Chapter 10
Alina
Istood before Giovanni Zampa’s house—a tall, imposing structure that seemed to loom over the narrow street, casting shadows that clung even in the earliest light. Dawn had just begun to stir, its first strokes of pink and gold brushing the dark sky like a painter at work.
Before I could even raise my hand to knock, the heavy wooden door creaked open.
A man stood in the doorway—small and wizened, radiating quiet authority. His inquisitive eyes studied me, brows lifted in silent question.
I hesitated, then stepped forward. “Mi scusi… I’m looking for Signor Giovanni Zampa?”
His gaze sharpened. “Who’s asking?”
“My father sent me,” I said quickly, breathless. “He said you could tell me what a Timeborne is.”
His expression darkened. “Not out here,” he hissed, glancing down the street. “Come inside. Quickly.”
He stepped aside, and I slipped past him, my heart fluttering with a mixture of anxiety and expectation. The air inside the house was cool, thick with the scent of ancient books and faint incense. Shadows clung to the corners, and the hallway stretched ahead like a secret waiting to be revealed.
Zampa led me down the corridor and into a dimly lit room at the back of the house. There, resting on an ornately carved table, lay an object that immediately drew my gaze.
A dagger.
Its hilt gleamed with strange metallic patterns, almost alive in the low light, and the blade shimmered faintly with an unnatural sheen.
“This,” he said, hushed, “arrived with you the night you were found. Along with a note. That was all.”
I stepped closer, drawn by the strange energy radiating from the blade. It seemed to hum in the air, brushing against my skin without touch, like it recognized me.
“You are a Timeborne,” he said softly. “One born under a rare celestial alignment. On the night of a full moon, if you speak the sacred words, this dagger will let you travel through time.”
The words felt impossible.
I stared at him, my thoughts crashing into one another like waves in a storm. At first, nothing made sense. I felt untethered, as if I were standing inside a dream, watching myself from somewhere far away. But as the truth settled, it rooted itself in my bones.
A Timeborne.
A time traveler.
Me.
My mind swirled with a thousand questions, yet the overwhelming sensation in my chest wasn’t fear, but something else entirely.
Wonder.
Could I truly pass through centuries? Witness worlds long gone? Uncover the secrets buried in time itself?
I felt the thrill pulse like lightning, my doubts drowned in the rush of possibility.
My lips curled into a startled smile. The heavy veil of my life—my father, my village, even Balthazar—suddenly seemed thinner. Less binding.
This dagger wasn’t just a weapon.
It was freedom.
“Tell me more, Signor,” I said, my voice steady, though my heart beat with nervous anticipation. “Can I truly just… leave Florence? Escape into another time?”
“Please,” Signor Zampa said, gesturing toward the drawing room. “Let us sit, and I shall tell you everything I can.”
I swept past him, my fingers trailing along the arch of the doorway as I entered the salon—a grand chamber filled with history. I sank into one of the velvet-cushioned settees, its carved wooden frame cool beneath my fingers.
The room whispered of old wealth and older secrets.
Tapestries and frescoes covered the walls, each alive with mythological figures, landscapes of forgotten cities, and gods locked in eternal battle.
Intricate plasterwork curled across the ceiling like vines frozen mid-bloom.
A fireplace crackled in the corner, its glow too dim to warm the chill settling in my bones.
Zampa sat opposite me, his thin frame dwarfed by the high-backed chair. The silence that followed was long. He tapped a finger against the armrest softly and rhythmically as if considering his words.
He finally spoke when I thought he might have forgotten why I was there.
“Yes,” he said, eyes not on me but on the flames. “You can travel to other eras. Other places. But know this, child—every journey you take will feed the darkness inside you.”
His words were quiet. But they struck with the weight of thunder.
A chill ran down my spine, tightening my chest.
Darkness?
“I don’t understand,” I said. “What do you mean?”
Zampa turned his gaze to mine, and the wisdom in his eyes was shadowed by something older—regret, perhaps. Or fear.
“Time travel is more than a gift,” he said. “It is a force. It reshapes everything it touches. For some, it becomes a path to enlightenment. For others… it becomes a door to ruin. Every step through time, every interference, draws the darkness closer.”
I remained still, letting his words soak in like rain into cracked earth.
I had only just begun to believe this power was real, that I had it. But how he spoke of it—as dangerous, even corrupting—gave me pause. It was not the wondrous escape I had imagined. It was a blade with two edges.
“But what is this darkness?” I asked, more quietly now. “And how is it dangerous?”
Signor Zampa’s eyes darkened, hollowed like ancient caves. When he spoke, his voice dropped into something older.
“The darkness isn’t a what, Lady Tocino. It’s a who. And there are many.”
I stilled.
“The darkness is created at birth,” he continued, “and resides inside your dagger. Like a genie in a bottle.”
I gave a dismissive wave of my hand. “That old fairy tale? Of course I’ve heard it.”
“Don’t play coy,” he warned. “This is not a parlor game. This is life and death.”
A brooding grimace crossed his face, and the lines of age deepened into something that looked like grief.
I sat up straighter, feigning nonchalance while my heart thudded like a frantic drum. “What do you mean?”
“When you first traveled,” he said quietly, “at only a month old… your darkness was born. It was forged from your innocence, power, and first act of tearing open time.” He leaned forward, eyes piercing. “And now it’s roaming Italy, looking for you.”
I snorted, unable to suppress the sound. It was crude and unbecoming, but I couldn’t help it. “This story is preposterous.”
His glare chilled me to the bone. “Think so?”
He leaned even closer. “Your lover—Lord Balthazar—is one of the darkest of the dark.”
Despite the thick crimson mantle wrapped tight around my shoulders, a shiver coursed through me. The fire crackled quietly but did nothing to warm the sudden frost spreading through my chest.
I narrowed my eyes. “And how do you know of my association with Balthazar?”
Zampa laughed, hollow and joyless. “Child,” he said, “I make it my policy to know about Timebornes and their movements. Your dalliances with Lord Balthazar are far from private. They are… shall we say, common knowledge in certain circles. Circles to which I belong.”
I flinched, drawing my velvet cloak tighter around me. The thought that anyone might be watching, tracking—my most intimate moments made my skin crawl.
I sat up straighter, jutting out my chin in defiance. “So, tell me, Signor,” I said with icy calm, “what do you think you know about me—or any activity I conduct in my private time?”
The drawing room fell into an oppressive silence. The fire popped once, as if in protest.
Signor Zampa’s gaze settled on me with unnerving calm, and a sly smile curved at the corners of his lips.
“I know Balthazar wants to kill you,” he said, his voice low, measured, and devastatingly clear.
My heart plummeted into my stomach.
He spoke so simply and matter-of-factly that it felt less like a warning and more like a certainty already unfolding.
I swallowed hard and forced myself to remain composed. “How do you know this?”
“I told you,” he said with a careless shrug. “I monitor Timebornes. I monitor their darknesses. It’s what I do.”
“Wait,” I said, my voice tightening as I leaned forward. “Are you saying that Balthazar is my darkness? That he came into existence the moment I was born—like some twisted shadow of me?”
Zampa let out a scoffing chuckle. “Oh, child, no. He’s far older than that. Older than you, older than this village, older than time itself. Balthazar didn’t begin with you.” He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “But he may end with you.”
I stared at him, the ornate edges of his drawing room blurring as my mind spun in disarray. The man before me seemed ancient in his own right—a keeper of secrets, with the quiet arrogance of one who had known kings and watched dynasties crumble.
His words echoed inside me like a curse.
“Lord Balthazar will grow tired of you, my child,” Zampa said, reclining slightly. “He always grows tired of his lovers.”
An unexpected surge of jealousy stabbed through me.
Other lovers.
The thought sizzled under my skin like poison. I had always assumed he was mine and mine alone. That when he left me for days, weeks, months, it was for reasons that didn’t involve the touch of another.
But now... now I wasn’t so sure.
Was I just another fleeting flame in a long history of burning women?
Zampa seemed to sense my shift, the roiling emotions I tried to suppress. He leaned forward and gently rested a hand on my shoulder.
“My dear,” he said, his tone unexpectedly gentle, “you are young. Beautiful. Clever. You have so much to offer. Don’t be too hard on yourself. Even the darkest men can be captivated—for a time.”
I didn’t answer.
I held his gaze in silence, refusing to show weakness. But behind my eyes, questions curled like smoke. I didn’t trust him—not fully. But he knew something—many things.
And I needed answers more than I needed pride.
Perhaps sensing this, Zampa gave me a warmer smile and rose from his chair.
“Come,” he said, extending a hand. “Let me show you something.”
And though every instinct told me to run, I rose and followed.