The garden of roses lay in eerie silence, the sweet fragrance still heavy in the air though most of the blossoms had been torn and bruised from Luther's wrath. Petals scattered across the ground, like remnants of a battlefield.
At the center of it all, the angel knelt.
He was trembling, his once-pristine white robe now wrinkled, filthy, and stuffed with thorny leaves. His blond hair hung in tangles, littered with bits of greenery. A bruise darkened one leg where the vines had gripped and twisted him too tightly. Every breath he took came out ragged, the sound of a proud creature brought thoroughly low.
And opposite him sat Luther.
The young man lounged casually on a chair sculpted entirely from vines, their surfaces smooth yet alive, pulsing faintly with his power. His fingers drummed lazily against the armrest. A single glare, sharp and unforgiving, was leveled at the angel's bowed back.
