«She is a newborn. I brought her here just as I would have with a boy,» she replied simply.

The matron’s chamber was the only one in the Conservarium that contained any real furnishings. Within the alcove carved into the wall, violet silk and satin drapes shimmered in the dim light. At the center of the room stood a grand red velvet couch, an ostentatious throne in the otherwise stark surroundings. And, as a testament to her obsession with control, the matron had reinforced filing cabinets built into the walls.

Eliana stretched out her bony arms toward the child. «Of course. You may hand her over now. We will do everything possible to preserve her health.»

Antonia nodded with feigned compliance. She would have preferred not to relinquish the child, but she was in no condition to care for her. The wounds she had suffered during the fight against the priests had healed, yet they had left her with an unbearable thirst. She cast one last look at the tiny figure in her arms before handing her over to the matron.

«So, you named her Luna. A lovely name,» Eliana remarked, baring her pristine white teeth in a taut smile.

Of one thing, Antonia was certain: the child’s name was the least of Eliana’s concerns.

«Which Wet Nurse will care for her?» she asked.

Eliana’s thin brows furrowed. «You seem very invested, Antonia. I don’t recall you ever asking this question about other newborns.»

It was true. Ever since she had been turned, she had refused to feed the young dingir with her own blood, leaving that duty to others. The mere thought of those tiny creatures, already bearing small fangs, suckling blood instead of a mother’s milk, had always sickened her.

«This case is different.»

«And we will treat it with the usual care.»

In the exchange that followed, Antonia lost. She learned neither the name of the Wet Nurse nor managed to claim the task for herself.

Eliana had pointed out that her “personal involvement” would make her ill-suited to care for the child. When Antonia heard those words, she had to resist the urge to rip the woman’s head from her shoulders. What did she know? Eliana had chosen her fate—no one had stolen her life with violence.

«You may see her whenever you wish, do not worry.»

Antonia knew she could not defy Eliana. She had done so before, and the results had been disastrous. The best course was to play along, feigning cooperation.

«Of course. My respects.»

She bowed her head and walked away down the corridor. She had had enough of this viper’s nest. But she had nowhere else to go, and even if she did, there was no guarantee it would be any better.

She had just left Eliana’s quarters when a feeling of unease rooted her in place in the middle of the hallway. Around her, other dingir were heading toward their alcoves. Had she made the wrong choice in bringing the child here? No, there had been no alternative—the girl needed care, and the Conservarium was the only place that could provide it. Fatigue was clouding her mind. She needed to rest, to feed, to think with a clear head.

She resumed her steps, moving through the earth-hewn corridors until she reached the dormitory chamber. Approaching her alcove, she cast a glance inside. It was nothing more than a hollow dug into the ground.

Humans would have found it horrifying to rest in such a place, but returning to the earth was the only thing that brought her peace. The scent of these ancient Roman ruins had always enchanted her. Born in 1701, she had often regretted not living in that bygone era of power and grandeur.

She slid into the alcove, allowing her muscles to relax. A philosopher, popular in her time, had claimed that sleep was a loan humans made to death. But for her, it felt more like paying a debt. Each time she succumbed, she died, only to be wrenched back to existence at nightfall, torn from the merciful oblivion she was denied. A pain inflicted upon her, without reprieve, with every return.

This time, however, when she opened her eyes, something was wrong. Silence surrounded her. Then, realization struck.

Above her, there was no dormitory ceiling—only a slab of marble sealing her in.

She pressed her hands against the cold stone and pushed, but it barely budged. The weight was too much.

«What the hell…»

She was too weak, too thirsty. If she didn’t feed soon, she would no longer be able to move. She would remain conscious, trapped in a marble prison—a fate worse than the half-life she had been condemned to.

She ran her hands along the edges of the alcove, searching for an opening, but the earth was compacted, held in place by the weight above. She pushed again with all her strength, gaining only a narrow gap of a few inches.

«Whoever did this to me, I swear I’ll kill them,» she growled, clawing at the dirt.

When she finally managed to carve out a wide enough opening, her nails were cracked and bleeding. She pushed herself up on her elbows, then rose to her feet, scanning her surroundings.

«This isn’t possible,» she whispered.

The Conservarium was nothing but a heap of rubble. She examined the other alcoves, only to find nothing inside them but the dust of dingir. She couldn’t fully grasp the idea that all the matrons had been wiped out. She must have escaped the slaughter only because the slabs had concealed her alcove.

Who could be powerful—or insane—enough to do this?

Only humans could have attacked during the day, but unlocking the Conservarium’s entrance required dingir blood in one’s veins. She couldn’t make sense of it.

She ran to the matron’s chamber and found it empty. The built-in filing cabinets were still locked. On the ground, in one corner, she noticed another pile of dingir dust. She knelt down, sifting through it, until her fingers closed around a serpent-shaped ring. Without a doubt, these were Eliana’s remains.

But there was no trace of the child. Perhaps she lay dead somewhere among the ruins. The thought sliced through her like a blade of fire. She was tempted to search every inch of the Conservarium, but logic took over. It was far more likely that the little female dingir had been the catalyst for this attack. Antonia ran her tongue over her dry lips.

Luna had to be alive.

She returned to her alcove and studied it more closely. The marble slab she had moved still lay toppled over the opening. Her gaze shifted to the ruined colonnade, and she frowned. Even if an explosion had torn through the place, there was no way a piece of that marble could have landed so far as to seal her in. Someone must have moved it. She knelt, sharpening her senses, searching for any clue.

Then, suddenly, she caught it—the scent of human blood.

She reached out and slid her fingers under a corner of the slab.

There.

Her fingertips brushed against a piece of fabric.

Lifting it, she saw a symbol drawn upon it—the insignia of the Conservarii: two interwoven infinity signs forming a four-leaf clover. She brought it to her lips, pressing the tip of her tongue against it, confirming her suspicion. Whoever had left this behind wanted her to find it.

Did this mean not all the females had died? Perhaps one of them had left her this message before escaping.

But what did it mean?

Aside from the one in Rome, there were only two other Conservarii in Italy—one in Milan and one in Palermo. She examined the design more closely and noticed a detail: inside each of the four loops forming the clover, there was a dot. It was an archaic way of marking the presence of a Conservarium.

Whoever had left it behind knew the history well—or was a very old dingir.

Like the one who had told her about it centuries ago.

The thought struck her like a flaming arrow. Her throat tightened, and the world spun around her. She had to steady herself, pressing a hand against the ground.

No. It couldn’t be him.

She couldn’t even entertain another possibility as the past crashed over her like a black beast, tearing at her heart. She sank onto the ground, rubbing a hand over her eyes.

Run. That’s what she should do. Turn her back on everything that had just happened, use this as a chance to find some peace.

But the truth was, there was no place in this world where she could escape her pain.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out a silver lighter. Flicking her thumb against the flint, she sparked a small flame. She couldn’t bear to look at it directly, but she watched the way the trembling light cast flickering reflections, stretching the shadows around her. It was as if some part of her needed this fragile connection to the world of the living. Somehow, the light made reality feel tangible.

She held the fabric close to the fire and let it burn until it crumbled to ash between her fingers. Then, with a snap, she shut the lighter’s cap.

The empty halls and the silence pressing in on her felt suffocating.

There had been times when she would have longed for this moment—standing alone, gazing down at the scattered dust of the dingir. But now, she found no satisfaction in it.

She gathered her hair into a ponytail and cursed under her breath.

Fate had not only turned against her tonight—it had become her executioner.

But there was one thing she knew for certain.

She would find the child.

It was a pull stronger than the longing for freedom, older than the instinct to survive. A bond that coursed through her veins like a bolt of lightning, piercing the dark storm of her existence.

The only clue she had was the blood-marked symbol.

And she knew exactly where it led.

They called it the Seer’s Labyrinth.