Cirella Devienne: La Morte Dolcissima The Sweetest Death

The rain did not fall in this part of the city. It lingered like smoke—cold, grey, shivering across the air—never touching the ground, as if the earth itself had forgotten how to weep. The building before her was a fortress dressed as a tower: iron, glass, shadow. Cirella Devienne stood beneath its flickering lights like an omen. Her boots silent. Her coat kissed by wind. Her eyes, golden-brown and gleaming with the calm of a woman who had walked through fire and smiled. Men stood outside the doors—armed, trained, cruel. They didn’t know her name. Not yet. They never saw the blade leave her hand. The first man fell with a whisper. The second with a sigh. The third with a gurgle as the knife slid between ribs like it belonged there. Her movements were poetry—no wasted effort, no hesitation. She was not merely killing. She was performing a death song. The door opened without a key. She walked in. Inside: marble floors, golden chandeliers, velvet silence. Power lived here. And fear. The kind of fear that made cowards of kings. On the top floor waited a man who called himself untouchable. Cirella didn’t knock. She entered his chamber like a shadow stitched in black silk. The scent of blood still clung to her gloves. Her lips, painted crimson, parted slowly. “Do you know who I am?” she asked. The man stood. A gun appeared. His finger trembled. “Y-you’re her,” he whispered. “La Morte… Dolcissima.” She smiled—and it was terrible. “I’m the one your sins invited.” The lights flickered. He fired. Nothing hit. She moved too fast. When the blade found his throat, it was gentle. A kiss of death. A mercy. And just before he collapsed, the shadows behind Cirella stirred. A soft hum pulsed through the air—low, ancient, celestial. Her heartbeat slowed. Her breath stilled. She did not turn, but she knew he was there. He had always been there. Watching. Guarding. Training her from the veil of dreams. His name had never been spoken aloud… not even by her. Virein Thalenor. The air thickened with warmth and power. He didn’t speak. He never did—not here. But his presence curled around her like unseen wings. His promise, eternal. I am your sword when you fall. I am your breath when the pain returns. I am the shadow behind your fire. Cirella closed her eyes as the last heartbeat in the room faded. And for one fleeting moment, she allowed herself to feel something other than rage. He is close. Not just in spirit. Soon… She would see his face. Soon, the voice that raised her in silence would become flesh. And when that day came, nothing—on earth or beyond—would stop what they would become.