SEQUEL OF GYMNOPÉDIE
The war is inevitable. Wizards, witches, pick a side, pick your ruins. Because in the eye of war, brothers shared no blood though came from the same marrow, families strayed and abandoned, heart ostracized from mind, and you mi...
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WARNING: This chapter will include dark violence, dark jokes, blood/gore. Murder is a crime! However, listening to a badass villain playlist suited this chapter.
La rose raffinée ancre la loyauté, Evan whispered the said motto to himself as his step echoed between the dimly-lit corridors until the sound of the grandfather clock bounced into the walls, hiding the loud slam of the front door shut. He pulled out a black gloves once his exposed palm was caressed by midnight's air. Nyx saw it, she knew that Thanatos was ready for another task—another soul to reap and dragged to hell with him.
His body was still, rooted as he searched his uncle's rose garden. He inhaled deeply, coaxing the acetic scent. Under the lack of light, the velvet red appeared maroon dark. With a swing of his knife, a rosebud fell to his gloved palm and a dauntless smirk graced his face, pleased.
Prometheus had always taught him how a red rose held sacredness to them. Roses were very picky plants, it would only grow in certain soil with precise acidity and weather. But once rose grew it would never stop blossoming, blood-red with scent akin to wine, enough to lure hummingbirds and bees. Rose was the symbol of their loyalty and royalty, that was why the said flower was embossed on the House of Rosier's crest. Just like Roses, the Rosier was known for their dauntingly beautiful genes, yet people often forgot beneath all that beauty, roses had thorns.
The brunet pinned the rosebud to his dark cloak, before he retracted his blade and settled it on his belt, he retrieved a silver skull mask and his trusty rosewood wand on the other hand. Rosier squirmed, moving his limbs as if he was stretching out before morning jog, however, Thanatos' favorite sport would involve death.
If the grim reaper had crescent scythes, Evan had his knives. He counted the numbers of blades, latched cool and close against his skin: four on his belt, two were hung on the harness at the back of his vest, two strapped against his legs, and a pair of twin butterfly knives hidden inside the soles of his boots.
He lifted his gaze to the night and darkness hooded above his head. Under the void sky, he smirked at how the war didn't dare to damage him, not even the slightest. How could he fear the war if he was the one who brought deaths upon it in the first place?
He felt invincible, untouchable, for bringing deaths to war, for being the anonymous at once the infamous merciless devil cloaked by the dark. With a wicked grin, Rosier breezed into the air like ashes, like fragments of night essence before he immersed into a dark fume and mingled with the sky—apparated away.
