I wasn’t supposed to wander. Dante’s rules were clear: after dinner, I was to stay in my rooms, “for my own safety.” His words, not mine. But safety in his language meant control.
Tonight, I couldn’t sleep. My body still hummed from our constant battles—every word, every glare between us, sharp as knives. So I slipped from my room, barefoot, the marble cool beneath my feet, and followed the pulse of voices down the hall.
They came from studying. The heavy oak door wasn’t fully closed, and the faintest golden light spilled into the dark corridor. I held my breath, pressing close to the wall, praying the shadows wrapped me tight.
“…it hasn’t surfaced in years,” one man muttered, voice low and urgent. “Maybe it never existed.”
“Don’t be stupid,” another snapped, harshly. “Alessandro Roman
