Page 1 of Iron Roses

Prologue – Cassian

The woods breathe like they’re watching.

Pines tower overhead, branches tangled like fingers locked in prayer—or warning. It’s midnight, but the darkness here feels older. Hungrier. The kind that remembers things men tried to bury.

We walk in silence. Me, and him.

My father doesn’t speak much. Not to me. Not unless it’s to correct or command. Tonight, I’m both: obedient and useful. I hold the box in my hands. It’s made of cherrywood, polished to a dark sheen. Inside, the blade rests.

It’s always the same blade.

We step into the clearing and I see them.

Oreste stands near the tent, arms folded behind his back, posture too still. Like a statue waiting to be broken. Two men stand just behind him, dressed like shadows. His soldiers.

Enemy soldiers.

My stomach doesn’t turn anymore when I think of that word. “Enemy.”

It’s just another name for people we’re supposed to destroy or do business with. Tonight, it’s the latter. A dangerous business. One that could tear the entire north in two if it ever came to light.

But it won’t. This is a secret no one can know.

The tent sits in the center of the clearing, ivory white with gold-stitched corners. It looks like something meant for weddings. Not this. Not what we’re about to do.

My father nods once. I hand him the box.

We enter.

Candles line the circle etched into the floor—chalk and salt and dark streaks of ash. In the center: the baby.

She’s wrapped in a wine-colored cloth, the kind used for sacred rites. Her fists twitch. She doesn’t cry yet. Doesn’t know what’s coming.

A woman stands beside her, face pale, mouth trembling. The baby’s mother.

But she’s not part of this. She’s just the vessel. She isn’t allowed to speak.

Not tonight.

My father steps into the circle. So does Oreste. They stand opposite each other, both dressed in black, both holding something. My father: the box. Raffaele: a vial of oil.

The ceremony begins.

My father kneels and opens the box with reverence I’ve never seen from him—not even at funerals. He takes the blade, kisses the hilt, then presses it to his palm. The cut is quick and clean.

Oreste does the same.

They clasp hands, palm to palm, and let their blood drip onto the white silk ribbon coiled between them.

My father speaks the first words.

“Il sangue per legare. Il silenzio per proteggere.”

Blood to bind. Silence to protect.

Oreste picks up the child. He lays her gently in the center of the circle, right on top of a carved sigil—an old crest I don’t recognize. Her eyes blink. Still no crying.

“Come here,” my father says.

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