Without waiting for my reply, he grabs my hand and flashes us out of the temple. As I blink, our surroundings change, and I'm back in my room at Thea's house.

I break away from him, a little shaken by everything that happened.

"No one in Aperion speaks ancient Tartareian. It is a forbidden language," he adds quietly.

"But you said a god must have left the marks on my skin. Who could it be...?"

He purses his lips.

"I am not certain. But I am concerned. If this has anything to do with the Sons of Tenebreis, I will find out. Until then, you must ensure that no one else sees your markings. We do not know who might also recognize the script and jump to conclusions," he advises.

"Do you..." I pause, searching his gaze. "Do you think I'm dangerous like the priestess said?" I ask tentatively. "I don't know what happened to that sphere, I swear. I just touched it and⁠—"

"Do not worry," he declares swiftly. "You are my responsibility. I will protect you."

"But you didn't answer my question..."

"There is no answer, for it does not matter."

"But what if..." I swallow. "What if I am in any way related to those demons or to the Sons of Tenebreis? Aren't they your enemies?"

I can't believe I'm even contemplating this. This morning, I was just a human. A simple human. Now, the markings I bear might have demonic origin, not divine. The thought makes my stomach plummet. But nothing surprises me anymore, and instead of hiding behind a wall of ignorance, I'd rather face everything head-on. After all, knowledge is power. And only knowing the truth about myself will allow me to come to terms with my past...and my future.

"It does not matter," Ze states unequivocally, his gaze dipping lower. "You are not my enemy, Luce. I do not care what you are. You are not the enemy. Understand?"

I nod slowly, although I'm not entirely convinced by his words. His duty is to Aperion first and foremost. He is a weapon designed by the Supremes to battle demons. It might not be up to him whether I am the enemy or not...

I force a smile on my face as I awkwardly pat him on the shoulder. Moving about my room, I accidentally catch my reflection in the mirror, and a gasp escapes me as I notice how disheveled I am. My hair is all messy, some strands waving in the air, others sticking to my skin. Blood spatters are across my face and cleavage, my torn dress barely covering the top of my breasts. Dear Lord, have I been carrying on an entire conversation with him almost topless?

My cheeks burn with mortification.