The forest was silent, the only sound the rustling of leaves stirred by the damp night breeze. The air carried the aromatic scent of moss and dried foliage, mingling with the sweet, earthy fragrance of mushrooms and soil. Nearly a century had passed since she had last stepped beyond the city walls. She breathed in deeply, feeling the air fill her lungs, and a wave of melancholy washed over her. That sense of peace was nothing but an illusion—she was far from the earth, and she had nothing in common with nature.

She let her gaze wander, searching for the entrance to the Labyrinth. Before her stood a rocky wall, ten meters high, cloaked in vines, moss, and brittle leaves. She pushed aside the vegetation and ran her fingers over the stone. There it was—a symbol identical to the one drawn on the scrap of fabric.

Beside the rock face, a fissure yawned open, plunging into the earth. She crossed the threshold, moving cautiously. It was a true maze of tunnels and passageways, carved through the rocky ground in a series of steep descents and sharp turns. Moisture seeped in through small openings, allowing patches of moss to cling to the walls in certain corners, but beyond that, there was no sign of life. Before long, even the moss vanished, leaving only bare stone, slick with rivulets of crystal-clear water.

It was said that a dingir had chosen exile in this place—they called him the Seer. Yet as Antonia moved deeper, she caught an unexpected scent—warm, almost human. It made no sense. She pressed on, following the trail, until she came upon a wooden door. A thin sliver of light slipped beneath the threshold. A dingir would have no need for such a thing.

“Welcome, my lady. Do come in.”

The voice was low and unsteady.

Antonia had not been addressed that way in centuries. She pushed open the door. In the dim light, she saw an old man hunched over a writing desk, watching her through a pair of dark-lensed spectacles. A nearly spent candle flickered on the table, its glow sharp against her senses. She turned her eyes away, fixing them instead on the creature before her. His face was so lined and withered that it took her a moment to decipher his expression.

He gestured toward a chair. “Please, be seated.”

Antonia took a seat and glanced around. The room was sparse, furnished only with a few pieces of old chestnut wood.

“Are you the Seer?”

He smiled, revealing a row of white, perfectly aligned teeth—a grotesque contrast to the parchment-like texture of his skin.

“At your service, my lady.”

She had more pressing questions, yet curiosity about the creature before her took hold.

“Why do you wear dark lenses?”

A chuckle shook his skeletal frame. “My condition requires it. You might try it yourself, should you ever wish to look directly into a flame.”

Antonia stiffened at the remark—he could not possibly know its significance—but she betrayed nothing.

“I have no need.”

“As you wish.”

The old man blew out the candle and removed his glasses. What kind of creature was he? She recognized the unmistakable traits of her kind—pale, almost translucent skin and eyes devoid of sclera. But there was something more. Dingir were as cold as death, their heartbeats nearly imperceptible, their breath little more than a whisper of air. It was the memory of what they had once been that kept their lungs and hearts moving, not necessity. For this reason, a lack of oxygen could render a dingir unconscious, but not kill them. Likewise, if the heart stopped beating, they would fall into a state akin to a coma.

During her own transformation, she had felt her body fight against itself with violent resistance. At times, her heart had pounded erratically, her breath had grown so shallow it seemed as if all the air had been sucked from her lungs. Her hands had tingled, and cramps had wracked her body with agony. It was as though death had claimed her flesh one piece at a time. For a week, she had done nothing but retch, trying in vain to expel the wretched knot of bile and suffering from her stomach.

And yet, in the Seer, she sensed something different. His skin was warm, his heart beat strong, his breath real and steady.

“What is your name?” she asked.

“My name is Rodrigo, the last son of Lucrezia Borgia, who died shortly after giving birth to me.”

Antonia raised an eyebrow in surprise. Lucrezia Borgia had died in 1519. That meant this creature was nearly five hundred years old. Either he was lying, or he was convinced he was a dingir, despite his unusual nature.

“How is that possible? Dingir…”

“Do not age?” He finished her sentence with a knowing smile. “Everything ages, my lady, in one way or another. As for me, I was never fed the tainted blood after my birth. My mother never accepted what had been done to her, and before she chose to die, she commanded those who cared for me to let me retain what little humanity I had left. My transformation was never completed.”

According to the rules of the Conservarii, renouncing the First Blood was impossible. Yet the influence of such a powerful mother had likely made an exception possible. Antonia despised the creature she had become, but compared to Rodrigo, her condition was far from the worst. She was strong and fast, her senses sharper than any beast’s. She was the most lethal predator on the planet, the apex of the food chain. Rodrigo, on the other hand, was a hybrid burdened only with disadvantages—fragile as a human yet bound to the night like a dingir.

“So tell me, my lady, what brings you to this mad old hermit?” he asked, intertwining his bony fingers.

“The Conservarium in Rome has been desecrated,” she replied bluntly.

Antonia did not know how deeply the old man was involved, and she wanted to observe his reaction. Rodrigo met her gaze for a few seconds before responding.

“I am sorry to hear that. And how might I be of assistance in such a matter?”

“Does this truly mean nothing to you?”

The old man shrugged. “It is not the first time, nor will it be the last, that a Conservarium has been abandoned. Look around you—this place was once the oldest in central Italy. Now, all that remains is ruin.”

“I did not say abandoned. I said desecrated. Every dingir inside was slaughtered. I am convinced this is more than a mere betrayal.”

“Oh, well, it wasn’t me,” Rodrigo replied with amusement.

It was useless. Behind that refined, courteous speech was nothing more than an old madman left alone for too long.

“I’ve wasted my time coming here. I’m leaving,” Antonia snapped, rising to her feet.

“Why don’t you sit down and tell me everything from the beginning?” the Seer said, shifting his tone suddenly.

Antonia placed her hands on the table, unwilling to waste another moment. “A few days ago, I birthed a female—alive. Someone left me a message. I was meant to come here, but I don’t know why.”

“And you have no idea who it might have been.” His tone hovered between a question and a statement.

Antonia straightened and paced the room, tense. Once again, only one name surfaced in her mind, but she refused to speak it aloud.

“I don’t understand you, old man. Tell me what you know.”

“Have you ever heard of the Sarim-Dub?”

Antonia frowned and shook her head, caught off guard by the sudden change in topic.

“No. What is it?”

“The oldest known text on the history of the dingir. It was discovered around 1930 in Ur, an ancient Sumerian city in Iraq.”

She had never taken an interest in archaeology, but she knew of that place. It was forbidden to the dingir after a particularly well-organized group of Arabs had gained a reputation as bloodsucker hunters. Fanatical madmen—but increasingly troublesome.

“What does the Sarim-Dub say?” she asked.

“My knowledge of ancient Sumerian is limited. All I have been able to decipher from its symbols is that it tells of how the dingir lineage first came into being.”

Antonia shrugged. “And how does that help me?”

“Find it, and you will find the child.”

She raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t much, but it was something.

“Where is the book now?”

“The book? Ah, the Sarim-Dub, you mean.” He let out a brief chuckle before continuing. “It was stolen from the British Museum, which had it in its possession at the time. I know nothing more.”

Antonia ran her tongue over her lips, restless. What did that book have to do with the child? Why had someone wanted her to know about it? She felt like a pawn in a game whose rules she didn’t understand. She had to put the pieces together—she had no other choice.

“You know who left me that message, don’t you?”

The old man pulled out a matchbox, struck a match, and relit the candle. Then he waved his hand to extinguish the tiny flame.

“The Vatican Library, Manuscripts section. I am certain you will find something there that interests you.”

“What…? In the Vatican?”

Antonia swore under her breath. The last thing she wanted was to wade into a pit of priests. But what choice did she have?

“If this is a trap, you had better hope you set it well, old man. Because if not, I’ll return to make you regret it.”

The old man stretched his lips into a crooked smile. “At your service, my dear. I do hope I live long enough to see you again.”