Chapter 2: The Mark of the Damned
The broth tasted like ash. Asta managed a few sips before the shaking in his hands made Sister Lily take the spoon from him. His whole body felt wrong. Not just tired, not just broken—foreign. Deep, burning lines traced patterns up his forearms, black and intricate, like cracks in charred wood. They pulsed with a dull, warm ache.
He tried to push himself up higher on the pillow, a grunt of effort escaping his clenched teeth.
“Don’t,” Lily’s voice was sharp, laced with a fear he’d never heard from her before. Her hand pressed gently but firmly on his shoulder, holding him down. “Don’t move, Asta. Please.” When he looked at her, he saw her eyes were bright, shimmering with unshed tears. A single drop traced a path down her cheek, and she didn’t brush it away. “We thought you were dead. When Father Orsi found you in the field, you weren’t breathing. Your heart… it was so faint.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a raw whisper. “Why? Why would you do something so reckless? You could have died. You almost did.”
Asta looked at the ceiling, the familiar water stain that looked like a grumpy toad. The pain was a thick blanket, but underneath it, the answer was simple and clear as spring water.
“They’re my team,” he said, his voice rough but steady. “My friends. Captain Yami… he was right there. Baro’s magic… it would’ve killed him from the inside. I was the only one who could stop it.” He turned his head to look at her, offering a smile that felt cracked but genuine. “That’s my job. That’s my magic. To protect them.”
Lily stared at him. The simplicity of it, the absolute lack of regret, seemed to overwhelm her. She let out a shaky breath, a sob catching in her throat. “You stupid, wonderful boy,” she murmured, more a prayer than a scolding. She leaned forward, pressing her forehead briefly against his, her prayer beads cold against his feverish skin. “Thank God. Thank God you’re still here.”
She pulled back, composing herself with a sniff. “You’re hurting. All your muscles are knotted up from… from whatever happened. Let me help.” Her hands, usually so gentle when fixing his hair or patting his head, settled on his shoulders. She began to knead the rigid muscles there, her fingers surprisingly strong.
Asta tensed for a moment, then sighed as the pressure began to ease the deep-seated ache. “S’nice,” he mumbled, closing his eyes. The touch was soothing, a familiar comfort in a world that had suddenly become unfamiliar and painful.
But then the touch changed. Her hands moved down his back, over the thin cotton of his shirt, working the knots along his spine. A different kind of heat began to spread, low in his gut. It was confusing, a fizzy, urgent feeling completely separate from his injuries. He shifted, trying to subtly adjust himself as he felt a swelling, a stiffness pressing against the mattress. Oh no. Not now. Not with Sister Lily.
He tried to curl onto his side, to hide it. “I’m, uh, good. Really. Thanks.”
“Nonsense, it’s all locked up back here,” she said, her tone practical. Before he could protest further, her hands were on his hips, and with a determined heave, she flipped him onto his back.
The thin sheet did nothing to hide the prominent tenting in his trousers.
Asta’s face burned hotter than any magic burn. He squeezed his eyes shut, wishing the bed would swallow him whole. “I’m so sorry,” he choked out, mortification dripping from every word.
There was a long, silent pause. He dared to crack one eye open.
Lily wasn’t looking at his face. She was staring, transfixed, at the bulge in his pants. Her breath had caught. Her cheeks, already flushed from emotion, deepened to a dark rose. Her lips were slightly parted. The practical, nurturing expression was gone, replaced by something raw and hungry. Her hands, which had been resting on the bed, twitched.
“Asta…” His name was a sigh on her lips.
This was wrong. She was a sister of the cloth. He was… Asta. She’d changed his diapers. She’d scolded him for tracking mud. This surge of liquid heat between her own legs, this sudden hardening of her nipples against the rough fabric of her habit—it was a sin. A delicious, overwhelming sin.
She tried to think of a prayer. Any prayer. All that came to mind was the desperate, pounding rhythm of her own heart.
Her eyes lifted to his, wide and dark. The war lasted only a second. The want won.
She leaned down and kissed him.
It wasn’t a gentle, sisterly kiss. It was deep, searching, filled with thirty-three years of pent-up longing. Her tongue traced the seam of his lips, and he opened for her with a shocked gasp that she swallowed. When she pulled back, they were both breathing heavily.
“Asta,” she whispered, her voice husky and completely unfamiliar. “Have you ever… been with a woman?”
He shook his head, mortified and painfully, undeniably aroused. “N-no.”
A strange, relieved smile touched her swollen lips. “Me neither.” The confession seemed to free her. Her hands went to the clasps of her habit. “I’ve never… wanted to. Until now.”
The heavy grey fabric pooled on the floorboards. Underneath, she was all soft curves and pale skin. She was beautiful in a way that made Asta’s brain short-circuit. He could only stare, his injury forgotten, every nerve alight with a new, consuming fire.
She helped him out of his clothes, her movements slow, reverent. When he was finally bare, she looked at him, her gaze travelling over the scars, the new black runes, and finally, his full, aching erection. A soft sound of approval escaped her.
She kissed him again, laying her body over his, and this time it was a exploration. Her mouth was everywhere—his lips, his jaw, the strong column of his throat. She moved lower, her long, pink tongue swirling around one of his nipples, then the other. He gasped, his hands tangling in her silvery hair, not guiding, just holding on.
Then she went lower still.
Her breath was hot against his stomach. Then lower. When her mouth took him in, he jerked, a strangled cry ripping from his throat. It was wet and hot and so good it bordered on painful. Her tongue was everywhere, long and agile, licking up the length of him before taking him deep again. She looked up at him, her eyes glazed, and he watched, mesmerized, as she worshipped him with her mouth. It was sloppy, passionate, perfect.
The coiling tension in his gut snapped faster than he expected. “Lily, I’m gonna—!”
She didn’t pull away. She took him deeper, her throat working around him, and he came with a broken shout, pulsing into the wet heat of her mouth. She swallowed, her eyes locked on his until the last shudder passed through him.
She sat up, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, a strangely feral look on her saintly face. “I want you,” she breathed, her voice cracking. “Inside me. Can you… again?”
He was already hard. Harder, somehow. The sight of her, naked and wanting, her pussy glistening openly for him, brought him back to full, throbbing urgency instantly.
He didn’t answer with words. With a growl that surprised even him, he moved, flipping their positions so she was beneath him on the narrow bed. She let out a gasp of surprise that quickly melted into a moan as he settled between her thighs.
“Fuck me,” she begged, her earlier hesitation gone, consumed by a need that matched his own. She licked a stripe up his neck, her teeth grazing his ear. “Please, Asta, fuck your Sister. I need it. I need it rough.”
He guided himself to her entrance, slick and hot. He pushed forward, breaching her tightness. She tensed for a moment, a sharp inhale, but then her body yielded, opening for him with a shocking ease. There was no pain in her cry, only pure, unadulterated need. “Yes! Oh, god, yes!”
He began to move, and it was like nothing he’d ever imagined. Her heat surrounded him, pulling him deeper. She matched his rhythm instantly, her hips rolling, her hands clawing at his back. The quiet, serene woman was gone, replaced by a creature of pure desire.
“You feel so… fucking… good,” she panted, her words filthy and perfect. “So big. Filling me up. Don’t stop, don’t you fucking stop!” Her head thrashed on the pillow, her tongue lolling from her mouth as she chanted a stream of obscenities that would make a sailor blush.
He drove into her, each thrust fueled by months of battle tension, by the nearness of death, by the pure, shocking reality of her. Her legs locked around his waist, pulling him deeper, urging him on. “I’m close,” he grunted, the pressure building again, terrifying and incredible.
“Inside,” she demanded, her eyes wild, locking her ankles tight around him. “Come inside me, Asta. Fill me up. I want it.”
Her command shattered the last of his control. With a final, deep thrust, he buried himself in her and came, his release hot and endless as he cried out into the curve of her neck. She clenched around him, her own climax rippling through her, a long, trembling wave that left her breathless and boneless beneath him.
For a long time, the only sounds were their ragged breaths and the distant shouts of children playing outside. The light in the room had changed, casting long, solemn shadows.
Lily traced one of the black runes on his arm, her touch soft. Her habit lay in a heap on the floor, a crumpled symbol of a life that already felt distant. She wasn’t a nun anymore. Not in here. Not with him. And she found, with a calm certainty, that she didn’t care at all.
On the chair by the bed, Asta’s grimoire, faint and ghostly just hours before, now lay solid and black. Its pages, once still, now seemed to hum with a latent, waiting power.
The hum from the grimoire was a low, physical vibration in the air, like a struck bell heard through stone. Asta lay sprawled on the narrow bed, every muscle loose and humming with a different, warmer frequency. Sweat cooled on his skin, mingling with Lily’s where her back was pressed against his chest. Her silver hair stuck to his neck, smelling of incense and salt.
“That was…” Asta began, his voice raspy.
“Fucking unbelievable,” Lily finished, her own voice throaty and spent. She let out a shaky laugh, a sound he’d never heard from her. “I feel like my bones have been replaced with warm honey.”
He tightened his arm around her waist, feeling the smooth curve of her stomach. The black runes on his arm seemed darker against her skin. A question, blunt and clumsy, pushed its way out. “Why? With me? I mean… you’re you. And I’m…”
“Asta?” She shifted, turning her head to look at him. Her expression was soft, but her eyes were intensely clear. “I’ve spent my whole life tending to other people’s spirits. Praying. Washing. Mending. The habit was a shield. I thought it was my skin.” She traced a circle on his wrist. “When I saw you lying in that field, covered in those marks… something broke in me. All I could think was ‘not him.’ Not this vibrant, stubborn, beautiful boy. I didn’t want to just pray for you. I wanted to feel that you were alive. I wanted to be the reason you remembered what living felt like.”
She paused, letting out a long breath. “I don’t want to be Sister Lily anymore. Not like that. I’ll help Father Orsi, of course. But the vows… the celibacy… it feels like someone else’s life. I want a life. I want to be with someone.”
Asta’s heart, so calm a moment before, gave a hard, painful thump. “Who?” The word was out before he could stop it, laced with a possessiveness that shocked him.
A mischievous, wicked gleam lit her eyes. She bit her lip, pretending to think. “Well… let’s see. He’s powerful, incredibly handsome, destined for greatness… obviously… Yuno.”
Asta’s whole body went rigid. “What?!”
Lily burst out laughing, the sound rich and unguarded. She rolled over to face him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her eyes sparkling. “Your face! Oh, Asta, you’re so easy.” She kissed him, slow and deep. “It’s you, you ridiculous boy. It’s always been you. I just didn’t let myself know it until I almost lost you forever.”
The air in Hage was thin and carried the sharp, clean scent of pine and poverty. Noelle stepped out of Finral’s portal onto the familiar, hard-packed dirt road, her boots kicking up little puffs of dust. The sight of the distant, crumbling church spire sent a conflicting ache through her chest.
“This is it?” Vanessa asked, stepping out behind her, her nose wrinkling as she took in the modest, worn-down buildings. “It’s… quaint.”
“It’s his home,” Noelle said, her voice tighter than she intended. She clutched the faint, fading grimoire inside her coat. Its presence was a dying ember against her ribs. “The orphanage is up the hill. He’d be there if he’s anywhere.”
Vanessa nodded, her usual playful demeanor subdued. “Lead the way, princess.”
Back in the small room, Asta was pulling his shirt over his head when he felt it. A familiar pressure at the edge of his perception, a signature he’d learned to recognize without sight. Ki.
This one was like a swirling, chaotic bonfire, warm and slightly unpredictable—Vanessa. A moment later, a second presence resolved. This one was different. A contained storm, all crackling energy and deep, shifting currents held behind a wall of fierce pride. It sparked with a frantic, worried rhythm he’d never felt from it before. Noelle.
“They’re here,” he breathed, a grin splitting his face.
Lily sat up, the sheet pooling around her waist. “Who?”
“My friends. From the squad.” He leaned down, kissing her quickly, passionately. “I gotta go surprise them. They think I’m dead or something!”
He was out the door, pulling on his boots as he half-ran down the hall, his injuries forgotten in a surge of pure joy. Lily listened to his retreating footsteps. The warmth of him was still on her skin, the smell of him on the sheets. And now he was running to them. To her.
A cold, sharp twist pierced her gut. It was green and ugly and tasted like metal. Jealousy. She looked at the discarded grey habit on the floor, then at the solid black grimoire on the chair. He lived in a world of battles and squads and deep, binding loyalties she wasn’t part of. If she stayed here, in this room, in this village, she would only ever be a memory he visited.
She stood, walking to the small window. She saw him, moving with a predator’s silence despite his size, slipping behind the well in the courtyard. Two women were coming up the path. One with wild red hair. The other, a girl with silver hair like hers, but held with a royal bearing, her face drawn with desperate worry.
Lily’s jaw set. Competition. Fine.
She found her spare habit, dressed mechanically, and went to the old communication mirror in Father Orsi’s study. It took a moment to remember the sequence Yami had left with them years ago, for emergencies. The glass swirled with dark smoke.
A gruff face materialized. “Who the hell is this?”
“Captain Yami,” Lily said, her voice steady, leaving no room for his bluster. “This is Sister Lily of Hage Church. Asta is alive. He’s here. And I’m joining your squad.”
Noelle’s heart was a trapped bird beating against her ribs. Every step up the hill was heavier. What if the grimoire was wrong? What if they found only a grave? Vanessa walked beside her, unusually quiet, her threads subtly weaving the space around them for any threat.
They passed the old well.
“This place is quieter than I expected,” Vanessa murmured.
A figure dropped soundlessly from the low roof of the shed behind them, landing in a soft crouch on the dirt.
“Boo.”
Vanessa shrieked, a thread instantly lashing out defensively. Noelle jumped a foot in the air, a shriek catching in her throat as she spun, mana flaring to life around her in a panicked, watery burst.
Asta stood there, whole and solid, a huge, stupid grin on his face. “Hey, guys! Miss me?”
For a full three seconds, Noelle just stared. Her brain refused to process it. The light. The explosion. The fading book. This couldn’t be real. It was a cruel trick, a mirage. But then he took a step, and she saw the familiar scar on his cheek, the new, strange markings on his arms, the alive, sparkling light in his eyes.
The dam broke.
A raw, choked sound escaped her. She crossed the distance between them in two stumbling steps and threw her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. Her body shook with violent, silent sobs that felt like they were tearing her apart from the inside. She clung to him, her fingers digging into the fabric of his shirt, her whole being focused on the feel of him—solid, warm, alive.
Asta froze, his arms stuck out awkwardly. “Uh… Noelle? You okay? What’s—?”
“You idiot!” she cried, her voice muffled against him, thick with tears. “You complete, utter, reckless, selfish, stupid idiot!” She pulled back just enough to look at him, her face a mess of tears and snot and fury. “Don’t you ever do that again! Do you hear me? Never!”
“I… I’m sorry?” Asta said, completely baffled. This wasn’t the usual tsundere slap or shouted insult. This was a hurricane of emotion he had no map for.
Noelle’s grip tightened. She took a shuddering breath, the words she’d practiced in the dark for days tumbling out in a rush, unfiltered and true. “I thought you were gone. I thought I’d never see you again. And I realized… I realized that every time you smile, it’s like the sun coming out. I realized that your stupid, impossible determination is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. I realized that my world is louder and brighter and better when you’re in it, you annoying, magicless peasant!”
She was crying in earnest now, the words pouring out with each sob. “I love you, Asta. I’m in love with you. I don’t care if you don’t feel the same way. I don’t need an answer. I just… I had to say it. I had to tell you, because I almost never got the chance.”
She collapsed against him again, her confession hanging in the air between them, fragile and monumental. Asta stood there, holding her, his mind utterly, blissfully blank. Over Noelle’s shoulder, he could see Vanessa, who had recovered from her scare, now watching with a hand over her mouth, her eyes wide and glistening.
From the window of the orphanage, Lily watched too, her knuckles white where they gripped the sill. The beautiful, royal girl was holding her Asta, saying the words Lily herself had only just realized. A slow, determined fire kindled in her chest.
This wasn’t over. Not even close.