I snuck up to the surface during the Great Cleansing, the one night a year when the iron gates of the Pit creak wide and the dead are allowed to drift.

I just wanted to see the stars again.

Instead, right at the threshold of the lower crossing, I slammed into the two people who were supposed to be basking in the golden pastures of Paradise: my parents.

They were blocking the archway, flanking my adopted sister, Cassidy.

And the second my father saw me, he held out a palm calloused by greed and barked, "Give Cassidy your Soul Pass." "Not on your life," I said, instinctively stepping back.

A Soul Pass was your deed of existence in the afterlife.

Without it, you weren't just dead; you were an unmoored vapor, stripped of a name, condemned to wander the howling void until you eroded into nothing.

If I gave it up, how would I ever find my way back down to the only four men who actually gave a damn about me?

So before they could lunge, I cocked my arm back, caught Cassidy across the jaw with a vicious backhand, and sprinted. Predictably, her condition flared.

She collapsed onto the obsidian gravel, clutching her cheek and keening at the top of her lungs. "It’s not fair! Why does she get a pass and I don't?

Just because she was born to you and I was chosen? Why does she always get more than me?" My father caught up to me two strides later.

A heavy boot slammed into my spine, sending me skidding facefirst across the stone. "You little vermin," he hissed, standing over me with veins bulging in his neck. "Rotten to the core in life, rotten in death.

If it weren't for the dumb luck of crawling out of your mother's womb, you wouldn't even be fit to scrape Cassidy’s boots.

Hand it over willingly, or I swear to God you’ll beg for oblivion." I pushed myself up onto bruised elbows, spat blood, and bared my teeth in a silent "no".

My mother didn't hesitate.

She grabbed me by the scruff of my collar, dragging me like a bag of trash straight toward the precipice of the Deep Circles. "Listen to me, Robin," she snarled into my ear, her perfume an awful, sickening blend of lilies and malice. "If you hand it over like a good girl, your father and I might come visit you down here every few decades.

You have no idea what kinds of abominations run the Circles. A scrap like you?

They’ll grind your spirit into dust in fifteen minutes flat." When I didn't answer, she hoisted me up by my arms and heaved me straight through the rusted, towering gates.

I tumbled through the sulfur smoke, rolling onto the ashcovered pavers. Through the haze, I caught sight of the jagged, familiar gouges etched into the iron frame.

My lips curved into a dark, bloody smirk. Well, look at that. They’d thrown me right onto Uncle Gideon’s front porch. They thought Cassidy's tantrums were an incurable disease?

Good thing my godfathers specialized in beating entitlement out of monsters far worse than her. … At the heart of the chamber, Uncle Gideon was tossing shovelfuls of condensed soulember into the sea of whitehot magma, his broad, demonic shoulders glowing like molten copper.

My eyes lit up.

Before I could call out, my father’s boot landed between my shoulder blades, shoving me off the ledge. "Give up the pass," he barked from the rim, "or learn what burning really feels like." Behind him, Mother shielded Cassidy, keeping a pristine distance. "This is only the first tier, Robin," she called out, her voice dripping with cold righteousness. "Once your spirit unravels, not even the Heavens can stitch you back together." The liquid fire surged around me.

The agony was an instantaneous roar, an inferno that seared through my phantom nerves until my throat seized, choking back any sound I tried to make.

Soul Passes could only be transferred by voluntary consent. No power in the cosmos could pry one loose by force.

But to exist without one was worse than wandering—it was spiritual execution.

Seeing me grit my teeth, my father dug into his silk jacket and pulled out a shimmering golden ring—a centurygrade Halo of Merit—and thrust it toward Gideon. "A hundred years of pure celestial grace," my father offered, voice slick with barter. "Make this stubborn runt yield to my terms, and it’s yours." Gideon’s molten eyes widened, a feral hunger flashing across his scarred face.

Without looking at me, he slammed a lever, stoking the white flames higher. "Deal. My new foster kid could use a trinket like this to polish her spirit." My chest hitched.

When our family died, there had been three golden tickets to Paradise allocated to our name.

My father hadn't hesitated for a fraction of a second; he scooped up Cassidy and walked toward the light.

When I opened my mouth to beg, Mother smothered my face with an ether rag, slipping a cursed malediction talisman onto the small of my back while I was blacking out.

I never even made it to the judgment hall; I was dumped straight down the chute into the abyss. Down here, the fiends were grotesque, towering horrors.

Yet, when they found me—a frail, shattered kid dumped on their doorstep—they handled me like a porcelain doll.

I hauled myself out of the magma by my fingernails, dragging my smoking body toward Gideon’s colossal boots. My father’s expression curdled.

He lunged down, snatched me by the throat, and shoved my face back into the molten slurry. "You really like doing things the hard way, don't you?

Let's see how much of that defiance is left when your skin melts away." My throat was scorched dry. Every breath tasted of ash and melting spiritflesh.

I tried to cry out Gideon’s name, but the boiling tide rushed into my mouth, drowning the syllable. All I could do was stare at Gideon with burning, bloodshot eyes.

Gideon frowned, taking a lumbering step forward, his brow furrowing as he studied the battered wisp under my father's grip.

Seeing him hesitate, Mother whipped a small glass vial from her sleeve and dumped a viscous, crimson draught straight over my face. It hit like liquid acid.

The caustic venom hissed against my spiritual form, dissolving what little strength I had left.

I collapsed flat, tremors racking my ribs, tears instantly sizzling away as they tracked down my ruined cheeks.

From the ledge, Cassidy’s eyes rimmed with theatrical tears. "It’s not fair!" she wailed, stomping her foot. "Why does she get to have bigger eyes than me?

Even burned up, they’re wider than mine!" Ever since the day my parents brought Cassidy home from the shelter, those four words had been a death sentence for me: "It’s not fair." If she said it, I had to yield.

My bedroom. My winter coat. My birthday money. In the end, even my parents' love.

Whenever I pushed back, I was labeled cruel, selfish, unable to accommodate a child with "chronic acute sensitivity." Frankly, if having a tantrum was a disability, I would have loved to be sick too.

Mother swept Cassidy into a fierce hug, then reached down, smashed a porcelain cup against the stones, and marched toward me with a jagged shard. "You spiteful little parasite," Mother snarled, kneeling beside my trembling head. "Useless when you were breathing, useless now that you're dead.

You know your sister has an emotional condition, yet you deliberately torment her.

Let’s see how proud you are without them." She raised the shard to plunge it into my left eye. "Hold it." The voice vibrated through the stone floor like a tectonic plate shifting.

Gideon stepped between us, his massive frame blotting out the furnace light. A shadow of distaste passed over his molten gaze. "The kid is already burned to a cinder.

Looks like charred meat. Those eyes are the only decent feature she has left. I’m running a torture circle, not an abattoir.

If you make her completely repulsive to look at, the deal’s off." My father caught Mother's wrist, pushing the merit halo into Gideon's claw. "Consider it yours," he said with an oily, thinlipped smile. "The upper gates stay open for three full days.

I don't care how stubborn she is; I have seventytwo hours and an endless supply of patience.

Willingly or otherwise, that pass is going to Cassidy." I managed a ragged, silent scoff.

When they first spotted me at the gates, they had feigned tears, opening their arms, claiming they’d descended into the muck just to make amends.

Their idea of amends was gutting me for the spare parts Cassidy wanted. Using the last ounce of my will, I dragged myself forward and clamped onto Gideon’s armored calf.

Gideon lowered his head, glancing down.

I reached for his giant palm, my burned, shaking finger twitching to trace the secret crescent mark we always drew when he tucked me in after nightmarefilled nights.

Cassidy rushed over, kicking my hand away.

She planted her designer heel on my fingers and ground them into the obsidian dust. "It’s not fair!" she cried, panting with manufactured distress. "Why are her fingers longer than mine?

She’s an ugly monster!" Mother pulled out a lace handkerchief, tenderly dabbing the sweat from Cassidy’s brow.

Father stood tall, puffed with pride. "That’s my brave little princess.

Facing down underworld fiends without flinching." Then his gaze dropped to me, freezing into absolute malice. "Since you like to bite your tongue, girl, you won't be needing it.

The TongueSlicing Mill is right next door.

Let’s see how quiet you stay there." I dredged up the breath from the bottom of my lungs, forcing a broken croak past my blistered lips. "Gi... de..." "Smack." Father’s palm cracked across my jaw, knocking the syllable down my throat.

Before the room stopped spinning, he grabbed my ankles and dragged me down the corridor, heaving me onto the bloodslick stone slab in front of Uncle Bram.

Bram was sitting crosslegged, running a wet stone down a massive cleaver, sparks cascading into his lap. He didn't even look up. "This the stray Gideon said he couldn't crack?

Relax. Nobody keeps their tongue in my shop. Root and all, clean as a whistle." Father pinned my skull against the butcher’s block. "Last chance, you miserable little wretch.

Yield." Cassidy hid her face in Mother's skirt. "Mommy, her hands are still whole." Mother scowled, producing a second halo from her purse. "Cut the hands off too." Bram leaned over the counter, his massive, horned face drawing close.

When his gaze fell upon my melted, disfigured face, he recoiled half a step, an expression of profound disgust tightening his snout. "What kind of sick bastards are you?" Bram muttered, lowering the blade. "This runt isn’t much bigger than my own little girl.

Except my girl is an angel. She’s up top right now, promised she’d bring me back some of those peach tarts she likes." Seeing Bram stall, Father snapped.

He lunged across the counter, wrenched the iron tongs from Bram’s belt, shoved them into my mouth, and wrenched backward with all his weight. Agony tore through the root of my jaw.

A soundless scream ripped through my chest as my vision flared pure white. I curled into a fetal ball on the floor, choking on the phantom ichor pouring down my throat.

My eyes locked onto the cleaver resting on the bench.

If I could just throw myself against the edge, tear the charred tunic open, and show him the birthmark on my left shoulder—the little threeleaf clover Bram had laughed at when he first patched my wounds—he’d know it was me.

I clawed forward two inches before Mother’s manicured nails dug into my collar, yanking me violently back. "Going somewhere?" she whispered vindictively. "I told you: until that pass is signed over to Cassidy, you don't leave our sight." Bram slammed his cleaver into the timber counter with enough force to shake the rafters. "Get out!" he roared, waving his massive hands in revulsion. "Take your sick sideshow and get the hell out of my shop!

I’m too old for this butcher work. Keep your damn halos. I don't care what this kid stole—treating a child like this turns my stomach.

I’ve got my own kid to worry about." My nose stung with tears.

With bloody, trembling arms, I clutched at the cuffs of Bram's trousers, nuzzling my forehead against his shins just like I did whenever he let me nap in the corner of his forge.

Bram sighed, his heavy hand descending to help me up.

Before his fingers could touch me, Father yanked my collar, hauling me across the threshold like a slaughtered hound. "They say the fiends of the Lower Circles are ruthless terrors," Father sneered loudly, addressing the shadows. "They say a contract taken is a soul claimed.

What a joke. Shaking in your boots over a child. Pure marketing." The spectating wraiths in the hallways averted their eyes, shrinking into the crevices.

They knew better than to cross the four lords. These men were living nightmares to anyone who dared trespass—unless, of course, they were dealing with me.

If I had ever pointed at the High Magistrate's throne and said I wanted it, those four brutes would have stormed the pavilion by nightfall to put a crown on my head.

A minor ghoul slouched in the shadows, snickering to stir the pot. "Times have changed, mister!

Ever since those four went soft and took in that orphan, they can't stand the sight of blood on a kid. If you want results, take her to the Crags of Blades.

Drop her from the summit. Let her hit every razor on the way down. She’ll beg to sign." Father's eyes ignited. He tightened his grip on my neck and marched onward.

All the while, Mother hovered over Cassidy, shielding her pastel linen dress from the stray specks of ash and gore flying off my body. "Don't look, my sweet darling," she cooed. "Once we handle this paperwork, we’re going back to the meadows of light.

A filthy ditch like this is no place for a princess. Not like that monster.

Imagine—conspiring with kidnappers at eight years old, and then turning on the kitchen gas stove when she got caught." A bitter, silent laugh rattled in my shattered chest.

The kidnappers had come for "me". The afternoon before, Cassidy had thrown a fit because my drawing received an Aminus while hers got a B.

To appease her, Father had thrown me into the unheated pool in late November, forcing me to kneel on the concrete terrace for two days straight.

By Sunday night, I was delirious with a hundredandfourdegree fever.

My parents had taken Cassidy to an amusement park to celebrate her recovery from "emotional distress." I couldn't even lift my head off the linoleum.

When the back window shattered, the kidnappers grabbed the first bedroom they saw—Cassidy’s—thinking the grand suite belonged to the biological daughter.

When Cassidy was recovered three days later, her condition had weaponized. If I spoke, her chest seized because my voice was clearer than hers.

If I excelled, she went into anaphylactic shock. Everywhere I existed, she found a way to collapse. Soon enough, we stood at the base of the Crags of Blades.

Uncle Jethro sat atop a spire of razor steel. The moment he saw Father dragging an emaciated, bloodied child, he crossed his scarred arms and turned away. "Contract declined.

She's too small. I don't grind babies." Cassidy leaned into Mother's side, her lip trembling. "It’s not fair! How can they call themselves real demons if they won't even help us?

Mommy, if she doesn't give me the pass, the border guards will send me back down here with the commoners!" I lay flat against the freezing stone, pulling the thinnest thread of air into my lungs.

Suddenly, I lunged. I threw myself toward Jethro’s throat.

His mortal weak point was right beneath the left clavicle—he’d told me himself while sharing rice wine by the hearth, bragging that only his little girl knew where to strike him down.

Before my burned fingertips could graze his collar, Mother's hand clamped onto my ankle. With a vicious, practiced swing, she hurled me backward into the forest of upturned blades.

Dozens of cold steel points sheared through my spiritual form. The clovershaped birthmark on my left shoulder was sliced into ribboned tatters, bathed in dark, spiritual essence.

Father stood at the edge of the chasm, staring down at me with absolute indifference. "Final offer, Robin." My gaze met his through the tangled, bloodcaked hair.

My eyes hardened into obsidian daggers. I shook my head. This was my home. These were my grounds. They thought they could kill me here? They were hopelessly out of their depth.

Father leaned down, conferring with Mother in a low, pragmatic murmur. "To hell with it. Let's just eradicate her completely.

When the auditors check the ledger, we’ll swear on our souls we only ever had one daughter—Cassidy. The divine quota is three slots. We have three bodies.

Nobody will question it." Having settled on my complete annihilation, their faces lost every vestige of humanity.

Father reached down, plucked me from the spikes, and threw me into the crimson depths of the Blood Pool. The Pool of Kinship.

A sacred tribunal where parents held the absolute authority to judge unfilial progeny.

If the bloodline confirmed the sin, the child was erased from the cosmic fabric—no afterlife, no reincarnation, no memory.

On the throne above the crimson waters, Uncle Orson slowly opened his slitted, reptilian eyes. "Well, well," Orson murmured, his voice dripping with ancient malice. "Customers.

It's been centuries since fresh blood walked into my circle." Of all my godfathers, Orson was the most violently possessive.

Once, a junior ferryman had snapped at me for dropping an apple into the river.

Orson had dismantled the ferryman’s boat and hung him upside down from the Stygian bridge for three months.

I stared up at him from the boiling pool, tears finally breaking free, carving pale tracks through the soot on my cheeks.

Orson’s gaze swept over me, cold, calculating, his thin lips pressed into a severe line. Before he could lean down, Father dropped all three halos of celestial merit onto the dais.

Orson paused, glancing at the gold, then made a lazy, sweeping gesture with his hand. "Proceed." Mother gently set Cassidy down on a velvet cushion, climbed the marble steps, and pointed an accusatory finger at my floating form. "Robin," Mother declared, her voice resonant with maternal authority. "Disrespectful to elders.

At her grandmother’s funeral, she slept through the vigil in the antechamber.

When reprimanded, she showed no remorse and desecrated the memorial altar." The moment the words left her mouth, an agonizing pull seized my core.

A fragment of my spiritual essence tore away from my chest, dissolving into the red mist.

Around the rim of the pool, wandering ghouls gathered, setting up betting tables. "Look at that little terror," someone whispered. "Small, but vicious.

A natural fit for the Pit, if she survives." Mother beamed, preening under the attention, her chest swelling with selfrighteous pride.

She fired off the second charge without missing a beat: "Unfilial to parents.

On my fortyfifth birthday, she vanished into the night to carouse with delinquents, refusing to return home for three days and three nights." "Riiiiip." The agony this time was absolute.

It felt as though my very consciousness was being dipped into a vat of boiling lye, every memory scraped from the bone.

I tried to curl inward, but there was nowhere to hide from the bloodline decree. Father shoved Mother aside, clearly irritated by her pacing. "You're dragging this out.

Look at Cassidy—she’s exhausted.

Finish the damn ritual so we can take our daughter home to bed." Mother nodded hurriedly, sitting beside Cassidy on the velvet cushion, stroking her hair and humming a soft lullaby to keep her calm.

Father planted his fists on the stone balustrade, leaning toward Orson. "How do I trigger the maximum penalty?

Tell me, and the third halo is yours." Orson sat upright, rubbing his calloused claws together with an eager, greedy gleam. "Thousands of years of grace...

If I hand this over to my sweet girl, it’ll scrub away whatever phantom sins she carries.

Might even earn her a gilded rebirth in the upper realms." He cleared his throat, leaning down conspiratorially. "It’s simple.

As her father, step to the altar and renounce your lineage. Declare total severance.

A soul discarded by its own flesh and blood has no legal right to exist." Father strode to the edge of the pool, his hand clamping around my burned throat, hoisting my head above the red waves. "You miserable parasite," Father whispered, his eyes void of warmth. "I gave you life.

Taking it back is simply settling the balance. Don't blame me; blame your own stubborn neck. In your next life—oh, wait.

You don't have one." He dropped me back into the scarlet water, turned toward the vaulted ceiling, and bellowed: "From this moment forward, I, Charles, sever all bonds of blood and spirit with the child known as Robin!" Silence fell over the chamber.

The crimson waters didn't boil. The decree didn't land. The expected thunderclap of cosmic erasure never came. Father repeated it, his voice cracking with desperate volume. Once.

Twice. Three times. The pool remained glassy, flat, completely unresponsive. Veins pulsed against Father’s temples.

He swung around, pointing a trembling finger at Orson. "You cheated me!

You took my halos and gave me a defective tribunal!" Orson’s brow knit into a deep, bewildered furrow. "Impossible. Ten thousand years, and this water has never failed.

Unless..." Orson rose to his full, terrifying height. He swept his crimson cloak across the air. In an instant, the Blood Pool flared with blinding crimson light.

Dozens of glowing, ethereal scarlet threads erupted from the surface. One end was rooted deeply into my chest. The other end did not stretch toward Charles.

It struck firmly, irrevocably, into the palm of Orson’s right hand—while three other threads shot past the archway, lancing outward toward the other circles of the Pit.