman holding her.

She doesn’t turn. She doesn’t say a word. She just sinks deeper into the embrace, letting the pure, grounding truth of their connection be the only thing that fills the silence.

Slowly, deliberately, she reaches for one of Beatrice’s hands, where it rests against her stomach. She laces their fingers together, then brings her lover’s palm to her lips, pressing a soft, lingering kiss against the damp skin. It’s a thank you.

Then, she turns her head, looking back over her shoulder. Her eyes meet Beatrice’s, and Ava offers a small, soft smile that doesn’t quite reach the shadow of fear in her gaze, but is full of a different, potent emotion. Her eyes drift down, just for a moment, to the older woman’s lips, before returning to her eyes.

Beatrice catches the look. She sees the longing layered over the fear, the need for a connection that is more than just comfort. The air in the steam-filled room shifts, charged with a quiet, mutual understanding. They hold each other’s gaze for a long, silent moment, the only sound the gentle lapping of the water. Then, slowly, giving Ava every chance to pull away, Beatrice leans in.

Ava meets her halfway, turning her body in the tight confines of the tub until she’s half-facing Beatrice, water sloshing gently over the rim. The kiss isn’t desperate or frantic. It’s a slow, languid reclamation. A homecoming.

Their lips move together in a deep, familiar rhythm. When Beatrice's tongue seeks entrance, Ava opens her mouth for her without hesitation, a soft sigh escaping her. The taste is of lavender and them, a combination that finally, truly, begins to quiet the last echoes of fear in Ava’s mind.

Beatrice’s hands slide from her back, one tangling in the wet hair at the nape of Ava’s neck, the other splaying possessively on her hip beneath the water. The kiss deepens, becoming less about comfort and more about rediscovery. It’s a silent conversation of everything they've missed, every touch withheld during the weeks of tension.

Ava’s own hands are not idle. They map the familiar territory of Beatrice’s shoulders, her collarbones, her back, relearning the feel of her, committing the solid reality of her to memory as a final, defiant barrier against the dark. The water grows cool around them, but the heat between them is a rising, steady flame, burning away the chill that had taken root in both their souls.

“Bea…”, Ava whispers, to not break the spell, “Can we… take this to bed?”

A sharp, wanting breath hitches in Beatrice’s throat. Her eyes, dark with desire, search Ava’s face, she can’t just give in, out of respect for the person who is asking, “Ava… are you sure? After what happened tonight-”

“It has nothing to do with that.”, Ava interrupts, her voice soft but firm. She brings a hand up to cup Beatrice’s cheek, “It’s about the two weeks we spent fighting. The two weeks we spent researching instead of touching. I just want to be with you, to feel you.”

That truth, simple and direct, shatters the last of Beatrice’s hesitation. The love in her eyes eclipses the concern.

“Okay.”, Beatrice breathes.

In one fluid motion, she stands, water streaming from her body, and offers a hand to Ava. They leave a trail of wet footprints on the floor, a path from the haunted chill of the evening straight into the warmth of their sanctuary.

They move from the bathroom into the dim bedroom, a silent, purposeful procession, water still glistening on their skin. The moment they cross the threshold, their roles align with an unspoken understanding.

Beatrice’s movements become swift and efficient. She detours to the window, drawing the heavy curtains shut against the watching night, sealing them in their own private world.

A soft smile touches Ava’s lips at the characteristically protective gesture.

While Beatrice secures their perimeter, Ava moves to the small vanity opposite the bed, striking a match. The sharp scent of sulphur blooms and fades as she lights two vanilla scented candles, their flames casting the room in a warm, dancing glow.

She is just straightening up when she feels Beatrice behind her. Not a sound, just a shift in the air, a warmth at her back. Soft lips press against the sensitive skin of her neck, then her shoulder, trailing down the line of her spine. Ava’s breath catches, her eyes fluttering closed.

Then Beatrice is kneeling. Her hands are firm on Ava’s hips, gently turning her around. In the flickering candlelight, Beatrice’s gaze is dark, intense, and full of unwavering devotion as she looks up at her. Holding that searing eye contact, she leans in and presses a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the inside of Ava’s left thigh.

Ava’s hand comes down, her fingers gently pinching Beatrice’s chin, guiding her upwards. Beatrice follows the unspoken command, rising to her feet until they are eye to eye. Ava’s gaze is full of a desperate need. She doesn’t wait, capturing Beatrice’s mouth with her own, her tongue sliding inside, in a deep, claiming kiss.

It’s all the answer Beatrice needs. Her arms wrap around Ava, pulling her flush against her as she walks them backward toward the bed. As they tumble onto the soft duvet, Beatrice breaks the kiss for a gasping breath, a practical observation escaping her, “We’re making a mess. We’re still all wet.”

Ava looks down at her, a sly smile spreading across her face. Her voice is a low, deadpan murmur, “Well, I hope you’re wet.”

Beatrice’s eyes widen, a blush heating her cheeks, even as a thrill runs through her. Before she can form a coherent response, Ava leans in, her lips brushing Beatrice’s ear as she adds, “It doesn’t matter. We’ll clean it up later.”

Any further protest is lost as Ava’s mouth finds hers again, sinking into the mattress together.

*

Ava wakes slowly, warmth and a deep sense of peace coaxing her from sleep. She’s curled on her side, her cheek resting against Beatrice’s hip. The scent of her skin and clean cotton is the first thing she registers. The second is the faint, familiar click of keys.

She blinks her eyes open. Beatrice is propped against the headboard, her laptop balanced on her thighs. She’s wearing soft sleep shorts and an old t-shirt, her hair slightly mussed. Ava, in contrast, is still gloriously, completely naked under the duvet.

A lazy, fond smile touches Ava’s lips. She nuzzles against Beatrice’s hip, her voice still rough with sleep, “Oh, so now it’s back to business, huh?”

The typing stops instantly. Beatrice looks down, a startled, almost guilty expression softening into affection, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.” She closes the laptop and sets it aside on the nightstand, before sliding down to lie facing Ava, their heads sharing the pillow.

“You didn’t.”, Ava murmurs, shifting to tuck herself against Beatrice’s side, “What’s so important?”

“I asked Jillian for a home office day.”, Beatrice explains, her hand coming up to gently stroke Ava’s hair, “So I could stay home with you today.”

Ava tilts her head back to look at her. “And how much of this ‘home office day’ do you actually have to work?”

A small, triumphant smile plays on Beatrice’s lips, “I woke up very early. It’s mostly done. I was just tying up loose ends. The rest of the day is… flexible.”

“Yes!”, Ava says, her face lighting up, “Okay, I’m skipping my meeting today. We can-”

“You don’t need to skip anything.”, Beatrice interrupts gently, her tone firm but loving, “Your education is important.”

“It’s just a group project wrap-up session… Before the break. We need to hand in our paper.”, Ava counters, a plan clearly forming in her mind. Her eyes sparkle with mischief, “You could come with me. Wait for me. And after I’m done, we could get dinner somewhere close by. Outside. Like… a real date.”

Beatrice’s smile widens, a real, unreserved one that reaches her eyes. She leans in and presses a soft kiss to Ava’s forehead, “Alright. It’s a date.”

Emboldened by the warmth and the quiet intimacy, Ava’s hand, which was resting on Beatrice’s stomach, begins to wander. Her fingers sneak under the hem of Beatrice’s t-shirt, seeking skin, but their sideways position makes it an awkward angle.

With a quiet, determined hum, Ava changes tactics. Her hand slides down, slipping effortlessly beneath the elastic waistband of Beatrice’s sleep shorts. Her fingertips find the warm, soft skin of her lower belly, slowly trekking down.

Beatrice startles at the sudden, intimate contact, a sharp inhale catching in her throat. Her eyes, which had been full of soft affection, now flutter closed as Ava’s touch grows more intentional, her fingers dipping lower, until they meet what they were seeking. Beatrice draws her bottom lip between her teeth, her brow furrowing in deep concentration, a silent battle against the pleasure already coiling tight within her.

A soft, helpless moan escapes her, and her eyes snap open.

She lets out a breathless, quiet laugh, shaking her head in wonder, “You just woke up.”, she breathes, amazed by her lover’s eagerness.

Ava grins, her own eyes dark with morning desire and a hint of triumph, “I know.”, she murmurs, her fingers never stilling, “I almost never get to do this. You’re usually already gone, dressed and solving the world’s problems by this time. I’m going to have to make up for all the lost morning sex to your work.”

True to her word, Ava dedicates the morning to making up for lost time. They lose hours to each other, the world outside the drawn curtains ceasing to exist.

Sometime around one, Beatrice orders delivery- something simple and nourishing that they eat cross-legged on the bed, laughing over shared containers. It’s only in the late afternoon, with the light turning golden, that Beatrice finally reopens her laptop with a sigh of finality, “Just this last thing.”, she promises, and Ava, feeling sated and lazy, just kisses her shoulder and lets her work.

By the time Beatrice closes her laptop for good, Ava is already moving. She pulls on a pair of soft jeans and a t-shirt, then gathers her books and notes from her backpack, spreading them out on the dining table.

Beatrice pads over, leaning against the doorframe with a fresh cup of tea, content just to watch her.

“It’s for my group project.”, Ava explains, not looking up as she organises her papers, “On the Spanish Civil War.” She taps a specific page, “It’s insane, the level of foreign involvement. The Nazis testing their new air force on Guernica, the Soviets with their political advisors... it was like a proxy war before the concept even existed.”

Beatrice listens, genuinely engrossed. She knows the broad strokes of history, but hearing the passion in Ava’s voice as she connects the dots is a different experience entirely.

“And you know what’s scary?”, Ava continues, her brow furrowing as she looks up, finally meeting Beatrice’s gaze, “Reading about the political polarisation back then, the propaganda, the way democracies just stood by... it doesn’t feel that far off from some of the stuff happening now. The geopolitical situation feels like it’s getting worse, you know? More fractured.”

She says it with the earnest gravity of someone who has just truly seen a pattern for the first time, her mind making connections between her studies and the world she lives in.

There’s a beat of silence. Ava realises Beatrice hasn’t responded. She’s just staring at her, a soft captivated look on her face, her tea forgotten.

“What?”, Ava asks, a little self-consciously.

Beatrice’s smile is slow and deep, her eyes shining, “It is infinitely compelling to listen to you articulate a complex historical parallel with such clarity.”

Ava blinks, then a slow, wicked grin spreads across her face. She leans her hips back against the table, tilting her head, “Oh yeah? Is that your big way of saying it’s hot when I talk about geopolitics?”

“Perhaps.”, Beatrice admits, her cheeks tinging with pink even as she holds Ava’s gaze.

Ava’s grin widens, “Should I undress again?”

Beatrice lets out a burst of laughter, shaking her head. She grabs a small pillow from the nearby armchair and lobs it gently at her. 

“Get your books, Casanova.”

*

The group meets at a small café with tables spilling onto the pavement, bathed in the long, lingering gold of a July evening. The air is still warm, and the world feels soft-edged in the hazy light. As they approach the table where two of her classmates are already waiting, Ava’s grip on Beatrice’s hand tightens slightly.

“Hey guys.”, Ava says, squinting a little in the low sun, “This is my girlfriend, Beatrice. Beatrice, this is Leo and Anita.”, she gestures to both of them.

The guy named Leo, who always seemed to have an opinion about everything, lets out a low, appreciative sound, “Wow, okay. So she didn’t make you up.” He grins, looking between them, “Mucho gusto, Beatrice.”

Beatrice offers a polite, closed-lipped smile, the golden light catching the sharp line of her cheekbone, “Igualmente… It’s a pleasure to meet you both.”

They exchange a few more moments of stilted pleasantries about the coursework before Beatrice smoothly extracts herself, “Please, don’t let me interrupt. I’ll be just over there.”

She finds a small, shadowed table in the corner, her back to the wall with a clear view of Ava and the entrance. She pulls out her tablet, the screen illuminating her face in the gloom. But she doesn’t open any Arq-Tech files. Instead, she navigates to a heavily encrypted document titled ‘INTRUDER – PROFILE & THEORIES’.

*

The project meeting finally breaks up. As they step away from the cafe’s warm glow and into the deep blue of the summer night, Beatrice instinctively slings an arm around Ava’s shoulders, pulling her small frame tightly against her side. Ava melts into the embrace, turning her face into Beatrice’s neck for a moment, breathing in her scent, getting lost in the simple, profound safety of it.

It’s in that moment of perfect peace that the Halo pricks.

It’s not the cold, alien signal from before. This is sharper. A needle of pure, urgent alarm jabbing between her shoulder blades.

Ava flinches, her head snapping up, “Bea.”, she says, her voice tight with immediate dread. “Something’s wrong. Right now.”

Beatrice is already in motion, her body tensing, her head on a swivel. Her eyes scan the shadowed street, the closed shopfronts, the few distant pedestrians, “Where? What do you feel?”

“I don’t know, it’s just- the Halo, it’s screaming…”, Ava’s words are cut short.

From a block away, down a narrow side alley, a terrified cry for help slices through the night, followed by the sound of shattering glass.

Their eyes meet. And they run towards the source of the sound.

They don’t speak. They don’t need to. Years of training and shared battles snap back into place as if they’d never left. Beatrice leads, her posture low and purposeful, her senses hyper-alert. Ava is a half-step behind, the phantom pain in her back a compass needle pointing straight toward the chaos.

The alley is a canyon of shadows between two tall buildings, smelling of rotting garbage and stale urine.

The source of the sound is immediately clear: a young woman is backed against a wall, her hands raised defensively, while a man swings a broken bottle wildly in the air. His movements are jerky, unnatural, and a low, guttural growl rumbles from his chest. His eyes are wide, pupils dilated into black pools, fixed on the woman with a hatred that seems to suck the very light from the air.

But Beatrice’s gaze, and then Ava’s, slides past him.

At the far end of the alley, standing perfectly still in the deepest patch of darkness, is the figure. It is a silhouette of absolute void, a human-shaped cutout of nothingness. And it is watching the scene of terror it has orchestrated, drinking it in.

It turns its head. The featureless dark, where its face should be, fixes directly on Ava.

The Halo in her back ignites with a searing, cold fire. This time, it isn’t a signal. It’s a warning siren.

Beatrice doesn’t hesitate. She moves past the fear, her focus absolute. She closes the distance swiftly. As the man lunges, she uses his momentum against him, a fluid Aikido throw that sends him crashing into a stack of cardboard boxes. His head snaps back against the stone wall with a dull thud, and he slumps, unconscious.


The woman doesn’t wait to be saved. With a terrified shriek, she scrambles past them and flees the alley, leaving them alone with the unconscious man and the true enemy.

Beatrice turns, her body coiled, ready to face the figure at the end of the alley. But it hasn’t moved. It simply stands there, a void in the shape of a man.

And then, Beatrice freezes. Her brow furrows in profound confusion, her head tilting, as if listening to a distant sound.

Her guard drops for a fraction of a second, she turns halfway to face Ava.


“Bea, don’t turn your back on it!”, Ava shouts, her voice sharp with panic, “You taught me that!”

Beatrice snaps her gaze back to the figure, but it’s too late. In that brief moment of hesitation, the shadows where it stood are just... empty. It has vanished.


Ava rushes to her side, “What happened? What made you hesitate?”

Beatrice looks at her, her face pale, her eyes wide with a horror that has nothing to do with the vanished entity, “I… I had a thought…”, she whispers, “A horrible, clear thought. That you were going to betray me. That this was all a trap you’d set. I knew of course, that it wasn’t true, but it was there.”

Ava’s breath catches. She reaches out, grabbing Beatrice’s arm, “It’s what it does.”, she says, her voice trembling with a terrifying certainty, “I’ve had them too. Awful thoughts about you. I wasn’t sure... but now I am. It’s him… He gets in your head.”

The truth of it crashes over them. The enemy isn’t just a physical threat; it’s a psychological poison, weaponising their deepest fears and insecurities against them.

Beatrice blinks, the last of her professional composure shattering. Without another word, she pulls Ava into a crushing hug, holding her as if the entity might try to tear her from her arms through thought alone. They stand in the foul-smelling alley, clinging to each other, the battlefield now terrifyingly clear: it was in their minds, and they had just given it a direct line in.

*

The laptop screen glows in their dark living room, splitting into four familiar frames: Mother Superion, Camila, Yasmine, and Father Vincent.

“It’s non-corporeal.”, Beatrice states, her voice clipped, “It manipulates human hosts, inciting violent emotional extremes. But its primary weapon is psychological. It implants intrusive thoughts. It weaponises our fears.”


A heavy silence hangs on the line.

“It wanted to make me believe that Ava was betraying me.”, Beatrice adds, the confession stark, “It caused a critical hesitation in the field.”

Camila’s eyes widen, “The incidents… it’s not just causing chaos. It’s feeding on it.”

“That’s what I think too.”, Ava agrees, leaning into the frame, “This thing… it doesn’t feel like a random monster. It feels like a farmer.”

Yasmine leans closer as well, “A farmer?”

“Yeah...”, Ava continues, her gaze intense, “It doesn’t just want to break things. It’s cultivating the chaos. It’s tilling the soil. And if it’s here, now, with the world feeling more fractured than ever… what if we’re not just its next meal? What if we’re its grand prize?”

She looks from the screen to Beatrice beside her, her expression turning inward and uneasy, “And think about it… you and I have been… off. For weeks. Fighting on a level we never did before. I said things…”, she trails off, the memory of her cruel words in the Cradle bedroom replaying in her mind, “What if that wasn’t entirely us?”

The question lands in the room with the weight of a stone.

Beatrice goes perfectly still. Her mind, always a whirlwind of analysis, suddenly grinds to a halt, then reboots with terrifying clarity. She replays the last few weeks. The speed with which she’d assumed the worst of Ava and Camila. The depth of her own jealousy, so unlike her. The ferocity of their arguments, the nuclear options they’d both reached for so quickly.

It had felt so real. So justified. But now, viewed through this new lens, every sharp word, every moment of cold distance, feels… tainted. Manipulated.

She looks at Ava, her eyes wide with a horrifying, dawning understanding, “The seeds were already there.”, Beatrice whispers, the words tasting like poison, ”Our fears, our insecurities… it didn’t create them. It just… watered them.”

“We need a name. A history. Something to fight.”, Beatrice says, her voice regaining its steel as she turns back to the screen, “Can you scour the archives again? Change the search. Anything that matches this profile- a psychological predator, a cultivator of discord.”

“On it.”, Camila says immediately, already making a note, “We’ll go through every bestiary, every recorded testimony.”

“There’s another angle.”, Ava adds, leaning forward, “Bea and I… we’ve both been trying to reach Reya. Meditating, going inward, trying to open that channel again.”

Beatrice nods in confirmation, her expression grim.

A thoughtful silence falls, broken by Yasmine. She leans closer to her camera, her historian’s mind visibly connecting dots, “This feels like four years ago all over again.”

When blank looks meet hers, she clarifies, her voice gaining certainty, “Ava, you’ve consulted Reya through a different medium before, remember? The Crown of Thorns.”

The name hangs in the air, a relic from their most desperate hour. The Crown they wanted to use, to diminish Adriel’s power, ultimately Ava had put it on herself to gain clarity of her path to come. 

It’s where Reya told her what she had to do. That Michael’s way was the only way.


Ava’s eyes widen as the memory slams into her, “The Crown… Where is it?”


“It’s here.”, Father Vincent says, his voice quiet but clear from his corner of the screen, “Secured in a hidden compartment in the archives. We preserved it after... after everything.”

Ava and Beatrice lock eyes. A silent, entire conversation passes between them in a single glance. 

The decision is made.

“Well…”, Ava says, turning back to the screen with a resolute look, “Then I guess we’re coming to visit you again. My classes are done. I’m on summer break.”, Ava adds.

“And I can bridge the time with remote work.”, Beatrice states, her tone already shifting into planning mode, “We’ll arrange it.”

The call ends not with a feeling of despair, but with a clear, tangible objective. 



The hunt for answers now had a destination: Cat’s Cradle, and the cold, forgotten weight of the Crown of Thorns.

*

The hotel is an oasis of quiet luxury nestled in the Spanish countryside, not at all the ancient stone of the nearby Cat’s Cradle. The air smells of lemongrass and clean linen. Their room is all soft lighting, a vast bed, and a balcony overlooking a serene garden.

Ava drops her backpack onto the plush rug and spins around, taking it all in. She watches as Beatrice, still in her travel-day slacks and blouse, methodically places her laptop bag on the sleek wooden desk.

A slow, appreciative grin spreads across Ava’s face. She saunters over, on tiptoes, wrapping her arms around Beatrice’s waist from behind, and resting her chin on her shoulder.

“You know…”, Ava’s voice a low, playful rumble against Beatrice’s ear, “I know we’re here on super serious, world-saving business.” She presses a soft kiss just below Beatrice’s jaw, “But damn, Bea. This is a serious splurge. Who knew my girlfriend was such a high-powered breadwinner?”


She feels Beatrice’s quiet laugh vibrate through her chest.

“It’s a tax-deductible business expense.”, Beatrice deadpans, but she leans back into the embrace, covering Ava’s hands with her own, “And you deserve a comfortable base.”

Ava turns her in the circle of her arms, her grin turning wicked, “Oh, I’m not complaining. It’s incredibly hot.” She lets her gaze sweep over Beatrice’s professional attire with deliberate appreciation, “Now, how about we christen this five-star bed before we go face the Holy War, part two?”

Beatrice laughs, a soft, genuine sound, but gently extricates herself, “Tempting. But I need to finish the work I couldn’t do while driving. Jillian expects that report by morning.”

Ava lets out an exaggerated sigh, flopping backward onto the luxurious bedding, “Ugh. That’s it. This is the final sign. I’m learning to drive. You can’t be the only one with useful life skills.”

“I think that’s an excellent idea.”, Beatrice says, already unpacking her toiletries. She doesn’t look up, but a small smile plays on her lips.

After a moment, Ava props herself up on her elbows, “Hey, what do you think the others are saying? About us not staying at the Cradle?”

Beatrice doesn’t pause her task, “I think they will understand that I do not wish to share a room with my girlfriend in a consecrated convent for what could be several days.”, she places a bottle of shampoo neatly on the bathroom counter, “And that such an arrangement would critically minimise our alone time.”

Ava’s eyes sparkle, “And by alone time you mean…?”

Beatrice finally stops, turning to look at Ava with a fond, long-suffering expression through the threshold of the bathroom doorway. She doesn’t dignify the question with a verbal answer, simply rolling her eyes before turning back to her unpacking, the ghost of a smile still on her face.

*

They stare at it.


Father Vincent had led them to a secondary, windowless chamber deep within the Cradle’s archives. Inside a reinforced chest it was resting on a bed of faded velvet, the Crown of Thorns is in its dormant state: a plain, unadorned circlet of dark, aged wood.

Ava’s breath catches. She remembers the unassuming simplicity of it, the deceptive calm before the storm of revelation.

All eyes in the small, quiet room turn to her. The air is thick with anticipation. They all remember the same thing: the Crown only reveals its true, terrifying form -the thorns- when touched by the halo bearer.

Beatrice’s gaze is a silent, steady pressure on the side of Ava’s face. Camila holds her breath. Mother Superion watches, her expression unreadable.

Ava takes a slow, steadying breath. She reaches out, her fingers hovering just above the dark, silent wood.

“Here goes nothing.”

And she is right.

The thorns don’t show themselves. 

“It’s not working.”, Ava says, her voice flat with frustration. She pulls her hand back, staring at the inert wood.

“Perhaps it requires more than a touch?”, Mother Superion suggests, her tone neutral.

Ava’s jaw tightens. With a grimace of determination, she reaches into the chest again, this time lifting the plain wooden circlet. She places it gingerly on her head.


They all watch, the silence stretching.

Nothing happens.

The Crown sits there, as dormant and unresponsive as a piece of firewood. There is no surge of power, no vision, no transformation into a Crown of Thorns. No whispered voice from another realm.

It’s just a dead thing on her head.

Ava rips it off, her movements sharp with anger and disappointment, “It couldn’t just be easy? Reya couldn’t just pick up the damn phone?”

The silence that follows is heavy with disappointment.

Beatrice steps forward. She doesn’t offer analysis or empty reassurance. Instead, she simply pulls Ava into her side, a firm, grounding arm around her shoulders, “We tried.”, she says, her voice low and steady, cutting through Ava’s frustration, “That’s what matters. Now we know. We focus on what’s in front of us. We will focus on learning more about the entity we saw in the shadows.”

“We need a name for that… thing.”, Camila says, her brows furrowed.

They are silent for a moment, considering.

“It’s not really a ‘thing’ at all, is it?”, Ava says quietly, her gaze distant as she recalls the alley. “It’s... an absence. A hole. When I looked at it, I didn’t see a monster. I felt... nothing. A void.”

The word lands with profound and chilling weight.

Beatrice nods slowly, her arm tightening around Ava, “That’s it. It doesn’t just bring chaos. It is an emptiness that consumes. It hollows people out and fills them with its own nothingness. We call it The Void.”

*

The hotel room is quiet, save for the low murmur of Beatrice’s voice as she discusses a logistical problem with Jillian on a video call. Ava is curled on the bed, idly scrolling on her phone, a picture of casualness.

Then, a voice, cold and clear as her own, slices through her mind: 


You're an interruption.

See? Her work will always come first. 

She didn't want you before, she doesn't want you now. 


The words are a direct, venomous echo of Beatrice’s polite decline from earlier, twisted into a weapon. Ava’s head snaps up.

“-so if we reroute the supply chain through Barcelona-”, Beatrice is saying.

“Stop.”, Ava interrupts, her voice sharp, talking directly to the voice in her mind.

Beatrice and Jillian both fall silent, her lover turns to her, “Ava? What is it?”

“It’s back. The thoughts.”, Ava says, her mind racing, turning fear into analysis, “We need to figure something out. Are these just seeds it planted days ago, now sprouting? Or is it… is it here, right now, actively pushing them into my head? Because if it’s the second one, that’s so much worse. It means it’s following us. It’s watching us right now.”

Beatrice’s face pales, “What… what did it say to you just now?”

Ava’s eyes dart to Jillian’s concerned face on the screen. She shakes her head, “It doesn’t matter. It was wrong, and I know it. That’s how I caught it.”

Understanding flashes in Beatrice’s eyes. She turns back to the laptop, “Jillian, I have to go. We have a… a situational development to manage.”

“Of course.”, Jillian says, her gaze knowing, “Keep me apprised.” The call disconnects.


The moment the screen goes black, Beatrice is off her chair and sitting on the bed facing Ava, “Tell me.”

Ava lets out a shaky breath. “It was about earlier. When I asked to… It was telling me you only said no because you didn’t actually want me. That your work is more important.”

Beatrice’s expression softens. She reaches out, cupping Ava’s cheek, “Ava, no. I was just being responsible.”

“I know!”, Ava assures her, leaning into the touch, her own voice firm with certainty, “That’s exactly how I knew it was The Void. The thought felt so wrong, so stupid, it stuck out like a sore thumb.”


Beatrice’s eyes dart around the room, her analytical mind latching onto a new variable, “It sits in the shadows.”, she whispers, a terrifying theory forming, “If it’s here, projecting... maybe we can see it.”

Before Ava can protest, Beatrice moves. She clicks off the main overhead light. Then the lamp on the desk. The room plunges into near-darkness, the world reduced to shapes and the faint glow from the outside.

They stand frozen, hearts pounding, their eyes desperately scanning the newly formed patches of blackness between the furniture, in the corner of the room.

For a moment, there is nothing.

Then, a shape detaches itself from the deep shadow beside the wardrobe.


It is there. A humanoid silhouette of absolute nothing, a deeper black against the dark. 



It doesn’t move. It simply stands, facing them.

Chapter Text

They stand frozen, hearts pounding, staring at the deeper blackness that is The Void. It doesn’t move. It simply stares at them.

“What do you want?”, Beatrice’s voice cuts through the silence, sharp and clear, a demand aimed at the nothingness.

As the words leave her lips, a searing, white-hot pain erupts in Ava’s back. It’s not a prick or a signal; it’s a blade of pure agony driven deep into the Halo. A silent, strangled cry is torn from her throat as her legs buckle, sending her crashing to her knees on the hotel room floor.

“Ava!”, Beatrice is on the floor in an instant, her arms encircling her, ready to look up and confront the shadow.

But Ava’s hand claws at Beatrice’s shirt, her voice a ragged, desperate whisper against the pain, “No... don’t let go. Just... hold me. I need... an anchor.”

Beatrice understands instantly. She doesn’t look away to search the shadows. She doesn’t reach for the light. She gathers Ava closer, pulling her fully into her lap, wrapping her arms around her so tightly it must almost hurt, creating a fortress of her own body.

“Look at me.”, Beatrice commands, her voice low and fierce, “I am here. You are here. With me.”

Ava clings to her, her face buried in Beatrice’s neck, her entire body shaking as she fights the physical pain and the psychic onslaught. The voice hisses its poison -crippled, broken, a burden- but it’s muffled now, forced to compete with the solid, undeniable reality of Beatrice’s embrace, the feel of her heartbeat, the scent of her skin.

Slowly, the searing pain in her back recedes to a deep, throbbing ache. The voice falls silent, defeated not by light, but by a stronger force.

They stay on the floor, tangled together in the dark, having learned a new, terrifying truth: The Void could find them everywhere.

But their connection was a shield even it could not fully pierce.

*

On the following day, back at the Cat’s Cradle, Beatrice stands with a soldier’s posture, recounting the hotel room attack with chilling precision. 

When she finishes, Mother Superion’s face is grave, “You will both move into Ava’s old room here. The Cradle’s walls have withstood more than shadows.”

Beatrice’s gaze flicks to Ava. A silent, entire conversation passes between them in a heartbeat- the memory of their fractured stay in that room, the painful distance, the cold stone walls that offered no comfort, and the complete lack of privacy in a place where they could never truly be alone.

Beatrice turns back to Mother Superion, her voice respectful, but unyielding.

“With all due respect, Mother.”, Beatrice says, “I do not believe the Cradle’s walls are immune to psychological warfare. I would prefer not to be confined within them.”

Mother Superion’s sharp eyes narrow, her gaze moving from Beatrice’s resolved face to Ava’s silent, supportive one. The tension in the ancient hall is thick enough to taste.

It’s Camila who deliberately shatters it, clearing her throat and stepping forward with a thick, leather-bound tome in her hands.

“Well, while you debate real estate…”, she interjects, her tone purposefully light, “I might have found something. It’s not a perfect match, but the description of a presence that feeds on despair and sows discord… it echoes something.” She lays the book open on the central table, pointing to a passage, “There are accounts, from the early Church’s campaigns in Northern Europe, of locals fearing a spirit they called ‘The Gnawer.’ It wasn’t said to have a form, but to be a ‘cold breath on the soul’ that fed on hope and fostered paranoia until communities tore themselves apart. The records call it a demon of pure misery.”

She looks up, meeting their eyes. “Maybe this is our Void. The description is too vague, and the Church’s interpretation is… heavy-handed. But the core mechanic is the same: an entity that sustains itself by consuming a person’s, or a people’s, light from the inside out. It’s a pattern.”

“And not an isolated one…”, Yasmine adds, stepping forward, her historian’s instincts clearly piqued, “I’ve read similar accounts. Not from Northern Europe, but from transcripts of heresy trials in 14th century France. The accused described a ‘Grey Sorrow’ that would settle over a town. It amplified their hidden hatreds and fears, turning neighbour against neighbour until the community collapsed from within.”

She moves to another text, her fingers tracing the faded script, “But the transcript mentions something the others don’t. A heretic, on the pyre, reportedly shouted that the ‘Sorrow’ could not stand before a heart bound by unbreakable vows, lit from within. The inquisitors recorded it as a final, desperate blasphemy, but…”

She looks up, her eyes alight with a new, urgent theory, “But what if it wasn’t? What if it was a warning? A piece of folklore on how to fight it? That it preys on fracture and isolation, but cannot withstand a connection it cannot break- a bond of absolute trust and love.”

The room falls utterly silent. The theological jargon falls away, leaving a stark, terrifyingly personal truth.

The Void, the Gnawer, the Grey Sorrow... it fed on the very rifts it created. 

But a bond it could not sever -a connection so strong it acted as a light from within- could be its weakness.


All eyes turn to Ava and Beatrice.

Ava shifts her weight, a slow, apprehensive look crossing her face as the full, intimate implication settles in, “So… what do you guys want us to do exactly?, she asks, her voice cutting through the heavy silence, “The next time The Void shows up to psychologically torture us and give me a halo-ache, your grand plan is for us to... what? Make out in front of it?”

A beat of stunned silence follows. Beatrice’s cheeks flush, her composure cracking under the sheer bluntness of the statement.

And then Camila snorts. It’s a choked, involuntary sound that she tries to smother with her hand, but it’s too late. The tension in the ancient reliquary shatters, replaced by a wave of relieved laughter that ripples through the small group, even drawing a faint, weary smile from Mother Superion.

“It’s a little more nuanced than that, Ava.”, Beatrice manages, her voice a mix of profound embarrassment and deep affection.

“But she’s not entirely wrong.”, Camila gets out, wiping a tear from her eye, “The theory is about a unified front. A connection so solid it creates a... a positive energy field it can’t penetrate. Your bond is your armour. And yes…”, she adds, grinning at Beatrice’s pained expression, “That probably involves a significant amount of... unwavering, tangible solidarity.”

The mood in the room has fundamentally shifted. 

But they have a theory. A direction. A defence mechanism that might work.

And it’s a strategy that plays directly to their greatest, most hard-won strength: each other.

*






Back in the sanctuary of their hotel room, tactics are being discussed, albeit in a fractured way. Beatrice is half listening to Ava’s theories while typing a final email to Jillian at the small desk.


“…so if it goes for the psychological stuff again, we just… double down, right? Like, mentally shout at it?”, Ava muses, pacing, “Like, ‘nope, I love her, you lose, asshole!’”


Beatrice hums, her fingers not pausing on the keyboard.

Ava stops her pacing. 

She watches the focused line of Beatrice’s shoulders for a moment, then moves behind her. She wraps her arms around Beatrice’s waist, leaning down to press a soft kiss to the side of her neck.


“We should practice.”, Ava murmurs against her skin, “Our love. You know. Before the Void strikes again. For tactical reasons only, of course.”

A small smile touches Beatrice’s lips. She finishes her sentence, hits ‘send’, and decisively shuts the laptop lid. She turns in the revolving chair to face Ava, her hands settling on Ava’s hips.


“You are in a remarkably light mood, considering a psychic thing is stalking us.”, Beatrice observes, though her eyes are warm.

Ava just shrugs, her hands sliding up to Beatrice’s shoulders, “What are we supposed to do? Sit here and be scared? We can’t fight it if we can’t find it. And also we’re on a little getaway. We haven’t been out of the city in ages. We should enjoy it.”

The logic is irrefutable, but it’s the raw hope in Ava’s eyes that undoes her. Beatrice’s hesitance, tight as a coiled spring, finally snaps. She doesn’t speak, but her hands come up to cradle Ava’s face, her thumbs stroking the arches of her cheekbones. It’s a silent question, a gentle pulling away of the fear that hangs between them. She leans in, closing the small distance, and answers Ava’s plea with her own.

One thing leads to another. It starts with Ava’s lips on hers, a soft, seeking pressure that Beatrice meets with a quiet sigh of surrender. The kiss deepens not with slow intensity. Ava shifts, her movements fluid and deliberate, settling herself into Beatrice’s lap, straddling her. The revolving desk chair groans softly in protest, a mundane sound that only grounds them more firmly in the moment. Beatrice’s hands, which had been resting on Ava’s hips, slide up her back, pulling her closer. Beatrice’s fingers tilt her head to deepen the angle of the kiss. Ava’s hands map the strong, tense lines of her lover’s shoulders and back, kneading away the remnants of the day’s fear.

This is more than desire. It is a deliberate defiance, a silent, powerful declaration shouted into the face of the fear lurking in the shadows. With every stroke of a tongue, every press of a palm, they are building a fortress around themselves, brick by brick, using the only material the Void could not corrupt: the absolute, unwavering truth of their love.

Beatrice’s hands slide under Ava’s top, pushing it up and over her head. She lowers her head, her mouth finding the soft skin over Ava’s collarbone, and then her chest. She sucks, hard, a deliberate claim that makes Ava gasp and arch against her, a sharp, bright pain that she loves. It leaves a small purple bruise.

With an effortless strength that still, after all this time, leaves Ava briefly awestruck, Beatrice stands, lifting her with her. She carries Ava the few steps to the bed and drops her gently onto the edge of it.


Beatrice leans in again, her eyes dark with desire, ready to reclaim Ava’s mouth.

And she freezes.

Her gaze is locked on Ava’s chest, on the spot just above her heart. On the vivid, purple mark she had placed there only moments ago.


It’s gone.


The skin is flawless, unmarked. As if it were never there.

Ava looks up at her, breathless and grinning, her skin flushed, realising Beatrice’s eyes were locked on her chest, “Like what you see?”, she asks, her voice a little cocky, her gaze full of adoration and heat.

Beatrice meets Ava’s confused, hazy eyes, the grin slowly fading from her lover’s face as she reads the shock in Beatrice’s, looking down at herself.


“Ava.”, Beatrice whispers, her voice trembling with dread, “It’s gone. The mark… it’s gone.”

The Halo’s healing power was back.







*





“The Halo’s autonomous healing function has returned.”, Beatrice states, her voice cutting through the quiet, “It… addressed a minor… abrasion.”

She stumbles over the word, the memory of the purple mark on Ava’s chest, of her own mouth causing it, flashing vividly in her mind. Her gaze darts to Ava, a silent, complicated look passing between them- part apology, part awe, part shared, intimate knowledge.

Camila’s eyes widen, not catching the hesitation. Yasmine leans forward, curious. Mother Superion remains still, her expression granite.


“An abrasion?”, Mother Superion repeats, her tone leaving no room for ambiguity.

Before Beatrice can be forced to elaborate further, Ava lets out a frustrated huff, “Talking about it isn’t going to show you anything.”

Her eyes scan the room and land on a simple, steel utility knife left on a workbench, used for opening crates. Before anyone can react, she snatches it up and draws the blade swiftly across her own palm.


“Ava!”, Beatrice’s cry is sharp with alarm, but it’s too late.


A clean, red line wells up across Ava’s palm. For a single second they all watch the blood begin to bead. Then, as if an invisible eraser is passing over her skin, the wound simply seals itself.

The blood remains, a smeared crimson line against her now flawless palm, the only evidence that anything happened at all.

Ava holds her hand up, her point made with brutal clarity, “See? It’s true.”

“Okay, so... Sight and now, healing. And the other abilities?”, Camila asks, her voice a mix of awe and horror at Ava’s demonstration.

Ava shakes her head, wiping her bloodied hand on her jeans, “Nothing. It’s like the Halo is… picking and choosing what to turn back on.”

A heavy silence falls. The implications, now demonstrated so viscerally, are staggering.

It is Mother Superion who breaks it, her practical nature cutting through the shock, “This is beyond our archives. We are dealing with an unprecedented event.” She turns her sharp gaze to Beatrice, “You will take her to Dr. Salvius. Today. If anyone can quantify what is happening to the Halo on a metaphysical level, it is her.”

*

Ava sits on the edge of a medical examination table, feeling the familiar chill of clinical sensors against her skin. The one hour drive had been quiet, both of them lost in the implications of the healed love bite.

“The healing is cellular, near-instantaneous.”, Jillian confirms, studying a holographic display that shows a time-lapse simulation of Ava’s skin reconstructing itself from a microscopic scan, “And you’re certain your strength, phasing or levitation skills haven’t returned?”

“Positive.”, Ava says, flexing her hand, “I tried to phase through the hotel bathroom door this morning. Just got a headache and a bruised shoulder.”

Beatrice, standing a few feet away with her arms crossed, gives a tight, worried nod, “It’s a selective reactivation. The Halo’s core autonomic functions are coming back first. The sight, which is a passive sensory input. The healing, which is a reflexive, biological maintenance program.”

“But not the active, high-energy output abilities.”, Jillian finishes, her brow furrowed in thought. She turns to another screen, pulling up the intricate energy signature readings from the Divinium, “It’s not a simple power restoration. It’s a… prioritisation. The Halo is booting up specific subsystems. As if it’s following a protocol.”

Ava looks from the glowing data to Beatrice’s concerned face, “A protocol for what?”

“For a threat.”, Beatrice says, her voice low, “It may be re-enabling the tools you need to survive and gather intelligence first. The weapons might come later.”

Ava blows out air audibly, the sound loud in the quiet of the lab. All the cockiness drains from her face, replaced by a weary dread that makes her look younger.


“So, what?”, she asks, her voice tight, “Does that mean we’re just… waiting for the download to finish? That we’re close to the rebooted version of the Warrior Nun?” She shakes her head, a bitter twist to her mouth, “I had really hoped we’d left that life behind for good.”

The confession hangs in the air, full of a profound and simple grief. It wasn’t about the power or the responsibility. It was about the quiet mornings, the shifts at the café, the mundane walk to her classes, the normalcy she had fought a war to earn.

Beatrice’s expression softens. She uncrosses her arms and steps closer, placing a hand on Ava’s knee, “That life isn’t gone, Ava. This… this is us protecting it. The Halo is a part of you, and it is trying to protect you, and by extension, the life we’ve built.” She meets her gaze, her own filled with a fierce determination, “We are defending our home. There is a difference.”

*

The silence during their car ride back to the hotel in the Spanish countryside is comfortable, but pensive, the weight of Jillian’s findings settling between them.

“Bea?”, Ava’s voice is soft, breaking the quiet hum of the engine.

“Hmm?”

“Would you have fallen in love with me?”, Ava asks, her gaze fixed on the passing landscape, “If I had never been the Warrior Nun? If I was just… some girl you passed on the street, or served you coffee? If there was no Halo, no mission, no divine destiny… just me?”

Beatrice’s hands tighten on the steering wheel. She glances over, her brow furrowed in a brief, genuine bewilderment, as if the question is fundamentally illogical. Her eyes dart back to the road.

She is quiet for so long that Ava almost thinks she didn’t hear her. Then, her voice is careful, laced with a new, sharp concern, “Ava… is it in your head again? Is The Void making you ask that?”

Ava shakes her head, finally looking at Beatrice’s profile, “No. It’s a real thought. One I’ve had before. Maybe once or twice.”

Another stretch of silence, filled only by the sound of the tires on asphalt. Beatrice seems to be gathering her words, choosing them with the same precision she uses for everything.

Finally, she speaks, her voice low and steady, each word a deliberate stone laid on a foundation.


“The Halo did not make me love you, Ava.”, she says, “It brought you to me. The most chaotic, improbable, and blessed postal service imaginable.” She risks a quick glance in Ava’s direction. 

“But what I fell in love with was not the power. It was the person wielding it. The stubborn, ridiculous, endlessly hopeful, and fiercely loving person who was trapped in a bed for twelve years and still chose to find joy in everything. I fell in love with your heart. Not your scar. You were not just the Warrior Nun to me. You never were.”

Beatrice puts on the blinker, turning onto the road that leads to their hotel, “The Halo brought us together. But it is you, solely and completely you, that I am in love with. That would be true in any life.”

Ava reaches across the console, her hand finding Beatrice’s on the gearshift, lacing their fingers together. A slow, mischievous smile spreads across her face, the lingering weight of her question finally lifting.

“Well, yeah.”, Ava says after a while, her tone teasing, “In any life where you wouldn’t be a sworn-in nun, anyway.”

Beatrice glances over, catching Ava’s eye. The corner of her own mouth twitches, then curls into a full, genuine smile that crinkles the corners of her eyes. It’s a rare, unguarded expression that still makes Ava’s heart skip a beat.

“Perhaps.”, Beatrice concedes, her voice warm with amusement as she returns her gaze to the road, “That would have presented a significant logistical problem in a different life.”

They pull into the hotel parking lot, the heavy conversation now replaced by a shared, comfortable lightness. Beatrice cuts the engine, and the sudden silence feels peaceful, not empty.

Instead of moving to get out, Beatrice turns in her seat, the leather creaking softly. She reaches over, her hand gently cradling Ava’s face, her thumb stroking her cheek.


“I love you.”, the older woman says, her voice soft but unwavering in the quiet car, “Just you. As you are. Don’t waste a single moment worrying about the ‘would have beens’ or ‘could have beens.’ This life, the one we have, is the only one that matters.”

Ava’s eyes shimmer, all traces of teasing gone, replaced by a deep, overwhelming gratitude. She leans into the touch, then shifts forward.

It is an awkward angle, the centre console digging into her ribs, but she doesn’t care. She wraps her arms around Beatrice, burying her face in the curve of her neck. Beatrice holds her just as tightly, her own face pressed against Ava’s hair.

They stay like that for a long while, the setting sun painting the car’s interior in shades of gold. 

The world outside, with all its threats and uncertainties, fades away.

*

The team is gathered again in the archives, the inert Crown of Thorns a silent reminder of their dead end. 

The conversation circles the same frustrating question.


“Why Ava?”, Camila muses, scrolling through data on her tablet, “The psychological attacks are one thing, but the direct, physical assault on the Halo... it’s targeted.”

“It probably sees her as a threat.”, Beatrice states, her voice tight.

Dora, who has been leaning against a stone pillar, arms crossed, lets out a short, almost dismissive sound, “Well, duh.”

All eyes turn to her.

She pushes off the pillar, her expression one of blunt practicality, “She’s the halo bearer. She didn’t just win a war; she quieted a cosmic storm. She turned an army of grief stricken ghosts into peace with a feeling.” She gestures vaguely at Ava, “If this ‘Void’ thing is all about sowing chaos and feeding on emotional storms, then Ava isn’t just a threat. She’s the ultimate rival. She’s proven her bond to that thing on her back is strong enough to literally calm the universe. Of course it’s going to target her. It’s trying to break the one tool that can actually stop it before it even gets started.”

The simplicity of the statement lands like a hammer.

They had been looking for a complex, mystical reason.

Dora saw the tactical reality: Ava was the only known counter weapon. 


The Void wasn’t just attacking a person; it was attempting to disarm a strategic defence system. 

And it was doing so by targeting the system’s most vulnerable, most human component: Ava’s heart.

*

Beatrice finds Mother Superion in a smaller, more functional office, away from the hall’s imposing main chamber. The older woman is reviewing a shipment manifest, her reading glasses perched on the end of her nose.

“Beatrice.”, she says without looking up, “Did you need anything?”

The woman in question stands with her hands clasped behind her back, the picture of a soldier reporting for duty, “I wanted to ask about the Wraith detection devices. Dora mentioned they were slow to calibrate in the field.”

Mother Superion sets down her pen and removes her glasses, giving Beatrice her full attention. Her gaze is as sharp and measuring as ever, but there is a fondness there, reserved for her most capable and most complicated daughters- even former ones.

“They are functional.”, Mother Superion says, “A remarkable piece of technology. But they are a helpful tool, I did not expect miracles.  They have aided us in containing several minor incursions over the last few months. A possessed farmer in Galicia, a shadow-beast haunting the catacombs beneath a church in Naples. Nuisances, mostly. They work just fine.”

Beatrice nods, absorbing the information, “It is good to know the order is still protected.”

“It is.”, Mother Superion agrees. She leans back, her hands folded on the desk.

The silence that follows is deliberate, a space for the professional to give way to the personal, “And how are you, the two of you? Truly?”

“We are managing the situation.”, Beatrice replies, the answer automatic and practiced.

A faint, knowing smile touches Mother Superion’s lips, “I am not asking about the situation, child. I am asking about the proposal.”

Beatrice’s composure cracks for a single, unguarded moment. Her eyes widen slightly, and she cannot hide the flash of surprise, “You… know about that?”

“Ava broke down in my office not long after it happened. She was convinced she had ruined everything.”

The words hit their mark, painting a picture of Ava’s pain. Beatrice looks down, a muscle ticking in her jaw, “We are working through it.”

“I am glad to hear it.”, Mother Superion says. She pauses, then ventures carefully, “So, should we be quietly preparing for a wedding in the near future?”

Beatrice’s gaze remains fixed on a worn spot on the stone floor, “I haven’t given her an answer yet.”

This makes Mother Superion pause. She studies Beatrice, truly studies her- the tension in her neck, the way her fingers are clenched just a little too tightly, “I see. Is there something else holding you back, Beatrice? Something beyond the… inconvenient timing of the new threat?”

The question hangs in the air. Beatrice is silent for a long time, her mind a fortress of locked doors and classified files. Mother Superion can almost see the internal debate, the swift, brutal assessment of what can be said and what must remain buried. There is a story there, a weight that has nothing to do with glowing Divinium or psychological entities.


It is older, and more personal.

Finally, she lifts her head, her expression perfectly, tragically controlled, “No, Mother.”, she lies, her voice clear and firm, “There is nothing else.”

Mother Superion does not press. She has spent a lifetime leading soldiers who believed their scars were secrets. She simply holds Beatrice’s gaze for a moment longer, her own eyes filled with a deep, weary understanding. She knows a withheld truth when she hears one.

“Very well.”, she says, her tone final. She picks up her pen again, a clear signal that the audience is over, “Then I hope we can resolve this entity soon. Ava deserves to be happy.” She looks up, and her gaze softens, “You both do.”

*





Beatrice sees them in the sunlit courtyard after her conversation with Mother Superion. Ava and Camila are sitting on a low stone wall, their heads bent close together, laughing about something. A paperback book rests between them. She decides to approach them.

“-no, but the ending!!!”, Ava is saying, her voice bright with mock outrage, “After all that, she just leaves him on the spaceship? It’s a betrayal of the highest order!”

“It’s thematic!”, Camila counters, grinning, “It’s about her choosing her own destiny over a doomed romance!”

“It’s a terrible ending.”, Ava insists, and then her eyes lift, catching sight of Beatrice. Her smile softens, becomes something more intimate, “Hey, you.”

Camila follows her gaze. Her own smile remains warm, but Beatrice doesn’t miss it- the almost imperceptible shift in her posture. A slight straightening of her spine. A tiny, instinctive creation of space between herself and Ava.

She walks the last distance, the gravel crunching softly under her boots. She doesn’t look at Ava first, but directly at Camila.

“Camila.”, Beatrice says, her voice quieter than she intended, “Can I have a moment?”

Camila’s expression turns curious, then slightly concerned, “Of course.” She makes to stand.

“No, it’s alright, stay seated.”, Beatrice says, stopping her. She takes a steadying breath, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, “I just… I need to say this.” She glances at Ava, who is watching with a confused frown, then back to Camila, “I owe you an apology. A profound one. For my behaviour. For the things I thought. About you and Ava.”

Camila’s eyes widen, “Bea, you don’t have to-”

“I do.”, Beatrice insists, her voice gaining a little strength, laced with regret, “The jealousy I felt… The Void may have fed it, watered it, but the seed was mine. A deep-rooted, ugly thing that I allowed to grow. It was unfair to you, and it was a profound insult to the friend you are to both of us. It was unforgivable.”


The courtyard is silent, save for the distant chirping of birds. Camila looks from Beatrice’s pained, earnest face to Ava’s, which is now full of a soft, aching understanding.

Then, Camila lets out a soft laugh, shaking her head. She stands and closes the distance between them, pulling Beatrice into a tight embrace, “Oh, you idiot. It’s forgiven. It was always forgiven.”

Beatrice’s rigid posture melts. She hugs Camila back, the tension of weeks finally beginning to drain from her shoulders.

As they pull apart, Camila grins widely, “Besides, it would be really, really weird if I was Ava’s secret lover and the person who helped design your engagement ring. This plot point would be even worse than the book we’ve been trash-talking.”

A burst of genuine, relieved laughter escapes Beatrice, the sound foreign and wonderful to her own ears. Ava snorts, shaking her head.


“Okay, yeah, and also I don’t think I could handle you, Camila, no offence.”, Ava also stands, joining them.

“Excuse me?”, Camila retorts, her grin turning into a mock scowl. She reaches out and playfully slaps Ava’s arm, “What is that supposed to mean? I’m a delight.”

“Oh, you are a delight.”, Ava agrees, her tone dripping with affectionate sarcasm, “Which is exactly why I’m very happy with my choice of Sister Warrior.”, she leans into Beatrice’s side, smirking up at her, “I picked the right nun to corrupt.”

Beatrice rolls her eyes, but the blush that creeps up her neck and the way her arm tightens around Ava betrays her amusement, “Six years of devotion, undone by your terrible puns and jokes.”

Their shared gaze holds for a moment too long, the joke fading into something softer and more profound. The sunlight catches the fondness in Beatrice’s eyes, the unshakable adoration in Ava’s.

The world narrows to the space between them, a familiar, intimate bubble that seems to shut out everything else.

Camila watches the silent exchange, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. She takes a deliberate step backward.

“Okay.”, she says, her voice gently teasing, breaking the spell, “I can see when I’m no longer needed. I’ll just… leave you two to it.”


With a final, warm smile, Camila turns and heads back inside, leaving Beatrice and Ava alone in the sun-drenched courtyard. The light banter provides a tangible, comforting thing, mending the last of the fractures. Beatrice reaches out, her hand finding Ava’s, their fingers lacing together naturally.


“See?”, Ava says softly, squeezing her hand, “We’re okay. We’re all okay.”


Beatrice’s smile falters. The warmth in her eyes doesn’t vanish, but it deepens, shadowed by a profound regret. She brings her other hand up, clasping Ava’s between both of her own.

“No.”, Beatrice says, her voice low and earnest, cutting through the easy comfort, “Not yet. I… I need to say this.” She takes a steadying breath, her gaze locked on their joined hands before lifting it to meet Ava’s. “I am so sorry, Ava. For my absence. For the way I retreated into the problem and made you feel like a variable. And for the proposal… for leaving your question hanging in the air, for making you feel -even for a second- that it was a rejection of you. I see now what that silence did to you, and I am more sorry than I can possibly express.”

Ava’s eyes well up, but she shakes her head, a soft, forgiving smile on her lips, “Bea, it’s okay. I understand. I really do.”

“It is not just okay!”, Beatrice insists, her voice trembling with the force of her conviction, “My reasons do not erase the hurt I caused. I need you to hear this from me. I need you to know that I see the wound I made, and I will prove that I am worthy of the heart you so bravely offered me.”

A single tear traces a path down Ava’s cheek, but it is a tear of release, of a final, painful splinter being drawn out, “I hear you. And I forgive you. Thank you for your apology.”

This time, the “okay” that settles between them is not a deflection, but a truth.

For a moment, the shadows of the Void and the unspoken weight from Mother Superion’s office feel a little less dark.






*

A thought crosses Ava’s mind, while Beatrice methodically slides the deadbolt across the hotel room door, a futile attempt to lock out the metaphysical.

Ava doesn’t move to the bed or the balcony. She stands in the centre of the room, the plush carpet doing little to absorb the nervous energy thrumming under her skin. She watches Beatrice’s back, the straight, disciplined line of her shoulders that seems to carry the weight of every historical text and tactical analysis they’ve just waded through.

“A unified front…”, Ava utters, the words tasting foreign, “An unbreakable vow, lit from within.”

Beatrice turns, her face a careful mask of composure, but Ava can see the faint tremor in her hands as she sets her bag down. “What are you thinking?”

Ava starts pacing, “They’re basically saying our love life is a strategic defence system.” She stops, turning to face Beatrice, “We can’t just wait for it to attack and hope we’re… cuddly enough to repel it. We need to be stronger. We need to practice. We need to do calibration exercises again.”

A slow, weary smile touches Beatrice’s lips. The kind of smile that suggests she knows exactly where this is going, “Calibration?”, she asks, her voice dry, “Are you suggesting, that the key to repelling a primordial entity of despair is for us to have copious amounts of sex?”

Ava’s eyes widen, a flush creeping up her neck, “What? No! I mean -not that I’d be opposed, that’s a permanent state of being- but, that’s not what I meant!”

She takes a breath, forcing her racing thoughts to slow down. She meets Beatrice’s gaze, her own turning serious, earnest.

“I mean the other stuff. The… the grounding exercises. From before. The ones we did in-between the calibration. The actual calibration. We need to do that again, but more. We need to be even closer. Not just physically. Mentally.” She gestures vaguely, trying to pluck the right words from the air, “We need to unpack stuff. The things we maybe haven’t said. The little pockets of… I don’t know… past stuff. We have to make sure there are no cracks for it to get into.”

Beatrice’s smile fades, replaced by a thoughtful, slightly guarded expression. She considers it for a long moment, her head tilting, “Ava.”, she says softly, “You know everything there is to know. The important things. You know me.”

Ava shakes her head, a sad, knowing look in her eyes. She takes a step closer.

“No, I don’t, Bea. I know the you that started in the OCS. I know the warrior, the sister. I know the woman who fell in love with me. I know the woman I love.” Her voice drops to a near-whisper, “But I don’t know anything about the girl you were before. The one before the convent. You never talk about her.”

The change in Beatrice is instantaneous. It’s as if a vault door, long since rusted shut, groans under the pressure. She doesn’t flinch or step back, but her entire posture freezes. The air leaves her lungs in a quiet, controlled exhale.

Her eyes, which were soft with affection moments ago, now hold a deep, old pain. She looks at Ava, and for a terrifying second, she looks like a stranger, like someone forged in a fire Ava never witnessed.

The silence stretches, thick and heavy. 

The Void feels very, very close.

And that’s why she knows that Ava was right.

Finally, Beatrice’s throat works as she swallows. 

Her voice, when it comes, is low and strained, the words a carefully measured admission.

“That…”, she whispers, “Is a very deep crack.”

Chapter Text

The house in Belgravia was a monument to silence. It was a four-story terrace of white stucco and black iron, its windows perpetually clean, its brass knocker perpetually polished. Inside, the air was cool and still, smelling of beeswax and old money. Light fell in precise shafts across wide-plank oak floors, never quite reaching the corners of the high ceilinged rooms. It was not a home built for living in, but for presenting.

The young girl who lived there had learned the rules of this world before she could fully read. She learned that the drawing-room, with its silk covered walls and spindle legged furniture, was for display, not play. The library, a dark cavern of leather-bound books that were never touched, was for her father’s retreat, not her curiosity. Her world was a series of invisible barriers, as real and restrictive as the glass over the oil paintings.

Her days were a curriculum of becoming. Mornings were for solitary study in her room, a space as meticulously ordered as a hotel suite. Afternoons were for lessons: piano, whose strict scales appealed to her need for order; French, spoken with a perfect accent that held no warmth; and ballet, where the relentless pursuit of form taught her to translate discomfort into grace. Evenings were for performance. Dressed in a stiff, lace-collared dress, she would descend for a silent dinner with her parents, where the clink of silver on bone china was the loudest sound. She was taught to sit with her back never touching the chair, to speak only when spoken to, and to offer opinions that mirrored her father’s, delivered in the cool, measured tone her mother had perfected.

Her parents were not villains; they were custodians of a legacy. Her mother, a woman whose beauty was a sharp, polished thing, viewed her daughter as a final, crucial accessory. A scuff on a shoe, a hair out of place, a note of genuine emotion in her voice- these were not childish mistakes. They were failures of execution. Her father, a man who carried the weight of diplomatic communiques in the set of his shoulders, was a distant figure. His approval was a rare, abstract thing, granted for a well-argued point on a current event, never for a hug or a shared secret.

The girl’s life was one of exquisite, gilded loneliness. She was the sole inheritor of this perfect, empty world, and the weight of its expectations was a constant, quiet pressure, teaching her to build her own walls long before she ever heard of the OCS.

The piano was a grand, black beast of polished lacquer that dominated the music room. For the girl, it was not an instrument of joy, but of discipline. Her small hands, under the critical eye of a tutor who smelled of mothballs and faint disapproval, were taught to find the correct keys without hesitation. The music she played was all complex fingerwork and mathematical precision -Bach fugues, Czerny études- pieces where emotion was secondary to technical perfection. The relentless, repetitive scales were a meditation. In the metronomic click of the tutor’s baton, she found a refuge; if she could make her body and mind perfectly still, perfectly aligned with the notes on the page, then the messy, unnamable feelings stirring inside her had no space to exist.

Ballet was an extension of this same philosophy, but written upon her own body. In the mirrored studio, under the gaze of an impossibly graceful and stern instructor, she learned to translate effort into ethereal lightness. The barre was not a support, but a challenger. The blisters that bloomed and burst inside her satin slippers were not injuries, but evidence of progress. She learned to hold her core so tightly that it felt like a suit of armour, to extend her limbs into lines of such pure geometry that they seemed to defy the fallible flesh they were made of. Plié, relevé, arabesque. Each position was a word in a language of control. When her muscles burned and trembled with fatigue, she was praised. The pain was a sign that the unruly body was being mastered, subdued into an elegant, silent vessel.

Her world was a series of rooms within rooms, each more silent than the last. The drawing room for receiving guests, the dining room for formal meals, the library for her father’s solitude. Her own bedroom was at the back of the house, overlooking a small, manicured garden that was meant to be viewed, not played in. It was furnished with a narrow bed, a pristine white desk, and a bookshelf containing the complete, leather-bound works of authors she was expected to admire but never dog-eared. There were no posters on the walls, no trinkets on the shelves, no trace of a personality that was still struggling to form. It was the room of a well cared for guest, which, in essence, she was.

The only warmth in the house emanated, faintly, from the kitchen, the domain of Mrs. Albright, the cook. It was a world of steam and the rich smell of baking bread, a place where the rules of the rest of the house seemed to soften at the edges. The girl was not encouraged to spend time there, but she would sometimes linger in the doorway, watching Mrs. Albright’s capable, flour-dusted hands knead dough. The cook would offer a quiet, “Everything alright, Miss?”, without pressing for an answer, sometimes slipping her a still warm biscuit. It was the closest thing to an unconditional gesture she ever received, a small, secret rebellion against the curated perfection that defined her existence. It was in that doorway, caught between the cold order of her life and the warm chaos of the kitchen, that she first understood the concept of a different world, a world that was not made of silence and scrutiny.

This gilded isolation was punctuated by social obligations that were, in their own way, another form of lesson. Her mother’s “at-homes” were exercises in high-pressure performance. The girl would be positioned near the fireplace, a living exhibit of her parents’ successful cultivation. She was to be seen -immaculate in a tartan dress and polished Mary Janes- and to speak only when addressed, her replies a rehearsed blend of politeness and mild intellectualism.

“And what are you studying at school, dear?”, a visiting ambassador’s wife would ask, peering down through a haze of expensive perfume.

“We’ve just begun the Peloponnesian War.”, the girl would reply, her voice even, her hands folded neatly in her lap, “Thucydides’ analysis of power dynamics in the context of the Mytilenean Debate is particularly fascinating.”

It was the correct answer. It showcased her education, her father’s influence, and her ability to engage with ‘suitable’ topics. It was also a shield. The correct, academic answer precluded any follow-up questions about friends, or hobbies, or happiness. She became adept at this social jujitsu, using her intellect to deflect any inquiry that threatened to approach the quiet, lonely core of her being.

Children’s parties at other grand houses were worse. They were chaotic, noisy affairs where the rules were different, unspoken, and seemingly innate to everyone, but her. While other children shrieked and chased each other through hallways, she would remain on the periphery, observing. The easy physicality of their play, the casual alliances and betrayals, were a foreign language. She didn’t know how to join in, and her impeccable posture and precise vocabulary often made her a target for subtle mockery. She learned to find a quiet alcove or a deserted library corner and wait, stoically, for the moment her nanny would arrive to collect her. The ride home was always conducted in silence, her mother’s disappointment a palpable force in the back of the car. She had failed, again, to perform the role of a normal, vivacious child.

It was in this landscape of profound loneliness that the first, dangerous crack appeared. Her name was Eleanor, and she arrived at the ballet school mid-term. Where the other girls were all sharp angles and competitive whispers, Eleanor had a softness about her. Her port de bras was less rigid, her smile quicker to appear. She was the first person who didn’t seem to look at the girl and see a project or a competitor.

During a break, while the others clustered in their established cliques, Eleanor had approached her, not with pity, but with a simple, startling offer of a stick of gum.

“It helps with the taste of rosin.”, she’d said, her voice conspiratorial.

It was a small thing, a trivial thing. But in the girl’s world of monumental silences and insignificant gestures, it was seismic. It was an act of seeing, and it was the first thread pulled from the tightly woven tapestry of her control.

The friendship with Eleanor was a secret life, blooming in the sterile cracks of her scheduled existence. It began with shared looks across the ballet studio, a silent conspiracy of two who found the environment equally absurd. It progressed to whispered conversations in the changing rooms, their voices hidden beneath the rustle of tulle and the snap of elastic. Then came the notes, folded into impossible, tiny squares and slipped into each other's dance bags. They were filled with innocent confessions- complaints about strict instructors, dreams of places far from London, a shared love for a particular sad piece by Chopin that their piano tutors deemed “too indulgent”.

For the girl, it was a revolution. The careful walls she had built, brick by brick, began to feel less like a fortress and more like a prison she had not realised she was in. Eleanor’s attention was not earned through achievement or impeccable behaviour: it was given freely. It was reckless, and terrifying, and utterly intoxicating.

The clandestine meetings became the central focus of her life. They mastered the geography of deception. A stolen hour after ballet, telling their drivers they were working on a joint project. A Saturday afternoon studying at the British Museum, where they would lose themselves in the dusty, empty rooms of the upper galleries, their voices hushed not by rule, but by shared wonder. They spoke of everything. The girl found herself confessing things she had never given voice to- the crushing weight of silence in the Belgravia house, the fear of her mother's disapproval, the deep, aching loneliness that had been her most constant companion.

With Eleanor, she was not a daughter, or a student, or a project. She was simply seen.

The shift from friendship to something more was as inevitable, as it was terrifying. It started with the casual brush of a hand that lingered a moment too long. A shared scarf on a cold day, the scent of Eleanor’s shampoo a dizzying perfume. The girl’s carefully ordered world began to tilt on its axis. The mathematical precision of her piano études felt hollow. The disciplined lines of her ballet positions felt like a cage. Every part of her that had been trained for control was now in rebellion, yearning for the chaos of feeling.

The affair began not with a declaration, but with a quiet act of courage. In the back of a darkened cinema, the sound of the film a distant murmur, Eleanor’s hand found hers, their fingers intertwining completely. It was not the chaste, hesitant gesture of a children’s story. It was firm, certain. And in that darkness, the girl let her thumb stroke the side of Eleanor’s hand, a silent, seismic surrender.

From there, it was a swift, desperate slide. Every stolen moment was a treasure and a weapon against the life waiting for her. The kisses, furtive and hungry, in the shadowy corner of a park; the press of bodies in the silent, empty house one fateful afternoon when her parents were at a function until late; the frantic, clumsy exploration in the sanctum of her own bedroom, where the pristine white duvet became a testament to a passion she never knew she possessed.

It was a rebellion written on her skin, in her racing heart, in the breathless, whispered secrets they shared. She was fifteen, and for the first time, she was not just living a life of quiet discipline. She was alive. And in that vibrant, terrifying aliveness, she let her guard down completely, forgetting that in her world, the walls always had ears, and perfection was a standard that brooked no exceptions. The stage was set for the discovery that would shatter it all.

The end came not with a shout, but with the turn of a doorknob.

It was a Thursday. Her parents were at the opera, a long-standing engagement. The house was theirs, a vast, silent kingdom they had dared to believe they owned for the evening. They had grown reckless, emboldened by weeks of success. The careful whispers had given way to laughter that echoed a little too freely in the hall. The furtive touches had become something more, there on the living room rug before the cold, marble fireplace, the very heart of her family's public facade.

They did not hear the car. They did not hear the key in the lock. They did not hear the footsteps on the parquet.

The first they knew of it was the slow, deliberate creak of the double doors swinging inward.

The girl froze, her world narrowing to the silhouette of her mother standing in the doorway, still in her evening gown, a wrap of dark fur draped over her arm. The expression on her face was not one of rage, but of something far worse: a cold, utter, and profound revulsion. It was the look one would give a stain that could never be washed out, a flaw in the foundation that rendered the entire structure unsound.

Time seemed to fracture. There was a choked sound from Eleanor, a scramble for clothes, a frantic, humiliating cover-up. But the girl could not move. She was pinned by her mother’s gaze, which swept over the scene -the dishevelled clothing, the intimate tableau- and rendered a final, damning judgment.

“Get out.”, her mother said, her voice low and icy, directed at Eleanor. There was no volume, no hysterics. That was for lesser people, for those who could not control their emotions. This was pure, distilled contempt.

Eleanor fled, a sob catching in her throat, not looking back.

The girl was left alone in the vast room, pulling her clothes on with trembling hands, the warmth of moments before now a mortifying chill on her skin. Her mother did not speak again. She simply turned and walked away, the click of her heels on the floor a death knell.

The aftermath was a silent, surgical dismantling of her life.

There was no discussion. No shouting. No attempt to understand. The following days passed in a blur of hushed, urgent phone calls and a silence from her parents that was heavier than any punishment. Her father would not look at her. Her presence at the dinner table was a ghostly one, the air thick with a shame so potent, it felt like a physical weight.

Then, the solution was presented to her, not as a punishment, but as a necessity. A “sabbatical”. A “chance to refocus”.

“The Swiss boarding school has an excellent academic reputation.”, her mother said one morning over breakfast, the words casual, as if discussing the weather. “The air is clean. The structure will be good for you. It will help you… forget these… distractions.”

It was a masterpiece of euphemism. She was not being sent away for having feelings, for seeking connection. She was being sent away to have a “distraction” removed. Her own heart, her own awakening, was reduced to an inconvenient, shameful glitch that needed to be corrected in a sterile, controlled environment.

The message was received, and it was brutal: the core of who she was, what she felt, what she desired, was a fundamental flaw. It was a scandal that could not be contained, a weakness that could not be tolerated. It was something to be cut out, and the Swiss school, with its high walls and stricter, holier rules, was the scalpel.

The school in Switzerland was a fortress of grey stone, perched on a mountainside, as if God himself had placed it there, to be closer to heaven and further from the warmth of human frailty. The air was thin and sharp, a constant, chastening cold that seeped through the ancient windowpanes and into the bones. It was a different kind of silence from Belgravia- not curated, but imposed, broken only by the echoing toll of chapel bells and the rustle of serge habits.

The girl, now a student amongst dozens, had never felt more alone.

The other girls seemed to move with a shared, unshakable certainty. They had been raised in this world of incense and Latin, their faith a comfortable, inherited garment they wore without thought. They spoke of grace and sin with an easy familiarity that felt like a foreign language. They clustered in groups, their laughter in the drafty corridors a sound that seemed to come from another world entirely.

She was an outsider, and they sensed it with the unerring cruelty of teenagers. It wasn't that they knew her specific sin -the details of the scandal in London were a buried secret- but they saw the mark of it upon her. They saw the way she flinched at sudden kindness, the way her posture was too perfect, a shield rather than a natural state. They saw the profound solitude in her eyes.

The whispers began, as soft and insidious as the mountain mist.

“The English girl.”, they would say, a label that set her perpetually apart, “She’s so... cold.”

“Thinks she’s better than everyone. Look at her, always reading. Too proud to speak.”

The accusations were a perverse inversion of the truth. Her silence wasn’t pride; it was a paralysis. Her perfect posture wasn’t superiority; it was the only way she knew to keep herself from shattering. She ate her meals in silence, the clatter of cutlery in the refectory a jarring symphony of her isolation. In the chapel, she went through the motions -kneeling, standing, reciting- but the words were empty. She wasn’t seeking God’s forgiveness; she was simply hiding in the ritual, the way she had once hidden in the scales of a piano.

The faith they preached here was one of fire and brimstone, of a God who saw every transgression. Every sermon on purity, on the sins of the flesh, felt like a pointed finger aimed directly at her heart. The crucifixes that hung in every classroom and dormitory were no longer symbols of salvation, but reminders of judgment. She would lie awake at night in the narrow, hard bed, listening to the rhythmic breathing of the other girls in the dormitory, a sound of communal peace that was utterly denied to her. She was adrift in a sea of piety, a sinner who didn’t know how to repent for a love that had felt, in its stolen moments, like the only true thing she had ever known.


This was her punishment: to be surrounded by the faithful, and to feel, in the deepest part of her soul, that she was fundamentally, irredeemably wrong.

In that crucible of cold stone and colder companionship, the girl began a terrible, deliberate alchemy. The whispers, the isolation, the constant, accusatory gaze of the divine- they did not break her. Instead, they provided the very pressure she needed to forge a new self from the shattered pieces of the old.

She understood, with a chilling clarity that belied her sixteen years, that her feelings were the source of her exile. The warmth, the desire, the desperate need for connection that had bloomed with Eleanor- that was the flaw. That was the crack through which all this pain had entered. If she could not cut it out, she would encase it. She would build a new structure so perfect, so impenetrable, that the messy, flawed girl inside would simply cease to be.

The rigid schedule of the school became her salvation. She embraced it with a ferocity that bordered on the fanatical. She was the first to kneel in the chapel at Lauds, her forehead pressed to the cold wood of the pew, not in prayer, but in submission. She was the last to leave the library, her translations of theological texts so precise, they drew rare, grudging praise from the stern-faced nuns. She applied the same ruthless discipline she had once used for ballet to the task of mastering her own nature.

Where the other girls saw faith, she saw a framework. A system of clear, unambiguous rules. This is a sin. That is a virtue. There was no room for ambiguity, for the confusing, grey area emotions that had led to her downfall. The concept of chastity, which the other girls might have chafed against or accepted with passive piety, became her lifeline. It was not a denial of her desire; it was a weapon against it. By vowing to lock that part of herself away, she was not performing penance. She was performing a kind of spiritual surgery, removing a cancerous organ to save the whole.

She began to watch the nuns, not with reverence, but with a scholar’s intensity. She studied the way they held their hands, clasped and still. The way their voices remained even and devoid of emotional colour. The way their eyes held a calm, distant focus, looking through the world rather than at it. She practiced in the mirror of the shared bathroom, smoothing the emotion from her own face, emptying the light from her own eyes.

The transformation was gradual, but absolute. The lonely, yearning girl was buried alive under layers of discipline. The sharp-tongued comments from her peers now seemed to glance off a newly hardened shell. Their laughter no longer felt like a personal wound, but like the chirping of distant, irrelevant birds. She did not become one of them. She became something else entirely: an island of perfect, untouchable control in a sea of their adolescent chaos.

The visit from the Order of the Cruciform Sword was treated as a rare honor. A Sister - a warrior with a stillness that seemed to suck the sound from the room- spoke of a divine duty that demanded more than faith. It demanded the complete surrender of one’s life.

Most of the girls listened with wide eyed fascination. The girl heard a blueprint for survival.

When the Sister demonstrated a disarming technique, her movements were brutally efficient. The girl’s attention sharpened to a laser point. This was not the suggested strength of ballet; this was strength itself, honed into a weapon. But the foundation was the same: balance, precision, the body as a perfected instrument.

In the individual assessments, the other candidates spoke of their love for God. When it was her turn, the Sister -Sister Agnes- asked, “Why do you believe you are called to this life, child?”

The girl did not speak of love or faith, “I am capable of absolute discipline.”, she stated, “I require a structure that utilises my entire capacity.”

Sister Agnes’s eyes narrowed in interest. She put the girl through physical tests. The girl executed them with the unthinking precision of a metronome. There was no joy, only flawless performance.

Then came the final test. Sister Agnes stood before her, a practice sword in hand, “I am going to attack you. Defend yourself.”

The other girls had flinched, tried clumsy blocks, stumbled.

As the wooden blade swept toward her, the girl’s mind did not panic. It calculated. Angle, velocity, trajectory. She didn’t try to block the overwhelming force. Instead, she moved.

It was a pas de bourrée, a swift, gliding step she had performed ten thousand times, but now it was not retreat- it was an evasion that placed her inside the arc of the attack. Her body, trained for years to maintain perfect balance on the point of a slipper, was a rooted, stable axis. Her arm, extended with the clean line of an arabesque, became a lever. Her hand struck not at the sword, but at the wrist that held it, a sharp, precise impact.

The practice sword clattered to the stone floor.

The hall was utterly silent. Sister Agnes stared, a slow, knowing smile touching her lips. She saw it now- the dancer’s discipline, the athlete’s control, all waiting to be redirected from art to combat.

The girl’s body was already a weapon; it just didn’t know it yet.

“What is your name?”, Sister Agnes asked, her voice low.

The girl gave it, the name from her old life.

Sister Agnes nodded, “That life is over.”, it was a pronouncement, “Your discipline is not a cage with us. It is the foundation upon which we will build a warrior.”

The girl felt a final, settling click. They weren’t just offering her a purpose. They were offering to take the very training that had been part of her gilded cage -the ballet, the posture, the control- and forge it into the key to her own strength. It was the only offer that made sense. She was sixteen. She was home.

The opportunity to tell her parents came in the form of a single, supervised telephone call in the Mother Superion’s austere office. The heavy black receiver felt like a weapon in her hand. She had been granted permission to inform them of her decision; the OCS had already secured the necessary legal transfers. Their consent was a formality, a courtesy she did not feel, but which the Order’s protocols demanded.

She dialled the number for the Belgravia house. The phone was answered on the second ring by the housekeeper. A moment of muffled conversation, and then her mother’s voice, crisp and distant, came down the line.

“Yes? This is a surprise. Is everything… adequate?”

The girl took a breath, not of nervousness, but of finality. She had rehearsed this.

It was another performance, the last one she would ever give for them.

“The education here has been exemplary.”, she began, her voice a perfect, placid mirror of her mother’s own tone, “It has provided exceptional clarity regarding my future.”

A pause on the other end, “Clarity? Your father and I were discussing universities. Oxford, of course, remains the priority. A degree in Politics or Law.”

“That will not be necessary.”, the words were delivered without a hint of rebellion. They were simple, factual, like stating the time, “I have been accepted into an exclusive private order. The Order of the Cruci-. A charitable and academic institution. My further education and living arrangements will be permanently secured by them. I will be taking vows.”

The silence that followed was profound. She could picture her mother’s face, the frozen mask of composure, the calculations spinning behind her eyes. A ‘private order’ sounded respectable, cloistered, final. It was a better outcome than they could have hoped for- a permanent, elegant solution to the problem of their daughter.

“I see.”, her mother said, the words carefully measured, “This is… rather sudden.”

“The calling was clear.”, the girl replied, using their language, the language of faith, as the ultimate, unassailable justification.

Another pause. She could hear the faint, muffled sound of her mother’s hand covering the receiver, a brief consultation with her father. When her mother spoke again, there was a new quality in her voice. Not warmth, not regret, but a palpable, thrumming relief.

“Well. If you are certain this is your path. It is a noble one. A life of service.” The words were a blessing and a dismissal, rolled into one, “We will, of course, ensure the necessary arrangements are made with the school.”

“It has already been handled.”, the girl said simply.

“Of course.”, a final, awkward silence, “We wish you… every success, in your new life.”

We wash our hands of you. The subtext whispered. You have found a suitable place to disappear.

“Thank you.”, the girl said, “Goodbye.”

She placed the receiver back in its cradle with a soft, definitive click. The sound echoed in the silent office. There was no anger, no sorrow, no sense of loss. There was only a vast, quiet emptiness, like a room that had been cleared of all furniture. The cord was cut. The performance was over. The girl from Belgravia was gone. All that remained was a postulant of the OCS, a vessel waiting to be filled with purpose, discipline, and a sanctioned, holy violence.

She felt lighter than she had in years.

The last word hangs in the quiet hotel room, a spectre given form. Beatrice’s gaze is fixed on a point on the neutral carpet, her posture not the rigid spine of the warrior, but the slumped surrender of the girl who had to build that warrior from the ground up. The silence stretches, thin and fragile.

Ava sits perfectly still, her mind reeling, trying to map the woman before her onto the story she has just heard. The cold house. The calculated parents. The ballet as a cage. The scandal. The cruel exile. The boarding school as a spiritual prison. The OCS not as a calling, but as the sharpest tool for self mutilation. It is a devastating arithmetic, and the sum total is Beatrice.

She doesn’t know what to say. I’m sorry is a pebble thrown into a canyon. I love you feels too simple, a bandage on a wound that goes to the bone.

Then, the image crystallises in her mind. Not the soldier, not the scholar.

The fifteen year old girl, terrified and exhilarated, discovering a single, precious point of warmth in a frozen world, only to have it used as evidence of her own corruption.

She reaches out, her fingers gently tilting Beatrice’s chin up until their eyes meet. The shame she sees there makes her heart clench.

“You didn’t choose the OCS to hide from who you are.”, Ava says, her voice low but fierce, each word a deliberate counterweight to the decades of condemnation, “You chose it to survive the person they tried to make you.”

Beatrice’s breath hitches, a tiny, broken sound.

“All that discipline.”, Ava continues, her thumb stroking Beatrice’s jaw, “The perfection, the control… it wasn’t you building walls, Bea. It was you building a fortress around the only part of you they couldn’t touch. The part that could still feel. The part that could still love.” She lets that word land, heavy and true. “You didn’t bury that girl. You protected her. You kept her safe until…”, she offers a small smile, “Until a chaotic, dead girl from an orphanage with a glowing doughnut in her back crashed into your life and gave you a reason to let her out.”

A single, hot tear escapes and tracks down Beatrice’s cheek. It is not a sob of grief, but one of profound, staggering release. It is the sound of a truth, long held captive, finally being set free.

She leans forward, her forehead coming to rest against Ava’s, their breath mingling.

“There are no more secrets.”, Beatrice whispers, the words a vow, “There is no part of me that you do not hold.”

Ava feels the solidity of that, the final piece of the puzzle clicking into place, making the whole picture infinitely stronger.

The past is no longer a weapon to be used against them. It is the foundation, and it is unshakable.

She pulls back just enough to see Beatrice’s eyes, a new, fierce light burning within them.

“Bea… have you ever spoken to them since? Your parents?”

The light in Beatrice’s eyes doesn’t dim, but it shifts, becoming more complex. She shakes her head, “No. There was no point. They signed their daughter over to a holy order. In their minds, that chapter is closed. I became an abstraction.”

She pauses, her gaze drifting to their joined hands, then back to Ava’s face, her expression full of a profound, aching resolve.

“But that’s part of it, Ava. Part of why I haven’t… said yes yet. Aside from the threat that wants to consume us.”

Ava’s breath stills.

“I don’t want to hide.”, Beatrice continues, her voice gaining strength, “Not from them, not from anyone. Not anymore. For so long, my life with you has felt like a separate, sacred world. And it is. But you are not a secret to be kept. You are the most magnificent truth of my life.”

She takes a deep breath, laying her soul bare, “I don’t expect it to change anything. They will likely be horrified. They will see it as the final confirmation of the ‘deviance’ they tried to stamp out. But I don’t care about their approval. I care about the principle. Ava, you deserve that. You deserve a life where the woman who loves you is proud to claim you in the light, to everyone. Even to the ghosts of her past. I don’t want to start our marriage with that piece of my history still holding a silent veto. I want to face it down. For you. For us.”

Ava is in awe. She isn’t hearing a story of pain anymore. She is witnessing a final, conscious act of liberation. This isn’t about seeking a blessing; it’s about slaying the last dragon, not with a sword, but with a simple, unashamed truth.

“You…”, Ava’s voice is thick with emotion, her eyes shining, “You want to tell your parents about me?”

The question hangs in the air, tentative and hopeful.

A small, genuine smile touches Beatrice’s lips, “I want to tell them that their daughter is happier and more whole than they could ever comprehend, and that it is because she is loved by a woman of impossible strength and light. I want there to be no doubt, no shadow. I want our ‘yes’ to be given with my entire history laid to rest, not ignored.”, she squeezes Ava’s hand, “That is the foundation I want to build the rest of our life on. One of absolute, unhidden integrity.”

Tears well in Ava’s eyes, but they are tears of overwhelming pride, “Okay…”, she whispers, her heart feeling too large for her chest, “Okay, Bea. We’ll do it together.”

The space between them vanishes. Beatrice leans in to capture Ava’s lips in a lingering kiss. It is a promise, an affirmation, a physical manifestation of the unshakeable union they have just forged from the rubble of the past. It tastes of salt and hope and a future written entirely in their own hand.

When Beatrice pulls back, her eyes are clear, the fierce light now a steady, warm glow. She takes one of Ava’s hands, pressing a soft, deliberate kiss to her knuckles.



“And after we have dealt with The Void…”, Beatrice says, her voice low and full of a love so deep, it feels like a fundamental truth, “You will have to ask me again.”


A slow, radiant smile spreads across Ava’s face, her eyes still closed. She can feel the rightness of it, the perfect, patient certainty.


“Of course I will.”, she breathes, “When the time is right.”

Chapter Text

The first light of dawn is a pale, hesitant grey at the hotel window. It finds them in bed, limbs tangled under the thin covers, the world held at bay. Beatrice sleeps, truly sleeps, her breathing a deep, even rhythm against Ava’s neck. It’s a surrender Ava hasn’t seen in weeks, maybe not since the glow began. The rigid line of her spine is soft, her face smooth of its analytical furrows.

Ava is awake, watching her. Her mind is not racing for once; it’s a wide, calm lake, reflecting the immensity of the night before. The story. Her story. The girl in the silent Belgravia house, the disciplined dancer, the one who dared to love and was exiled for it. The pieces float and settle, forming a new, heartbreakingly complete picture of the woman in her arms.

The discipline wasn’t just control; it was a language of survival. The OCS wasn’t a calling; it was the only door out of a gilded prison that led to a different kind of cell, one where she could at least be the warden. The understanding is a physical ache in Ava’s chest, a profound and protective sorrow.

Beatrice stirs, a soft, waking hum vibrating against Ava’s skin. Her eyes flutter open, and for a single, unguarded moment, they are clouded with the softness of sleep. Then awareness returns, and with it, a flicker of something else- not fear, not shame, but a raw, vulnerable uncertainty.


The vault is open, and the contents are exposed to the air for the first time.

“Hey.”, Ava whispers, her voice rough with emotion.

“Hi.”, Beatrice whispers back. Her gaze searches Ava’s face, looking for any sign of recoil, of pity.

She finds none. Only a deep, unwavering tenderness.

“Are you okay?”, Ava asks simply, and the question fills Beatrice’s chest with warmth.

“I am. I feel more me than I have been in a very long time.”, she shifts, turning fully onto her side to face Ava, their noses almost touching, “It feels… strange. To have it outside of me. To have you know all of me.”

“Good strange?”, Ava asks, her free hand coming up to brush a stray lock of hair from Beatrice’s forehead.

Beatrice considers this, her brow furrowing in that familiar, endearing way, “Like a bone that was set wrong has been rebroken. It’s painful. But now it has a chance to heal right.”

The metaphor is so perfectly and painfully Beatrice. Ava leans in and presses a quick kiss to Beatrice’s lips. When she pulls back, she smiles, “So, Beatrice Silva, former ballerina and clandestine gum-chewer. I like her.”

Beatrice looks down for a second, then back up, a shy, genuine smile touching her own lips, “She likes you quite a lot too.”

They lie there for a long time, as the room grows brighter. The world with its Voids and its glowing Halos is waiting, but for now, it feels very far away. There is only this bed, this quiet, and the new, unbreakable truth taking root between them.

The calibration isn’t about fighting a monster today.


It’s about this: the simple, tectonic act of being known, and being loved, not in spite of the story, but because of it.



The hotel bathroom is quiet, the only sounds the soft scratch of bristles and the running of water. Steam from their shared shower lingers, softening the edges of the marble and the light.

Ava stands at one sink, watching her lover at the other. Beatrice’s movements are a study in quiet efficiency. She applies her skincare with the same focused precision she uses to clean her weapons, each motion deliberate, unhurried, and perfect. It’s a ritual born from a childhood where every detail was scrutinised, where presentation was everything.

But as Ava watches, she doesn’t see the cold discipline of a gilded cage.

She sees the beauty that was forged within it.

She sees the steady hands that can deliver a killing blow or cradle her face with equal tenderness.

She sees the sharp mind that can analyse quantum fluctuations or remember exactly how she takes her coffee.

She sees the unwavering heart that, despite being taught its love was a flaw, chose to love with a ferocity that still takes Ava’s breath away.

Beatrice catches her gaze in the mirror, a soft question in her eyes. Ava just offers a small, reassuring smile and finishes brushing her teeth.

Once she’s done, instead of reaching for a towel, she simply turns and steps into Beatrice’s space. She wraps her arms around Beatrice’s waist from behind, resting her cheek against the strong, familiar plane of her back. She holds on tightly, a silent, full body embrace.

Beatrice goes still for a moment, surprised by the sudden, wordless contact in the middle of their routine. Her hands, which had been neatly placing a cap on a bottle, still. She relaxes into the hold, one of her hands coming up to cover Ava’s where they rest on her stomach.

“What is this for?”, Beatrice asks, her voice soft in the quiet room.

Ava squeezes her eyes shut, pressing closer. She feels the solid, real weight of the woman in her arms, the girl from the silent house, the warrior from the convent, the scientist, the lover. All of her.

“It’s for you.”, Ava whispers into her back, “Just… all of you. Every single bit. I just need you to know that I see it, and I accept it. I love it. All of it.” She takes a shaky breath, “And I cannot wait to marry you. I’m even more sure of it now.”

Beatrice’s breath hitches. She turns slowly in the circle of Ava’s arms until they are face to face. Her eyes are shimmering, her composure softened into something raw and profoundly moved. She doesn’t say anything. No words are needed. She simply brings her hands up to frame Ava’s face, her thumbs stroking her cheeks, and leans her forehead against Ava’s.

“I’m sure too. Of you, of our future.”, the older woman responds.

And in that moment, Ava knows with absolute certainty that the question hanging between them is already answered. Beatrice had said ‘yes’ in many different ways before Ava could even ask the question again- with every shattered piece of her past she had laid bare, the intention to make their relationship known to her parents and the words she’d just uttered. 

The proposal to come was just a formality.

*

They find themselves at the Cradle before noon. Tome laden tables form a fortress of knowledge around the three of them: Ava, Beatrice and Camila. Beatrice, her brow furrowed in concentration, cross references a passage in a medieval bestiary with a modern psychological text on mass hysteria.

Camila leans back, stretching her arms over her head, “Okay, let’s go back to the encounters. You’ve both seen The Void more clearly than anyone. Walk me through it. Anything specific that happened around the time it appeared? A sound? A smell? A… feeling?”

Beatrice, her brow furrowed in concentration, methodically runs through the events, “The first sighting for me was in the alley. The Halo gave Ava a sharp warning signal mere seconds before the entity manifested.”

Ava nods, her playful demeanour fading into focus, “Yeah, and in the hotel room, when it was just… standing there. Same thing. A major spike. Like an ice pick to the spine. I couldn’t even stand. It felt like it did that to me. And the other times, I’ve felt something too, an uneasiness...”

They fall silent, mentally retracing their steps. Ava’s eyes go distant, scrolling back through the fear and the chaos. And then, another memory surfaces, one drenched in a very different kind of intensity. Her eyes widen.

“Oh, fuck.”, she breathes.

Beatrice and Camila both look at her.

“What?”, Beatrice asks.

“That night. In our apartment. After we had dinner.”, Ava’s gaze meets Beatrice’s, who doesn’t connect the dots right away, “We were on the couch. And my back… it prickled. A sharp signal. I told you it felt like a malfunction.”

Beatrice’s face pales as the memory slots into place with horrifying new context, “You said it felt cold. Not like… before.”

“Yeah.”, Ava says, her nose scrunching in profound disgust, “But it probably wasn’t a malfunction. It was a peeping Tom. It was there. Watching. Right when we were about to…” She gestures vaguely, her voice dropping to an incredulous whisper, “That is so much creepier. That is a huge, cosmic violation of privacy.”

Her mind, now a frantic searchlight, sweeps back over the last few days- the bath turned into a long desperately awaited reconciliation, the morning after, the healing intimacy in the hotel room after Beatrice’s confession, the quiet, tender morning just a few hours ago. She searches for any echo of that cold, invasive prick, any flicker of the Halo’s light that wasn’t born from her own feeling. 

There’s nothing. Only warmth. Only them.

The full implication lands on Beatrice. Not only was the entity present during one of their vulnerable, intimate moments, but Ava had just laid that detail utterly bare in front of Camila. Beatrice’s composure cracks. A deep blush floods her cheeks and she looks down at the ancient text in front of her, as if hoping the Latin will swallow her whole.

Camila watches the silent drama play out across their faces. She sees Beatrice’s acute embarrassment and Ava’s indignant horror. A slow, patient smile touches her lips.

“Beatrice.”, Camila says, her tone gentle, “Breathe. I am a nun, not a porcelain doll. I am well aware of the… dynamics of your relationship. The fact that it involves intimacy is not a shock, we’ve been over that.”

She gracefully redirects the conversation, tapping a finger on her laptop, “But this is crucial information. The Halo reacts to its presence. Every time. So either the Halo has developed a warning system specifically for this entity…”

Ava’s eyes light up, the previous embarrassment forgotten as the puzzle piece clicks, “Or the entity’s presence is so dissonant with the Halo’s energy that it causes a physical reaction in me. Like two magnetic poles repelling each other. I don’t think the Void itself can hurt me, otherwise that thing would have done worse.”

Beatrice finally lifts her head, the strategist in her overpowering her mortification. The blush is still high on her cheeks, but her voice is steady. “In either case, what does that even mean for us?”

“I don’t know. We need to figure it out.”, Ava shrugs, “Back to square one.”

*

The usual, disciplined quiet of the Cat’s Cradle’s main hall is shattered by the sound of raised voices. It's not a training yard shout, but something uglier, sharper.

“You’re being reckless, Dora!”, Anya’s voice cuts through the stone, her face tight with an uncharacteristic sneer, “Your form is sloppy. You’d get yourself killed out there.”

Dora squares up, her hands balling into fists, “And you’re so rigid, you’d break, before you bent! Maybe if you weren’t so busy judging everyone else, you’d see the threat right in front of you!”

Camila steps between them, her posture firm, her voice calm but carrying an undeniable authority, “Enough. Both of you. This is not how we resolve disagreements.”

But the poison has taken root. Anya rounds on her, her eyes flashing with a venom that isn’t hers, “And you? Don’t think we don’t see you playing Mother Superion already. Don’t play the holier-than-thou card with us, hermana.”

Dora scoffs in agreement, a unified front of discord, “Yeah, who put you in charge?”

Ava, who had been watching the exchange with growing unease, feels it first- a cold, oily sensation slithering through the air, pricking at the edges of the Halo on her back. It’s not a warning of pain, but of corruption.

“Hey.”, Ava says, her voice cutting through the tension, “Stop it. This isn’t you.”

They ignore her, their argument devolving into personal, vicious attacks that have nothing to do with combat forms.

“Stop!”, Ava commands, louder, her own frustration and the Halo’s agitation feeding each other. The air around her seems to vibrate.

They don’t. Dora takes a threatening step towards Camila.

A wave of pure, hot aggravation washes over Ava. It’s a protective fury, a rejection of this toxic invasion of her family. She doesn’t think. She just pushes.

There is no physical force, but a sharp, invisible wave emanates from her. It hits Anya, Dora, and Camila not like a blow, but like a bucket of ice water. They all flinch simultaneously, blinking as if waking from a dream. The rage drains from Anya’s and Dora's faces, replaced by confusion and dawning horror at their own words.

Camila, recovering first, her hand going to her temple, looks straight at Ava. Her eyes are wide, not with fear, but with stunned realisation, “Ava…?”

But Ava isn’t listening. The backlash of her own fury is a fire in her veins. The Halo on her back, resonating with her rage, ignites. But the light that flares from her, casting their shocked faces in a sudden, hellish glow, is not the familiar silver or gold hue.

It is a deep, violent, bloody red.

Ava looks down at her own hands, how they tremble, and a gasp of pure terror is torn from her. The light winks out, as quickly as it came, and she stumbles back, her composure shattering.

Beatrice bursts into the hall, her face pale, “I felt a vibration-”

She stops short, taking in the scene: the shaken sisters, Camila’s stunned expression, and Ava, who is now sinking to her knees, wrapping her arms around herself as sobs wrack her body.

“It’s here.”, Ava chokes out, her voice raw and broken. She points a trembling finger at the empty space between the arguing sisters, “The Void... it was here. It was all The Void.”

The others look around, their eyes scanning the shadows of the hall. They see nothing. No silhouette, no deeper darkness.

But the proof is in Ava’s shattered form on the cold stone floor. The enemy isn’t just among them. It’s learning to speak with their own voices, and Ava’s only defence is changing into something new.

*

Beatrice half carries, half supports Ava through the familiar, austere corridors of the Cradle, back to the room that holds so many of their most painful and most tender memories. Ava’s body is a dead weight against her side, her legs buckling with every other step. Sharp, involuntary spasms jerk through her muscles, making her gasp with the effort of just staying upright.

“Almost there.”, Beatrice murmurs, her voice a low, steady anchor in the storm of Ava’s physical distress, “Just a few more steps.”

She manages to get Ava through the door and onto the bed. Ava collapses onto the thin mattress with a broken sound, her body curling in on itself as another tremor wracks her frame. She clutches at the blanket, her knuckles white.

“It’s… it’s like before.”, Ava grits out, “After the bursts of power. When the Halo was drained. My legs… they just won’t…”, she lets out a frustrated, shuddering breath, “I can’t feel them properly.”

The memory is a cold knife in Beatrice’s heart. Her mind provides countless reactions of the Halo to Ava’s former pulse power. The lighter versions of what she was able to do, before stepping fully into her destiny, after having spent time in Reya’s realm. Then she thinks of a different instance: the images of Ava, paralysed and helpless in a different bed, in a different country, flash before her eyes. History is repeating itself, but the cause is new, the power that drained her is something born of her own fury.

“Shhh, I know.”, Beatrice soothes, her hands immediately going to work. She kneels beside the bed, her fingers finding the tight, knotted muscles in Ava’s calves and thighs, pressing in with a firm, knowing pressure, “It’s a massive energy expenditure. Your body can’t channel it yet. It’s a new circuit.”

Ava’s eyes are squeezed shut, tears of pain and helplessness leaking from the corners, “It was red, Bea.”, she whispers, the horror of it cutting through the physical agony, “The light… it was red.”

“I know.”, Beatrice says again, her voice impossibly gentle. She doesn’t stop her ministrations, her touch a constant, grounding presence, “We will understand it. But first, you rest. You recharge.”



She leans forward, her lips brushing Ava’s damp temple, “I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.”

The agonizing spasms finally subside into a leaden exhaustion, pulling Ava down into a deep, dreamless sleep.

There is no transition, no fading.



One moment, she is aware of the rough wool of the blanket against her cheek and Beatrice’s steady hands on her leg, and the next, she is standing in the featureless expanse of Reya’s realm.

And Reya is there, waiting, as if they have been expecting her. Their form, both solid and ethereal, seems to drink the ambient light.

A strange sense of relief washes over Ava, “You!”, she breathes out, a tired but genuine smile touching her lips. “It’s really you. Do you know how long I’ve been trying to reach you?”

Reya’s voice echoes, not in the air, but directly in her mind. 

Your calling was answered now. Because it was light.

Ava’s smile vanishes, replaced by the grim reality that apparently forced her here. The memory of searing pain and Beatrice’s terrified face flashes behind her eyes, lending a new sharpness to her voice, “The light of me losing control over my Halo power...?”, Reya doesn’t answer, “Anyway- Something is stalking me. Stalking us. The Void. What do you know about it?”, Ava knows that Reya could read her mind and that she didn’t have to provide a more distinct picture.

“A crude name for a crude thing.”, Reya responds verbally, a flicker of distaste crossing their features, “It is an Infernus. A lowly demon of this realm, a creature of pure consumption. It slipped through the torn veil during the Umbral War. It has been festering in your world since.”

Ava’s mind reels, “But why now? Why come after me now? If it has been here for a while?”

“It would always be drawn to the halo bearer.”, Reya states, their gaze unwavering, “It is a scavenger, drawn to the Halo’s power. The Halo was a light it dared not approach directly.”

“But that’s the point- the Halo… it was dormant.”, Ava counters, almost sheepishly.

Reya tilts their head, their gaze piercing, “Dormant, but not dead. And you, Warrior Nun… You are unique. Your bond with it is not of duty, but of spirit. The profound peace you found, the contentment, it created a resonance. A beacon. The Infernus is drawn to light so it can extinguish it. It was the signal.”

Ava stares at them, disbelief warring with sheer outrage, “Are you fucking kidding me? I am finally happy, and that sent a cosmic dinner bell to this thing?”

“In essence.”, Reya confirms, their tone utterly serene, “It seeks to annihilate the source of that light. The Halo. And you.”

“Okay, fine. How do I stop it? How do I kill it?”, Ava asks, her voice sharp with urgency, “We know a fortified mind can keep it out of our heads, but that’s just defence. I need to end this.”

Reya is silent for a moment, their form seeming to pulse with a slow, considering light, “The Infernus is a creature of consumption. It has no true form of its own in your realm- it is a parasite that sustains itself on the energy of others. You cannot kill a shadow with a sword in the world it has infested.”

“So, what, I just have to live with a psychic parasite forever?”

“No.”, Reya’s gaze intensifies, “But you cannot destroy it in your world. Its nature is too diffuse. To end its threat, you must eject it. You must force it back to its point of origin.”

“The portal is gone…”, Ava counters, “You told me so. When the Umbrae were freed, it was sealed.”

Reya’s expression remains inscrutable, but a new, profound gravity settles in the space between them, “The means are still within your grasp. There is another way. To transcend.”

The sterile light of the realm begins to waver, shimmering at the edges of Ava’s vision. The connection is fraying.

“Wait! What do you mean? What means?”, Ava calls out, desperation clawing at her.

But Reya’s form is already dissolving into the light.

Ava jolts awake, gasping.

A gentle hand is on her shoulder, another cupping her cheek, “Ava. It’s alright. You’re safe.”

Beatrice’s face swims into focus in the dim light of the room, her features etched with concern.

The bed is warm, the air cool and still.

The Cradle.

“You were trembling.”, Beatrice murmurs, her thumb stroking Ava’s cheek, “A nightmare?”

Ava’s heart is still hammering against her ribs, the echo of Reya’s voice a phantom in her mind.

She shakes her head, her breathing starting to slow as she anchors herself in Beatrice’s touch.

“No.”, she says, her voice rough with sleep and the remnants of adrenaline, “Not a nightmare.” 

She meets Beatrice’s worried gaze, “I saw Reya.”

*

The war room feels different. Mother Superion’s usual chair at the head of the heavy oak table is empty. Camila stands behind it, her hands resting lightly on its back. Her posture is not rigid, but there is a new, quiet authority in the set of her shoulders that stills the usual pre meeting chatter.

Dora, Isabelle, Anya, Yasmine, Beatrice, and Ava take their seats. It’s Dora who breaks the silence, her tone more curious than challenging, “Where’s Mother Superion? This seems like an ‘all-hands’ kind of problem.”

“Mother Superion has an outside appointment that could not be rescheduled.”, Camila says, her voice even and clear, “She has entrusted me to lead this briefing and our initial strategy session in her absence.”

“She’s been having a lot of those lately.”, Isabelle remarks lightly, almost to herself.

Camila’s gaze doesn’t waver. It’s neither cold nor offended, but it carries a weight that makes Isabelle straighten up slightly, “The responsibilities of her office are varied and often extend beyond these walls.”, she states, a simple, non-negotiable fact. 

She doesn’t wait for further comment, “Ava. You have new intelligence.”

All eyes turn to Ava. She takes a steadying breath.

“Okay, so, good news and weird news.”, Ava begins, falling into her natural, less formal rhythm. “Good news: we have an official name. It’s not ‘The Void’, it’s an ‘Infernus’. Basically a cosmic parasite from Reya’s realm that’s been snacking on our bad vibes since the whole Umbra mess.”

Yasmine nods, scribbling a note, “A consumer demon. That fits the pattern of psychological decay.”

“Right. And the weird news is we can’t just stab it.”, Ava continues. “Reya said you can’t kill a shadow with a sword. Its whole thing is that it doesn’t have a real form here. It’s just... hungry.”

“So what’s the plan?” Dora asks, crossing her arms.

“We evict it.”, Ava says, a glint in her eye, “We kick it back to where it came from. Reya said we can’t use the portal it came through- obviously. We made sure that that door is closed.” She pauses, leaning forward, “Reya said there was another way though, a means that was still within our grasp. That’s what I woke up on. They were super vague about the ‘means’ part.”

A heavy, thoughtful silence fills the room.

Camila breaks the silence, her voice calm and decisive, “Then our objective is clear. We need to find out what the other means could be… Yasmine, you’re with me in the deepest archives. We’re looking for anything on non-standard gateways, anything that could be a ‘means’ Reya didn’t name outright.”

“I may know what they are referring to.”, Beatrice says, her voice quiet, but cutting cleanly through the room.

Chapter Text

“I may know what they are referring to.”

All eyes snap to Beatrice. She meets their gazes, her expression grim.

“The arc. In the basement.”, she states, “It used to be a direct portal to Reya’s realm.”

A stunned silence follows.

“Right…”, Dora breathes, the pieces clicking into place, “The arc. The legendary thing that we are not allowed to speak about.”

“It would need a devastating amount of energy to reactivate for that purpose… It has never been done.”, Camila considers the option.

“Or…”, Beatrice says, her gaze shifting to Ava, “A concentrated, focused surge from a celestial power source. Like the Halo.”

Before the implications can fully settle, Ava interjects, “But my Halo is not even on its full capacity.”

“But you’re steadily regaining its power.”, Beatrice is quick to respond, for a moment forgetting that that was her lover that she was speaking to. 

Usually everything about Ava’s Halo metamorphosis made her blood run cold.

Camila looks between the pair, making a swift decision, “We need to convene with Dr. Salvius.”, she focuses on her former sister, “Beatrice, any chance your boss would want to make a trip to the Spanish country side?”

*

Beatrice’s steps are measured, as they walk across the courtyard towards their car, her gaze constantly flicking towards Ava.

“Are you sure about this?”, Beatrice asks, her voice low. “The… episode was only a few hours ago. Travel, even a short distance, could be taxing. We could stay for the night.”

Ava rolls her shoulders, feeling the familiar, comforting weight of the Halo settled peacefully against her spine. There is no ache, no spasm, just a steady -now dormant- warmth.

“Bea, it’s a fifteen minute car trip. I think I can survive being a passenger princess for fifteen minutes. I feel almost normal again. Just tired.”

They reach the car. Instead of opening the passenger door, Beatrice turns, gently manoeuvring her lover until her back is against the cool metal of the car, her right hand planted on the door itself, her eyes search Ava’s face, intense and worried.

“Ava.”, she says, her voice barely above a whisper, stripping away all clinical pretence, “Are you alright? Truly? Not just about the episode- I was… I am worried for you. The Halo...”, Beatrice cuts herself off, not really knowing what to say.

Ava looks up at her, at the deep concern etched in the lines of her forehead, the love shining plainly in her dark eyes. Her heart swells. This isn’t the warrior-scientist assessing a variable. This is her girlfriend, terrified for her.

Wordlessly, Ava answers the only way that feels right. She surges forward, capturing Beatrice’s lips with her own. Beatrice responds instantly, her hand moving from the car to cup Ava’s face, the other joining, her own fear and relief pouring into the kiss. It’s Beatrice who breaks it. She rests her forehead against Ava’s, her eyes still closed, “We really shouldn’t be doing this here.”

Ava grins, nuzzling her nose against Beatrice’s, “Scared you’ll scandalise the nuns?”

Beatrice’s eyes flutter open, and she casts a quick, slightly panicked glance up at the Cradle’s imposing facade, her gaze scanning the windows. “Yes, actually. It is still a holy convent. And we are in the middle of the courtyard.”

Ava gives her one last, quick peck, “Okay, okay. But I remember a time where you would kiss me senseless in dark corners at this very convent…”, then she chances a glance back towards the archway, “Or right there.”, she points.


Beatrice swats at Ava’s hand playfully, rounding the car to get into the driver’s seat.

“I’ll kiss you senseless at the hotel room all you want.”

That’s all Ava needed to hear. 

She eagerly places herself in the car. 

*

The hotel room is quiet, the heavy curtains drawn against the deepening twilight. Beatrice moves through the familiar routine of preparing for bed, her movements efficient, but slower than usual, the day’s weight settling on her shoulders. She folds her trousers with precise creases and places them over the back of a chair.

“Jillian confirmed, she can be here by noon tomorrow.”, she says, her voice a soft murmur in the quiet room. “She’s bringing the original schematics for the arc’s power core.” She pauses, straightening the already straight duvet on her side of the bed, “The pieces are coming together.”

Ava is already in bed, propped against the headboard, watching her. She sees the tension in the line of Beatrice’s shoulders, the subtle tightness around her mouth that has nothing to do with logistics.

Beatrice turns, her gaze finally meeting Ava’s. The professional veneer cracks, revealing the raw worry beneath. “Ava… I need to say this again; it’s clearing now, that a full activation of the Halo is inevitable.”, she huffs out a breath, walking towards the bathroom to retrieve her hairbrush, “I fear what that will demand of you. What it might change.”

Ava listens, her expression thoughtful. She lets the words hang in the air, not dismissing them. She looks down at her own hands, tracing the lines of her palm. The fear is real, she feels it too. But then, a memory surfaces, vivid and warm, pushing back against the cold dread. A slow, private smile touches her lips, and a soft chuckle escapes her.


Beatrice emerges from the bathroom, her brow furrowed in gentle confusion at the sound, “What is it?”

Ava looks up, her eyes sparkling with a mix of nostalgia and fondness, “I was just thinking… there was actually one thing I really loved about being the Warrior Nun. Of being the halo bearer. One specific thing.”

Beatrice sits on the edge of the bed, her full attention on Ava, curiosity overriding her anxiety, “What?”

“The synergy.”, Ava says, the word feeling both silly and profoundly right on her tongue. She sees the flicker of recognition in Beatrice’s eyes, “That’s what I think about when you say ‘full activation.’ Not the fighting, not the glowing metal. That. If getting all my power back means I get to feel that with you again… then maybe it’s not something to be afraid of. Maybe it’s just us. But more.”

A slow, genuine smile finally breaks through Beatrice’s worried expression, “So, your primary solace in facing this terrifying metamorphosis…”, she says, her voice dropping into a low, playful tease, “Is the prospect of an elevated sexual experience with me?”

Ava’s jaw drops in mock offence. She places her hand over her heart, in an exaggerated motion,“Elevated? Are you saying my current, non-glowing capabilities are somehow lacking? That you’re not satisfied?”

In a fluid motion, Beatrice gets into bed fully, turning on her side to face Ava. The playfulness vanishes from her eyes, replaced by a deep, smouldering sincerity, “No.”, she assures her lover, “I am profoundly satisfied. But if you need to prove it to yourself…”, Beatrice’s gaze is unwavering, “Then you should show me. Just to be sure.”
 
Ava’s breath hitches. The shift from teasing to the intense demand is dizzying, “Beatrice, are you asking me what I’m thinking you’re asking?”, she manages, her own voice dropping.

“What am I asking?”, comes the innocent response, while Beatrice’s hand finds Ava’s sleep shorts under the covers, swiftly undoing the knot. 

Ava’s gaze drops, feeling, more than seeing the deliberate movement of Beatrice’s fingers. The simple action -so intimate, so sure- makes her forget her own name. Words dissolve. Any clever retort or breathy question is forgotten, replaced by a single, overwhelming need.

She doesn’t answer. Instead, her hand comes up, aimed at Beatrice’s neck, and she pulls her in, capturing her mouth demandingly.

*

Jillian Salvius has spread large schematic prints across a central table in the basement of the Cat’s Cradle. The arc itself looms in the background, a silent, dormant giant.

“The power requirements are, as we suspected, astronomical.”, Jillian says, tapping a diagram of the core conduit, “Even with the Cradle’s upgraded grid and every battery Arq-Tech could fly in, it wouldn’t be enough for a stable rift. There’s only two energy signatures ever recorded that possessed the necessary metaphysical density and output.” She doesn’t look up, but the meaning is clear.

All eyes drift to Ava.

Beatrice’s posture tightens almost imperceptibly, her worst fear confirmed in a single, clinical sentence.

“Okay.”, Camila says, steering the conversation forward with pragmatic calm, “Let’s assume we solve the power issue. That leads to the next, arguably larger problem.” She looks around the group “How do you force a non-corporeal entity of pure consumption through a physical portal? It’s like trying to shove smoke into a bottle.”

A thoughtful silence falls, broken by Yasmine, “Precisely. The arc was designed for physical transit, for a tangible body. The Infernus has no such form. How do you target it? How do you… aim?”

Father Vincent, who had been quietly observing from the edge of the group, clears his throat, “The old texts sometimes speak of ‘vessels’ for containing malign spirits. Perhaps… perhaps we do not ‘shove’ it. Perhaps we must first lure it into a trap, a container that can be physically moved.”

Ava, who had been listening with growing incredulity, lets out a short, sharp laugh, “Oh, come on. What are we gonna do? Lure it into a vacuum cleaner? Sorry, Father, but I thought you were the Order of the Cruciform Sword, not the Ghostbusters.”

A few reluctant smiles flicker around the room at the absurd image. But the joke highlights the sheer impossibility of their task. 

Beatrice lets out a slow, weary sigh, the sound heavy with the weight of their impossible problem. She turns to Ava, her expression resolute yet gentle, “Then there’s only one path forward. You need to find a way to speak to Reya again. We need clearer instructions. We’re navigating in the dark.”

Ava’s face falls slightly, “Bea, you know it’s not like I can just dial them up. Last time, they said it was... my light. The Halo’s energy, when I was in agony. I’d really rather not have to go through all that again. And even if I wanted to- I don’t know how to activate it myself.”

The moment the words are out, Beatrice’s entire demeanor shifts. The strategist vanishes, replaced by the protector. Her gaze softens, filled with a sudden, aching concern, “No, of course not.” Without a second thought, she reaches out, gently stroking the back of her hand down Ava’s forearm in a soothing, grounding gesture, “We’ll need to hit the books again. We have not been looking for confinement theories yet. Maybe we missed something.”

A collective, barely audible sigh seems to ripple through Camila, Yasmine, and the other sisters. Their shoulders slump, the prospect of another long, dusty dive into the archives after days of dead ends is a palpable weight.


It’s in that moment of weary resignation that Jillian interjects, her voice polite but firm, “Beatrice.”, she says, holding up her tablet, “Before you commit the sisters to another archaeological dig, could I borrow you for a moment? There’s a logistical matter regarding the Arq-Tech asset transfer I need your final approval on. It should only take a few minutes.”

Beatrice gives a short, efficient nod, “Of course, Jillian.” She turns back to Ava, her professional mask softening for just a second. “I’ll find you later,” she murmurs, leaning in to press a quick, firm kiss to Ava’s cheek before following Jillian out of the reliquary.

Ava watches her go, a small smile on her face, which widens, as Camila sidles up next to her.

“It’s so weird.”, Camila comments, her eyes also on the doorway Beatrice just exited, “But also… cool? I just never pictured Beatrice giving presentations in boardrooms and approving asset transfers. Sister Warrior to corporate liaison is one hell of a career pivot.”

Ava shrugs, her smile turning wry, “Yeah, well. It’s corporate sci-fi, or whatever.” She nudges Camila with her elbow, her tone shifting to something more pointed and curious, “Speaking of career changes… what’s up with Mother Superion’s super secretive outside appointments lately? Is she already giving you the reins? Prepping you for the big chair?”

For a fraction of a second, something unreadable flickers in Camila’s eyes- a flash of knowledge or concern that is there and gone so fast, Ava almost misses it. But Camila’s expression smooths over into one of mild, practiced neutrality.

“The responsibilities of her office are varied,” Camila says, neatly deflecting with the same line she used with Isabelle before. She turns away from Ava, her gaze finding Yasmine, “We should get started. Let’s scour those books. Confinement theories. Yasmine, can you pull the bestiary on spiritual vessels?”

The subject is clearly, and firmly, closed.

*

The dream is not a memory, but a construct. Ava stands in a fractured version of the Cradle’s reliquary, the stone walls weeping a dark, viscous fluid. The air is cold and still, smelling of ozone and decay.

And he is there. The Infernus.

But he is not a shadow. Here, in this psychic battleground, he has taken a form: a tall, gaunt figure of shifting, polished obsidian, his features a blurred mockery of a human face. His voice is the sound of grinding stone and whispering static.

“Little Light.”, it rasps, taking a step towards her, “You huddle with your friends, making plans. You think your bond is a shield. It is merely a chain.”

Ava’s heart hammers, but her body is frozen.

The Halo on her back is a dull, cold weight.

“You are nothing without it.”, the Infernus continues, gesturing to her back, “A cripple. A burden. Just as you were before.”

The words are meant to taunt her.

The dream shapes around her morph, the stone floor softening into the mattress of her old bed at the orphanage.

The familiar, suffocating helplessness begins to crush her.

No.

The thought is a spark. A flicker of gold.

The Infernus laughs, a dry, cracking sound, “No? Show me.”

He flicks a hand. From the darkness, a figure is dragged forward- Beatrice. She is on her knees, her hands bound by coils of living shadow, her face pale but her eyes blazing with defiance.

“Let her go!”, Ava snarls, the spark growing into a flame.

“Or what?”, the Infernus taunts. It reaches out a blade-like finger and traces a line down Beatrice’s cheek. Beatrice flinches, a line of crimson welling up, and a silent cry is torn from her throat.

Something in Ava snaps.

The Halo on her back doesn’t just glow; it erupts.

A wave of celestial light, pure and furious, shatters the orphanage illusion.

The dream world stabilises back into the reliquary.



“You do not touch her.”, Ava’s voice echoes with power. She barely recognises it herself.



The Infernus recoils, hissing. He lunges at her, his form blurring into a spear of darkness.

Ava doesn’t dodge. She phases. His form passes through her, and she feels the shocking, frigid emptiness of his being.

She stumbles, the sensation nauseating, but she’s done it. The power is back.

Enraged, the Infernus swipes at her again. This time, Ava leaps- and doesn’t come down. She levitates, hovering above his reach, the air shimmering around her.

She closes her eyes for a while and then, a pulse of raw Halo energy, brighter than ever before, slams into him, throwing him back against the weeping wall.

He slumps, his form flickering between solid and shadow. He looks up, and for the first time, there is something other than hunger in his void-like eyes. Caution.

“The light… it fights back…”, he whispers, his voice laced with a new, hateful respect, “But it cannot win. I will find the crack. I will turn your love to fear, and your hope to despair. I will make you watch as I unmake her, piece by piece.”


He vanishes, the dream dissolving into a final, chilling whisper.


Ava jolts awake with a strangled gasp, the phantom sensation of obsidian shattering against her energy still vibrating in her bones. The dream clings to her, cold and sharp.

“Ava! You’re safe, you’re safe.”

Beatrice is above her, her hands on Ava’s shoulders, her face etched with worry in the dim hotel room light.

Reacting on pure, fight or flight instinct, Ava’s hands snap up, her fingers clamping like a vice around Beatrice’s forearms, holding her there, holding her tightly, not realising her super strength could snap human bones.


“Ava.”, Beatrice says again, her voice strained, but gentle, “You’re hurting me.”

The words cut through the nightmare’s haze. Ava’s eyes focus, truly seeing Beatrice- the concern, the slight wince of pain she is trying to hide.

Horror washes over her. She releases her immediately, her hands flying back as if burned.

“Oh my god, Bea, I’m so sorry! I didn’t- I was-”

“It’s alright.”, Beatrice soothes, rubbing her forearms, “A nightmare?”

But Ava is already scrambling out of the bed, her heart hammering for a different reason now, “I’m fine. I just need a minute.” She doesn’t meet Beatrice’s eyes, fleeing into the bathroom and closing the door, leaning against it for a second before flicking on the light.


Her own reflection stares back, pale and wide-eyed. Dread is a cold stone in her gut. The dream felt too real. The power felt too real.


Hesitantly, she raises a hand. She doesn’t look at it. She stares into her own terrified eyes in the mirror and wills her hand to move through. Her fingers pass into the glass as if it’s water, disappearing up to her knuckles, the surface rippling like a silver pond. She pulls her hand back, whole and unharmed.

A choked sound escapes her. She looks down at her bare feet on the cold tile. She thinks of rising above, of the weightlessness from her dream. Slowly, deliberately, her feet lift from the floor. She hovers, an inch, then two, the silence of the room broken only by the frantic beating of her own heart.


She drops back down, the impact jarring.

She doesn’t need to try the Halo pulse. She knows.

Her battle powers are back. Fully. And the knowledge feels less like a victory and more like a sentence.


She pulls the door open, finding Beatrice standing right there, her hand half raised as if to knock, her face a mask of naked concern.


“Ava, what’s going on? You’re scaring me.”

The worry in Beatrice’s voice, the hovering, feels like sandpaper on Ava’s raw nerves. The lingering terror and the weight of her secret twist into sudden, sharp frustration.

“I’m fine, Beatrice!”, Ava snaps, her voice tighter than she intended. She pushes past her into the main room, “I just needed a minute. I’m not a child, you don’t have to stand guard outside the door.”

Beatrice flinches, taking a small, physical step back. The concern in her eyes flickers into hurt. “I wasn’t... I was just worried.”

Ava collapses onto the edge of the bed, dropping her head into her hands. The brief surge of anger evaporates, leaving behind a hollow ache of shame. She hears Beatrice move away, then the soft click of the mini fridge opening. A moment later, a cool water bottle is gently pressed into her line of sight.

The simple, caring gesture is a punch to the gut. Ava takes the bottle, her fingers brushing Beatrice’s, “I’m sorry.”, she mumbles, “I didn’t mean to take it out on you. It was just... a really vivid dream. It felt real.”

Beatrice sits beside her, leaving a careful inch of space between them, “Do you want to talk about it?”

“No.”, Ava says, the word coming out too fast. She twists the cap off the water but doesn’t drink. She can’t look at Beatrice. She can’t tell her that the Halo is fully back, that the dream was a battlefield, that the war is now living inside her again. Saying it out loud would make it too real, and she can’t bear to see the fear and the warrior-scientist analysis return to Beatrice’s eyes. Not yet.

She sets the water aside and finally turns, her own eyes pleading, “No talking. Just... can you hold me? Please?”

The request, soft and vulnerable, melts the last of the tension from Beatrice’s posture, “Of course.”, she whispers, her voice full of a love that asks no questions.

She shifts on the bed, opening her arms. Ava moves into them, curling against her side, burying her face in the familiar scent of Beatrice’s sleep shirt. Beatrice’s arms wrap around her, solid and secure, one hand coming up to gently stroke her hair.


And in that quiet, the Infernus’s final, grating whisper echoes in the vault of her mind, as clear as if he were in the room: 

Enjoy it while it lasts.

I will unmake her and then I will unmake you.

And you will not be able to stop me.

Chapter Text

The day carries a strange, cold weight that has nothing to do with the Spanish sun. Ava moves through the familiar stone halls of the Cradle, but she feels detached, as if she’s watching her body operate from a slight distance. Every step, every gesture, feels rehearsed.

She tells herself it’s the guilt. The secret of her returned powers is a live wire coiled in her chest, and every glance from Beatrice feels like it might short-circuit her. She’s hyper-aware of the energy sleeping in her back, a reactor that’s now fully online, thrumming with a potential she’s deliberately ignoring.

But it’s more than that. It’s a profound, unsettling dissonance. When she reaches for a book, her hand moves with an unfamiliar precision. When she walks, her balance feels a little too perfect, her posture a little too straight, as if her muscles are being guided by a memory that isn’t quite hers. It’s the ghost of the Warrior Nun, not as a title, but as a physical programming, settling back into her bones.

That must be it.

She catches her reflection in a polished shield on the wall and freezes. The face is hers, but the stillness in the eyes, the set of the jaw… it’s the look Beatrice used to have.

The soldier’s mask.

A cold dread trickles down her spine. This isn’t just about keeping a secret. This is about her body becoming a stranger to her, a vessel being reclaimed by a destiny she thought she had left behind. The feeling isn't just weird; it's a violation, and the worst part is, the intruder is a part of her she can't escape.

She passes Mother Superion’s office and notices the door is slightly ajar. On a whim, she pushes it open and leans against the doorframe.

Mother Superion looks up from her desk, her face looking more drawn than usual, “Ava. Come in.” She gestures to the chair, “I have been meaning to ask... how are you and Beatrice? Given that she has not yet answered your proposal.”

Ava steps inside but doesn’t sit. She shrugs, a loose, careless motion, “It’s fine.”

Ava tries to connect to the emotion she had a few days ago. The connection is severed. She feels a vast indifference.

“Just fine?”, the older woman probes, her voice soft with a genuine concern that feels heavy, personal, “The waiting must be difficult.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.”, Ava says, her gaze drifting around the room dismissively, “Marriage is a strange concept anyway. It’s just a piece of paper. A performance for other people. The formalities are… redundant.”

Mother Superion stares at her, stunned into silence. The profound apathy is so antithetical to the passionate, hopeful young woman she knows that it barely computes. This is not the heartbroken, uncertain woman who cried in her office weeks ago. “I see.”, she says, her tone carefully neutral.



Ava’s eyes snap back to her, sharp and unsettlingly direct, “Why are you away so much lately?”

The sudden shift in topic is jarring, “My responsibilities extend beyond the Cradle.”, Mother Superion replies, recovering her composure. “There are matters that require my attention.”

“Tying up loose ends?”, Ava suggests, her head tilting, “So Camila can step in?”

Mother Superion goes very still. She gives a single, slow nod, “The transition of leadership is a process.”

Ava’s smile is small and lacks any warmth, “You’re worried she won’t live up to expectation when you’re gone?”

“It is a weighty role.”, Mother Superion concedes, her guard firmly up, “However, I am not stepping down yet, Ava.”

“I see...”, Ava says, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “But you’re worried she’ll fail, right?”


This isn’t the Ava she knows.


“Are you feeling alright, my child?”

The words, my child, spoken with such weary, genuine care, seem to pierce the strange fog surrounding Ava. She blinks, the sharp, analytical coldness in her eyes fracturing. For a moment, she just looks lost and very young. Her shoulders slump slightly, the rigid posture softening into something more familiar.

“I’m… I’m okay.”, Ava murmurs, her voice regaining a thread of its normal warmth, laced now with exhaustion. She shakes her head, as if to clear it, “Just… a bit shaken up. With the whole Halo business. It’s a lot. Let me not keep you any longer…”


She offers a weak, but genuine smile before turning to leave, the unsettling presence that had inhabited her seeming to retreat back into the shadows from whence it came.

*

Beatrice is in the strategy room, leaning over a map with Dora, discussing a recent Wraith sighting in Copenhagen when Ava walks in.

“Hey.”, Ava says, her voice a little too bright. She walks straight up to Beatrice, cups her face, and gives her a firm, lingering kiss on the lips.

Beatrice freezes for a fraction of a second, before reciprocating out of pure instinct, but the kiss feels… performative. As they part, a faint, awkward tension hangs in the air. Public displays of affection of that calibre within the Cradle’s walls, while not explicitly forbidden, are a silent, understood boundary- one Ava has just casually vaulted over for the first time ever in their time being together.

Dora pointedly studies the map, clearing her throat.

“Right.”, Beatrice says, her voice a little strained as she subtly creates a bit more space between them, “We were just discussing a Wraith incursion in Copenhagen. Anya and Isabelle are taking point.”

“Cool.”, Ava interjects, leaning her hip against the table, “I’ll come too.”

Beatrice turns to her, her expression softening into gentle reason, “Ava, that’s not necessary. You haven’t had proper combat training in three years. You’re not the warrior you were.” She keeps her tone factual, not critical, “Anya, Isabelle, and Dora have this. They’re a solid team.”

“And I have the sight back.”, Ava counters, a dismissive edge to her tone, “I’m faster than their little scanner toys anyway.”

A flicker of hurt crosses Beatrice’s face at the casual dismissal of the technology she helped design- tools that have kept the sisters safe for months. She masks it quickly, “That may be true.”, she concedes, “But this is a straightforward mission for them. Our focus needs to be here, on the Infernus. You can’t afford to be distracted by a wraith hunt, when our real enemy is still out there, tied directly to you.” She says it gently, framing it as a matter of priority, not ability.

Dora, sensing the shift in the room, straightens up, “I, uh… I need to go check my gear. See you both later.” 

She practically flees, leaving them alone.

The moment the door clicks shut, Beatrice turns to Ava, her voice low and concerned. “Ava, what’s going on? You’re acting strange.”

Ava’s defensive posture melts away, replaced by a wave of what looks like genuine weariness. She runs a hand through her hair, “It’s nothing, Bea. Just… a weird day. Feeling a little off, that’s all.”

She offers a small, unconvincing smile, “Sorry for being… you know.”

The explanation, while vague, is enough. Beatrice has seen the toll the Halo’s changes have taken. She reaches out, squeezing Ava’s hand, “Alright. Just talk to me, if something is bothering you.”

“I will.”, Ava promises, but her eyes dart away, focusing on a point somewhere over Beatrice’s shoulder. The moment of strangeness passes, but a faint, disquieting echo of it remains in the air between them.



*

A strange, restless pull guides Ava’s feet through the Cradle’s silent corridors, leading her unerringly to the hidden chamber where the Crown of Thorns rests in its reinforced chest. She stands over it, her expression unreadable.

It’s just a dead piece of wood. A failure. It didn’t work when they needed it, when she needed it to reach Reya. It’s a useless relic, a symbol of a path that led nowhere. The logic is cold and clear in her mind. Keeping it is sentimental. Dangerous. It should be destroyed. Reduced to splinters and forgotten.

The decision feels right. Inevitable.

She reaches for the plain, dark circlet, her fingers poised to snatch it from its velvet bed.

A searing, golden light erupts from the Crown the moment her skin gets within an inch of it. A jolt of pure, holy energy, like touching the heart of a star, blasts into her palm. Ava yelps, snatching her hand back and cradling it against her chest. The skin is red and already blistering, the pain sharp and clean. The injury is gone in seconds, healed by the Halo.

The Halo on her back is otherwise silent. It offered no protection, no kinship with the object.

The Crown had rejected her. 

Frustration, hot and sharp, burns away the cold logic. A snarl twists her lips. She couldn't touch it, but she could still control its fate. She couldn't destroy it with her hands, but she could remove it.

Hide it. Get it away from here.

With a decisive, angry motion, she slams the lid of the chest shut and engages the heavy lock. The weight of it is solid in her arms, a tangible burden. Without another glance around, she carries the sealed chest out of the chamber, the Crown’s silent, defiant judgment a burning brand on her palm. To not be seen, she mostly phases through rooms she knows are unoccupied, until she arrives at her old bedroom.

Ava kneels, shoving the heavy chest deep beneath the bed in her former room at the Cradle. The rough wood scrapes against the stone floor. She yanks the wool blanket down, ensuring it hangs low enough to completely obscure the chest from view. It’s out of sight. Her secret.


The door opens just as she stands up, brushing dust from her knees.


Beatrice steps inside, pausing, as she takes in the scene. Ava, standing a little too stiffly by the bed, the air faintly stirred.


“There you are!”, Beatrice says, her tone warm but with a thread of curiosity as she slips into their shared room, “I’ve been looking for you. What are you up to in here?”

“Waiting for you.”, Ava says, the words coming out low and direct. In one fluid, almost predatory motion, she crosses the small space, reaches past Beatrice to push the door shut and cages her against it, hands planted on the wood on either side of Beatrice’s head.

Before Beatrice can process the action, Ava’s hands are framing her face, and her mouth is on Beatrice’s in a deep, claiming kiss. It’s not soft or questioning; it’s desperate.

Beatrice makes a small, startled sound against her tongue, her hands coming up to brace against Ava’s shoulders- not pushing away, but holding on, an anchor in a sudden, violent tide. The initial shock is a cold splash, but it’s quickly warmed by the familiar, addicting pull of desire. She feels herself begin to melt, her lips starting to move in response.

But her mind screams a warning. “Ava, wait.”, she breathes, breaking the kiss with effort. “We’re at the convent.” The sanctity of the place hangs in the air around them, a presence she feels keenly, even now.

Ava’s eyes, dark and glittering, hold hers. “So?”, she murmurs, her voice a low thrum that feels like a physical touch. She leans in again, her lips tracing the line of Beatrice’s jaw, “Doesn’t that make it more… profound? A prayer with our bodies, right here in this holy place.” The words are sacrilegious, a perversion of their past conversations, and it sends a shiver down Beatrice’s spine that is not entirely unpleasant, just dangerously new.

“That’s not… we shouldn’t.”, Beatrice insists, even as her head tilts back to give Ava better access. Her resolve is crumbling under her lover’s relentless, skilful ministrations. Ava’s hands slide from her face, down her neck, over the crisp fabric of her blouse, fingers deftly finding the buttons.

“Why?”, Ava challenges, her breath hot against Beatrice’s ear as the first button gives way, then the second, exposing the hollow of her throat. “Are you afraid God is watching?” She undoes a third button, her knuckles brushing against the rapidly heating skin of Beatrice’s sternum, “Or are you afraid He’ll see how much you want this? How you don’t belong to Him anymore… you belong to me.”

The words are a violation, and yet, they strike a chord of thrilling, terrifying truth. Beatrice’s hands, which had been bracing, now clutch at Ava’s shirt, pulling her closer. The fight drains out of her, replaced by a torrent of want, so powerful it drowns out the whispers of guilt. 

“Ava…”, it is a surrender.

Ava’s smile is a quick, sharp flash of triumph. She doesn’t wait, capturing Beatrice’s mouth again in a kiss that is all conquest. She turns them and guides her backward, never breaking contact, until the backs of Beatrice’s legs hit the edge of the bed. With a gentle, but inexorable pressure, Ava guides her to sit on the edge, looming over her, as the kiss deepens, the hidden chest a silent, guilty secret beneath them.

Ava’s fingers work quickly, finishing the buttons of the blouse, pushing the fabric apart. Beatrice allows it, a soft, shuddering sigh escaping her lips as she is bared to the cool air and Ava’s intensely appreciative gaze. Ava leans back for a moment, just looking at her, her eyes burning with a possessiveness that feels new, and sharp, and all-consuming.

“Is everything alright?”, Beatrice breathes, her mind, hazy with desire, finally catching a fragment of the unusual intensity, “You’re different today.”

“I’m just finally being honest.”, Ava says, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Her hands go to the hem of her own t-shirt, pulling it up and over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside, “And also, is it a crime that I want to fuck my really hot girlfriend right now?”

The sudden lack of barrier, the raw intent, the uttered words make Beatrice gasp. Her own hands slide up the newly exposed skin of Ava’s back, her fingers finding the clasp of her bra. It is a familiar, practiced motion, but tonight it feels like a threshold being crossed.

Ava’s only answer is to crush their mouths together again, a deeper, more insistent kiss that feels like a brand. It is a silent, desperate yes that brooks no argument. The clasp gives way. The straps loosen, and Beatrice gently pushes the garment from her shoulders, letting it fall away.

For a moment, they simply breathe each other in, skin to skin, the air thick with a heat that is both divine and profane. Then Ava’s mouth is on her chest, her kisses sharp and claiming, while her fingers work the button of Beatrice’s trousers.

Beatrice’s head falls back, a moan catching in her throat, any final protest dying there, lost to the overwhelming sensation.


It is then that a sharp, intrusive rap sounds at the door.


They freeze, the spell shattering into a thousand brittle pieces.

“Beatrice? Ava? You in there?”, Camila’s voice calls out.

“Yes, just a second!”, Beatrice calls out, she moves with practiced, flustered speed, swiftly re-buttoning her blouse and tucking it back into her trousers, redoing the button on her trousers. She runs a hand through her hair, trying to smooth it, before opening the door just a crack, to not expose Ava’s bare form.

Camila’s eyes immediately take in Beatrice’s flushed cheeks, her slightly swollen lips, and the unmistakable disarray of her previously pristine shirt. A knowing, but discreet, smile touches her lips, “Dinner’s ready. Are you two joining?”

“Yes, yes, we’ll be right there.”, Beatrice says, her voice a little too high, “Go ahead, we’ll catch up.”

She closes the door, leaning against it for a second before turning to Ava, who already was pulling on her top. With a look of pleading, flustered amusement Beatrice says, “You almost were successful in seducing me at the convent.” The statement is a half-joke, half-astonished confession.

Ava just shrugs, “As if you were that religious.”

The comment lands with a strange, cold weight. It’s flippant, dismissive, and so utterly unlike the Ava who had always been deeply respectful of that particular boundary. Beatrice stares at her, the oddness of her partner crystallising more and more.

Before she can find the words to question it, Ava is already moving toward the door, her expression smooth and unreadable, “Come on.”, she says, her tone shifting back to a casual normalcy that feels like a mask. “Let’s go have dinner. We can continue this later”

*

The refectory is noisy with the clatter of cutlery and the easy chatter of the sisters. Beatrice sits beside Ava, the memory of the comment -as if you were that religious- still a cold stone in her gut.

She watches Ava, who seems perfectly at ease, laughing at something Dora said.

Then, Isabelle sits down opposite them, her bright smile and warm demeanour a familiar comfort. As she reaches for a pitcher of water, Ava’s gaze follows the movement.

“You know, Isabelle.”, Ava says, her voice dropping to a register that usually is reserved for Beatrice, “That haircut really suits you. Makes your eyes look even more stunning.”

The table doesn’t go silent, but the air around their small section tightens. It’s a harmless compliment, the kind anyone might give. But from Ava, to Isabelle, in front of Beatrice, in that intimate tone just seems… wrong. 

Isabelle, ever gracious, just laughs it off with a slightly confused, “Oh! Uh, thanks, Ava.”

Beatrice’s fork stills over her plate. She doesn’t look at Ava. Instead, her gaze lifts and immediately locks with Camila’s from across the table. Camila had heard it. Her eyes, wide and questioning, meet Beatrice’s. In that single, silent exchange, an entire conversation passes.

Ava, seemingly oblivious to the ripple she’s caused, continues eating, the picture of nonchalance. Beatrice forces herself to take a bite, the food tasting like ash. The woman beside her was wearing her lover’s face, but something fundamental, something sacred in the way she loved Beatrice, had just shifted, and the terror of that was a scream she had to swallow down in the crowded, noisy hall.

*

The car ride is a tomb of silence. Ava stares out the window, her profile unreadable. Beatrice’s hands are tight on the steering wheel, gripping it like a lifeline. Every time she glances over, the words die in her throat, suffocated by the chilling memory of Ava’s flippant cruelty and that casual, public flirtation.

They arrive at the hotel. Ava finds her keycard with an efficient swipe, then reaches for Beatrice’s hand, intertwining their fingers. She throws Beatrice a smile- stunning, radiant, and utterly wrong for the tension humming between them.

They walk to the elevator in silence. The doors slide shut, sealing them in the sterile, mirrored box.

And Ava pounces.

It’s not an embrace; it’s almost an assault. She shoves Beatrice back against the wall, her mouth crashing against hers with a desperate, angry fervour. Beatrice’s head knocks against the metal with a dull thud. She breaks the kiss, gasping.

“Ava, stop! What is wrong with you?”

Ava pulls back, her eyes flashing with a hurt that looks genuine for a split second before twisting into something ugly. She rolls her eyes, the gesture dripping with contempt. “Nothing. I just finally get it. You don’t want me. It’s fine.”

The elevator dings, the doors sliding open on the third floor. Ava steps out without a backward glance, leaving Beatrice stunned and leaning against the wall.

“That is not what that was!” Beatrice calls after her, hurrying to catch up as Ava strides down the hall.

“Oh really?” Ava throws over her shoulder, her voice laced with a sarcasm so sharp, it cuts. “At the convent, you had the excuse of its ‘sanctity’.” She mocks Beatrice’s former reverence, “What is it now? You don’t like the elevator music?”

They reach their room. Ava swipes the keycard and shoves the door open. Beatrice follows her in, slamming the door shut behind them. The sound echoes in the quiet room.


“What the fuck is wrong with you?”, The words explode from Beatrice, raw and shaking with a mix of fury, confusion, and fear.

Ava freezes, her back to Beatrice. She turns slowly, her expression one of genuine, wide-eyed confusion, “What? What are you even talking about?”

“I’m talking about you!”, Beatrice gestures wildly at her, “The comment about Isabelle! Flirting with her right in front of me! Dismissing my faith like it was nothing! Pushing me away and then attacking me in an elevator and accusing me of not wanting you! What game are you playing, Ava? Because this isn’t you!”

Ava blinks, her face a perfect mask of baffled innocence. “Isabelle? I was just giving her a compliment. And I wasn’t attacking you, I was kissing you. God, Beatrice, I can’t do anything right with you today, can I? You’re just looking for a fight.”

The cruel stranger is gone, replaced by the wounded girlfriend. But the echo of the last hour rings in Beatrice’s ears, a terrifying dissonance she can no longer ignore.

Something is very, very wrong.

Beatrice brings her hands to her face, her fingertips pressing against her temples as if she could physically push the chaos out of her mind. The whiplash from Ava’s cruel words to her wounded innocence was too extreme, too calculated. It felt like being gaslit by a stranger wearing her lover’s face.



“I just… I need a minute.”, Beatrice says, her voice strained. She needs space to think, away from the disorienting presence in the room, “I’ll be right back. We just need some space.”

Ava, already sprawled on the bed and flipping through channels on the TV, just shrugs without looking away from the screen, “Whatever.”

The indifference is a fresh wound. The Ava she knew would have been hurt, or concerned, or would have fought back. This apathy was somehow worse than the anger.

Beatrice steps out into the cool, quiet hallway, closing the door softly behind her. She leans against the wall, pulling out her phone with trembling hands. She types a message to Camila.


Beatrice: Have you noticed anything off about Ava today? Her behaviour seems strange.

The reply is almost immediate.

Camila: Besides the comment at dinner? No. I haven’t talked to her all that much. Why?



Beatrice: She’s been different all day. And we just had a massive fight.

Camila: Actually… Mother Superion mentioned she came by her office earlier. Said she seemed off. Asked me if I knew if something had happened.


The confirmation makes Beatrice’s mind whirl, draining the last of her doubt and replacing it with a cold, sharp dread. It wasn’t just her. Mother Superion, with her decades of perception, had sensed it too. Something was wrong. Something was deeply, terrifyingly wrong with Ava.


Beatrice: I’ll try to talk to her again. Thank you, Camila

Camila: Let me know, if you need anything.

Beatrice takes a deep, steadying breath. Confrontation had failed. She had to try a different door. She had to reach the Ava she knew was hiding behind the deflection and the hurt.

She walks back into the room. The TV is still on, casting shifting lights across Ava’s impassive face.



“Ava?”, Beatrice says softly, closing the door behind her.

Ava’s eyes flick towards her, then back to the screen, “What?”

Beatrice comes to sit on the edge of the bed, leaving a respectful space between them. She folds her hands in her lap, her posture open and non-threatening, “Can we start over? Please?”

This gets Ava’s attention. She mutes the TV and turns her head, a flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

“I am so sorry if I made you feel like I didn’t want you.”, Beatrice continues, “That was never my intention. Ever.” She reaches out slowly, offering her hand, palm up, on the duvet between them. An invitation. “Whatever you’re holding back, whatever is making you push me away, you can tell me. I’m not going to judge you. I just want to understand what’s hurting you.”

Beatrice’s words, her open hand, the raw, unshielded love in her eyes- it acts like a key. It slips past the cold, invasive presence, past the defensiveness and the anger, and finds the real Ava, buried deep beneath the hurt.

Ava’s breath hitches. The cold, detached mask shatters. Her eyes, which had been so hard and dismissive, well up with tears that spill over instantly. She doesn’t understand the storm inside her, only that Beatrice’s warmth is the only solid thing in the world. Her hand trembles, as she reaches out and takes Beatrice’s, her grip desperate.


Beatrice is there in an instant, surging forward to wrap her in a crushing embrace, “Ava, honey, what’s wrong?”, she whispers into her hair.

“It hurts.”, Ava chokes out, her voice a broken sob against Beatrice’s shoulder, “It hurts, it hurts, it hurts.” She clings to her, weeping uncontrollably, as weeks of bottled-up pain and confusion finally break free.

Beatrice holds her, rocking her gently, murmuring soft, reassuring nonsense until the storm of sobs begins to subside into shaky, ragged breaths.

“I… I don’t know what’s happening to me.”, Ava finally whispers, her voice hoarse, “It’s like… I’m feeling every fight we’ve had all over again, all at once. And the crushing loneliness of the dream realm. It’s all just… hurting.”

Beatrice pulls back just enough to cup her face, her thumbs wiping away tears. “The Halo’s metamorphosis… Do you think it’s connected? That it’s amplifying everything? Making it physical?”


In that moment of clarity, with the invasive presence momentarily silenced by Beatrice’s love, the final, terrifying piece of the puzzle clicks into place in Ava’s mind.


“My powers.”, she breathes, her eyes widening in horror, “Bea my powers. They’re back. All of them. Phasing, levitation- they’ve been back since that dream.”

The confession is rushed, panicked, “I don’t know why I didn’t tell you! I was going to today, but then I just… I couldn’t. It was like something was stopping me, making me keep it a secret.”


Beatrice's mind, already working at a frantic pace, latches onto the key detail, “That dream.”, she says, her voice intense, “Ava, what happened in that dream? Tell me everything.”

The question acts like a trigger. The memory of the obsidian figure, the bound Beatrice, the desperate fight, floods back with perfect, chilling clarity, “It was there.”, Ava whispers, the terror fresh in her eyes. “The Infernus. It had a form. It had you and it hurt you. To get to me. That’s when my powers came back. I fought it in the dream.”

Beatrice goes perfectly still. The pieces -the strange behaviour, the cruel words, the sudden secrecy about something so monumental- all snap together with a horrifying, final click. Her analytical mind, now freed from the assumption of a purely emotional breakdown, connects the dots with chilling speed.

“Ava.”, Beatrice says, her voice softening but losing none of its urgency. She brings her hands up to cradle her lover’s face, her thumbs stroking her cheeks, “Listen to me. We need to go back to the Cradle. Right now.”

Ava’s eyes widen, a flicker of fear returning, “Why?”

“Because I think that that thing- the Infernus has possessed you somehow or is operating through your mind, I don’t know- and we need to understand this.”, Beatrice explains, “We need to run tests, see what’s happening. I’ll call Jillian, have her meet us there. She’ll know what to look for.” Seeing the panic in Ava’s eyes, she leans in and presses a firm, reassuring kiss to her lips, “We will figure this out. Together. I promise you.”

She pulls back, her gaze unwavering, a fortress of love and determination, “But we have to go. Now.”

*

The medical bay at the Cradle is not technologically as advanced as Jillian’s pristine Arq-Tech lab, but it serves its purpose. Ava lies on the crisp white sheets of an examination bed, a slightly outdated, but functional electroencephalogram machine humming beside her, its cap of electrodes fitted snugly to her scalp. Wires snake from it to a monitor that displays the jagged, rhythmic lines of her brainwaves.

Beatrice sits on a stool beside the bed, holding Ava’s right hand securely in both of her own, a silent anchor in the sterile environment.

“Alright, Ava.”, Jillian says, her voice calm and professional as she watches the monitor, “I want you to close your eyes. I need you to concentrate. Think back to the dream you had. The one you where you fought the Infernus. Focus on the details.” Beatrice had filled Jillian in. Had given her a rough blueprint to ask her questions around.

Ava closes her eyes, her brow furrowing in concentration. The lines on the monitor spike and dance, showing clear, heightened activity.

“Good.”, Jillian comments, “Now, I want you to shift your focus. Think about the last few hours. Your argument with Beatrice. The drive to the hotel. Your behaviour. Try to recall your thoughts and feelings.”

Ava’s face goes slack. The brainwave patterns on the screen don’t shift into the complex patterns of memory recall. Instead, they flatten ominously, then erupt into a chaotic, frantic spike before settling into a strange, rhythmic pattern that is utterly unlike the normal resting state.


Her eyes flutter open. She turns her head on the pillow, her gaze finding Beatrice’s. Her expression is one of pure, unadulterated confusion and fear.


“I... I can’t.”, she whispers, her voice small, “Bea, I don’t... I don’t remember much of it at all. It’s all just... fog.”


“Jillian.”, Beatrice says, her voice tight, “Could you give us a moment, please?”

“Of course.”, Jillian replies, her professional mask giving way to a look of deep concern. She quietly exits the room, closing the door behind her, watching them from a safe distance outside the room, her arms crossed in front of her chest.

The moment they’re alone, Beatrice leans closer, her grip on Ava’s hand tightening, “Ava, what is the last thing you remember clearly?”

“The dream last night.”, Ava whispers, her eyes wide and scared, “Waking up from it, you holding me. And then... I felt off in the morning- the last clear memory of today is us in the hotel room, when I broke down and you held me. Everything in between is just... blank. Or it feels like it happened to someone else. I can’t remember the details, just feelings.”

Beatrice’s blood runs cold. It has been controlling her almost all day. She takes a steadying breath, “Alright… so today, you came into the strategy room and kissed me in front of Dora. It was very unlike you and you were pressing on about wanting to join them for their Copenhagen mission. Then, later…”, Beatrice wets her lips, the memory of Ava’s demanding touch that set her on fire feels dirty now, “I found you in your old room at the Cradle, you were just there... And you- You tried to-”, she can’t meet Ava’s eyes anymore.

“I tried to… what?”, Ava’s eyes grow wide, “Did I hurt you?”

“No! But we were kissing and you were about to undress me and… if Camila hadn’t interrupted us, I probably would have slept with you.”

Ava stares at her, the colour draining from her face. The confusion in her eyes ignites, transforming into a hot, furious horror, “No.”, she breathes, letting go of Beatrice’s hand. The thought of that... thing... using her body, her hands, her voice to touch Beatrice is a violation so profound, it eclipses everything else, “It touched you.”, she snarls, the words laced with a possessive, protective rage, “It used me to touch you.”

“It’s alright, Ava, nothing happened-”, Beatrice tries to soothe her.

“It’s not fine!” The words are a raw, guttural cry. Ava recoils, scrambling back on the bed until her shoulders hit the raised backrest, putting physical distance between them, as if she herself is the contaminant. Ava looks down at her own hands with utter revulsion, “It’s in my head. It’s in my body.”

The violation is absolute. It’s a psychic rape, a theft of her autonomy, her intimacy, her very self. The thought of that vile, empty thing pretending to be her, laying its claim on Beatrice… 

Her voice trembles with a nauseating horror, “It used my hands to touch you. It used my mouth to kiss you. It’s inside me, and I didn’t even know.”

As the words tear from her, a flicker of crimson light glows from the Halo scar on her back, staining the white walls of the medical bay. She doesn’t even seem to notice. Her body suddenly goes rigid on the bed. Then, defying gravity, she levitates, rising a foot into the air, held aloft by the red, furious energy.

She hangs there, perfectly still and silent for a terrifying moment, her eyes wide and unseeing.

Then, a wisp of black smoke, like concentrated nothingness, is violently expelled from her chest. It hovers in the air for a split second, a shrieking, silent void, before vanishing completely.

The red glow from the Halo winks out. Ava drops back onto the bed with a soft thud, her eyes fluttering closed, as she falls into a deep, immediate unconsciousness.

Beatrice can only stare in horror.


The Infernus is gone. For now. 

But the memory of its presence, and the terrifying red power of Ava’s rage, is seared into her mind.

Chapter Text

Ava’s eyes flutter open. The first thing she registers is the familiar, cool linen of the pillowcase in the Cradle’s infirmary. As she shifts, some memories return. Not as a fog, but as a dam breaking.


She sees herself, leaning against the doorframe of Mother Superion’s office, her posture languid, almost insolent.

“I have been meaning to ask... how are you and Beatrice? Given that she has not yet answered your proposal.”

She had shrugged, a loose, careless motion that feels utterly foreign to her now, “It’s fine.”

“Just fine?”, Mother Superion’s voice had been soft, laced with a concern that now feels like a warning bell, “The waiting must be difficult.”

“It’s not that big of a deal.” Her own voice echoes in her mind, flat and dismissive, “Marriage is a strange concept anyway. It’s just a piece of paper. A performance for other people. The formalities are… redundant.”

The memory is a punch to the gut, followed by a wave of nausea. She had spoken about the most profound commitment she could imagine -about binding her life to Beatrice’s in front of their found family- as if it were a bureaucratic hassle. She had reduced the future she desperately wanted to a triviality.

But the memory doesn’t stop there. She remembers the stunned silence on Mother Superion’s face, the way her wise, weary eyes had narrowed just a fraction. 

“Why are you away so much lately?”

“My responsibilities extend beyond the Cradle. There are matters that require my attention.”

“Tying up loose ends?”, she had suggested, her head tilting with a predator’s curiosity, “So Camila can step in?”

She remembers Mother Superion going very still. The air in the office had thickened. “The transition of leadership is a process.”

“You’re worried she won’t live up to expectation when you’re gone?”

“It is a weighty role. However, I am not stepping down yet, Ava.”

“I see...” Her own whisper, cold and knowing, slither through the memory, “But you’re worried she’ll fail, right?”

The memory is a punch to the gut. She feels the alien coldness that had wrapped around her own heart.

The memories keep coming, a relentless, horrifying tide.

Now, she was in the strategy room. She sees herself walk in, her movements too fluid, too sure. She sees Beatrice, beautiful and focused, leaning over a map with Dora. And then she sees her own body move, crossing the space without hesitation.

She watches the memory unfold, a ghost in her own life. She sees herself cup Beatrice’s face -Beatrice’s face- and kiss her.

Right there. In front of Dora.

A fresh wave of shame, hot and acidic, burns through her. She would never. Not out of shame, but out of a deep, abiding respect for Beatrice, for the sacred space this had once been for her, for the simple, private sanctity of their love. It was a line they had silently agreed upon, a boundary woven from understanding. And she had vaulted over it without a second thought.

But as the memory plays out, a new, chilling understanding filters through the shame. She could feel it now, the echo of the Infernus’ intent, a cold residue left in the grooves of the memory.

It hadn’t just been a random act of disrespect. It was a probe. A test.

As she had kissed Beatrice, the entity lurking within her had been hyper-aware. It wasn’t feeling the softness of Beatrice’s lips or the love in her response. It was monitoring Beatrice’s reaction- the surprise, the slight stiffening, the flustered recovery. It was studying the social dynamics, the ripple of tension it caused with Dora. It was learning how to manipulate their world, using her body as its puppet.

And then, her own voice in the memory, dismissive and sharp: “I’m faster than their little scanner toys anyway.”

The intention behind the words is what makes her shudder. It wasn’t just arrogance. It was a challenge. A declaration of her restored abilities, thrown down not by her, but through her. The Infernus had been pushing, needling, trying to force a situation where her powers would be revealed. It wanted to see the halo bearer in action. It wanted to assess the strength of the weapon it needed to either break or usurp.

It had used her love as a tool and her power as a bargaining chip, all while wearing her skin. The violation was not just personal; it was strategic. He had been conducting reconnaissance from behind her eyes.

The memories shift, turning darker, more purposeful. The strategy room blurs, and she is back in the hidden chamber, standing over the chest that held the Crown of Thorns.

She sees her own hand reach for the plain, dark circlet. Not with reverence, but with a cold, utilitarian resolve. It was a useless relic. A dead end. It should be destroyed.

A phantom pain, sharp and clean, lances through her palm. Instinctively, Ava’s eyes snap down to her hand on the infirmary bed, half expecting to see a blister. The skin is flawless, but the memory of the burn is a brand on her soul.

The Crown had rejected the thing inside her. It had fought back.

And she, the Infernus wearing her will, had responded not with awe, but with fury. She sees herself slam the lid shut, the finality of the gesture echoing in the stone room.


Hide it. Get it away.

“No…”, Ava whispers.

In a sudden, violent motion, she throws the infirmary sheets aside and swings her legs over the edge of the bed. Her body feels both heavy and alien, a vessel that had been commandeered.

She has to see. She has to know.

She stumbles out of the room and into the corridor, her bare feet silent on the cold stone. Her focus, a laser, aimed at one destination: her old room.

“Ava!”

Beatrice’s voice, sharp with alarm, cuts through her single-minded haze. She and Jillian were standing just outside the infirmary door, clearly in a hushed, intense conversation. They both stare at her, their faces a mixture of shock and concern.

“Ava, what are you doing? You need to rest!”, Beatrice takes a step toward her, her hand outstretched.

Ava doesn’t stop. She doesn’t even look at them. She just keeps walking, a sleepwalker drawn by a terrible magnet.

“Where are you going?”, Jillian calls after her, her tone laced with scientific curiosity and growing unease.

But Ava is already turning the corner, her pace quickening into a frantic jog. She hears their footsteps following, their voices calling her name, but it is all distant noise. She bursts into her old room, the place where the ultimate violation had almost occurred.

She falls to her knees beside the bed, her fingers scrambling beneath the frame, scraping against the stone until they close around the rough wood of the chest. She drags it out, the weight of it a tangible proof of her transgression.

Beatrice and Jillian skid to a halt in the doorway, breathless.

“Ava, what is that?”, Beatrice asks, her voice trembling.

“The Crown.”, Ava gasps, her chest heaving. She looks up, her eyes wide with a horrified clarity, “I- it took it.”

With a decisive click, she unlocks the chest and throws the lid open.

There, on its bed of faded velvet, lies the Crown. It is the same plain, unadorned circlet of dark, aged wood. Inert. Dormant. Just as it had been when they’d tested it before.

Ava whispers, her voice raw, “It tried to make me destroy it. But it couldn’t. The Crown burned me when I tried to touch it. So it hid it. Here.” She is explaining the Infernus’s failure.

Driven by a need for a tangible connection, to prove to herself that the relic was still intact, despite the violation, she reaches into the chest. Her fingers, remembering the phantom burn, hesitate for a fraction of a second, before gently brushing the dark, silent wood.


The moment her skin makes contact, the Crown erupts.


It is a violent, glorious awakening. The plain wood writhes in her grasp, intricate, razor-sharp thorns bursting from its surface as if they had been held in stasis for centuries. A fierce, celestial gold light blazes from within it, illuminating her face with the intensity of a miniature sun.

Beatrice gasps, stumbling back a step, her hand flying to her mouth.

Jillian stands frozen, her analytical mind utterly overwhelmed by the sheer metaphysical force of what she was witnessing.

Ava recoils, snatching her hand back with a sharp inhale, not from pain, but from sheer, awe-struck shock.

She stares at her own hand, then back at the Crown, now inert again in the open chest.

The Crown of Thorns was alive, which meant Ava’s Halo metamorphosis was complete. 

The celestial light is gone, but the room feels charged, the air itself vibrating with the echo of power. Ava remains on her knees, staring at the now dormant crown, her breathing still ragged.

Slowly, tentatively, Beatrice approaches. She doesn’t speak. She simply kneels beside Ava and places a gentle, grounding hand on her shoulder.

Ava flinches at the contact, a tiny, involuntary spasm that screams of her fractured sense of self. But she doesn’t pull away. She takes a shuddering breath, then reaches out and closes the lid of the chest with a soft, final thud. The lock clicks back into place.

She picks it up and holds it out to Beatrice. “Hide it.”, she whispers, her voice hoarse, “Somewhere safe. And don’t… don’t tell me where.”

Beatrice’s brow furrows in immediate protest. “Ava, I don’t think-”

“Please, Bea.”, Ava’s eyes are desperate, pleading, “Just do it. Now.”

The raw need in her voice brooks no argument. Beatrice swallows her concern and gives a single, solemn nod. She takes the heavy chest, her fingers brushing Ava’s. Seeking to offer one more fragment of comfort, she leans in and presses a soft, lingering kiss to Ava’s cheek.

Ava recoils again, just a little, a barely perceptible shift away from the intimacy. The gesture, once a source of solace, now feels like a reminder of the violation. Beatrice’s heart aches, but she says nothing, simply straightening up. Jillian is still a witness in the doorway.

“I’ll be right back.”, Beatrice murmurs, and carries the chest out into the hall, Jillian following and closing the door to give Ava privacy.

In the corridor, Beatrice turns to Jillian, her mind already shifting to logistics, “Take it.”, she says, her voice low and firm, “To Madrid. Run tests on it. Keep it safe. But first, we need to get approval from Mother Superion.”

“What needs her approval?”, Camila’s voice is calm, as she approaches them, her gaze flicking from Beatrice’s strained face to the chest in her arms, then to Jillian.

Beatrice quickly summarises the event- Ava’s memory, finding the Crown, its reaction to her touch.

Camila listens, her expression thoughtful. She looks at Jillian, a faint, wry smile touching her lips, “That is a very valuable relic, Dr. Salvius. I trust you have a good enough insurance policy in case it gets lost in transit?”

Jillian blinks, momentarily thrown by the joke, then offers a small, understanding smile, “The best that Arq-Tech money can buy.”

Beatrice looks at Camila, who meets her gaze, her tone leaving no room for doubt, “I am approving this. It is my decision.” There is a beat of surprise, but Beatrice simply nods.

Jillian, sensing the shift, gently steers the conversation back, “And you, Beatrice? Will you and Ava be alright?”

Beatrice glances back at the closed door, her expression a mixture of fierce love and profound sorrow, “She just needs some time. We’ll be back in Madrid soon.”

Dr. Salvius nods, and then she and Camila walk toward the reliquary, preparing the Crown for its journey.





Inside the room, another memory unfolds behind Ava’s eyes, not as a vague impression, but in high-definition cruelty. One Beatrice had told her about- but she had held back with the details. It was in that very room she was now kneeling in.

She sees the dim light. She sees Beatrice, her beautiful, steadfast Beatrice, her expression a mix of confusion and burgeoning desire. 

“Are you afraid God is watching? Or are you afraid He’ll see how much you want this? How you don’t belong to Him anymore… you belong to me.”

And she sees her own hands -her hands- reaching out.

But the movements are all wrong. They aren’t her eager, sometimes clumsy, always loving caresses.

These movements are efficient. Clinical.

They aren’t about connection; they’re about claiming. Possessing.

She watches, a prisoner in her own mind, as her fingers make quick, impersonal work of the buttons on Beatrice’s blouse. There is no tenderness in the motion, no reverence as the fabric is parted. It is a violation disguised as intimacy, a theft of a moment that should be sacred. She sees the faint blush on Beatrice’s skin, a response meant for her, being elicited by this... this thing wearing her skin.


The horror is a physical sickness, a cold sweat that breaks out all over her body. Her stomach clenches so violently, she fears she might be sick right there on the stone floor of her former room.

But it continues, she sees herself pulling her own t-shirt up and over her head in one fluid motion, tossing it aside.

“And also, is it a crime that I want to fuck my really hot girlfriend right now?” 

She feels the ghost of Beatrice’s hands, trusting and familiar, sliding up the skin of her back. She feels Beatrice’s fingers find the clasp of her bra. 

And then she feels it- the memory of her own mouth on Beatrice’s chest, the sensation of her own fingers, already working Beatrice’s trousers open.

It wasn’t just that the Infernus had touched Beatrice. It was that it had performed the most intimate script of their love. It had taken the language of their bodies -a language built on years of trust, vulnerability, and adoration- and spoken it with a voice of hollow predation. It had used her hands, her mouth, her skin to manipulate Beatrice’s trust, to lead her to the very brink.

The memory of Beatrice’s soft sigh, the absolute trust in her eyes as she allowed it, is the sharpest knife. That trust had been handed to a monster, and Ava’s own body had been the weapon that betrayed it.

A second, sharper emotion is torn from her, this one laced with a self-loathing so profound, it feels like it might erase her entirely. She wraps her arms around herself, as if she could physically hold her contaminated body together, but the feeling of violation is etched into her very bones.

The door opens softly. Beatrice steps back inside, her expression softening, as she expects to find Ava calmer.

Instead, she finds her crumpled on the stone floor, arms wrapped tightly around herself, shaking.


“Ava?”, Beatrice’s voice is a whisper, laced with immediate alarm. She rushes over, kneeling. “What’s wrong? What happened?”

Ava doesn’t look up. She just shakes her head, a tight, miserable motion.

Tentatively, Beatrice reaches out, her hand hovering just above Ava’s shoulder, “Ava, please talk to me.”


“How can you?”, the words are muffled against Ava’s knees, “I remember it now… how can you even look at me, let alone touch me? Let me touch you? After what I did?”

Beatrice’s brow furrows in pained confusion, “What you did? Ava, you didn’t do anything. That wasn’t you. I know that.”

Finally, Ava lifts her head. Her eyes are red-raw, swimming in a sea of torment. She doesn’t look at Beatrice, but at the bed beside them. The silent, damning evidence of the room they are in.

“EXACTLY!”, the word explodes from Ava, sharp and fractured, “It was not me!”


Beatrice flinches back, startled by the vehemence, she sees Ava’s disgust, but there is another emotion, “Ava, do you deem what happened as cheating? Do you think I cheated on you?”

The question seems to break a dam inside Ava, “No! God, no, Bea. I don’t think that. I could never think that.” She shakes her head, tears streaming freely now, “You didn’t know. You were... you were with me. Or what you thought was me. That’s not your fault.”

She wraps her arms tighter around herself, a solitary fortress of shame, “It’s that I... I can’t trust myself with you. How can I ever... how can I ever touch you again without being terrified that some part of it is still in there? That I’ll lose control again? That that thing won’t just infect me again? I don’t trust myself to be safe for you.”

The true horror of her confession settles in the room. It isn’t about blame or infidelity. It’s about Ava seeing herself as a source of danger, a contaminated variable in the equation of their love. She has become afraid of her own capacity to harm the person she loves most, and in doing so, has built a wall out of her own self-loathing.

Beatrice doesn’t try to pull Ava into an embrace. Instead, she shifts from her knees to sit fully on the floor in front of her, mirroring her posture but leaving a careful, intentional space between them. She places her hands palm-up on her own knees, a gesture of openness that asks for nothing.


“My love.”, she says, her voice low and steady, a calm harbour in the storm of Ava’s shame, “Look at me, please.”

It takes a moment, but Ava’s shattered gaze slowly lifts to meet hers.

“I need you to hear this.”, Beatrice continues, holding her eyes intensely, “What happened was not a violation of me. It was a violation of you. It wore your skin and used your voice, but it was an attack on your will, your autonomy. My heart breaks for what it did to you, not for what it pretended to be to me.”

She sees the protest forming in Ava’s eyes and gently presses on, “I understand why you feel you can’t trust yourself. I do. And I will wait. However long it takes for you to feel safe in your own skin again, I will be here. There is no deadline on this.”

She leans forward, just a fraction, pouring every ounce of her conviction into her words, “But you must understand this: you have nothing to be ashamed of. You are a victim of a profound violation, and your feelings are a testament to that. Not a sign of your guilt.”

Beatrice’s voice softens, but loses none of its power, “And you should also know this: even now, after everything, I hold no fear of you. When I look at you, I do not see a weapon. I see the woman I love, who has survived hell yet again. And I am in awe of you.”

Ava’s chin trembles, then she gives a single, minute nod. It’s not acceptance, not yet, but it’s an acknowledgment that she has heard Beatrice’s words. That small movement seems to break the last of her composure, and a fresh wave of tears, silent and hopeless, begins to fall.

“I don’t know… I don’t know how long it will take.”, she chokes out, the words barely audible, “I just… I can’t. The thought of… of touching you, and knowing what it did to you… I can’t.”

“Shhh…”, Beatrice soothes, her own eyes glistening. She doesn’t move from her spot on the floor, a steadfast anchor, “You don’t have to. You don’t have to do anything. There is nothing you need to be or do right now except breathe. I am just happy to be here with you.”

It is the absolute, unearned grace in Beatrice’s voice that finally shatters her completely. The wall of self-loathing crumbles under the weight of a love that asks for nothing in return.

A ragged, broken sob is torn from Ava’s chest. She curls in on herself, wrapping her arms around her head as if to block out the world, or perhaps to contain the storm within.

“I’m so sorry, Bea.”, she weeps, the apology a raw, guttural thing, repeated like a mantra into her knees, “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.”

It isn’t an apology for what the Infernus did. It is an apology for the fracture it left inside her. An apology for the distance she now needs. An apology for the long, difficult road she fears lies ahead of them. It is an apology for being broken, and for not knowing how to be whole again for the woman who loves her.

Then, a new image, one Beatrice hadn’t described, slams into her with the force of a physical blow.

She sees herself in the elevator. She sees her own body, her own face in a reflection, but it’s a cruel mask. She shoves Beatrice -her Beatrice- against the wall. She feels the jarring impact through her own hands.

She hears her own voice, dripping with a contempt that makes her nauseous.

“Oh really? At the convent, you had the excuse of its ‘sanctity’. What is it now? You don’t like the elevator music?”

The words were a meticulously aimed weapon, designed to hit Beatrice where she is most vulnerable- her past, her faith, her deeply held sense of propriety and the complex journey she’s taken to reconcile it with her love for Ava. It wasn’t just an attempt to touch her; it was an attempt to break her, to poison the very foundations of their relationship with mockery and spite.

A final, broken whimper escapes Ava. The memories are too much. The violation is too complete. It wasn’t just her body that was used as a weapon; it was her voice, her knowledge of Beatrice’s soul, all turned into instruments of torture.

She can’t form words anymore. The repeated “I’m sorry” dies in her throat, replaced by the silent, shuddering agony of complete psychological overwhelm. She rocks slightly on the floor, lost in the horrifying gallery of memories, each one proving her point: she is a danger. She is a conduit for pain.

And the person she loves most is the one who could get hurt.

*

A few days later, Ava lies on the bed in her old room at the Cradle, staring at the ceiling. The silence is a heavy blanket, preferable to the noise in her own head. She had asked Beatrice for space, to stay in this room alone- officially to be sure the Infernus was truly gone, a justification that held a sliver of truth. The larger, more shameful truth was that she couldn’t bear the weight of Beatrice’s infinite patience, the love that looked at her brokenness and didn’t flinch. It felt like a spotlight on all her cracks.

A soft knock echoes in the quiet room.

“Come in.”, Ava says, her voice flat.

The door opens and Beatrice steps inside. She looks tired, the strain of the past days evident in the slight tightness around her eyes, but her posture is as composed as ever. She holds a small tray with a bowl of soup and a glass of water.

“I brought you some lunch.”, Beatrice says, her tone carefully neutral. She places the tray on the small desk, “Camila mentioned you skipped breakfast.”

“I wasn’t hungry.”, Ava mumbles, still looking at the ceiling.

“You need to keep your strength up.” Beatrice’s voice is gentle, but there’s an underlying thread of worry she can’t fully hide. She hovers for a moment, her hands clasped tightly in front of her, a soldier standing at ease in a war zone of the heart, “How are you feeling today?”

“The same.”, Ava answers. It’s the same exchange they’ve had for days. A painful, stilted dance around the chasm between them.

Beatrice nods, accepting the answer. She takes a slow, quiet breath, as if steadying herself for a difficult manoeuvre, “Ava… I need to return to Madrid. There are meetings scheduled, project reviews I can’t conduct virtually. My presence is required.”

Ava’s eyes finally slide from the ceiling to look at her.

Beatrice meets her gaze, her own eyes full of a complex, aching tenderness, “I am asking, if you would like to come home with me.”

Ava’s breath catches. The thought of being in that space with her, of trying to navigate the ghost of their old life, is terrifying.

The question has been asked. It isn’t a demand. It’s an offering. 

An invitation back into their shared life, with the unspoken promise that all the boundaries Ava needs, will be respected. But it’s also a test. A measure of whether the fracture has begun to heal, even a little.

It is the hardest question Ava has ever been asked.

The silence stretches, thin and fragile. Ava’s gaze drops from Beatrice’s face to the worn stone floor, unable to bear the hopeful tenderness she sees there.

“When…”, Ava starts, her voice rough. She clears her throat, “When will you leave?”

The pronoun hangs in the air, a deliberate omission. You. Not we. Beatrice’s carefully maintained composure wavers for a second, a flicker of disappointment crossing her features, before she masters it. She had offered a bridge, and Ava had just pointed out that they were standing on opposite banks.

“Tomorrow, before noon.”, Beatrice replies, her voice a little tighter now, the professional facade firmly back in place.

She clasps her hands behind her back, a classic Beatrice gesture of containing emotion, “If… if you feel you need to stay here longer, that is perfectly alright. I can come back for you. Whenever you’re ready. Or arrange for a car. Whatever you prefer. I absolutely understand. I’ll come by tomorrow morning… to say good bye.”

The formality of the offer, the retreat into logistics, is its own kind of pain. It’s the sound of Beatrice building a respectful, sorrowful distance because that is what Ava is asking for.

Ava finally looks up again. Seeing the careful, wounded neutrality on Beatrice’s face -the love being held at bay- unlocks a different kind of ache. It isn’t the sharp horror of violation, but the dull, constant throb of causing pain to the person she loves most.

Her own walls soften just a fraction.

“I think…”, Ava whispers, her vulnerability stark in the quiet room, “I think I’d like to stay. For a bit longer. If… if that’s okay?”

The question, so small and uncertain, is the first real thread she has offered back. It’s not a ‘no.’ It’s a ‘not yet.’

And for Beatrice, that is enough. The professional stiffness melts from her shoulders, replaced by a deep, weary softness. The disappointment is still there, but it’s overshadowed by a flood of protective love.

“Of course it’s okay.”, Beatrice says, her voice warm and sure once more, no longer hiding the emotion behind a wall, “There is no rush. You stay as long as you need. I’ll be just a phone call away.”

It’s a promise. A lifeline. And for the first time in days, it feels like something other than the memory of the violation exists in the space between them. 

It feels like hope.



*

The following morning, Ava waits in the courtyard. She watches the familiar car -their car- pull through the Cradle’s main gate and come to a stop. Her heart gives a familiar, complicated lurch as Beatrice steps out, dressed for travel in sleek trousers and a sleeveless vest, ready for business. Ever since taking on a corporate job, Beatrice’s wardrobe had changed drastically. Ava takes it all in, all of her lover and her beauty against the Spanish sun.

Beatrice’s gaze finds her immediately, a soft, hesitant smile touching her lips. “What are you doing outside?”, she asks, a simple observation laced with gentle surprise.

“I wanted to see you off.”, Ava says, her voice quiet but clear. She gestures vaguely down a path that wound away from the main building, toward the quieter gardens, “Will you… walk with me for a bit?”

“Of course.”, Beatrice replies without hesitation.

They walk in a silence that is less strained than it has been the previous days, the morning birdsong filling the space between them. After a few moments, Ava stops, turning to face her.

“I just… I wanted to say it again. I’m sorry. For not being ready to come home with you.”

Instinctively, moved by the raw sincerity in Ava’s voice, Beatrice forgets their unspoken agreement. She reaches out, her hand coming to rest on Ava’s shoulder in a brief, comforting squeeze, “Ava, you have nothing to-”

She freezes mid-sentence, her eyes widening slightly, as she realises her transgression, bracing for the recoil, the flinch, the pained withdrawal.

It doesn’t come.

Ava doesn’t flinch. She doesn’t pull away. She simply stands there, accepting the touch. Her eyes hold Beatrice’s, and in them is a profound, weary gratitude.

Beatrice’s breath catches. The meaning of this simple, non-reaction is louder than any words. She lets her hand fall back to her side, her own eyes shimmering with emotion.

“You have nothing to be sorry for.”, Beatrice finishes, her voice thick with a hope she hasn’t dared to feel in days, “Nothing at all. I’ll wait for you. For as long as it takes.”

Ava offers her a small, genuine smile- the first one Beatrice has seen in what feels like an eternity. It’s a fragile thing, but it’s real.

“I know.”, Ava whispers, “Thank you for waiting.”

There is a brief pause, filled only by the distant hum of a bee and the beat of her own heart. Ava’s gaze drops to the ground for a second, then returns to Beatrice’s, filled with a vulnerable, determined hope.


“Bea?”, she asks, her voice barely more than a breath, “Can I... can I hug you?”

The question is so simple, yet it holds the weight of days of agony and self-doubt. It is Ava, tentatively reaching across the distance she herself had demanded, asking to reclaim a piece of their normal.

Beatrice’s answer is immediate, her voice soft and full of unwavering certainty, “Yes. Always.”

She opens her arms, an invitation, but doesn’t move, allowing Ava to close the final space herself.

And Ava does. She steps forward, slowly, and wraps her arms around Beatrice, burying her face in the familiar curve of her neck. Beatrice’s arms come up around her, holding her securely, but without the desperate tightness of before. It is not a clutch born of fear, but an embrace of homecoming.

“I love you.”, Ava speaks against her skin, the words a soft, solid truth in the space between them.

Beatrice’s eyes flutter closed. She breathes in deeply, the scent of Ava’s hair and the simple, profound reality of her in her arms filling her lungs like a prayer she’d forgotten how to speak.

“I love you too.”, she whispers into Ava’s hair, her voice thick with emotion, her arms tightening just enough to convey the depth of that love, a promise held in the quiet of the morning, “So much.”

Chapter Text

Ava sits beside Camila at the head of the table, with Yasmine, Dora, and Father Vincent forming a semicircle. The large monitor on the wall shows Beatrice, crisp and professional in her home office in Madrid.

A familiar warmth flutters in Ava’s chest. Home. That was the chair she’d drape herself over, interrupting Beatrice’s work with a dramatic sigh until she earned a patient, amused glance. It was the chair she’d spun around countless times to capture Beatrice’s lips in a kiss that started as a soft hello and often, inevitably, deepened into something more. The sight of it now, with Beatrice looking so composed, sends a sweet, aching pang through her.


“It’s been over two weeks.”, Camila begins, tapping her stylus against her tablet, “No sightings. No energy spikes. No psychological intrusions. It’s a pattern of nothing.”

“A welcome pattern.”, Father Vincent adds, though his tone is cautious, “Perhaps Ava’s… expulsion of the entity was more final than we thought. The display of power was considerable.”

On the screen, Beatrice’s brow is furrowed in thought, “We have never witnessed such a power emitted from the Halo. It’s not outside the realm of possibility that the Halo’s reaction was lethal to a being of its nature.”

“No.”, Ava says, her voice quiet but firm, cutting through the budding hope. All eyes turn to her. “Reya was explicit. We can’t kill it here. At best, we wounded it. Drove it deep underground. But it’s not gone.”

A heavy silence follows her correction. It is Dora who breaks it, her voice pragmatic and grim. “Or it knows exactly how to defeat us now. It has been inside Ava’s head. It knows our strengths, our weaknesses, how we think. Maybe it’s not hiding. Maybe it’s just preparing in the shadows.”

A shared, uneasy look passes between everyone in the room and over the video link. The theory feels terrifyingly plausible.

“Which is why we cannot be complacent.”, Camila states, shifting the conversation back to action. “Our strategy remains the same. Research, vigilance. And-”, she adds, turning to Ava, “We need to get you back up to speed. Your combat skills are rusty, and with your powers fully active, you’re a primary target. We can’t have the Warrior Nun -however unofficial the title is right now- be unprepared for other threats while we wait for this one to resurface.”

Ava gives a single, resolved nod. The idea of training, of reclaiming her own body through disciplined action instead of fearing it, feels like a necessary step.



When the strategic discussion winds down, Ava looks directly at the screen, “Beatrice? Can you hold the line for a minute?”


Beatrice’s professional demeanor softens instantly, “Of course.”

Understanding passes through the room. Camila gives a small, encouraging smile, Yasmine gathers her notes, and Dora claps Ava lightly on the shoulder as she stands, “We’ll be in the archives.”, Camila says, and the team files out, leaving Ava alone in the quiet room with Beatrice’s image.

For a long moment, they just look at each other. The digital connection hums, carrying the weight of everything unsaid.



“Have you eaten today?”, Beatrice finally asks, her voice soft, the question a familiar anchor.

A faint, loving smile touches Ava’s lips, “Yes, I have.”

Another beat of silence, charged and tender.

“I miss you.”, Ava whispers, the words simple and devastatingly true, “Terribly.”

“Yeah?”, Beatrice breathes, her own voice thick.

“Yeah.”, Ava confirms, her gaze unwavering.

They linger in the quiet, the space between them feeling both vast and intimate. Ava’s gaze drifts from Beatrice’s eyes, trailing slowly, deliberately, down to her lips on the screen. She doesn’t remember the last time they had kissed. When it wasn’t the Infernus.


“I wish you were here.”, Ava says, the admission soft but clear, a deliberate step across the new boundary they are building.

The statement catches Beatrice off guard. 

Ava continues, her voice a little stronger, “I’m not... I’m not ready to come home yet. But... would you be willing to come see me? Here? Maybe just for-”

“Yes.”, Beatrice interrupts, the word rushing out, fervent and immediate, “Yes, I could come on Saturday, if you want. I could be there by lunch time.”

Ava simply nods, a slow, deep sense of relief and rightness settling in her chest, “Okay. Yes, I would love that.”


And they fall silent again, just staring, the promise of Saturday a new, shining bridge across the distance.

*

The soft thud of bare feet on mats and the sharp exhale of breaths are the only sounds in the Cradle’s training hall. Ava pivots, deflecting a jab from Dora with her forearm, the movement swift and efficient. She follows up with a low sweep that Dora has to leap back to avoid.

Dora lands, a grin spreading across her face. She shakes out her hands, “Okay, Silva. You’re better than last time. A lot better. Your footwork isn’t a disaster anymore.”

Ava bounces lightly on the balls of her feet, a real, unburdened smile on her face, “Well, this time I have all my powers back. The Halo comes with a built-in combat upgrade.”

Dora snorts, circling her, “So it’s not talent, then. It’s just the metal in your back doing all the work.”

They both laugh, the sound easy and bright in the spacious hall. The tension that has plagued the Cradle for weeks seems to lift, if only for a moment, replaced by the simple, honest exertion of a sparring match.

As Ava straightens up, still catching her breath, her eyes catch a movement at the edge of the hall. Camila stands in the doorway, her arms crossed, a fond but unreadable expression on her face.

She has been watching them.


Ava gives her a small, panting wave. Camila’s response is a slow, deliberate nod. Then, without a word, she tilts her head slightly toward the corridor behind her, her gaze locking with Ava’s in a clear, silent command.


Follow me.


The easy camaraderie of the sparring session evaporates. Ava’s smile fades. She turns back to Dora, “I, uh… I think I’m being summoned.”

Dora follows her gaze and gives a shrug, “Duty calls. Good session, Silva.”

“Yeah.”, Ava says, her mind already shifting gears, “You too.”

She grabs her towel, wipes her face, and heads toward the door, the playful energy replaced by a low thrum of anticipation. Whatever Camila needed, it wasn’t just to chat.

Ava follows Camila out of the training hall and into the cool, dim silence of the stone corridor. She immediately notices the change in her friend’s demeanor. Camila’s steps are deliberate and measured, her posture straighter, more contained. The easy camaraderie that once defined their interactions is muted, replaced by a quiet, inward-focused intensity. The weight of leadership, however temporary, has settled upon her shoulders, and it shows.

Camila leads them to a small, secluded alcove off the main hallway before turning to face Ava. Her expression is serious.

“You’re getting your form back.”, she begins, her voice calm and analytical, “That’s good. But physical training is only one part of it.” She meets Ava’s gaze squarely, “You need to try channeling the Halo’s power again. Like you and Beatrice used to. You need to be in sync with it, now that it’s an active part of you again.”

Ava feels a flicker of unease at the thought. The memory of the red, furious light was still too fresh.

“Channeling strong, positive emotion was always the key.”, Camila continues, as if reading her hesitation, “It is more than just a weapon now. It is defence.” She pauses, letting the words sink in, “A fortified mind, a spirit lit from within by its own power… that might be the strongest shield we have against the Infernus trying to get inside your head again. Just as a precaution.”

Ava nods slowly, absorbing the tactical sense in Camila’s words. The logic is sound, but it’s the delivery that strikes her- the clinical distance, the burdened stillness. This isn’t the Camila who would sit with her in the courtyard and talk about the latest book they had read.


“Okay…”, Ava says softly, “I can try that.” She hesitates for a moment, studying her friend’s face, “Cam are you alright? You seem… Is something bothering you?”

For a fraction of a second, something unreadable flickers in Camila’s eyes, there and gone too fast to decipher. Then, her composure solidifies into something serene and impenetrable. She offers a small, polite smile that doesn’t reach her eyes.

“There is nothing for you to worry about.”, she says, her voice even and final.

Before Ava can form another question, Camila turns and walks away, her footsteps echoing with a quiet, purposeful finality down the stone corridor, leaving Ava alone with a new, different kind of unease settling in her gut.

*

The sound of Ava’s controlled breathing is the only one that fills the training hall. For two days she has been doing what Camila had asked her to. The results were... astonishing.

She stands in the centre, her eyes closed, hands held palms-up before her. A soft, golden light emanates from her, pulsing in time with her heartbeat. It is the light of peace, of connection.

Sister Anya hovers by the doorway for a moment before stepping inside. “I see the light…”, she says softly, not wanting to startle her. She remembers that golden radiance from the preparations for the Umbral War, turned into a beacon in the final, desperate battle. “Are you back to your old powers again?”

Ava opens her eyes, a small, knowing smile on her lips, “Not exactly the old ones.” She focuses, and the gentle glow shifts. It fractures, reaching out from her not in a wave, but in delicate, shimmering filaments of light, like a spiderweb made of sunlight. One of the threads gently brushes against Anya’s arm.

The sensation is not an invasion, but an offering. Anya gasps softly as a wave of pure, sisterly affection washes over her, a profound sense of pride in the warrior she has become, and a fierce, protective love that is uniquely Ava’s. It is overwhelming and beautiful, bringing unexpected tears to her eyes.

The light recedes, and Ava looks at her, a mix of awe and uncertainty on her own face, “I can do more than before.”, she confesses, her voice hushed. “It’s weird. I hadn’t done it in so long, but now... I can consciously make people feel things, not just as a byproduct of channeling the emotions, but on its own. I’ve even been trying it on myself.” She hugs her own arms, a vulnerable gesture. “To... you know. Overcome things.”

Anya is silent for a long moment, the echo of Ava’s love still warm in her chest. She steps closer, her voice gentle, “Do you need to talk about it?”

Ava’s gaze drops to the floor. She doesn’t look at Anya, when she speaks, the words quiet. “I don’t need to give you the details. But... it felt like a total loss of control. Like my body, my voice, my hands... they weren’t mine anymore. They were a weapon turned against the person I love most.”

She finally meets Anya’s eyes, and the pain in them is a raw, open wound. “That’s what I’m trying to overcome. The feeling that I can’t trust my own skin.”

Anya doesn’t offer empty platitudes. She simply closes the distance and pulls Ava into a firm, steady hug. “Your skin is yours, Ava.”, she whispers into her hair. “ It always has been. And we will help you remember that, for as long as it takes.”

Ava melts into the embrace, the golden light around her flickering once, not with power, but with gratitude.

*

Saturday arrives, warm and heavy with the intense, dry heat of a Spanish August. Ava waits in the same spot in the courtyard, the sun baking the stones. She watches the familiar gunmetal grey car turn through the gate, a plume of dust kicking up behind it.

The car stops, and Beatrice steps out. She’s dressed in light linen trousers and a simple t-shirt, a pair of sleek sunglasses perched on her nose. A fine sheen of sweat glistens on her temples from the drive. She looks effortlessly, devastatingly beautiful. In her hands, she holds two large paper bags, seemingly full of groceries or supplies.

Ava’s heart hammers against her ribs, a frantic, joyful rhythm. She meets her halfway, forcing her steps to be measured, stopping a polite distance away. The instinct to launch herself into Beatrice’s arms is a physical ache, but she contains it.


“Hey.”, Ava says, her voice a little breathless.

Beatrice pushes her sunglasses up onto her head, her eyes sweeping over Ava, warm and relieved, “Hey, yourself.”

The moment stretches, thick with unspoken words and the promise of the weekend. Ava just looks at her, truly looks, and for the first time, the thought that surfaces isn’t I am a danger to her. It’s a simple, overwhelming wave of God, I’ve missed her. The feeling is so pure and untainted, it nearly steals her breath.

The spell is broken by the main door swinging open.

“Beatrice! I didn’t know you were coming!”, Isabelle calls out, her cheerful voice cutting through the quiet. She jogs over, pulling Beatrice into a quick, friendly hug.

“Ah, so Ava didn’t fill you guys in?”, Beatrice asks half-jokingly, returning the hug with her free arm, “I had some things to bring.” She gestures with the bags.

Isabelle beams, “Are you staying the night?”

“I, uh… I have a room in the village.”, she says, her voice dropping, matching Ava’s gaze, “But I will stay here on the grounds for a bit.”

Ava feels a small, surprising jolt. Of course. The thought arrives with a mix of disappointment and sharp understanding. They hadn’t spoken about it. They hadn’t discussed where Beatrice would sleep. 

“Well, perfect timing! We’re about to have lunch. You’ll join us, right?”

“Of course.”, Beatrice says, turning back to Isabelle with a polite smile, “Thank you.”

“Great! See you inside!”, Isabelle says, before heading back towards the building.

As Isabelle disappears, the quiet descends again. Beatrice turns fully to Ava, the polite mask softening into something more private and real.

Ava just looks at her, at the woman who drove the 90 kilometres for her, who is standing in the sweltering heat holding bags of what she knows are all of her favourite snacks, and she feels the last shard of ice around her heart finally melt.

*




Lunch in the refectory is a noisy, cheerful affair. The sisters are clearly delighted to have Beatrice back, even temporarily, and they bombard her with questions about Madrid and her current project at Arq-Tech.


Ava sits opposite her, mostly silent, content to just watch.


She watches the way the August sun, streaming through the high windows, catches Beatrice’s hair. It’s noticeably lighter, streaked with shades of gold and caramel from three weeks of Madrid’s extreme summer sun. She watches the elegant line of Beatrice’s throat as she takes a sip of water, the way her fingers curl around the glass.

A faint, familiar scent -the clean, sophisticated perfume Beatrice always wears- reaches Ava, so subtle, it’s almost subliminal. It’s a ghost of a smell, but it makes Ava’s heart skip a single, hard beat, a Pavlovian response to a sensation she hadn’t realised she’d missed so acutely.

She finds herself cataloging the smallest details, seeing Beatrice anew. The precise way she holds her fork. The thoughtful, almost imperceptible pause, before she answers a complex question from Yasmine. The way she chews, a small, contained motion, her gaze focused and present on the person speaking to her.

Ava isn’t listening to the words of the conversation. She is relearning the scripture of Beatrice. And with every small, rediscovered detail -the sun-bleached hair, the ghost of her perfume, the quiet intensity in her eyes- the world feels a little more right, a little more solid, than it has in weeks.


It’s Dora who, between bites of bread, casually asks the question that suddenly sharpens Ava’s focus to a razor’s edge, “So, Beatrice, are you staying? Not driving back to Madrid tonight, are you?”


Beatrice dabs her mouth with a napkin, “No, I’ve booked a room at a small pensión in Cebreros. It’s not far.”

A pensión. In Cebreros. The confirmation lands with a dull thud. Ava’s eyes snap up from her plate, meeting Beatrice’s across the table.

And Beatrice just smiles. A soft, gentle, understanding smile that is meant to be reassuring.

Ava forces a tight-lipped smile in return, her jaw clenched. A flash of hot, irrational anger sparks in her chest. She didn’t even ask. She just assumed she wouldn’t be welcome here, in my room. The thought is petulant, childish, and she knows it, which only makes her angrier.

But the anger instantly curdles into a wave of self-directed frustration. Of course she didn’t ask. You asked for space. You recoiled from her touch. You told her you couldn’t trust yourself. What did you expect? For her to invite herself into your bed?

Beatrice was being perfectly, painfully respectful. And Ava was furious at her for it, and even more furious at herself for creating the situation where such respect felt like a rejection. The tight-lipped smile remains fixed on her face, a fragile mask over the war raging inside her.

The tense silence around Ava is broken as Anya approaches their end of the table, her expression one of focused curiosity.

“Beatrice, a question about the Wraith detectors…”, Anya begins, leaning a hand on the table, “The sensitivity calibration in Copenhagen was tricky. Isabelle and I found the background energy in the urban environment created a lot of interference. We had to manually adjust the threshold much higher than the default setting. Was that the intended protocol, or were we potentially filtering out weaker signatures?”

Ava watches as Beatrice’s posture shifts instantly into that of the capable scientist, her focus narrowing on the technical problem.

“It’s a known limitation of the current algorithm in dense population centres.”, Beatrice explains, her voice clear and analytical, “The default is calibrated for rural or low energy environments. Manually increasing the threshold was the correct procedure. You were prioritising signal clarity over sensitivity to avoid false positives. I’m working on a new filtering subroutine to better distinguish ambient human emotional energy from a true Wraith’s signature.”

“Right, that makes sense…”, Anya says, nodding as she absorbs the information, “Good to know we didn’t mess it up. Thanks, Beatrice.”

With a final nod to them both, Anya turns and heads off, her question satisfactorily answered.



The space she leaves behind feels suddenly vast and quiet. They are, for the first time since Beatrice arrived, effectively alone at the table. Ava hesitates for a moment, then slowly pushes her chair back and walks the short distance to stand beside Beatrice, the air between them now charged with everything left unsaid over lunch.

Beatrice is a little startled when Ava appears beside her, the movement quiet and unexpected.

“Can we go outside for a minute?”, Ava’s voice is very soft, almost tentative.

A flicker of concern crosses Beatrice’s face, but she simply nods, “Of course.”

They clear their trays in a silence that feels both heavy and fragile, the mundane act grounding them. Once outside, the bright afternoon heat seems to steal the words right from Ava’s mouth. The confidence she’d mustered to ask about the pensión evaporates. Instead, she just starts walking, and Beatrice falls into step beside her, wordlessly following her lead along a shaded garden path.


“So.”, Ava begins, her hands shoved into her pockets, “What have you been up to? Besides... you know. Saving the world’s supply chains.”

Beatrice lets out a soft, almost imperceptible huff of laughter, “Not much else, to be honest. Work. The gym. Sleep. It’s been a very... structured three weeks.”

“Yeah. I get that.”, Ava scuffs her shoe against the gravel, “I’ve been training. With Dora. It’s... it’s getting better. I’m getting better.” She tries for a lighter tone, a hint of her old bravado, “I’m probably gonna be a better fighter than you soon.”

Beatrice doesn’t take the bait for a competition. She just looks ahead, her profile serene, “That is very probable.”, she concedes easily. Then she adds, her voice quiet and matter-of-fact, “But you are the Warrior Nun. Not me.”


The title lands like a physical blow. Ava stops walking, forcing Beatrice to stop and turn to face her.


“Don’t.”, Ava says, her voice low, her gaze intense as it locks with Beatrice’s, “Don’t call me that.”

She wasn’t just rejecting a title; she was rejecting the distance it created between them, the reminder of the burden that had once defined her, and the chasm that now separated the woman she was, from the girl Beatrice had fallen in love with.

Beatrice’s brow furrows slightly, a flicker of confusion in her eyes at the vehemence of Ava’s reaction. She doesn’t understand the weight the title now carries- the echo of the Infernus’s violation, the reminder of a destiny that had once torn them apart. But she sees the pain in Ava’s gaze, and that is enough.

“I’m sorry.”, Beatrice says simply, her voice gentle, yielding without fully comprehending. 

The apology, so quick and accommodating, only fuels Ava’s frustration. This was the problem. This careful, respectful distance. This walking on eggshells. The weird, suffocating tension that had settled between them, where easy familiarity used to live.

“It’s just…”, Ava’s voice drops, the fight going out of her, replaced by a soft, aching earnestness. She looks down at the ground between them, then back up, her eyes pleading for Beatrice to truly see, “I’m not the Warrior Nun. Not to you. I’m… I’m your partner. That’s the only title I want to hold in your world.”

It is a declaration. A desperate, heartfelt attempt to tear down the walls of roles and responsibilities and trauma, and find their way back to the simple, profound truth of us.

Beatrice simply nods, a quiet acceptance of the boundary Ava has drawn. But the nod feels like an ending, not a new beginning. Ava feels the weight of it- the realisation that if this distance was ever going to close, she would have to be the one to take every single first step. And she has no idea how.


“Thank you. For coming to see me.” Ava starts walking again, a slow, aimless pace along the path.

“Of course.”, Beatrice replies, falling into step beside her. There’s a brief, contemplative silence before she offers, her tone carefully practical, “I could… come more often. Maybe every other weekend.”

The suggestion, so logical and yet so measured, catches Ava off guard. It sounds like a schedule. A visitation plan.

“I…”, the word escapes in a rush of air, followed by the unvarnished truth she hadn’t meant to voice, “I had hoped I wouldn’t be staying here that much longer.”

Beatrice stops walking. She doesn’t say anything, but her entire body becomes a question mark, her head tilting, her eyes searching Ava’s face with a mixture of shock and dawning, fragile hope.

Seeing that look, Ava backtracks in a panicked, flustered rush. “I mean- I don’t know. With the OCS… now that my powers are back, I… I agreed to accompany some missions, if they needed me. Camila thinks it’s necessary. But I…”, she takes a shaky breath, her gaze dropping to her hands, “I actually… I think I might want to come home soon.”

For a moment, Beatrice is the one to move first, turning to walk ahead, her steps carrying the weight of Ava’s confession. Home. Ava stays rooted for a single, stunned second, watching the line of Beatrice’s back, before hurrying to catch up.


“The apartment is ready for you whenever you are.”, Beatrice says, her gaze fixed on the path ahead, “I am perfectly fine with waiting as long as it-”


“Beatrice.”


The full name, spoken not in anger but in sheer, fond exasperation, makes Beatrice stop and turn to look at her.

Ava meets her gaze, her eyes pleading, frustrated, and full of a love that felt tangled in too many knots. 

“What?” Beatrice asks, genuinely unsure.

“Why didn’t you just ask me if you could stay with me?”, the question bursts out of Ava, raw and direct, finally cutting through all the unspoken rules and careful politeness.

Beatrice’s composure wavers. She looks down, then back up, her own frustration at the situation bleeding through her usual control, “Because I didn’t want to overstep. I didn’t want to assume. You asked for space, Ava. I was trying to respect that.”

Driven by the need to close this maddening gap, Ava takes a decisive step forward.

And Beatrice, utterly enthralled by her proximity, by the fire in her eyes and the sheer, overwhelming reality of her, takes an involuntary half-step back. It isn’t a rejection. It’s the opposite. It’s the visceral reaction of someone standing too close to a fire, a body bracing against a surge of desire so potent, it threatens to shatter her carefully maintained restraint. She wants to touch her, to pull her in, to kiss her, until the world disappears, and the force of that want is so terrifyingly strong, her only defence is to create a fraction of space, before she loses all control.

Ava freezes, the half-step back feeling like a mile. 

The old, toxic fear, the one the Infernus had planted so deep inside her, rears its head.



“Are you afraid of me?”, Ava’s voice is small, shattered.

The question hangs in the air for a single, horrifying second before Beatrice’s reaction is immediate and vehement. Her eyes widen, and she closes the distance she had just created, her hands coming up as if to grasp Ava’s shoulders, stopping just short of making contact.

“No. Ava, never.”, she says, the word sharp and absolute.

Ava gives a slow, shaky nod, the vehemence in Beatrice’s voice momentarily quieting the demon of doubt. But before either can find the words to bridge the chasm that has just been exposed, Ava’s gaze is drawn over Beatrice’s shoulder.

Dora and a few other sisters are heading in their direction, carrying gardening tools, their laughter and chatter preceding them. The private bubble they had been standing in is about to be popped by the mundane reality of convent life.

The spell is broken. Ava takes a small, reflexive step back, creating a respectable, sisterly distance once more. They are left just staring at each other, the air between them thick with everything that has just been said and everything that remains terrifyingly, desperately unsaid. 

*

Later that afternoon, Beatrice finds a quiet bench on the edge of the training grounds. The air is filled with the sound of clashing staffs and grunts of effort. Her reason for staying, she tells herself, is to observe the OCS’s current combat readiness.

Her eyes, however, never leave Ava.

She is sparring with Isabelle, and it is far from rusty. This is a display. Ava moves with a fluid, impossible grace, a blur of motion that is all Halo-enhanced speed and power. She phases through a high strike, reappearing behind a startled Isabelle. She leaps, hovering for a split second to adjust her trajectory before landing a perfectly controlled tap on Isabelle’s shoulder with her staff.

And every few moments, between the flurry of movement, her eyes dart to the bench. She catches Beatrice’s gaze, holds it for a heartbeat -a spark of playful challenge and sheer, unadulterated “look at me” pride shining in them- before snapping her focus back to the fight.

Beatrice watches, her professional analysis warring with a much more personal, profound awe. She sees the raw power, the control Ava wields so effortlessly again. But more than that, she sees the woman she loves, radiant and alive in her element, performing just for her. A small, unconscious smile touches Beatrice’s lips, her heart aching with a fondness so deep, it steals her breath. She wasn’t just watching a warrior train, she was watching her partner come back to herself.

*

Beatrice walks without a clear destination, simply needing a moment to process the emotional whirlwind of the afternoon. She turns a corner and sees Camila approaching from the opposite direction. Her friend walks with her usual purpose, a stack of files in her arms, but Beatrice doesn’t miss the subtle tension in her shoulders or the pensive furrow in her brow.

“Camila.”, Beatrice greets, falling into step beside her.

“Beatrice! I thought you’d be with Ava.”, Camila’s smile is a bit too bright and too quick. It doesn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I have been watching her train…”, Beatrice says, her gaze is sharp, analytical, as she studies her friend, “What’s bothering you?”

Camila’s step hitches for a fraction of a second, before she regains her rhythm, “Nothing gets past you, does it?” She lets out a soft sigh, a masterful performance of mild concern, “It’s just the silence. The Infernus. No signs of its whereabouts. It’s… unsettling. That’s all.”

Beatrice knows Camila too well. The deflection is smooth, but the weight on her shoulders is different. She opens her mouth to press further, to ask what she isn’t saying, when a voice interrupts from behind them.

“Beatrice?”

They both turn. Ava stands a few feet away, her hands tucked into the back pockets of her training pants. Her eyes are fixed on Beatrice, intense and full of unspoken words, “Can we talk? Alone? In my room?”

Camila seizes the opportunity instantly, “Of course. I was just on my way to the archives to meet Father Vincent anyway.” She gives Beatrice’s arm a quick, reassuring squeeze, “We’ll catch up later.”

With a nod to Ava, she continues down the hall, her footsteps echoing until she turns a corner and is gone.

A nervous flutter erupts in Beatrice’s stomach. Alone. In a room. With a door. She nods, her throat suddenly dry, “Yes.”

The walk to Ava’s room is silent, the air between them thick with everything left unsaid on the garden path. Beatrice’s mind races, rehearsing a hundred different conversations, bracing for a confrontation she both dreads and desperately needs.

They reach the door. Ava pushes it open and steps inside. Beatrice follows, her training screaming at her to maintain a tactical advantage. Almost without thinking, she leaves the door open behind her, a sliver of the hallway cutting into the room’s privacy.

Ava turns and sees the open door. She pauses, a flicker of confusion and something like hurt in her eyes. She meets Beatrice’s gaze for a long, silent moment. Then she steps forward decisively and pushes the door fully shut.

The sound is final. It seals them in.

And then they just stand there, in the middle of the room, staring at each other. The respectable distance of the hallway is gone.

Ava can’t bear it for another second. The careful distance, the politeness- it’s suffocating her. She looks at Beatrice, whose posture is rigid with restraint, her eyes full of a war between love and caution.


“Tell me what to do to make this tension go away. It’s killing me, Bea.”

Beatrice’s composure fractures. She exhales, a long, weary sound that seems to come from the depths of her soul. Her shoulders slump, just slightly, the soldier finally standing down.

“You don’t have to do anything.”, Beatrice finally meets Ava’s gaze, “I’m so sorry that it is this hard for me to be tangible for you right now.”

Ava shakes her head, a slow, sorrowful motion. The anger and frustration drain out of her, leaving only a profound, aching understanding.

“No.”, she says softly, “Don’t apologise. I get it. I’m the one who put the space between us. I asked for this.” She wraps her arms around herself, a self-soothing gesture, “I just… I don’t know how to go back now.”

For a long moment, neither of them moves. Then, Ava takes a single, tentative step forward. It’s a small movement, but in the charged space between them, it feels monumental.

“Can I…”, Ava’s voice is barely a whisper, fragile with hope, “Can I just hold you?”


It’s all the invitation Beatrice needs.


She closes the distance, her own restraint dissolving. Her arms come around Ava, not with hesitation, but with a firm, sure strength, pulling her tightly against her. Ava melts into the embrace, her own arms wrapping around Beatrice’s waist, her face burying itself in Beatrice’s neck, engulfed by her scent. She inhales deeply, the clean, sophisticated notes of her perfume a balm to her frayed soul.

They stand like that for a long time, silent and swaying slightly. The only sound is their breathing, slowly syncing. Beatrice’s hand moves in slow, soothing circles on Ava’s back, a steady, grounding pressure that seems to seep through the fabric of her shirt and into her very bones. 

After several minutes, a self-conscious laugh, muffled against Beatrice’s shoulder, escapes Ava.

“I’m sorry.”, she murmurs, “I’m all sweaty from training. I should probably…”

She makes a slight movement to extricate herself, but Beatrice’s arms only tighten, holding her closer.

“I don’t care. I’ve been with you under worse circumstances. For now… just let me hold you.”, Beatrice whispers, her voice fervent and sure against Ava’s hair. She dares to place a chaste kiss against her lover’s head, before bowing down once more, resting her chin on Ava’s shoulder.

Ava stills, the last of her tension finally bleeding away. She sinks further into the embrace, a profound sense of contentment washing over her. This wasn’t the careful, respectful distance of before. This was Beatrice, holding her with a possessive, desperate love that acknowledged every broken piece and loved her still.

They sit cross-legged on Ava’s bed, a forgotten dinner tray between them bearing the crumbs of bread and cheese. The strategic dread of the war room is a world away, replaced by a quiet intimacy.

Ava picks at a thread on the blanket, “Did you notice anything off about Camila?”

Beatrice stills for a fraction of a second, her mind immediately flashing to their strained conversation in the hallway, “Off how?”

“I don’t know. She’s just… distant. All the time now.”, Ava shrugs, trying to sound casual, “It’s probably just the stress of everything with Mother Superion being away so much. But it feels like more than that. You didn’t feel it?”

“She seemed focused.”, Beatrice says carefully, not wanting to plant a seed of alarm where there might be none. She makes a silent, firm mental note to find Camila again the next day, to really talk this time, “The burden of leadership is new. It’s heavy.”

Ava lets out a soft, humourless laugh, “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the Infernus had possessed her. But… she’s still Camila. Just… a more severe version. Like all her light is being compressed into a laser.”

The metaphor hangs is a little too sharp, a little too accurate. Beatrice hums, then glances at the clock on the nightstand.

“It’s getting late.”, she says, her voice gentle, “I should probably go.”

A flicker of disappointment crosses Ava’s face, but she smothers it quickly, offering an understanding nod, “Yeah. Okay.”

They walk in silence through the Cradle’s dim, echoing hallways. Their steps slow and synchronised on the cold stone. With every step, the question forms in Ava’s mind, a desperate, hopeful little bubble: Ask her to stay. Just ask.

But then she thinks of the room Beatrice had booked, she’d come all this way; it seemed a shame to let it go to waste, even though Ava knows the cost means nothing to her. It’s the principle of the thing.

They emerge into the cool night air of the courtyard. The car sits under a lone, buzzing security light. The walk to it feels impossibly short. Beatrice presses the key fob, and the car unlocks with a sharp click that makes Ava’s heart constrict. It’s such a final sound.

Beatrice turns to her, her expression soft in the pale light. She hesitates for a moment, her hands hovering slightly, a silent question. Ava answers it by closing the final distance, stepping into her arms. The hug is brief, too brief, a tight squeeze that holds a universe of unspoken words.

Then Beatrice is pulling away, opening the car door and sliding inside. The engine purrs to life. She rolls down the window, leaning out slightly, “I’ll come by tomorrow morning. We can maybe go somewhere. Have a day outside of the stone walls.”

She puts the car into first gear, her foot resting on the clutch, ready to go. The moment stretches, poised on a cliff edge. Ava can’t let it end like this.

“Beatrice, wait.”

Beatrice freezes, her body going still. Ava moves quickly, leaning through the open window, cupping Beatrice’s face in her left hand, and kissing her. Beatrice makes a small, startled sound against her lips, her hand flying up to grip Ava’s wrist. The kiss is so sudden, so overwhelming, that her left leg jerks up from the clutch in a reflexive jolt.

The car shudders violently and dies with a rough, choking sound.

They spring apart, both gasping. Ava’s hand flies to her mouth, her teeth having caught her own lip in the sudden, jarring movement. She can taste the faint, metallic tang of blood.

For a second, they just stare at each other, wide-eyed, the silence broken only by the tick-tick-tick of the cooling engine.

The shock of the stall is nothing compared to the shock that reverberates through Beatrice. The taste of Ava, the feel of her hand on her cheek, the sheer, unadulterated want that had short-circuited her motor functions- it all coalesces into a single, staggering realisation. 

It has been more than three weeks since she’d last kissed Ava. That was a long time.

A slow grin spreads across Ava’s face, her thumb swiping at the tiny bead of blood on her lip, the minor injury itself already healing on its own. 

“Wow. We got bad at this.”

The words are a joke, but they unlock something in Beatrice. A flicker of the boldness that only Ava can ever draw out, “Perhaps, we simply need more practice.”

Ava’s eyebrows shoot up towards her hairline. Her grin turns into something delighted and wicked. 

The moment the words are out, Beatrice’s composure slams back into place, her cheeks flushing. She stares fixedly at the steering wheel, “I mean- that was a joke.”

But Ava is already shaking her head, the laughter gone from her eyes, replaced by a warm, decisive intensity. “Did you bring a spare toothbrush?”

The question is so utterly nonsensical that Beatrice blinks, thrown completely off track, “What? Of course I did. You know I always come prepared.”

“Good.”, Ava doesn’t hesitate. She rounds the front of the car, pulls open the passenger door, and slides in, buckling her seatbelt. She turns to Beatrice, her expression serene, as if this was the plan all along, “You’re also going to have to lend me clothes to sleep in. I don’t have anything on me.”


Beatrice can only stare at her, as her entire, meticulously planned evening just got wonderfully derailed.

*

The key fumbles slightly in Beatrice’s usually steady hand before she manages to unlock the heavy, wooden door to her room. She pushes it open, and Ava steps past her into the quiet, rustic space.

It’s simple: terracotta tiles on the floor, and a large bed with a wrought-iron frame dominating the room. A single door stands ajar, revealing a sliver of a small bathroom. Beatrice’s neat travel bag sits by the foot of the bed.

Ava stands in the centre of the room, feeling a sudden, strange shyness.

Beatrice moves to her bag, unzipping it with efficient movements. “Here.”, she says, her voice soft, as she pulls out two neatly folded items. She holds them up: a simple grey cotton t-shirt and a soft, faded blue button-down pyjama top, “You can choose.”

A small, fond laugh escapes Ava, “You packed options? For one night?”

Beatrice doesn’t reply, she knows it’s a rhetorical question, given her own personality.

Ava’s fingers brush against the soft flannel of the blue shirt. She knows this one. She’s seen Beatrice wear it on lazy Sunday mornings, has buried her face in its collars, grasped at the fabric to steal a kiss. She hopes it still smells like her, “This one.”

Taking it, she toes off her shoes, then unbuttons her pants, letting them pool on the floor. She is aware of her lover’s gaze on her, a tangible weight in the quiet room. Then, as if stung, Beatrice abruptly turns and makes a swift, deliberate beeline for the bathroom, closing the door behind her.

Ava smiles to herself, a private, tender thing. She finishes undressing, leaving her clothes in a small pile, and slips the soft flannel shirt over her shoulders. It’s too big, the sleeves falling past her hands, the hem brushing her mid-thigh. She rolls the cuffs once, then pads to the bathroom door.

She doesn’t knock. She simply turns the handle and steps inside.

The room is small, steamy from the sink’s running water. Beatrice stands at the mirror, vigorously brushing her teeth, her shoulders tense. Her eyes find Ava’s in the reflection, wide and a little startled.

Ava doesn’t speak. She moves to stand beside her at the small sink, their hips almost touching. She rummages through Beatrice’s open necessaire with a familiar ease, finding the packaged spare toothbrush. She tears it open.

Under Beatrice’s watchful gaze, she applies toothpaste and brings the brush to her mouth. Their movements sync in the mirror- the steady, metronomic sweep of Beatrice’s brush, the slower, more sensual circles of Ava’s. It’s an act of profound, everyday intimacy, charged with the unspoken tension of the night, of the kiss, of the weeks apart.

The bed seems to take up all the space in the room, a silent question hanging in the air between them. After a suspended moment, Ava moves first, slipping under the covers on her usual side- the left. Beatrice follows, settling onto the right, the space between them feeling both vast and infinitesimal.

They lie down, facing each other in the dim light. Beatrice’s hand rests on her own pillow, curled near her face. It’s a quiet, vulnerable gesture. Ava reaches out, her pinkie finger tracing the faint lines of Beatrice’s knuckles, a ghost of a touch. Their eyes lock, and the world melts away, leaving only this.

Ava shifts closer, a small, deliberate movement. Her bare legs find Beatrice’s beneath the soft cover, a shock of warmth and skin that makes her breath catch. She hesitates for a single heartbeat, the memory of the stalled car a flicker in her mind, before giving in to the urge. Gently, she lifts the hand Beatrice had placed as a subtle barrier, lacing their fingers together and lowering it to the mattress between them.

She leans down and kisses her.

This time, Beatrice is still surprised -Ava feels the soft intake of breath against her lips- but there is no jolt, no violent recoil. The kiss is tentative, a slow, closed-mouth press that feels like a first time all over again. It tastes of mint and a fragile, overwhelming hope.

Ava pulls back just enough to see Beatrice’s eyes, dark and wide, watching her. A slow smile curls Ava’s lips. 

It feels like coming home.

Then, Ava leans in and kisses her again, a little deeper this time, pouring all the lonely, restless energy of the past weeks into it. She feels Beatrice begin to melt into the touch, her body softening, her free hand coming up to rest on Ava’s hip.

“I’ve been daydreaming about this.”, Ava confesses, breaking the kiss, her voice a hushed secret in the space between them, “Ever since I knew you were coming.”

Beatrice’s breath hitches. Surprise flickers across her features, “You did?”, she breathes, “I hadn’t expected anything. I was just happy to see you. That was enough.”

The raw, selfless honesty of it cracks something open in Ava’s chest, “Bea… Did you miss me?”

A soft, incredulous smile touches Beatrice’s lips. She shakes her head, her eyes closing for a second as if the question is both painful and beautiful, “Ava.”, she whispers, her voice breaking, “You need to ask that?”

And then it comes, the truth she has held back, a dam finally breaking.

“The apartment is so quiet.”, she begins, the words spilling out, “I keep expecting to hear you rummaging in the kitchen for a snack you shouldn’t be having before dinner. Or to find one of your socks tucked under the couch. I make tea for two out of habit and end up pouring the second cup down the sink. It feels… empty. It doesn’t feel like home without you there.”

These are things she has never voiced, things she locked away to keep from pressuring Ava, to be the strong one.

Ava listens, her heart aching with a bittersweet tenderness. She nods, her eyes closing for a moment as Beatrice’s confession settles deep within her, solidifying a resolve. When she opens them, her gaze is clear, full of a raw and painful honesty.

“I want to come home with you so badly, it hurts.”, Ava whispers, the words torn from her, “You have no idea. But I… I don’t fully trust myself yet.”

She sees the immediate understanding in Beatrice’s eyes, the readiness to offer comfort, and presses on before she can speak.

“Hey Bea… How are you so okay with this?” Ava asks, her voice small. She gestures vaguely at herself, at the memory of the violation that still feels like a stain. “With... what happened to me? You just... stepped in. You were so strong for me. You never even flinched.”

Beatrice considers this, her gaze turning inward. “Because that is how I feel.”, she says, her answer simple and honest.

Ava studies her, a new, painful understanding dawning. “Bea... do you think that’s a trauma response? That you immediately went into the role of being the strong one for me? Because it’s okay if you’re not okay. It’s okay if you... I don’t know, if you also need some space from me, or need to establish new boundaries. I would get it.” She reaches out, tentatively touching Beatrice’s hand. “It must have been traumatic for you too. To know the person you love was... inhabited by something else. That something else tried to…”, Ava can’t finish the sentence. 

Beatrice looks down at their hands, and a shadow of profound guilt crosses her features.

Ava sees it immediately. “What? What’s wrong?”

“I don’t see it like that.”, Beatrice whispers, the words forced out as if they pain her. “I feel... guilty.”

“Guilty? For what?”

“For not realising it was happening sooner.”, Beatrice’s throat works as she swallows. “The things it said to me... the words you-it said to me... they were so different from you, Ava. So cold. So calculated to hurt.”

Ava’s brows furrow, not in anger, but in a desperate, pained curiosity. She needs to understand. “Bea... how could you ever believe that I would say those things to you? That I would take God’s name into my mouth like a curse, when I know how much respect you still hold for the Church? How could you think that was me?”

Beatrice’s gaze is distant, fixed on a memory that clearly still haunts her. “Because that is what it feels like for me to love you, Ava.”, she admits, “Sometimes it is… blinding. My want for you, my love for you in that moment, it was greater than my ability to distinguish between my Ava and the thing wearing her skin. I wanted it to be you so desperately that I ignored the signs. That is my failure. My guilt.”

Ava processes this, the weight of Beatrice’s love -a love so vast, it could obscure the truth- settling over her. After a long moment, a shaky, incredulous laugh escapes her. It’s not a happy sound, but one of sheer, overwhelmed absurdity.

“So what you’re telling me…”, Ava says, her voice laced with a dark, teasing humour she uses as a shield, “Is that you’re so obsessed with having sex with me that you didn’t even clock that I was a literal demon from another dimension?”

Beatrice doesn’t smile. She doesn’t flinch. She meets Ava’s gaze with a startling, blunt sincerity.

“Well, yes.”, she says, as if stating a simple, factual truth, “It’s sex with you.”

The air is punched from Ava’s lungs. The joke dies instantly, leaving behind a vacuum filled only with the intensity of Beatrice’s admission. A familiar, warm pull of desire coils low in Ava’s stomach, a flicker of the old, easy want. But the ghost of the violation is still too close, the memory of stolen intimacy a cold hand on her spine. She consciously, forcefully, suppresses the feeling.

They don’t move. They just stare at each other across the small space on the bed, the chasm between trauma and desire, guilt and devotion, bridged only by a love so powerful, it can be a weapon and a weakness all at once.

“I’m trying. I am. But right now… I can’t go past kissing. I just can’t.”


“Ava.”, Beatrice says, her voice impossibly soft, her hand coming up to cradle Ava’s jaw, “I would never overstep your boundaries. I will never pressure you into anything. We go at your pace. You know that.”

“I know.”, Ava insists, her own hand covering Beatrice’s, holding it tight against her cheek, “That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m not worried you’ll overstep. That’s not why I can’t come home yet.” She takes a shaky breath, the real fear finally breaking free, “I’m worried I will. Because when I’m with you… my feelings for you are so big, Bea. They’re so loud and so… all-consuming. I’m scared that if I let go, even a little, I won’t be able to contain them. So I get what you said before, about the way you love me. I love you the same and I’ll get lost in it, and I… I need to be found right now. I need to be solid. I need to be solid, to offer you all of it again.”

It’s the truest thing she’s said. The fear isn’t of Beatrice, but of the storm of her own love, her own need, and the terrifying, exhilarating possibility of losing herself in it before she’s fully built herself back up.

“So, tonight, I just need you to hold me.”, Ava speaks softly, her eyes pleading.

Beatrice closes her eyes for a second, before opening her arms and letting her lover settle against her.

“Anything you need.”

*

Ava wakes first, to the steady rhythm of Beatrice’s breath against the back of her neck. An arm is slung around her waist, Beatrice’s hand resting open and relaxed on her stomach. A careful, silent smile touches Ava’s lips. She doesn’t move for a long time, savouring the feeling of being held, of being someone’s anchor in sleep. Then, with practiced slowness, she extricates herself, tucking the pillow back into Beatrice’s embrace. Beatrice doesn’t stir.

Quietly, Ava gets dressed in yesterday’s clothes, her movements hushed. She scribbles a quick note -Back in 10. Don’t move.- and slips out into the crisp morning. She finds a small bar down the street and returns triumphant with two paper-wrapped bocadillos de tortilla and two steaming cups of coffee.

When she pushes the door open, Beatrice is still asleep, having merely shifted to cling to Ava’s pillow. The sight is so endearing, it makes Ava’s chest tight. She sets the food down and perches on the edge of the bed, reaching out to gently stroke Beatrice’s hair.

“Bea.”, she whispers, “Hey. I brought breakfast.”

Beatrice’s eyes flutter open, slow and unfocused. A soft, unconscious smile graces her features the moment she sees Ava. Her eyes drift closed again, “Mmm. Angel.”

Ava’s heart swells. She leans down and presses a soft, lingering kiss to her temple. Beatrice hums in contentment.


“I missed sleeping next to you.”, Beatrice murmurs, the confession effortless and raw, “The bed at home is too big.”

The words tug sharply at Ava’s heart, a direct pull on the promise she’d made the night before, “I’ll think about coming home soon.”, she says softly, the decision feeling less like a concession and more like a hope taking root.

The effect is immediate. Beatrice’s eyes snap open fully, the sleepiness vanishing into alarm. She recoils slightly, propping herself up on her elbows, “Ava, no. I didn’t say that to pressure you. I was just… stating a fact.”

“I know you weren’t.”, Ava says, her voice steady, reaching out to still Beatrice’s anxious hand, “I know. But I’m saying it anyway. I’m thinking about it.”

The tension leaves Beatrice’s shoulders. A fragile, hopeful understanding passes between them. They sit up in the rumpled bed, shoulders touching, and unwrap the bocadillos. They eat in a comfortable silence, stealing glances over their coffee cups, the steam warming their faces. The air is light, charged with a gentle, burgeoning newness.

Ava feels it, a quiet flutter in her stomach. It feels like a first chapter, all over again.


Suddenly taking every first step doesn’t feel so terrifying anymore.

*

The car hums softly as Beatrice signals to turn onto the final street, the stone archway of the Cat’s Cradle’s courtyard coming into view.

“Hey.”, Ava says, her voice quiet but firm, “Pull over here. Park outside.”

Beatrice glances at her, a question in her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. She guides the car to a smooth stop along the curb just before the gate, the engine still idling.

“Now kill the engine.”, Ava says, her gaze steady, the memory of the previous night resurfacing.

Beatrice turns the key. The quiet of the morning rushes in to fill the space. She looks at Ava, completely bewildered, “What is it?”

In answer, Ava simply unbuckles her seatbelt with a sharp click. She leans over the centre console, her hands framing Beatrice’s face, and kisses her. It’s not a gentle good morning kiss; it’s deep and wanting, a deliberate claiming of a private moment, before they step back into their public roles.

When they finally break apart, breathless, Ava rests her forehead against Beatrice’s, “I didn’t want you to feel uncomfortable.”, she whispers, her thumb stroking Beatrice’s cheek, “Doing that... in there.”

And in that moment, Beatrice understands. This consideration, this profound respect for her boundaries and her principles- this is her Ava. This is the woman who, even in her desire, is fiercely protective of Beatrice’s comfort. The stark contrast to the memory of the Infernus-infested version of Ava -the one who had kissed her with reckless abandon at the convent, without a single thought. That entity had worn Ava’s face but possessed none of her heart.

This, here in the car, was all heart.

Beatrice doesn’t trust her voice. Instead, she leans in, capturing Ava’s lips once more. This kiss is different- softer at first, a silent thank you, but it quickly deepens. Beatrice’s hand slides from Ava’s cheek into her hair, and a soft, wanting sound escapes her. Beatrice’s tongue briefly brushes Ava’s, which makes the younger woman’s breath hitch.

Ava pulls back, her breath coming in shallow pants. She rests her forehead against Beatrice’s, their eyes closed.

“I’m sorry.”, Beatrice whispers immediately, her voice rough with want and regret, “Was that too far?”

Ava shakes her head, a gentle, definitive motion, “Don’t apologise.”

She takes Beatrice’s hands, the ones that had just been tangled in her hair, and brings them to her lips. She presses a soft, lingering kiss to her knuckles, her smile was felt more than seen against Beatrice’s skin. 

Ava inhales deeply, trying to slow her own heartbeat. Her eyes find Beatrice’s, and hold them for a long while.

“What?”, Beatrice asks self-consciously, looking down at her own hands, which were still in Ava’s grasp.

“I feel like I'm falling in love with you all over again.”, Ava murmurs, the words a quiet confession in the stillness of the car.

All Beatrice can manage, her heart too full for eloquence, is a single, breathless, adoring whisper, “Ava…”

*

The heavy door of the Cat’s Cradle has barely shut behind them, when Anya descends, her expression tight, “Ava! Where the hell have you been? We’re about to deploy.”

The words are a bucket of ice water, dousing the lingering warmth from the car, from the shared breakfast. “Deploy?”, Ava asks, her relaxed morning mood evaporating into a cold knot of dread, “Where?”

Without waiting for an answer, she and Beatrice follow the hurried energy into the war room. Camila and Dora stand over a map, their voices a low, tense hum.

“A Wraith attack.”, Camila states, not looking up as they enter, “Matera, Italy. The local OCS cell is overwhelmed. We leave in two hours.”

Two hours. The number shreds the quiet fantasy she’d been nurturing all morning -the one where Beatrice would take her away from these stone walls, just for a few hours. Maybe for a walk in a park, or to a cafe where no one knew what a Halo was. A day, where they could just be Ava and Beatrice. Now, it’s gone, replaced by the grim reality of a foreign battlefield.

She glances at Beatrice, seeing her own disappointment mirrored for a fleeting second before the mask of support settles in. “Two hours?”, Ava tries, her voice straining, “Can we push it back a little? Beatrice is leaving today anyway, and-”

Camila’s head snaps up. Her gaze is like flint, cold and sharp as it moves from Ava to Beatrice and back, “Lay aside your personal desires, Ava, and do what is asked of you. The mission does not wait for your goodbyes.”

The words, delivered with such icy authority, strike them both into stunned silence. This isn’t the Camila who giggled with her over relic dust. This is a stranger, a commander. Ava opens her mouth, a hot retort on her lips about the importance of not being a robot, but she feels Beatrice’s hand on her shoulder, a gentle but firm pressure. When she looks, Beatrice gives a single shake of her head. Don’t. It won’t help.

Wordlessly, they turn and leave the tense room, the weight of Camila’s dismissal pressing down on them. They walk straight to Ava’s quarters. Inside, laid out neatly on the bed like a grim omen, is Ava’s armour. The sight of it, waiting so efficiently, makes the sudden shift in their reality brutally clear. The soft flannel of Beatrice’s shirt she still wears over her top feels like a cruel joke.

“It’s alright.”, Beatrice says softly, her voice a calm anchor in the sudden storm. But Ava can hear the slight strain in it, “This way, I’ll still have most of the day in Madrid. I can deep clean the apartment- I was actually planning to anyway, before you asked me to come…” It’s a weak consolation, and they both know it.

The thought of stepping onto a battlefield without Beatrice is a cold stone in Ava’s gut. Beatrice is her compass, her steadying hand. Fighting without her feels like stepping into a void. “I wish you could come to Matera with me.”, Ava whispers, the words heavy with a fear that isn’t for the Wraiths, but for the gaping absence, where her partner should be.

A small, wistful smile touches Beatrice’s lips, “I’d rather go to Italy with you for leisure purposes. To see the Sassi, not to fight demons.” She leans in, giving Ava a brief, reassuring kiss that feels like a promise of a future they have to keep fighting for, “This is fine.” She steps back, her hand lingering on Ava’s arm, “I’ll give you privacy to change. I’ll find you before I leave to say goodbye properly.”

The moment Ava’s door closes, Beatrice turns on her heel, her footsteps firm and purposeful, as she heads back toward the war room. She finds Camila alone, gathering maps into a reinforced tube.

“Camila.”, Beatrice says somberly, “A word.”

“Not now, Beatrice.”, Camila replies without looking up, “I have a mission to prepare for.”

Beatrice doesn’t relent. She steps closer, into Camila’s space, and places a hand gently on her forearm. The contact makes Camila freeze.

“I am still Beatrice.”, she says, her voice low and earnest, “The same Beatrice who showed you how to field-strip a sidearm when you were a youngling. The one who was once your most trusted friend. I know something is wrong. I know it. Please, just talk to me.”

Camila’s jaw tightens. She finally meets Beatrice’s gaze, and the coldness there is a shield Beatrice can almost feel. “Being a leader doesn’t mean you have to lead only with your mind, Camila. Your heart has always been your greatest strength.”

A bitter, hollow laugh escapes Camila, “It’s easy for you to say that.”, she snaps, pulling her arm away, “You left. You found a life outside these walls. You don’t understand the sacrifices you have to make, when you choose to stay. When this-”, she gestures around the stone room, “Is all you have.”

The words land with a sting Beatrice didn’t expect. She doesn’t fully understand the resentment behind them, the deep well of pressure Camila is under that she cannot see. The hurt flashes in her eyes, but she swallows it down.

“I see.”, Beatrice says softly, her hand falling to her side, “The offer stands. If you ever do want to talk, my ear is open. Always.”

She doesn’t wait for a reply. She turns and walks away, the weight of the exchange heavy on her shoulders. She needs air. She moves through the corridors and out into the main courtyard, but doesn’t stop. She walks further, to a quieter, smaller cloister garden tucked away behind the main hall.

In the centre, a young olive tree is planted. Next to it, a simple stone plaque is set into the earth. It bears only one name: Lilith.

Beatrice sinks onto the stone bench beside it. The morning sun is warm on her face, contrary to the coldness she just faced. She looks at the plaque, her mind drifting back through the smoke and chaos of the Umbral War. She thinks of the sacrifices made, the lines blurred, the friends lost and changed beyond recognition. Flora had left the convent after that mission. Beatrice wonders, with a profound sadness, if a similar corrosive pressure is now claiming Camila, twisting her strength into something severe and lonely. She sits in the quiet, the memory of war a ghost around her, fearing a new one is already beginning.

The crisp air of the cloister garden seems to part for Ava as she walks through the archway, her combat boots silent on the worn stone path. 

Beatrice looks up from her thoughts by the olive tree, and her breath catches. The morning sun lets Ava’s face shine bright, a hand comes up, as she tries to shield her eyes from the light. Beatrice watches Ava approach, this warrior, who holds her heart, and the words come out softly, filled with a sudden, overwhelming surge of pride and affection.

“You look beautiful.”

Ava looks down at herself, clad in her jeans and the most basic top she could find for the short plane ride. The simple, earnest compliment, coming from Beatrice, feels more potent than any grand declaration. A slow, soft smile touches her lips as she reaches the bench and sits beside her, their shoulders brushing.

She follows Beatrice’s gaze to the plaque dedicated to Lilith, and they sit in a comfortable, understanding silence for a long moment, the weight of the coming separation hanging between them.


“By the way, you were right.”, Beatrice says finally, her eyes still on the olive tree, “Something is up with Camila. But… we cannot press her. Not now.”

Ava lets her gaze sweep their quiet surroundings, before she places a firm, grounding hand on Beatrice’s thigh. “I know… I would have asked her, if you can drop me off at the airport, as you’re going to Madrid anyway, but I think that wouldn’t be such a good idea.”, Beatrice agrees nonverbally with a nod.

Then, with a soft sigh, Ava stands, her hand extending, “Come on. I’ll walk you to the car.”


They walk back through the Cradle in silence, the only sound the crunch of the gravel. When they reach the car, Ava doesn’t move aside. Instead, she plants herself directly in front of the driver’s door, blocking it. She looks up at Beatrice, her hands clasped demurely behind her back, a silent, hopeful challenge in her eyes.

Beatrice stands there, a small, fondly exasperated smile playing on her lips, simply looking at her.

Ava’s patience, never her strongest virtue, evaporates. Her brows lift, a playful demand in her expression. “Well?”, she prompts, her voice dropping to a whisper, “Aren’t you gonna kiss me goodbye?”

Beatrice closes the small distance, her hands coming up to cradle Ava’s face, her touch infinitely gentle. She leans in and kisses her, a deep, lingering promise against her lips, pouring all her unspoken worry and love into the contact. When they finally part, Ava’s smile is both triumphant and tender.

“Be safe.”, Beatrice whispers, the words a fragile plea against Ava’s lips. She can’t help the flood of worry that follows. Her thumbs stroke Ava’s cheeks, “Text me with any updates. Or call, if you can. Just… let me know you’re alright.”

“I will.”, Ava promises, her voice equally soft, “I’ll do all of it. Texts. Calls. Carrier pigeon if I have to.”

Then, unable to let her go just yet, Ava captures her lips once more, this kiss shorter, but just as potent. She fists her hands in the soft fabric of Beatrice’s shirt, pulling her that last inch closer, “I’m gonna miss you.”, she breathes out, the words a hot confession between them, “And just so you know, I’m sorry, but I’m keeping your flannel shirt. It smells like you.”

A genuine, warm smile finally breaks through the worry on Beatrice’s face. She doesn’t argue. Instead, she gently extricates herself, unlocks her car, and walks to the trunk. She opens it and fishes out a small, neatly packed bundle of her own clothes- a soft grey sweatshirt and a worn-in t-shirt. She hands them to Ava.

“Here. For when you miss me. So you have options.”

Ava’s heart feels so full, it might crack. She takes the clothes, clutching them to her chest with one arm while the other wraps tightly around Beatrice’s shoulders, pulling her into a fierce, final hug.

She presses a firm, loving kiss to Beatrice’s cheek.

“I love you.”, she murmurs, her voice thick with emotion.

Beatrice nods, her face buried in the junction of Ava’s neck and shoulder, holding on for one more precious second. “I love you too.”, she whispers into the embrace, “Now go. Be brilliant.”

Chapter Text

The flight is a blur of tense silence and pre-mission focus. But nothing prepares Ava for Matera itself.

The city is a revelation, a stark, beautiful contradiction. Their car crests a hill, and the Sassi district lays sprawled before them like a wound in the earth, a breathtaking labyrinth of pale stone dwellings carved directly into the face of a deep ravine. It isn't a city built upon the land, but from it. Ancient, cave-like houses stack precariously atop one another, a honeycomb of stone and shadow, with narrow, winding paths and steep staircases connecting it all. The late afternoon sun casts long, deep shadows, turning the ravine into a basin of secrets. It is stunning, haunting, and to Ava's newly restored Halo-sight, it feels like a place where the veil between worlds might be thin.

“The original settlement dates back to the Palaeolithic.”, Yasmine murmurs from the front seat, ever the historian, “It’s one of the oldest continuously inhabited settlements in the world.”

“Lots of history means lots of places for things to hide.”, Dora comments grimly, her eyes already scanning the terrain like a tactician.

Their safe house is a small, unassuming church clinging to the edge of the ancient city, its stone walls blending seamlessly with the surrounding Sassi. Inside, it is cool and dim, smelling of old incense, damp stone, and dust. The main room is spartan, with a large wooden table covered in maps and a few simple cots set up along the wall. As they drop their gear, the tension from Camila’s abrupt send-off still hangs in the air.

Anya lets out a frustrated sigh, rolling her shoulders, “I don’t know what’s gotten into Camila. She’s been a different person these past few weeks. All bite, no warmth.”

Isabelle, who is checking the seals on her gauntlets, looks up, her expression hesitant, “I... might know something about that…”

All eyes turn to her.

“A few days ago, I was walking past Mother Superion’s office. The door wasn’t fully closed.”, Isabelle continues, her voice dropping, “She was on the phone with someone. She sounded... scared. She said she didn’t feel ready for this, that it was all moving too fast. Said she thought she had years left to learn everything from Mother Superion.”

A heavy silence fills the small church. Ava leans forward, her elbows on her knees, “What’s going on with Mother Superion anyway? All these ‘outside appointments’... does she want to retire? Can she even do that? Just... step down?”

Yasmine adjusts her glasses, her brow furrowed in thought, “It’s unprecedented in recent OCS history, but not strictly against any canonical law. The role is for life, traditionally. But if the Church hierarchy approves a successor and the sitting Mother Superion agrees…”

“Maybe she’s sick.”, Anya suggests quietly, the grim possibility landing in the room.

The speculation hangs in the air, a tangled web of worry and confusion. Ava’s mind races, connecting the dots between Mother Superion’s absences, Camila’s sudden coldness, and the immense, unasked-for pressure she must be under.

Before she can voice another thought, Dora stands up, her movement decisive. She plants her hands firmly on the table.

“Enough.”, she says, her voice cutting through the chatter. Her gaze sweeps over each of them, “We can gossip about leadership later. Right now, we have a city full of Wraiths to clear and a mission to run.” She gives them a look that brokers no argument, “And I, for one, do not want to file a report explaining to Mother Superion Junior that we failed because we were too busy chit-chatting.”

The pointed nickname, so perfectly capturing Camila’s new, severe demeanor, effectively kills the conversation. Anya and Isabelle exchange a look and immediately begin rechecking their gear with renewed focus. Yasmine turns back to the maps.

Ava meets Dora’s gaze and gives a single, sharp nod. The personal mysteries of the Cradle would have to wait. The ancient, shadowy stones of Matera were calling.

*

The air in the narrow, shadow-choked alley is cold and still, smelling of wet stone and something else- a metallic, psychic rot that makes the hairs on Ava’s arms stand up. The team moves in a tight, practiced formation. Dora takes point, her scanner gauntlets emitting a low, periodic hum. Anya and Isabelle flank the rear. Yasmine stays in the centre, a tablet in her hands.

Ava feels it first. A familiar, icy prickling at the base of her skull. Then she sees it.

“Contact. Two of them. Up ahead.”

Dora’s gauntlets spike, “Confirming. Two strong signatures.”

They round a slight bend in the alley. A man and a woman stand frozen, their faces slack, eyes vacant. Coiling around them is the familiar, furious, blood-red smoke of the Wraiths, the tendrils sunk deep into their hosts’ bodies. The man’s head jerks up, his mouth opening to let out a guttural roar that is not his own. 

A fistful of crimson energy hurls from his outstretched hand towards Dora.

The sisters tense, but Ava is already moving.

She doesn’t run. She flows. As the energy blast flies, she phases, the red smoke passing through her in a shock of freezing nausea. Rematerialising, a Divinium dagger is already in her hand- plucked from Anya’s belt without a word. She doesn’t attack the host. She lunges past the flailing man and drives the blade directly into the core of the red smoke clinging to his back.

The Wraith shrieks, a silent, psychic blast of fury and pain. The crimson form unravels, dissolving into foul-smelling ash. The man collapses, unconscious, but free onto the cobblestones.

The second Wraith-host, the woman, hesitates, its predatory confidence shattered. Ava doesn’t give it a moment. She takes two swift steps and leaps, a brief, controlled levitation carrying her over the woman’s head. She twists in mid-air, landing behind her. As her feet touch the ground, she drives the dagger into the swirling red nexus between the woman’s shoulder blades. A second silent scream, a second cloud of dissipating darkness. The woman slumps to the ground.

The entire engagement lasts less than thirty seconds.

Ava straightens up, tossing the dagger back to a stunned Anya. The two hosts lie unconscious but breathing on the ground, freed.

“My god!”, Isabelle breathes, “I’ve never gotten to see you in action like this. This is incredible.”

But the Halo’s warning prickle doesn’t fade. It intensifies.

“There are more.”, Ava says, her head cocked.

All around them, from doorways and windows, more hosts emerge. Their eyes are vacant or terrified, their movements jerky. Each one is shrouded in the same furious, blood-red smoke. But they don’t attack. They just stare, the Wraiths within them observing. Then, as one, they turn and shuffle or run back into the labyrinthine stone, the red smoke retreating with them, pulling their puppets back into the shadows.

Dora curses, her gauntlets scanning the sudden emptiness, “We need a plan, we can’t fight that many Wraiths at once. Even with the Warrior Nun 2.0.”

Ava stands amidst the two freed civilians, the flawless execution feeling hollow. The nickname irks her, a label slapped onto a power she’s gotten back reluctantly. It reduces her to a piece of hardware, an upgrade. She isn’t a version 2.0; she’s just Ava, terrified and trying to survive.

“Yeah... We’re not fighting them all at once.”, Ava says, her voice cutting through the tension. She looks at the unconscious civilians. “They would overrun us, and we’d be busy trying to protect the hosts.” She meets Dora’s gaze, then scans the faces of the others. “We fall back to the safe house. Now.”

No one argues. The tactical sense is undeniable. They move quickly, a retreat that feels more like a strategic withdrawal than a flight. The ancient, winding streets feel like a trap, every shadow a potential ambush.

Back within the cool, dim sanctuary of the stone church, the reality of their situation settles over them.

“They’re coordinated.”, Yasmine says, laying her tablet on the table, “This isn’t random possession. It’s a swarm. They’re learning from each other.”

“Which means we can’t just hunt them.”, Ava concludes, pacing a short line in front of the map of the Sassi. “We have to change the game. We can’t fight them on their terms, in their labyrinth.” She stops and taps a finger on a central plaza marked on the map. “We need to draw them out. Lure a few at a time into a space we control.”

“Bait?”, Anya asks, her expression grim.

“Not a person.”, Ava clarifies quickly. “Energy. The Halo.” She looks at Dora and Yasmine. “Your scanners can detect the Wraiths’ energy signature, right? What if we reverse it? Use one of them as a... a transmitter. We create a small, controlled pulse of Halo energy- a flare. We draw a small group to a location of our choosing, someplace with choke points and clear lines of sight. We take them out, quickly and cleanly. Then we do it again.”

She looks around at the team, her plan laid bare. “We don’t fight the swarm. We pick it apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left.”

*

The small office in the Matera safe house is little more than a closet with a desk and a single, high window letting in a sliver of the evening light. Ava sits before a laptop, Beatrice’s face a welcome beacon of calm on the screen. Beatrice is in her home office in Madrid, her reading glasses perched atop her nose.

“So the theory is-”, Ava explains, gesturing with her hands, as if Beatrice can see the plan sketched in the air, “We use the scanner’s emitter, but reverse the polarity or something. Make it broadcast a Halo-like energy signature instead of just listening for one. A flare to draw them in.”

On the screen, Beatrice’s brow is furrowed in that particular way that means her brilliant mind is already dissecting the problem, “The hardware isn’t designed for active broadcast on that frequency. You’d risk burning out the primary sensor array. But… the secondary emitter, the one used for calibration… its power output is lower, but its frequency range is more malleable. With a software patch, you could potentially repurpose it as a low-powered, short-range beacon.”

“Right! A beacon! That’s the word!”, Ava says, leaning forward, “So, is it possible? Can you write that patch?”

“I already have a framework for something similar from the early prototyping phase. I can modify it and send it to Yasmine within the hour.” Beatrice’s fingers are already flying across a separate keyboard, her gaze flicking between Ava and her code.

Then, her typing slows. She stops completely, her eyes softening as she just looks at Ava. A slow, knowing smile touches her lips, full of a profound and quiet awe.

Ava shifts self-consciously under the gaze, “What? Do I have Wraith ash on my face?”

“No.”, Beatrice says, her voice warm and soft, “It’s just… remarkable. That’s all.”

“What is?”

“How quickly you’ve stepped back into this. The strategy, the tactical analysis. You’re stepping into the role again. The role of the Warrior Nun.”

The title, even spoken with such love, lands with a dull thud after the day she’s had. It mixes with the lingering irritation from Dora’s flippant comment, the feeling of being reduced to a tool and a conversation they’ve had, just the day before. A sigh escapes her, and she looks away from the camera for a moment.

“Yeah.”, Ava says, her tone flat, a hint of bitterness seeping through, “I’m the Warrior Nun 2.0, remember? Latest model.”

The change in her voice is a siren for Beatrice. Her smile vanishes, replaced by immediate, gentle concern. “Ava.”, she says tenderly, “Look at me.”

Ava’s eyes reluctantly meet hers on the screen.

“I don’t care for that.”, Beatrice says, pouring every ounce of her sincerity through the digital connection, “You can be the Warrior Nun, the halo bearer, the Queen of England, for all I care. But you will always, always be Ava to me first. My Ava. The love of my life, who makes terrible puns and steals my flannel shirts. The rest is just… what you do. It is not who you are to me.”

The words are a balm, soothing the raw, unseen wound the nickname had caused. The defensive hunch in Ava’s shoulders relaxes. A genuine, small smile finally breaks through. “Even if the Queen of England thing comes with a fancy crown?”

“Especially then.”, Beatrice deadpans, the corner of her mouth twitching, “I have standards.”

They share a quiet laugh, the tension dissolving into the easy intimacy that exists only between them.

“I miss you. I wish I could have spent the day with you. Being on a mission without you is boring as fuck.”

“I miss you too.”, Beatrice replies, “And I am in awe of you. Not of the Warrior Nun. Of you. The woman who is over there, in an ancient city, being brilliant and brave and kind enough to find a way to save people without hurting them.” She leans closer to her camera, as if sharing a secret, “Now, let me finish this code. And you should get some rest.”

Ava’s heart feels so full, it could light up the entire Sassi. “Okay. Thank you for that.”

“Always.”

Ava doesn’t end the call. She just watches her, the clack of Beatrice’s keyboard a comforting sound, filling the small stone room with the palpable, sustaining presence of love.

*

The plan works with brutal efficiency.

In a small, enclosed piazza they’ve chosen for its single entrance, the modified scanner emits its low, pulsing beacon. It’s a siren’s call to the parasitic energy of the Wraiths. Three hosts shambled into the square, their forms wreathed in furious red smoke. The fight is a whirlwind of controlled violence. Ava moves like a spectre, phasing through a blast of crimson energy to sever the connection on one Wraith, while Dora and Isabelle work in tandem to subdue another host, allowing Anya to deliver the precise, Divinium-tipped strike. The third falls to a perfectly synchronised takedown. Three hosts freed. Three Wraiths extinguished. It’s a clean, perfect victory.

As the last wisp of red smoke dissolves, a triumphant grin starts to form on Ava’s face.

It’s then that the pain hits.

Not the Halo’s warning prick, but a sharp, cold pang that lances directly between her shoulder blades, so visceral, it makes her gasp and stumble a step. It’s the same searing agony from the hotel room, the Infernus’s direct assault. The afterglow of victory is instantly extinguished, replaced by an icy dread.


“Ava?”, Dora asks, her voice sharp with alarm.

But Ava isn’t listening. Her head is cocked, her senses screaming. The Halo isn’t just warning her now; it’s shrieking.

And beneath the fading psychic echo of the Wraiths, she feels it. A deeper, colder emptiness. A familiar, soul-sucking void.

It’s here.

“The Infernus.”, she chokes out, her voice a raw whisper. Her gaze sweeps the piazza, then locks onto a narrow, shadow-drenched alley leading out of the square, “It’s close.”

Without another word, without a plan, she breaks into a run, her body moving on an instinct, born of fury.

“Ava, wait!”, Anya shouts, and without hesitation, she sprints after her, leaving Yasmine, Dora and Isabelle to secure the freed civilians.

Ava’s pursuit is a blur of ancient stone and rising panic. She follows the cold pull in her spine, a compass needle pointing toward absolute zero. She rounds a corner into a dead end courtyard, a place where the pale stone walls are stained dark with age and the sun never fully reaches.

And there, standing perfectly still in the deepest patch of shadow, is the Infernus.

It is not the polished obsidian form from her dream. This is the silhouette from the alley in Madrid, from their hotel room. A human-shaped cutout of nothingness, a deeper black against the dark.

It doesn’t move. It simply stands, facing them, its featureless void of a face fixed on Ava.

The memory of its violation crashes over her- the feeling of its cold presence inside her mind, using her hands to touch Beatrice, speaking with her voice to inflict pain. The fury is instantaneous, a red-hot tide that eclipses all fear, all strategy.

With a raw, wordless cry of rage, Ava launches herself forward. The Halo on her back flares, not with its usual gold or even the dangerous red, but with a stark, furious white. She doesn’t think to phase or levitate. She simply charges, fist pulled back, knuckles gleaming, aiming to physically smash the shadow into oblivion.

Her fist connects with nothing.

It passes straight through the silhouette as if it were made of cold, thick smoke. There is no impact, only a shocking, soul-deep chill that races up her arm. The figure wavers, like a reflection on disturbed water. She had never been that close, while being confronted with it in real life.

But this time, as her arm is swallowed by the void, a voice slithers directly into her mind. It is the sound of grinding stone and whispering static, a perfect, hateful echo of her dream.

Did you enjoy your little reunion, little Light? 

The voice is a caustic drip in her consciousness. 

I was so very... successful, wasn't I? 

Planting the seed that made you see a weapon where she sees a lover. 

Tell me, can you even touch her now without feeling the ghost of me?

Ava wants to tear it apart, but the Infernus simply vanishes.

The courtyard is empty. The oppressive pressure lifts. The cold pang in her back recedes to a dull, throbbing ache.

Ava stands panting in the sudden silence, her fist still clenched, staring at the empty space where the monster had been. Behind her, Anya skids to a halt, her own blade drawn, her eyes wide with confusion.

“What… what was that?”, Anya gasps, her gaze darting around the empty courtyard, “I saw a shadow… and then it was just… gone.”

Ava slowly lowers her fist, her body trembling with adrenaline and the aftershock of the cold. She looks at her own hand, the ghost of the Infernus’s non-corporeal form still a freezing memory in her bones.

“That was the Infernus.”, Ava says, her voice hollow. She turns, meeting Anya’s bewildered gaze, the full weight of their situation settling upon her.



“We need to tell the others that that bitch is back.”

*

The atmosphere in the safe house is thick with a new, chilling tension. The brief triumph over the Wraiths has been completely erased. Ava stands before the others, Dora, Isabelle, and Yasmine, with Anya at her side, confirming the sighting.

“It was just… there.”, Ava says, her voice low but clear in the quiet stone room. “It let me see it. It wanted me to know it’s here.”

The implication hangs in the air, ugly and undeniable.

“So the Wraiths…”, Dora begins, her tactical mind already racing ahead.

“Are a distraction.”, Ava confirms, her gaze hard, “A way to keep us busy, to test our strength, and to wear us down.”

There’s a heavy silence, broken only by the hum of Yasmine’s equipment. Then, Isabelle speaks, her voice quiet with dawning horror.

“We thought we were so clever.”, she murmurs, looking at the map of the Sassi, “Luring them out, picking them off one by one.” She lifts her eyes to meet Ava’s, “But what if we’re the ones who were lured? What if the Infernus baited us with the Wraiths? To get us here, to get you here, isolated from the Cradle? With a smaller team?”

The question stuns everyone into silence. The entire mission, their strategy, their presence in this ancient city- it all suddenly feels like it was orchestrated by a malevolent intelligence.

Yasmine is the first to break the silence, her voice strained but practical. “The initial scans showed nine distinct Wraith signatures. We’ve eliminated five. That leaves four confirmed hostiles remaining in the sector.”

Dora slams a fist onto the table, the sound sharp in the confined space. “Then we finish it. We don’t leave a mess for the locals to clean up. We stick to the beacon plan, we take out the remaining four, fast and clean. But the moment the last one is down, we are wheels up. We do not spend another night in this city.”

There are grim nods all around. The mission’s objective has violently shifted. It’s no longer about clearing Matera of a Wraith infestation. It’s about surviving the Infernus’s gambit and getting their primary asset -Ava- back to the relative safety of the Cradle.

“Alright.”, Ava says, her jaw set, “We finish them. Then we get the hell out of here.” The unspoken truth echoes in all their minds: they are no longer the hunters. They are prey that has just become aware of the predator in the tall grass.

*

The flight back to Spain is shrouded in a heavy, exhausted silence. The remaining Wraiths were eliminated with a cold, brutal efficiency that felt less like a victory and more like a grim chore. Every shadow in the Sassi had felt like it was watching, and the team’s nerves were frayed to the breaking point.

They disembark at the airport, the familiar Spanish sun feeling alien after the claustrophobic stone of Matera. As they head towards the arrivals hall in Madrid, Ava stops walking.

“I’m not coming back to the Cradle with you.”, she says, her voice flat, but firm.

The rest of the team halts, turning to look at her. Dora’s brow furrows, “Ava, the debrief. Camila will expect a full report. We all need to-”

“I don’t care what Camila expects.”, Ava interrupts, her gaze steady. The Infernus’s taunt is a fresh, open wound, and the need to see Beatrice, to prove its words a lie, is a physical ache in her chest, “I am not your fucking toy you get to wind up and point at demons. I’m a person.”

Yasmine steps forward, her tone placating but firm, “Ava, we know that. But protocol after a mission, especially one with a… confirmed sighting… requires-”

“The ‘confirmed sighting’ is exactly why I’m going.”, Ava fires back, her composure cracking. The raw pain she’s been holding back since the encounter surges to the surface, making her voice tremble with a mix of fury and vulnerability, “That thing was inside my head. It used my body. It just spent its afternoon reminding me of that. So you can relay to Camila that her part-time Warrior Nun is having a human reaction to a traumatic experience and needs to see her partner before she reports for duty.” She takes a sharp breath, her eyes blazing, “And she can go fuck herself if she doesn’t understand that.”

The blunt, visceral words hang in the sterile airport air. There is no arguing with them. They aren’t the words of a rebellious soldier; they are the plea of a survivor. They make the theoretical trauma of the possession terrifyingly, undeniably real.

Dora and Yasmine exchange a look. The fight drains out of them. Anya and Isabelle simply nod, their expressions full of quiet understanding.

“Okay, Ava.”, Dora says softly, all protest gone from her voice, “Okay. We’ll handle the debrief.”

“Tell Beatrice we said hi.”, Isabelle adds with a small, supportive smile.

Without another word, Ava turns on her heel, slings her bag over her shoulder, and walks away from them, heading for the taxi rank.

She isn’t running from the fight. She is running toward the only thing that has ever made her feel truly, completely safe.


She is going home.

*

Beatrice turns the key in the lock, the familiar click a soothing sound after a long day of logistics and reports. She pushes the door open, and a sliver of unease cuts through her fatigue. The living room light is on. She is meticulous, her morning routine as precise as her combat forms. She never, ever, leaves a light on.

She lets her keys fall into the small ceramic dish on the entryway table with a soft clatter, the memory of turning that specific light off this morning crystal clear. Her senses, honed by a lifetime of training, go on high alert. She steps silently into the living room, her body coiled, ready for a threat.

The threat is a heartbreak.

Ava is sitting on their sofa, looking small and impossibly weary. The sight is so unexpected, so desperately wanted and yet so clearly wrong, that Beatrice freezes for a full second.

The younger woman’s head lifts. Her eyes are red-rimmed and shadowed. The moment their gazes lock, Ava surges to her feet.

Beatrice’s work bag drops from her shoulder, hitting the floor with a dull thud. She doesn’t even hear it.

She is already moving, crossing the room in quick, sure strides.

They meet in the middle, crashing into an embrace so fierce it steals the air from Beatrice’s lungs. Her arms lock around Ava, one hand cradling the back of her head, holding her, as if she could physically shield her from whatever has brought her here, broken and silent, in the middle of a weekday.

“Ava.”, Beatrice breathes into her hair, her voice tight with alarm, “What’s going on? What happened?”

But then she feels it. The shudder that wracks Ava’s frame. The hot, silent tears soaking through the crisp cotton of her blouse. Ava doesn’t answer. She just clings to her, her fists twisting in the fabric of Beatrice’s back, her entire body trembling with the force of a silent, devastating sob.

All questions die in Beatrice’s throat. She just holds on tighter, her own eyes stinging. She presses her lips to Ava’s temple, a silent vow. The mission, the debrief, the world outside their apartment- none of it matters.

“My classes start in two weeks, and I want to move back home before that.”, Ava states. Her voice is clearer now, the tears spent, leaving behind a raw, determined resolve.

The words send a jolt of pure, unadulterated joy through Beatrice. Home. She wants to come home. But the joy is instantly tempered by a cold, sharp clarity. This decision, while what Beatrice has prayed for, is born from a place of fresh pain. The trigger is still a ghost in the room, unspoken.

“Ava, that’s… that’s wonderful.”, Beatrice says, her voice soft. She wants to reach out, to take Ava’s hand, but she holds back, her own hands clasped tightly in her lap. She is not sure, if they could just continue being what they were a day ago. If the boundaries were still intact or if they had been broken by Ava’s tentative steps to fill the gap.

Ava’s eyes drop to Beatrice’s hands, and she seems to understand the hesitation. A new, different need flashes in her eyes- not a need for distance, but its opposite. She reaches out, her fingers gently covering Beatrice’s clasped hands, her touch firm and seeking. It’s not a hesitant brush; it’s a grounding, a claiming. She laces their fingers together, holding on, as if Beatrice were the only solid thing in a shifting world.

Beatrice’s breath catches at the contact, so easily given. This is new. This tactile need, this almost desperate clinging.

“What happened in Matera?”, Beatrice asks, her thumbs stroking the backs of Ava’s hands. “Please.”

Ava’s gaze falters for a moment. “I just… I need to graduate on time. I don’t want this… this life to get in the way of that.” It’s a deflection, a safe, logical answer.

And for a second, Beatrice almost lets her have it. The relief of having her home is so overwhelming, she’s willing to accept any reason. But she sees the shadow behind Ava’s eyes, the ghost of the thing that drove her here, crying, to their sofa.

Ava sees the understanding in Beatrice’s eyes, the patient silence that calls for the truth.

She remembers their promise in this very living room- no secrets, when it involved them.

She takes a shaky breath, her grip on Beatrice’s hands tightening, “It was there. The Infernus. In an alley. It just… stood there and...” She swallows hard, the memory of the voice like ice in her veins, “It talked to me. In my head.”

Beatrice goes perfectly still, her entire focus on Ava.

“It taunted me about us.” Ava’s voice drops to a broken whisper, the real wound exposed, “It said that it was… successful. That it had planted a seed.” She can’t look at Beatrice anymore, her eyes fixed on their joined hands, “It asked me if I could even touch you now… without feeling the ghost of it.”

The confession hangs in the air, devastating in its intimacy. It’s not just about the possession anymore. It’s about the aftermath. The lingering poison.

Ava finally meets Beatrice’s gaze, her own eyes filled with a tormented shame, “And the worst part is… it’s not wrong, Bea. I can’t… I still can’t picture being with you, not like that, without also picturing… Without remembering what it felt like, when it wasn’t me.” A single, frustrated tear escapes, “It didn’t just get in my head. It fucked me up emotionally and I don’t trust myself in my own relationship. It made me weak.”

“No.”, Beatrice says, the word fierce and immediate. She brings their joined hands up, pressing Ava’s knuckles to her lips. “You are the strongest person I know. What it did was a violation. Your feelings aren’t a weakness; they are a testament to that. And we will work through this. However long it takes.” She holds Ava’s gaze, her love a steady, unbreakable force and gently opens her arms, a silent, patient invitation.

There is no hesitation. Ava melts into the embrace, burying her face in Beatrice’s neck, inhaling the familiar, grounding scent of her. She clings to her, allowing the solid reality of Beatrice to quiet the echoing taunts in her mind. They stand like that for a long moment, the silence itself a form of healing.

When Ava finally pulls back, she’s composed, the raw edge of her panic smoothed away. She lets out a soft, weary sigh, a different kind of worry surfacing.

“Camila is probably pissed.”, she says, a hint of her old defiance returning, “I basically told Dora and Yasmine to relay that she could go fuck herself if she had a problem with me coming here first.”

A small, almost imperceptible smile touches Beatrice’s lips, “I’m sure she’ll appreciate the diplomatic phrasing.”

“It got the point across.”, Ava shrugs. Then her expression sobers. “But something really is wrong with her, Bea. It’s not just stress.” She proceeds to relay what Isabelle had overheard, “She told someone on the phone that she wasn’t ready, that it was all moving too fast. That she thought she had years to learn from Mother Superion.” She pauses, her voice dropping, “And Anya… she thinks Mother Superion might be sick. That’s what all these ‘outside appointments’ are about.”

The implications settle heavily in the quiet living room. The potential illness of the OCS’s steadfast leader, the premature, crushing pressure on Camila- it’s a different kind of shadow, one threatening the very foundation of the order.


“That… would explain a great deal.”, Beatrice says slowly, her mind, as always, piecing together the fragments of information. “The accelerated timeline, the weight on Camila’s shoulders…” She looks at Ava, her gaze sharpening with a new, shared concern that transcends their personal battle, “We need to find out what’s really going on.”

Ava simply nods, and they get lost in thoughts for a while.

Beatrice’s eyes flicker to her wristwatch, a subtle, habitual gesture. “It’s getting late.”, she notices, her voice still soft from their embrace. She looks back at Ava, a gentle practicality returning to her gaze, “Would you like me to drive you to the Cradle?”

A slow, genuine smile spreads across Ava’s face, the first one that truly reaches her eyes since she arrived. It’s a little weary, but it’s real, “Aren’t you gonna offer your girlfriend to stay the night?”, she asks, her tone laced with a playful hope that belies the heavy conversation they’ve just shared.

Beatrice’s own smile blooms in response, warm and unreserved, “Of course I want you to stay. You know I do. I just…” She hesitates, the good soldier still present, “I am fairly certain that is not what Camila would consider ‘proper protocol’ after an unsanctioned departure.”

Ava doesn’t argue. She doesn’t roll her eyes. She just gives Beatrice a look, a long, soft, knowing look that speaks volumes. It’s a look that says protocol be damned, a look that reminds Beatrice that some things -like healing, and love, and the simple right to come home- are more important than any rule.

And Beatrice understands. Completely.

The last vestige of resistance melts away. She surges forward again, wrapping Ava in another fierce, possessive hug, pressing a firm, lingering kiss to her cheek.

“I am so glad you’re here.”, she whispers, the words fervent and sure against Ava’s skin. She pulls back just enough to look at her, her hands framing Ava’s face, her thumbs stroking her cheeks, “And I am glad the mission went… otherwise well.”

It’s a small, deliberate shift -an acknowledgment of the horror, but a choice to focus, for this one moment, on the fact that Ava is here, in her arms, safe. The rest -the Infernus, Camila, the looming uncertainties- can wait until the morning. 


For tonight, the only mission that mattered was right here.

*

The morning light paints soft stripes across the rumpled sheets, and the scent of coffee and toasted bread announces Beatrice’s return to bed, before she even enters the room. She carries a tray carefully, her movements quiet and precise, setting it down on the bedside table before sitting down, leaning against the headboard.

“Good morning. I made us some breakfast.”, Beatrice murmurs. She brushes a stray lock of hair from Ava’s forehead, her touch a familiar and healing balm.

Ava stretches, a real, unforced smile gracing her lips for the first time in what feels like ages, “Morning. You’re my favourite person.”

The peaceful moment is punctuated by the sharp buzz of Beatrice’s work phone. A flicker of apology crosses her face, as she checks the caller ID. “It’s Jillian.”, she says, before accepting the call, “Jillian?… Yes, I’m aware… Of course. I’ll be there by nine.”

She ends the call, the professional mask falling away to reveal the same soft concern from moments before. “I’m sorry.”, she begins, but Ava is already shaking her head.

“Don’t be. It’s okay. You have to work. I get it.”

“It’s only two meetings that require my physical presence. I can be at home by eleven, twelve max.”, Beatrice clarifies, her gaze steady and intent on Ava, “The rest of the reports can be managed remotely, in between.” She reaches out, her fingers lacing with Ava’s, where they rest on the duvet. “I was rather hoping we could… make up for some of the time we lost. While you were in Matera.”

The meaning is clear, and a warm flush of happiness spreads through Ava’s chest. She sits up a little straighter, looks at Beatrice, at the patient love in her eyes, and the words come out, soft and sincere.

“Thank you.”, Ava whispers. “For being such a good girlfriend. The best, actually.”

Beatrice just smiles at her, and Ava takes all of her lover in.



In the gentle morning light, it’s like she’s learning the map of Beatrice’s face all over again. She traces the faint, sun-kissed freckles dusted across the bridge of her nose, a souvenir of Madrid’s summer. She studies the elegant line of her brow, the subtle arch that speaks of a mind constantly working, constantly caring. Her gaze drops to the curve of Beatrice’s lips, no longer just a feature, but a known landscape of patience and secret smiles. 

She is so beautiful, it makes Ava’s breath catch.

Ava leans forward, closing the small distance between them, and captures Beatrice’s lips with her own. This kiss is different from the careful, closed-mouth presses of the weekend. It’s deeper, more confident, fuelled by weeks of almost no contact. Ava feels Beatrice sigh into it, her hands coming up to cradle Ava’s face, her thumbs stroking her jawline.

Emboldened, Ava shifts, moving to straddle Beatrice’s lap, the breakfast tray forgotten beside them. The new position is intimate, charged, and Beatrice feels the shift acutely. This is new territory, a step beyond the gentle reacquaintance of their kisses. It’s a reclamation, sensual and wanting, and for a glorious, breathless moment, Beatrice lets herself get lost in it, her hands sliding from Ava’s face to her back, pulling her closer.

The kiss deepens, threatening to consume them both. The careful control they’ve both maintained begins to fray at the edges, the raw need beneath the surface surging forward.

And then, Ava breaks.

It’s too much, too fast. The ghost of the Infernus’s violation, the fear of losing herself in the storm of her own feelings, crashes over the wave of desire. With a soft, shuddering gasp, she tears her lips from Beatrice’s and instead collapses forward, burying her face in the crook of Beatrice’s neck. Her arms wrap tightly around her, holding on, as if for dear life.

Beatrice freezes for a split second, her body thrumming with the sudden halt, before her instincts take over. Her embrace shifts from passionate to protective in a heartbeat. She holds Ava close, one hand splayed on her back, the other cradling the back of her head.

“It’s alright.”, Beatrice whispers into her hair, her own breathing ragged, “I’ve got you. We’re alright.”

Ava exhales loudly against her lover’s neck, “I’m-”

“Don’t say ‘sorry’, because I will not accept any apologies for this, Ava.”

They stay like that for a long time, wrapped in each other, the frantic energy of the kiss settling into a deep, steadying quiet. The tray of cooling breakfast sits beside them, a testament to a different kind of nourishment, far more important than any meal.

*

The afternoon sun bathes the Plaza Mayor in a warm, golden light, glinting off the red facades. Ava walks hand-in-hand with Beatrice, their fingers loosely intertwined as they weave through the bustling crowds. She takes a deep breath, inhaling the familiar city scent of coffee, pastries, and diesel fumes.

“I’ve missed this.”, Ava says, her voice soft with nostalgia. “The noise, the energy… this city. I can’t wait to come back.”

Beatrice squeezes her hand in silent agreement, a small, knowing smile playing on her lips. She gently guides them out of the main square and down a narrower, bustling side street. After a few moments, Ava stops short, pulling on Beatrice’s arm with a sudden, playful force.

“Wait. Are we… are we going where I think we’re going?”, Ava’s eyes are wide with hopeful excitement.

Beatrice’s smile widens into a full, genuine grin. “Of course we are. A return to the city isn’t official without a stop at San Ginés.”

They find a small, slightly sticky table in the legendary chocolatería, sharing a stack of warm, churros they dip into cups of thick, rich hot chocolate. They eat in a comfortable, quiet companionship, the simple pleasure of the sweet treat and each other’s company a balm.

As they continue their walk, the chocolate warming them from the inside, Beatrice’s tone shifts subtly, though her hand remains firmly in Ava’s. “Have you spoken to the others? At the Cradle? Do you know when you plan to return?”

Ava glances at her, a mischievous glint in her eye. “What, trying to get rid of me already?”

“No, not at all!”, Beatrice replies, her voice low and utterly serious, leaving no room for doubt. “I am simply… managing the tactical landscape. A furious Camila is a strategic variable I’d prefer to mitigate.”

Ava’s playful expression softens. “I know. I spoke to Dora this morning. She says Camila is… ‘contained’. Pissed, but contained. I was planning on heading back tomorrow. There’s a train around twelve. It’s a connection, where I don’t have to change every two stops.”

“I can drive you.”, Beatrice offers instead, “I finish my work by four. It’s no trouble.”

“You don’t have to do that.” Ava starts, but Beatrice cuts her off with a gentle look.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. It gives us a few more hours.”

*

The warm afterglow of their afternoon evaporates the moment Beatrice’s phone rings. She steps into the bedroom for privacy, but the apartment is small, and Ava can hear the low, steady cadence of her voice through the door.

“Camila. It’s Beatrice… We’ll arrive tomorrow around six… She’s- she’s better. Much better.”

Ava, sitting on the sofa, feels a flicker of warmth at the protective concern in Beatrice’s tone. She hopes, as Beatrice clearly does, that Camila is asking out of friendship.

The hope is short-lived. Beatrice’s next words are clipped, her voice losing its softness and gaining a sharp, metallic edge.

“A mission? Camila, she just got back from one, traumatised. She is not a weapon you can holster and draw at will… We agreed. A few missions, for training and to keep her focused, not to run her into the ground… What she needs is time to heal.”

There is a pause, and Ava can practically feel the cold fury radiating from the other room. When Beatrice speaks again, her voice is low and dangerous.

“Do not quote her ‘responsibility’ to me. Not when you have no idea what the true weight of it feels like.”

The line goes dead a moment later. The bedroom door opens, and Beatrice stands there, her jaw tight, her phone clenched in her hand. She takes a deep, deliberate breath, trying to compose herself, but the anger is still a live wire in her eyes.

She sees Ava watching her from the couch, and her expression immediately softens with regret. “I’m sorry you had to hear that.”

Ava hugs a cushion to her chest, the familiar dread settling in her stomach like a stone. The brief escape is over. The Cradle, the missions, the cold, unyielding pressure- it is all waiting for her. She gives a small, resigned shake of her head.

“It’s okay,” she says, her voice quiet. “So, I’m guessing the conversation about coming back to Madrid will not be an easy one.”

*

The soft glow of the television casts shifting lights across the quiet living room. Ava’s head rests heavily on Beatrice’s shoulder, the steady rhythm of her breathing a comforting weight. Beatrice works through her final emails, the click of the keyboard a soft counterpoint to the TV’s murmur.

Then, the typing stops.

Ava feels the muscles in Beatrice’s shoulder tense into stone. From the corner of her eye, she sees the reason on the laptop screen: a new email from Jillian Salvius, its subject line stark and simple: The Crown.

Beatrice freezes, her breath catching audibly.

Ava immediately looks away, focusing intently on the television screen, as if she hasn’t seen a thing, giving Beatrice a moment of privacy in the exposed silence.


A moment later, she hears the definitive click of the laptop closing. Beatrice gently shifts, prompting Ava to lift her head. When Ava meets her gaze, Beatrice’s expression is serious, all thoughts of work and emails clearly gone.

“What is your next plan?”, Beatrice asks, her voice low and focused, “Regarding the Infernus.”

Ava sighs, the comfort of the moment receding, “I think he’s stalking me. Studying me. First, it was here, in our home, violating our privacy. Now it’s on the battlefield, observing my tactics. It’s… gathering data.”

Beatrice nods, her mind visibly racing, piecing together the patterns. “There’s a significant fact we cannot ignore…”, she says carefully, “His first major act was an attempt to destroy the Crown of Thorns.” She hesitates, then adds, “I’ve had Jillian run tests on it, to see if it holds a specific energy signature we could-”

Ava doesn’t let her finish. She gives a single, sharp shake of her head, her eyes wide with a sudden, dreadful clarity. “No. It’s not about the Crown’s energy. It’s about what the Crown does.” She meets Beatrice’s gaze, the truth clicking into place, “It doesn’t want me to use it. It doesn’t want me to consult Reya.”

Beatrice goes perfectly still, her lips parting slightly. The theory, so obvious, clearly hadn’t occurred to her. The implications ripple through her expression, replacing analytical curiosity with stark alarm.

She shifts closer on the couch, her knee pressing against Ava’s. Her voice drops to an intense whisper, “Ava… the Crown is active again. It has been since your… metamorphosis was completed.” 

Beatrice searches Ava’s face, her eyes full of a fearful hope. 

“Are you willing to try?”