The crucifix was flickering, the energy was fading.
Shit.
Mother Teresa coughed up another gush of blood. Dark. Thick. It ran from her chin onto her torn habit.
Shit. SHIT.
They were against the ledge. No escape. Behind them, thirteen meters of empty air and cobblestones. In front of them, Flávius.
He was burning.
His skin melted in strips, hanging from his face like candle wax. His left eye was gone — just a smoking black cavity. The blue iris of his other eye still blinked, still saw her.
He groaned with each step. Not screams. Something worse. The sound of a throat that had forgotten how to make human noises.
Step. Groan. Step. Groan.
Maristela grabbed Mother Teresa's habit. The fabric was wet. Sticky.
My fault.
Everything.
If she hadn't fought back. If she hadn't killed Father Dan. If she hadn't said goodbye to Clara. If she hadn't hidden the coins. If she had accepted the deals. If she weren't a coward, a liar, a filthy orphan.
Then none of this would be happening.
Now Mother Teresa was dying. Soon Silvane. Then Clara. Then all of them.
The crucifix on the floor went dark.
The thin membrane of magic — blue, then red, then nothing — collapsed like a soap bubble.
Mother Teresa leaned against the ledge. Her breathing came in wet rattles.
Maristela screamed. Not a word. Just sound. Despair swallowing her throat.
"I'll give you the coins!" The words came out fast, broken. "And Domingos's letters. The list of names. Everything. Just don't hurt her."
Flávius stopped.
His form was unrecognizable. The flames had died, but the heat still rose from his shoulders in vibrating waves. The smell was of burned pork and sulfur and something sweet — rotting flowers.
His skin was charred, cracked. Fourth-degree burns curled around the edges of his cheek, and Maristela could see bone. His left shoulder blade, white and dry, poking through the flesh.
"And why would I accept now?" His voice was destroyed. Like someone who had torn out their own vocal cords and kept smoking.
Maristela picked up the hummingbird knife where it had fallen. The blade was warm. She pressed it against her own neck. The edge bit. A thin line of blood, fine and red, ran down to her collarbone.
Mother Teresa was so pale, so weak, she could barely stand. Her good hand reached for Maristela's arm, but didn't have the strength to pull.
"Because Domingos wants me," Maristela said. Her voice didn't tremble. She didn't understand how. "He arrives tomorrow. You know that. That's why you came tonight. The priest is already dead. If I die, it'll bring suspicion on you. And when they use the coins, they'll kill you."
"Maris… tela…" Mother Teresa's voice was a whisper of air.
"Shut up, Mother. I'm protecting you." Maristela didn't look at her. She couldn't. If she looked, she would shatter.
Flávius tilted his destroyed head. A piece of charred skin fell from his jaw and landed on the floor with a soft tchak.
"It's not enough," he said. He took another step. His hand reached toward Mother Teresa's throat. "Far from enough."
Maristela pressed the knife harder. Blood flowed faster.
"I hid the coins." She spat the words. "Mother Teresa doesn't know where. Neither does Domingos. No one. If you take one more step, I'll cut my own throat. And you'll have to take this convent apart brick by brick to find them."
She swallowed hard. Her throat moved against the blade.
"You don't have that time."
Flávius's remaining eye narrowed.
The smile disappeared.
"Accepted." His voice was cold. "But you come with me."
"Deal."
"MARISTELA, NO!" Mother Teresa lunged forward. Her destroyed arm hung useless, but her other hand grabbed Maristela's wrist. Weak. So weak. "You can't. He'll…"
"I'm not a monster," Flávius said. His tongue, black and swollen, ran over his cracked lips. "You can say goodbye to the dying old woman."
"Save her," Maristela begged. The knife still at her neck. "I'll do anything."
"I want to tear out her heart still beating, girl. Don't test me. What I want from you, you'll give me anyway. Or I'll kill every child in this convent while you watch."
Maristela didn't answer.
She couldn't.
Instead, she pulled Mother Teresa into a hug.
The old woman's body didn't tremble. It was cold. Already cold. The kind of cold that comes from within.
"I'm sorry," Maristela whispered against the blood-soaked habit. "Sorry I never paid attention in Sunday lessons. Sorry I never finished my chores. Sorry I didn't learn enough to help in the infirmary. Sorry I always made up stories for Clara. Sorry I never told you about Silvane's boyfriend. Sorry I stole the church's money. Sorry I pushed the Santanas' son down the stairs because he called me a filthy orphan."
Her voice failed.
"I just… I just… I don't want to be alone. Being abandoned is worse than being alone."
Mother Teresa's hand rose. Touched Maristela's face. Cold fingers. Trembling.
"Maristela… don't…"
"I'll go," Maristela said. She was crying. She didn't care. "I'll go, and I'll die, and he'll take the coins, and he'll leave you alone. Or he'll lie and kill everyone after I'm dead. But I can't run away and just hope he doesn't murder all of you."
She pulled back. Looked at Mother Teresa's face. The gray skin. The black veins spreading from her temples. One eye had turned red — solid red, like a ruby.
"Mother? MOTHER?"
"I have… a better… idea," Mother Teresa said. Blood bubbled between her lips. She spat it onto Maristela's novice habit. "Trust me."
The crucifix on the floor glowed.
Not yellow. Not blue. Green.
The same green as the glass marbles. The same green as the smoke.
The explosion was silent for a second. A sphere of emerald fire expanded from the symbol, swallowing Flávius whole. The flame didn't spread — it contained. A perfect circle of hungry green light that burned the air and made Maristela's skin tingle from three meters away.
Flávius screamed.
Not a groan. A scream. The fire was eating him — not burning, consuming. The regenerated flesh darkened, cracked, flaked faster than it could heal.
"IS THAT YOUR TRICK, TERESA?" His voice was melted. "USING WHAT'S LEFT OF YOUR LIFE? YOU WON'T HOLD THIS FOR EVEN THIRTY SECONDS!"
He pushed against the green flame. It resisted.
"WHEN I GET OUT, I'LL KILL EVERYONE! ENOUGH BEING NICE! STARTING WITH THE CHILD WHO'S AFRAID OF THE DARK!"
Maristela turned to Mother Teresa.
The old woman was already falling. Her legs had given out. Her weight leaned against the ledge. The red eye was now soft. Tired.
"I'm sorry," Mother Teresa whispered. "For not being the mother you deserved."
She kissed Maristela's forehead. Dry lips. Burning with fever.
And then she pushed.
Not with strength. She didn't have strength for that. Just a nudge. Enough to tip Maristela over the edge.
Maristela's hands grabbed the ledge. Her fingers hooked onto the cold stone. Her body swung, her feet found the wall, scrabbling, searching for purchase.
"NO!" She pulled. Tried to climb back up. "I WON'T LEAVE YOU!"
Mother Teresa looked down. The green fire reflected in her one good eye. Flávius was still screaming behind her, still burning, still trapped.
"Let go," Maristela begged. "Please. Let me stay. We can jump together. We can…"
Mother Teresa touched her face.
A tear fell from the old woman's eye. Landed on Maristela's cheek. Warm.
And then she smiled.
The only time Maristela ever saw Mother Teresa smile. Truly. Not the tense, tired expression she gave donors. Not the sad curl when a novice left.
A real smile.
Blood ran from her mouth. Down her chin. Dripping onto Maristela's forehead.
"Be better than me, Maristela."
She pried Maristela's fingers off the ledge.
Maristela fell.
Her hands grabbed the habit — the torn sleeve, the loose fabric. It stretched. She heard the rip.
A piece of black cloth stayed in her fist. Nothing more.
She looked up.
Mother Teresa was already turning back to Flávius. To the green fire. To whatever came next.
The explosion came a second later.
Green. Massive. A column of emerald flame tearing through the convent's ceiling, spreading across the sky like a burning tree.
The smoke cloud was the same color as the glass marbles. The same color as the smoke that had saved her.
And then the ground came.
Maristela felt nothing. Her body rolled. Cobblestones scraped her back. She stopped against a wall.
She still held the piece of the habit.
She still held the knife.
The Orphan spoke:
"Lost everything. The only one who cared. For nothing."
Maristela laughed.
It was a low sound. Broken. It rose from her chest like a sob that had given up.
She spread her arms on the ground. Open. Like someone hugging the sky.
The smoke cloud spread above her. Green against the gray dawn.
Her last thought came warm. Selfish. True.
Dying would have been easier.