The moon hung low over the Adriatic, its silver light shimmering across the canals of Venice as Margaretta arrived, cloaked and weary. Her hurried journey from Istanbul had left her battered, her gown torn and her once-pristine appearance shadowed by fear and exhaustion. She glanced over her shoulder as she stepped off the gondola, her every move laced with paranoia. The streets, though quieter than the bustling bazaars she’d fled, carried their own dangers—whispers of betrayal and the watchful eyes of Venetian authority.

Margaretta made her way through the labyrinthine alleys, her heart pounding. Her mind raced with thoughts of Faouzia, of Mephistopheles, and of the firestorm she’d left behind. She had hoped Venice, with its cosmopolitan air and vibrant trade, would offer her refuge—a place where her ties to the devil could be severed and forgotten.

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But Venice had its own brand of justice.

Before she could reach the sanctuary of a hidden inn, the sound of boots echoed through the narrow passageways. Margaretta froze, her breath catching as shadowy figures emerged from the darkness, their lanterns casting flickering light against the brick walls.

“Margaretta of the Ottoman Empire,” a voice called, calm yet commanding. It belonged to a man clad in the scarlet robes of the Venetian Inquisition, a silver cross gleaming on his chest.