Total pages in book: 140
Estimated words: 127933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127933 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
The masked figure beside him approached with a branding iron, its tip glowing a fierce orange. The man’s eyes widened in terror, but he didn’t scream. His lips moved in silent prayer, begging for mercy that wouldn’t come.
They tore the front of his shirt open and exposed his bare chest, revealing skin already slick with sweat and fear. The iron pressed against him, and the sickening sound of burning flesh filled the Chapel, filtering into the room where I was forced to witness the act.
He gritted his teeth, his entire body shaking as the brand seared his chest, marking him as a traitor. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms as I watched helplessly. Then came the final person, a woman. Her beauty was radiant, close to breathtaking. She had flawless dark skin and shoulder-length black hair, dressed in the more elegant garments of the Isle.
I watched and listened closely, wondering what it was that had landed her in this position. Seraphine remained beside me, and observed in silence, her eyes reflecting the ceremony below.
The woman’s crime was one of betrayal—plotting to leave the Isle without permission, to abandon the only life they allowed her to know.
Alexander took over this time and spoke with even more venom in his voice than before. “For seeking freedom from your husband where none exists, you will now wear the weight of your choices."
Two masked figures stepped forward, bringing iron shackles attached to chains. The woman’s eyes widened, but she remained still as she was shackled like a damn prisoner by her wrists and ankles. Her posture faltered and her limbs trembled, but she did not fold.
"This is a mercy granted by our Diabolus," Emilio, though I hadn’t realized he was the other masked figure yet—spoke firmly. “Your husband, the master of your dominion, knelt before Diabolus to plead for this chance. Do not waste it.”
Alexander touched the man on the shoulder and took over again, his voice filling the space without him having to yell. "This punishment is contingent upon her conceiving within the next six months," he continued. "She must demonstrate absolute atonement and submit herself to reeducation—learning her true role as a wife and disciple."
There was a reverent murmur of agreement from the masked congregation. Every word was absorbed as though it was gospel. Bishop, his masked face inscrutable, gestured for the woman to express her gratitude. "Show your Diabolus how grateful you are," he demanded.
Tears filled the woman’s eyes as she turned to face Alexander and lowered herself slowly to her knees, chains clanking against the floor. She pressed her lips to the hem of his ceremonial robe, her voice breaking as she murmured loud enough for all to hear.
"Thank you, Diabolus, for your mercy."
With a measured grace, Alexander reached down, gently lifting her chin.
His fingers caressed her face, a touch that sent a ripple through the congregation, their audible gasps filling the Chapel. The woman clutched his hand, her body trembling as though his touch had infused her with life. The congregation’s cries of reverence and worship grew louder as if Alexander’s touch was some kind of divine intervention—in a completely twisted way.
“Do you see the devotion he commands?” Selena whispered in awe.
The woman was raised to her feet by Alexander and then led away by a masked nun, walking on her own but clearly drained, the weight of her punishment hanging heavy around her like the chains she now wore. As she disappeared from sight, the atmosphere in the Chapel shifted, and Alexander’s voice filled the space again.
The room seemed to tighten around his words, every person hanging on to his judgment. "They will endure their punishments for six months," he declared, his eyes sweeping over the congregation. "During this time, they will be banned from any and all gatherings as they reflect on their sins. If, by the end of their punishment, they have not found their way back to us, if they still choose defiance over obedience," he paused, letting the gravity of his next words sink in, "they will be bound to the Butcher’s Block or face Crematio Excludere."
A low murmur rippled through the room. Even without knowing all the details, I could feel the weight of those words. Crematio Excludere sounded final, like a fate worse than death. The congregation echoed in response, "Yes, Diabolus." Their voices were unified and chilling.
The service droned on after that, but I could barely absorb any of it.
How could he have this kind of power? He was just a man. Yet to them, he was so much more.
They revered him, worshiped him—not as a god, but as the Devil himself. And they loved him for it. My pulse quickened when his masked gaze seemed to sweep over the room, settling where I stood. It was impossible, yet I swore he was looking directly at me. My breath caught in my throat, my heart pounding so violently I was sure he could hear it. The connection, as brief as it was, felt like an intrusion, a reminder of who I now belonged to.