Chapter 33 The cold air of the stone corridors barely registered against Marcella's skin as she stormed through the church, her skirts snapping at her heels like angry banners caught in a storm. Candles flickered weakly along the walls, their pale glow failing to touch the blackness roiling in her chest. It was a darkness older than grief--raw, hungry, and relentless. Marcella didn't slow. Not when the servants bowed their heads in deference. Not when the guards exchanged uneasy glances at her hurried steps. Her fingers itched with a fury so fierce it threatened to consume her. Vessel. Gate. Consummation. Each word her father had spat was a nail driven deeper into her spine, a chain tightening around her soul. When Marcella reached the antechamber near the chapel, she didn't bother knocking. The heavy oak door groaned as she shoved it open. Inside, Sister Evelyne knelt before the altar, a book of prayers resting open on her lap. She looked up, eyes softening at the sight of Marcella but whatever greeting she had prepared died the moment she saw the storm etched on her face. "My lady," Evelyne said gently, rising to her feet. Her voice was a fragile thread in the cold room. "What happened?" Marcella crossed the threshold and slammed the door shut behind her. "Sister Evelyne, I need every record you have on the Veiled Crown," she asked, her tone brittle as cracked ice. Evelyne nodded. She walked to the far end of the room, where the worn-out fabric concealed a hidden door. She pulled it aside, revealing a narrow staircase spiraling downward into shadow. Marcella hesitated only a moment before following. The descent was steep. She could feel it-the ancient, watchful gaze that lived in the bones of the church, deeper than prayers, older than the stained glass saints smiling down from above. When they reached the bottom, Evelyne took out a brass key from around her neck and unlocked the iron gate before them. Beyond it lay a small, stone library - no bigger than a nobleman's dining hall, but packed wall to wall with ancient tomes, scrolls, artifacts sealed in glass cases. "This," Evelyne prompted, "is what even the bishops pretend does not exist." Marcella stepped inside, the scent of old leather and smoke wrapping around her like a cloak. She ran her fingers lightly over the spines of the books. Some bore titles in languages she didn't recognize-harsh, angular scripts that seemed to hum with a warning she could almost feel in her bones. Evelyne retrieved a heavy tome from a locked chest against the far wall. She set it down on the central table with a dull thud. The tome's cover was cracked and blackened, as if it had once survived a fire. Etched deep into the worn leather were two intertwined symbols: a crown wreathed in flames... and a key shattering through it. Marcella blinked, "What is this?" "The first copy of the pact," Evelyne replied, her eyes darkening with the weight of the past. Evelyne opened the book. There - drawn in vivid, blood-like ink was a depiction of a woman standing at the edge of a burning rift, her hands chained to a man cloaked in black armor. The flame between them wasn't warm. It was violent. Starving. Hungry for blood and betrayal. Her eyes scanned the ancient text, each word tightening the coil of dread in her stomach. A vessel. A gate. Their binding births either salvation or annihilation. A flicker of memory stabbed at her-the cold grip of her father's words. For a moment, her fury faltered, replaced by a raw, aching fear, the fear of being consumed, of losing herself to the fire that others sought to control. But then, deep within, something hardened. "I will not be their pawn," she protested. The Veiled Crown Pact. Vessel. Gate. Consummation. Those were the four pillars they had forced her upon. But what if there was a fifth? What if the pact had its loophole? "What if I refused?" Marcella muttered, eyes falling to her own hands-so deceptively small, so achingly human. Evelyne hesitated, her mouth pinched. "The pact demands fulfillment, Lady Marcella. It was written in blood and flame. If not completed..." "The rift will widen," Marcella finished, her voice dropping to a grim murmur. "and the darkness will spill into our world." "Yes, My lady." Evelyne nodded. Marcella pressed her palm flat against the ancient tome resting on the table. "They believe the ritual requires a vessel submitting to the gate through marriage and... consummation." The word twisted her gut. "But what if it's not submission that matters?" Evelyne gave her a strange, confused look.. "If they need the vessel's soul tied to the gate-it doesn't mean it has to happen their way." Evelyne sighed, tension tightening her shoulders. "Lady Marcella, you mean to say.." "I mean," Marcella interrupted, "if I understand the magic before they do, if I can control it, wield it then I might seal the rift without binding myself to Berith." "You would have to master it before the ritual begins," Evelyne said cautiously. "before the Veiled Moon reaches its height." Panic rose in her voice. "You would need strength... more than prayers, more than willpower. You would need to know what you are carrying to awaken it before it consumes you." Marcella carefully weighed her words then lifted her chin. Resolve. Rage. A cold, burning defiance. What if the power was hers to claim, not to surrender? "It is dangerous, Lady Marcella." Evelyne's fingers curled tightly around the edge of the table, her eyes shadowed with worry. "So is ignorance," Marcella murmured. And she had lived one lifetime in ignorance already. Evelyne hesitated, then walked to one of the hidden alcoves, retrieving a thin, battered tome-much older than the others. Its cracked cover was plain, save for a single symbol carved deep into the leather: a flame trapped inside a circle of thorns. She placed it carefully in Marcella's hands. "This," Evelyne said, "was written by a Sentinel who tried to rewrite the ritual centuries ago." Marcella gripped the tome tightly, feeling the coarse texture of the cover beneath her fingers. "You have three days," Evelyne reminded her. Three days until the wedding. Three days until the ritual. Three days to turn the tides of fate...or be drowned by them. Marcella tucked the tome beneath her cloak. "I will learn," she said, stepping back into the corridor, "And if they want a vessel..." A cold smile touched her lips that didn't reach her eyes. "...they will find it is no longer empty." Dojun, who married out of necessity and immediately left for a foreign country, suddenly appeared at his marital home and then at his company, without any prior notice. He brought with him several pho...