Chapter 8

Il Risveglio della Fedeltà Spezzata
(The Awakening of the Broken Loyalty)

Sirah walked the streets of Cornwall in a stupor, driven by the euphoria of having in his possession something that belonged to her—to his Mylene, the reason for his awake dreams and vivid visions. As he roamed around, searching for a place to spend the night before informing Frankie that he had obtained what was requested, his mind began to dance around several theories.

The first one is: how the hell did Frankie come to find out about this diary? Sirah himself hadn’t even been aware of its existence, and he had searched wide and far for something—anything—that belonged to her. And now this bastard, out of nowhere, dares to say he found “the girl,” “the gold,” and demands what “belongs to him”?

Sirah began to feel his veins throb with anger as if he were descending straight into Dante’s Inferno. He was drunk with sangue bollente—his blood boiling so hot that it momentarily clouded his judgment, searing away reason and logic.

He found a petit inn tucked between two moss-covered buildings, as if he were walking into the Castle of Otranto—eerie, brooding, veiled in old gothic architecture. The nearby harbor added an air of old-world mysticism and paganism. The exterior was rugged, weathered by time and war, but the interior held a quiet, almost charming, aged-wood splendor. The flickering sconces and cracked mirror gave it character. The innkeeper didn’t ask many questions, simply handed him a key and mumbled something about the dense fog rolling in.

Once inside his modest chambers, Sirah dropped his coat on the divan beside him, tossed his suitcase aside, and sat on the edge of the bed with the diary cradled in his lap—as if about to partake in a forbidden liaison.

He knew he wasn’t supposed to open it. He had given Frankie his word that he wouldn’t even touch it. He had promised himself, too. But the diary whispered, Aprimi. Open me.

The temptation was unbearable, and Sirah couldn’t resist the urge.

The scent still lingered—clove, oranges, and cinnamon—like ghostly silk fingers stroking his jawline. He undid the silk wrapping with trembling hands, hands full of awe, rage, jealousy, and passion.

The magnificent craftsmanship of the diary—the gold-threaded binding shimmering in the flickering candlelight—was seductive. An alluring sensation kissed the nape of Sirah’s neck, followed by a whisper. As he finished unwrapping it and opened to the first page, he felt her more than ever.

The second page held only a few words, written in blood-red ink:
“Solo l’uomo con il cuore fumante e la colpa disposto a sanguinare può stare con me.”
(Only the man with the smoked heart and guilt willing to bleed can be with me.)

Sirah’s lips parted. For a moment, the room seemed to spin—darker, closer.

He turned the page again.
And the spell deepened.

Sirah kept on reading, the ink bleeding as if the wounds were fresh, the calligraphy alternating between invitation, scripture, and seduction. Mylene did not write like a woman—she wrote as the embodiment of a myth, speaking to her chosen, to the one with the smoked heart, valiant soul, and gallant spirit. Il principe che non conosce la sconfitta. (The prince who does not know defeat.)

Pages were layered in cryptic poetry, entire sheets of incantations for remembrance, spells to cure the broken, and memories too vivid to be fictitious.

Sirah felt as if she were speaking to him—and only to him. One of the passages stung like a bee:

“Non sono stata amata, sono stata raccolta. Un fiore bello, velenoso, mai tenuto con cura.”
(I was not loved. I was harvested. A beautiful, poisonous flower never held with care.)

Sirah ran his white velvet glove over the words as if he wanted to feel them bleed. The voice in his mind was no longer his—it was hers.

He tried to close the diary, but he was unable to. There were notes written in the margins: rituals, herbs… and then he found it—a drawing. A modestly sketched man aflame from the chest, kneeling before a woman with closed eyes and an open mouth, as if she were singing through eternity.

Beneath it, scrawled in the most beautiful tongue of them all:
“Quando il cuore brucia, io mi sveglio.”
(When the heart burns, I awaken.)

Sirah was breathless, as if someone had punched him in the stomach. He reached for the glass of water by the bed, but his hands were shaking so violently he spilled it to the floor. The water spread like lava from a mountaintop—and when it touched the old floorboards, it hissed, sharp and alive, like an angry cat.

The room began to spin again. But this time… he felt it behind him.
A gust of air brushed his ear.
And it felt as if Mylene had flipped her hair and gently slapped his face with it.

Then came the voice—siren-like, whispering:
“Ti ho sempre visto.”
(I’ve always seen you.)

🕯️ Felt the pull? Let her haunt someone new.

If this chapter moved you, pass it on.
One soul. One shadow. One whisper.

Mylene remembers the ones who speak her name.

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