The mist curled through the air. A series of muffled coughs went on as the acrid bite of burned wood mixed with the damp earth, weighing heavy in their throats. The fluttering blue cloaks brushed her cold, pale flesh as Ethel trudged forward in the middle, giving her the illusion of walking through the unreachable heaven. She was like a speck of bloodstain tarnishing the blue sky. Her wrists were sore beneath the iron shackles, with each step accompanied by the rattles of bells and chains.
Luther walked behind her. His hands never strayed far from the hilt. The bell he had tied on her wrist from previous night still clung to her wrist. A constant reminder of their short and futile conversation. That night was the only time they had ever spoken. Three days had passed; the wall of silence stood strong between them. Ever since that night, the fortress knight, Hartwin, had never left her alone with the luminary. Only the eldest knight dared to walk close side by side with a sinner. His gaze never left her, day and night.
"What's that smell?" commented someone.
A thick, intoxicating floral smell tickled her nose, overpowering the lingering stench of embers. Her skin crawled as the sweet and seductive aroma slithered over her skin like a snake. She knew right away what the smell was.
"Rose." Hartwin murmured, his heavy brow furrowed.
"That can't be," Vincent objected. "Ashendel's soil is barren. Nothing grows here—not since the fire." He stopped the moment his eyes met her crimson eyes. The man immediately averted his gaze.
As they stepped out of the mist, a forest stretched wide before them, but what caught their eyes was far more ominous.
Red roses.
Everywhere they bloomed—blood dotted splashes like painting wherever their gaze fell. Clusters of thick thorns burst through the ground as they sprawled in tangled knots on the towering trees, curled around the trunks. The wind shifted, carrying a cascade of its red petals. The moment the petals fell on her bare skin. Sinful desire disguised as harmless petals touched her. She could feel hands probing slowly on her body, stripping down her flesh as they penetrated to the deepest part of her. Ethel shut her eyes. A flame flared bright within the bottomless darkness—the Silk Butterfly burned the phantom hands.
"What is happening here?" Vincent scanned the area. They saw nothing but tress tangles in red roses. A forest suddenly emerging from a barren land could have been a miracle at first. However, the red rose's presence itself brought a greater omen.
Ethel crushed a rose beneath her feet. There could only be one sinner who possessed this abyssal.
Roze, the Sinner of Lust.
A sin to corrupt the creation of beauty. A harmless and fragile floral used as a decoration and offering for the mortal. Roze painted those flowers with her sin.
You finally took on the rose as your seventh abyssal. Ethel lifted her foot up onto the crushed rose. It disintegrated into ashes. The vow Roze took was to never lay a hand on a rose. Roze's deep fear of the thorns left a scar on her flesh. Quite an irony, as they both had one thing in common. Roze's fear of the rose and Ethel's refusal to set foot on Ashendel. Now they broke the same vow they made.
An outburst of cackles rang deep within the forest. Nobody dared to step foot inside. Luther, however, led the way inside. Soon, courage rose among the knights.
"Move." Hartwin ordered.
Petals rained over their heads, bouncing off from the barrier shielding their bodies—a miracle blessing connected from their luminary. Meanwhile, anything that came into contact with her turned into cinders.
The road stretched ahead through a dense garden of roses. Shattered glass crunched under their boots. Rotten food supplies lay scattered out from abandoned crates. Deserted carriages lined up on the sides along. Thorns coiled on the wooden wheels, plunging through the body to its roof.
Ethel glanced inside an open carriage. The door was hanging open, creaking in the breeze. Inside the carriage were a dress with long sleeves flared at the wrists, intricate gold embroidery, a velvet fitted doublet, and a broken wooden sword. There were no bodies, only clothes. Not even a speck of blood.
"Where did these people come from?" Vincent asked, inspecting the wreckage. "No one should enter Ashendel without the Order's decree."
"They don't just disappear," Hartwin muttered. "Not without a trace. There's not even any blood." His voice dropped lower. "Maybe they reached Ashendel. It should be just up ahead."
As they kept following the road, more clothes were lying on the ground and hanging above their heads as the thorns of roses clasped onto them. While they kept whispering among themselves that the people were safe, Ethel gazed at the roses creeping to a dress and dragging it into the bushes.
Soon, they arrived at an open field of roses. A lullaby lulled them close. A woman in a white dress drenched in blood sat among the thorns. On her lap was a young boy. His heart ripped out of his chest. From his mother's embrace, a chunk of his meat and blood dropped from his mother's lips that once whispered a lullaby. The woman devoured her own child as if he were her last meal. The boy's lifeless eyes stared at the clouded sky. To his despair, the dark gray curtains blinded the heavens.
"It's alright. Everything will be fine. Your mother will give you a new vessel. You'll just have to return to my womb so you could be born healthy and young. Again and again." The mother brushed her cheek against the boy's.
Ethel tore her eyes away from the sight of the blood. A knight staggered back to the far behind. He vomited, clutching at a tree for support. Another knight stayed beside the young man as he took in the gruesome sight with a facade face. "Get a hold of yourself. We're walking straight inside an enemy territory."
"This is monstrous," the knight gasped. "How can they be so cruel? Cursing an innocent mortal to commit such an act against their own child—for what?"
"You can never understand a sinner. No one ever can." The knight glared at the back of her head.
The mother shushed them. "Shh, don't wake my child. Let him rest."
Luther approached the mother from behind. One quick swing sliced the mother's neck swiftly. In her last moments, the mother clung to her son close.
"Dear gods, bring peace to the souls," Vincent prayed.
Ethel gazed at the roses, which reminded her of the days Roze lay on her lap as she brushed her red wavy hair. Constantly yapping on and on about love. As they both share one common reflection.
"I saw the farmer bringing peonies to his wife. They finally made up after the argument from last week." Roze held Ethel's cheek. Red roots slithered on her arm. A red peony bloomed on her palm, caressing her cheek. "You should talk with Aranea and clear up the misunderstanding."
Ethel burned in a wrathful flame that destroyed everything into ashes. Roze ached for a deep, twisted passion. Love was an elusive mirage that tempted them. Only to slip away from their fingers every time they got closer. Both yearned to understand a mortal's love. Love and hate. Love and Lust. In their twisted bond, they were two sides of the same forbidden coin.
***
They pressed on until they reached the other side. A cliff overlooked a vast crater below—a scar Ethel left behind thousands of years ago. Lamifel was a home embraced in golden light. The scent of fresh bread mingled with the blooming lavender in the valley. Settlements stood close to each other as the smoke emerged from the hearth. The bell tower chimed in the afternoon, beckoning its residents to their mundane lives.
Now, the former shell is nowhere to be found. A white wall stretched around the crater, as if caging the past. Ethel burned it together with its people and history. From its ashes, the Lumina Order rebuilt the dead town and made it into a personal prison for the devil inside, which remained embedded in the blackened crater. In the center, a marble-white stone fortress loomed tall like an unwavering judge. Winds howled through the soaring towers. The thick scent of embers lingered in the air.
"It's calling for me," spoke the One-Winged butterfly.
Ethel fixed her sights on the marble fortress. A faint pulse of crimson flame greeted her. Then, smaller embers appeared, scattering throughout Ashendel, walking freely behind the wall. Why are there so many of them? Ethel examined the scattered embers. A fleeting ember barely alive for half a day—some already extinguished themselves and departed into another vessel.
Before she could investigate further, something poked her from behind. Hartwin used the hilt of his sword to push her forward. "Move!"
Tension coiled in her shackled hands. A warm liquid glided down her palm. When Ethel looked down, it was her blood. She didn't realize her fingernails were digging deep into her flesh. The knight's constant poking on her back was pushing her patience to the edge. As much as she tried not to let his pitiful attempt to enrage her, the knight kept fanning the ember to burst into flame.
She took a step forward; a figure brushed past her. Startled, she followed the shadow. Black braided hair swayed as the girl ran down the hill. Ethel's hand raised towards the girl.
"Slow down. You'll fall running like that."
A voice of her own echoed behind her.
The girl twirled. Red eyes gleamed under the golden dawn. "My Lady, you better start running, or I'm leaving you behind! I heard the mortals are sealing those sweets." She sprinted away despite the stumbling rocks. Meanwhile, Ethel stayed rooted in the same place from the past. The further the girl went, the smaller her figure became.
"Emma," Ethel whispered, hand outstretching.
"I said, move!" Hartwin barked, shoving her harder this time. She stumbled down, knees scraped against the jagged stones.
"That's enough, Sir Hartwin. You don't want to vex the sinner!"
"What's even the point in humoring a sinner who's about to be executed?"
Ethel tried pushing herself back up, but her legs wobbled and she returned to the ground. A pair of leather shoes came into her view.
"Give me some time. I'm tired," she murmured.
Ethel expected the knight to kick her as they always do. Instead, a hand wrapped around her side and lifted her up.
"I never thought a sinner could get tired." Luther's voice chimed inside her. The silver bell glimmered on her wrist. Ethel met his sharp cerulean eyes, fixed forward ahead. "Walk. Isn't this what you wanted? To meet your end? Or does death scare you now?"
She shook her head. A small laugh erupted, breaking the silence. Knights froze where they stood with hands readied on their swords. While his own men feared her, the luminary stood close by her side.
"I thought you'd stay quiet until the end."
Luther ignored her as he pulled them together to walk ahead. Each step returned the strength to her weary legs.
"You're right. Death scares all of us, even the sinner. Fear made us a coward. Still, we get tired from all that running and hiding. And eventually, we'll stop—resting at last in death's arms." She gave a wry smile. "Death doesn't have its favorites. It keeps us all close. Mortal and sinner."
"Blasphemy."
Ethel chuckled, "Deny it all you want. Before you reach your heaven, you'll have to pass through death first. Although the sinners have no place in heaven, death gave us its embrace to rest instead." Though she can walk on her own, Luther's grip remained firm on hers. Ethel gladly held on until she met her end.