Then came Julian.
Luca’s expression grew more solemn.
“Saint Jude,” he said. “Patron of lost causes and desperation. Men who do what they must.”
Julian didn’t blink. “Sounds about right.”
He thrust his hand out.
The knife sliced—deep and unforgiving.
Julian didn’t even react.
Not a twitch.
Luca clasped his hand, sealing the bond, and then Julian turned to me. His grip was like a vice, eyes locked on mine with something dark and unreadable.
When the flame hit his palm, the room felt colder.
Like something ancient stirred in the silence.
Julian’s eyes never left Luca’s.
Fire curled across his skin, smelling like death.
Still, he didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t react.
As the flame died, the ghost of something dark stirred in his eyes.
He was the one to watch.
He’d bleed for us now.
But if he ever turned?
We would never see it coming.
He stepped back, palm blistered and sealed with ash. Everyone’s eyes, except for Julian’s, shone with pain, sweat clinging to their brows.
But they hadn’t broken.
Not a single one.
They had taken the pain.
Now they wore the mark.
And there was no turning back.
Luca nodded, satisfied, then placed the blade back on the altar.
By the time the ritual was complete, the air was thick with smoke and the scent of burned iron.
We were bound now.
