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The first thing Lute remembered was the cold. It was a cold that seeped into her bones, into her very marrow, and never let go. She was born in winter, in a room that stank of sweat and fear, into a world that had no place for her. Her mother was young, too young, her face pale and slick with tears as she screamed into the threadbare sheets. Lute’s father was just a shadow, a figure that never lingered, the product of a night that no one would speak of.
There was no joy in her birth, no celebration. Only the quiet disappointment of the nuns who had expected something more, something better. They wrapped her in a coarse blanket and handed her to her mother, who stared at her with empty eyes, before turning away. She was given a name, a name that would never be spoken with love, never be sung in lullabies. She was simply Lute.
The orphanage was the only home she ever knew, the only world that existed beyond those cold, stone walls. The nuns said it was God’s will, that she was meant to be there, that she should be grateful for the shelter and food they provided. But Lute knew, even as a child, that there was something dark in this place, something that clung to the walls like mildew, something that whispered in the corners where the light never reached. The children here were different—there were no games, no laughter. Just the slow, steady grind of survival, the knowledge that no one would come for them, that they were forgotten, lost.
Lute was different too. Even the other children could sense it, though they didn’t have the words to describe it. She didn’t cry like the others, didn’t scream when Sister Margaret brought down the ruler. She learned early on that pain was a constant, like the cold, like the hunger that gnawed at her insides. It was just another part of life, something to be endured. And so, Lute endured.
The other children avoided her, their fear of Sister Margaret’s wrath stronger than their instinct for companionship. They whispered about her in the dark, called her names when they thought she couldn’t hear. But Lute always heard. She heard everything. The Black Halo wasn’t a real thing, not at first. It was just an idea, a vague shape that haunted the edges of her mind, something she couldn’t quite grasp. But as the years passed, as the beatings became routine, as the cold became her only companion, the Black Halo grew. It was there in the shadows, in the way the light flickered when she entered a room, in the way the other children’s eyes slid away from her as if they couldn’t bear to look too closely.
It was a feeling more than anything, a weight that pressed down on her shoulders, a darkness that wrapped around her heart and squeezed until she could barely breathe. The nuns called her wicked, said she was marked by the Devil, but Lute didn’t believe in the Devil. She didn’t believe in God either, not the way the sisters did. To her, God was just another shadow, just another name for the darkness that lived inside her. She didn’t know what the Black Halo was, not really, but she knew it was hers, that it was a part of her, something that had been with her since the day she was born.
When the halls were quiet and the moonlight slanted through the narrow windows, the world would recede, leaving only the cold, silent darkness. That was when the air would grow thick and sour, when the weight of unseen eyes would press down like a lead blanket, crushing the breath from Lute’s lungs. The darkness would creep closer, suffocating, pulling her into a place where hands were too rough, too familiar, where the smell of wine and stale sweat clung to the sheets, where the cold touch was everywhere to be found. It was the absence that lingered afterward, the heavy emptiness that settled deep inside, leaving her hollowed out, with bruises that ran deeper than skin.
It was the Black Halo that kept her safe from Heaven, that kept the other children at bay, that kept Sister Margaret from beating her to death. It was the Black Halo that whispered to her at night, told her things, showed her things. It was the Black Halo that guided her hand the day she pushed Sister Margaret down the stairs, her fat body tumbling end over end, her face twisted in shock as she crashed to the floor below.
They never found out it was Lute who had done it, of course. The nuns whispered about it being an accident, a punishment from God, a reckoning. But Lute knew the truth. She knew it had been the Black Halo, her Black Halo, that had whispered the idea into her ear, that had guided her hand, that had watched with cold, dark eyes as the life bled out of Sister Margaret’s broken body.
After that, the orphanage became quieter. The other nuns left her alone, their fear palpable, their prayers whispered with more fervor when she passed. The other children gave her a wide berth, their eyes wide with a terror they couldn’t name. But Lute didn’t care. She didn’t need them. She had the Black Halo, and it was enough.
It was years before she saw the Black Halo again, before it fully revealed itself to her. She was older now, taller, though still thin and frail, her skin pale from lack of sunlight, her eyes hollow from the years of abuse and neglect. She was alone in her room, staring out the barred window at the snow falling in thick, heavy flakes, when she felt it—an icy, prickling sensation at the back of her neck, a shiver that ran down her spine and settled in her bones. She turned slowly, her breath catching in her throat, and there it was, hovering just above her head, a dark, shimmering ring that pulsed with a cold, unnatural light.
Lute didn’t scream, didn’t run. She just stared, wide-eyed, as the Black Halo floated closer, its edges sharp and jagged, like a crown of thorns. It whispered to her, a low, soothing murmur that drowned out the sound of the wind howling outside, that muffled the distant cries of the other children. It told her things, dark, terrible things, and she listened, because she had no choice. The Black Halo was hers, and she was its. There was no escaping it, no denying it. It was a part of her, a part of her soul, a part of whatever dark, twisted thing she had been born to be.
Lute didn’t sleep that night, couldn’t sleep, not with the Black Halo hovering above her, its cold light casting strange, twisted shadows on the walls. She just lay there, staring up at it, her mind numb, her heart heavy. And when morning came, she was still there, still staring, still silent.
The days that followed were a blur of cold, hunger, and darkness. The Black Halo never left her, never stopped whispering, never stopped watching. It was always there, just above her head, just out of reach. And as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, Lute began to change. She stopped eating, stopped speaking, stopped feeling. The other children were adopted, one by one, but no one came for Lute. No one wanted the girl with the dark eyes, the girl who never smiled, the girl who was always cold, even in the height of summer.
And then, one day, she was alone. The orphanage was empty, silent, the nuns having long since given up on her, left her to rot in the cold, dark rooms that had once been filled with the cries of children. Lute didn’t mind. She liked the silence, liked the way the Black Halo seemed to grow stronger in the absence of others. It was hers, after all, hers and hers alone.
The cold didn’t bother her anymore. She barely noticed it, barely noticed anything, really. The world outside the orphanage was a distant memory, something that no longer held any meaning for her. She was the Black Halo, and the Black Halo was her. And that was enough.
The day Lute died, it was as quiet and cold as the day she was born. She was sitting in her room, staring out the window at the snow-covered world outside, when the Black Halo began to pulse, its light growing brighter, stronger. She felt it inside her, a cold, burning sensation that spread from her heart to her fingertips, to the tips of her toes. She didn’t cry out, didn’t struggle. She just closed her eyes and let the darkness bring the glass to her chest.
When they found her, days later, she was still sitting there, her body cold and stiff, her eyes wide open, staring at something that only she could see. They said it was God's pity. A peaceful death, a merciful one. But Lute knew better. There was no peace in the Black Halo, no mercy. There was only darkness, cold and endless.
But Lute didn’t care. She had been born in darkness, lived in darkness, and now she would die in darkness. It was only fitting.
Because some children were born to live. Others were born to die.
But Lute—Lute was born to kill.