### Chapter 9 Anastasia My heart drums aggressively against my ribcage, each beat echoing through the narrow stone stairwell like a drumroll of fate. I'm acutely aware of the men surrounding me, their low whispers growing louder as we descend step by step into the depths of the unknown. Cloaked in black, their silver wolf masks obscure their identities, yet the voices are unmistakably familiar—ghosts from my past that haunt me now. While they exude an air of calm and familiarity, I cling to the edge of panic, precariously balanced on my towering heels. Thank heavens I opted for the chunkier style; otherwise, I might have crumbled under this pressure. As we enter the cavernous chamber, a chill runs down my spine. It feels like we have wandered into a forgotten catacomb, far removed from the glittering façade of the city's most exclusive hotel. Yet, deep down, I had always known that this structure overshadowed the sacred gathering grounds of the Order of Saints. Knowing and witnessing are entirely different realms, though. The walls rise around us, a chaotic collage of tiled and marbled surfaces supporting the low ceiling. Flickering candles cast a dim light around the perimeter, the flames dancing like spirits caught between two worlds. My breath becomes shallower as a figure bumps into me from behind. “Move it,” a voice urges. Startled, I scramble to my left, just as Nikolai instructed, though his hastily crafted map does little to arm me against the chaos erupting around me. The noise swells as the heads of the families—the mighty Saints of this twisted Order—take their designated places, settling into the imposing chairs that line the aisle. My heart sinks as I count the positions until I reach my own, and I freeze, feeling naked under the suffocating weight of expectation. Had I truly thought I could vanish easily among these shadows? I envisioned an atmosphere steeped in dimmed lighting, where secrets could coil in the corners without prying eyes. But reality is far bleaker here. “Volkov. What are you doing?” a masked figure accuses from beside my family’s seat. His tone drips with disbelief, cutting through my facade. With a surge of adrenaline, I straighten up, puffing out my chest in a mock display of confidence. I feel ridiculous, a mere mouse pretending to be a lion. As I weave my way through the Saints, their heads bowed in reverence, I become hyper-aware of the hierarchy surrounding me. I am just below the Lords—those stepping stones of power, crushed underneath a world I never wished to occupy. I take notice of the rows of Unsainted, kneeling subserviently behind them. They gaze downward, their ambitions shining through the cracks of their stoic postures. I quietly fidget with my red-painted nails, hidden by the confines of my garment, as the air grows heavy with anticipation. Suddenly, a wooden door creaks open at the back, and the three brothers enter, invoking a wave of reverence. The Saints stand, bowing deeply as I mimic their movements, my eyes flickering toward the space beyond the rim of my headdress. The Lords, adorned in gold masks, glide toward us like specters—each step a declaration. Bash, the first to approach, commands the aisle with an air of authority that is tangible. The swagger that usually defines him has faded, replaced by a chilling severity. His hood shrouds him, only the curve of his lips visible, devoid of the usual playfulness I knew. I hold my breath as our eyes lock for a brief moment. A warmth spreads in my chest despite my resolve, and I shift my gaze to the ground, desperate to retreat from the gravity of his presence. The momentum of the ceremony pulls me in, blinding me to anything but maintaining my facade, until a figure beside me rises and strides to the center of the chamber, an Unsainted trailing silently behind him. Panic surges through me. What if they summon me? What if they call upon me to speak? Nikolai had been vague about this part of the scheme. If they find out I’m an impersonator, the stakes could mean death for both of us. I shift nervously, my heart racing until the imminent dread recedes slightly as the two men bow in front of Damon, their hushed voices barely reaching my ears. The air grows thicker, and my stomach tightens as they present a glinting knife, freshly stained by crimson drops that trickle from the Unsainted’s palm. This is the initiation—his swearing-in as a Saint. My skin prickles as I can feel Bash’s unyielding gaze sear into my profile. I avert my eyes, finding the floor’s grain pattern suddenly fascinating. The conclusion of the ceremony sends the crowd rising from their seats, a tidal wave of bodies ebbing around me. I feel myself beginning to sweat under the fabric of my robe, dread coiling tightly around my heart. The last thing I want to do is venture into the Vault, but I can’t give up now—not when the Salvatores are bearing down. Tentatively, I breathe in, counting away the panic. One. Two. Three. I exhale, focusing on each number until calm washes over me, if only briefly. This is the moment I risked everything for. Every second here is laden with peril—the chance of discovery throbs in the air like a living thing. Seizing the chaos, I blend in with the departing crowd, my movements deft as I slip toward the back wall. I remember Bash’s drunken confession about hidden rooms, and with purpose, I navigate further into the shadows. The ambient light grows dimmer, almost suffocating, yet I press on. The pulses of my heartbeat synchronize with the burgeoning heat that wraps around me, my palms slick with anxiety. As I journey deeper into the unknown, a faint glow beckons me from a room ahead like a siren’s call. My steps hesitate as realization dawns; this is why I am here. I take a moment, steadying myself, hands trembling as I contemplate the abyss of excuses I could conjure. But none feel sufficient—they would all betray my identity with a single utterance. Gritting my teeth, I venture into the room, dread morphing into hope as the reality unfolds before me. Walls lined with books reach for the echoes of the sky, and the lone candelabra flickers, illuminating the dust that trembles in the still air. It’s achingly quiet—too quiet—like the calm before a storm. As I advance, the musty scent of antiquity washes over me, and for a moment, I feel like a character in a horror story, oblivious to the danger lurking just out of sight. In the center, a single table commands my attention, and a thrill of discovery sends shivers down my spine. A glass case rests upon the surface, velvet-lined and holding a shimmering tiara that seems to pulse with its own heartbeat. “I found it,” I whisper to myself, disbelief anchoring me in place. I reach for it, fingertips brushing the glass, only to discover a lock barring my access. Panic surges, electrifying the air around me. Leaning in, I push the dust away, revealing a manual number pad hidden in the darkness. All at once, the enormity of my task crashes down on me—countless combinations are an insurmountable task. My palms slick against the brass candle holder I clutch tightly, and I desperately pull my robe tighter around me, enveloping it like a shield. I lift the holder high, steeling myself for the action, the weight of my intentions resting heavily upon me. “Don’t do that,” a voice slices through the silence with a chilling familiarity. I whirl around, shock morphing into terror as I find myself face to face with Bash, his smile broader than ever, a wolf in sheep's clothing ready to expose me.