The moon shone intensely in the sky. Its brilliance stole away the darkness of the night, but on that night, the sunlight reflected on it seemed even stronger and more beautiful.
Under the moonlight, a beautiful garden rested beside an old mansion. Towering trees of imposing beauty let their leaves fall gently onto the lawn — which, despite not being trimmed for decades, still looked unusually stunning.
Flowers of impossible colors sprouted between stones covered in ancient moss. They exuded a sense of purity and reverence, contrasting with the lake — profanely beautiful — that lay at the center of the garden.
The garden was lovely, silent, and full of life… but it would soon be eternally defiled.
The moon's reflection on the lake darkened. The falling leaves stopped midair, as if resisting the evil about to come. The once-sacred flowers now exhaled terror and fear.
A tall man, cloaked in a dark hooded robe, walked silently. Draped over his shoulders, he carried a beautiful woman.
She was dirty and wounded, her wrists and ankles tied, and her mouth sealed with tape. Still, she was stunning — curly blonde hair fell just past her shoulders, and her body, adorned in a green dress with white accents, displayed smooth and hypnotic curves.
The hooded figure — whose mere presence exuded disgust and horror — threw her onto a bed of flowers. Then he pulled a sort of journal from his pocket. He read a few lines carefully, reviewing every step of the ritual to avoid mistakes.
He took five white candles and a knife. With his hands, he cleared an area of the garden, pushing aside flowers and branches. He placed the candles on the ground, each in its precise position.
Without hesitation, he slit one of his own wrists.
With blood dripping, he dipped his fingers in it and began to draw symbols beside each candle — profane, twisted, indecipherable characters.
Once done, he placed the woman at the center of the circle formed by the five candles, waking her.
She awoke in utter horror and despair. She thrashed and struggled, tried to scream, but no sound came out — even after the man removed the tape from her mouth.
It was as if something was silencing her.
She wept. Tears streamed down her face, and her expression was pure terror. Her beautiful blue eyes darted frantically, searching for a way out, for help, for salvation.
But nothing… and no one could save her.
Then, the hooded man chanted the words he had written with his own blood — as if it were the most profane act ever committed on Earth:
— Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'Iyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn...
As he recited, the woman's movements stopped, as if an invisible force had taken control of her body. The man cut the ropes binding her wrists and ankles and made her kneel at the center of the circle.
Her face, even more terrified, seemed frozen in that expression. An eternal horror.
— ...Th'nog ur'khal zha'rahn et-vogath na'ez shagg zoth'mar dath'nur.
The man finally finished reciting the ritual. Then he took the knife and slit the woman's throat and wrists.
Her tears flowed even more intensely.
And, strangely, her blood seemed to clot as it touched the ground, spreading as if guided by a profane will. It formed a pentagram, with the candles at each point and the woman in the center.
She was already pale from blood loss. She had given up fighting for her life. Then she looked directly at the face of her executioner.
He was a young man with black hair and brown eyes. He might have seemed ordinary, even handsome — if not for the horrifying grin that stretched from ear to ear, distorting his face into something inhuman.
In silence, he walked behind her and, with a hammer, crushed her head.
An act of mercy.
The scent of the ritual filled the garden… and drew in the demons.
The eternal burning sun rose on the horizon, expelling all darkness from the night. Nova Osiris was a common city in Egypt. It had many shops, schools, hospitals, parks, homes, and buildings — and in one of those buildings, resistance.
A young man with brown skin, green eyes, short curly hair, and a slightly athletic build awoke from a deep sleep.
He got up, observing his room: a simple wardrobe, a double bed, and a desk with a laptop. Then he left and went to the bathroom to take his morning shower.
After finishing, he returned to his room, opened the wardrobe, and grabbed a pair of black jeans and a simple white shirt.
Dressed, he left the room. Just ahead was a door he knocked on while yawning.
Knock, knock, knock.
— Are you up, Omar?
His relaxed, sleepy voice echoed through the house.
— Yeah. Go ahead and start the coffee, Laab.
Half an hour later, Laab and Omar were walking through the streets of Nova Osiris. Omar was a young man about the same age as Laab, slightly shorter, with a lightly muscular build, very dark skin, and long curly hair. He wore dark green pants and a tight black shirt that highlighted his subtle but well-defined muscles.
— Bro, check this out!
Omar looked intrigued as he showed his phone screen to Laab.
Omar's phone displayed the headline from the New Vatican's newspaper:
"The World's Youngest Potestate! Kwon Valtross has finally discovered his superior name, now called the Saint of Blades, becoming a Potestate at just 16 years old! The Saint of Blades was consecrated as archbishop on the morning of May 8, 103 A.E."
Isn't he too young? Laab thought.
— Wasn't he an Amesh just six months ago?
Laab asked as they crossed the street.
— Well, he's a genius. I wouldn't be surprised if he became the first Holy Angel.
After turning the corner, passing a vacant lot and a park, Laab and Omar entered a charming and cozy café.
It was still opening, with only one of the rolling doors lifted. Before entering, Laab pulled up the other one.
— You're late. Omar, help me in the kitchen. And Laab, arrange the tables.
The firm yet gentle voice came from a short young woman with curly hair, brown skin marked by vitiligo, and fierce blue eyes. She wore dark gray pants and a white crop top. A piercing sparkled on her belly button, and beautiful hoop earrings hung from her ears. Over her outfit, she wore a simple café apron, lightly stained with coffee and flour.
The two replied in unison, sarcastically:
— Yes, ma'am Cibele!
While Laab arranged the tables, he noticed the soft aroma of coffee filling the air — a familiar and comforting smell. But along with it came something different. A subtle, strange scent that seemed to grow stronger by the minute. An unsettling feeling came with the odor, but Laab chose to ignore it.
Omar and Cibele.
Laab remembered vividly how he had met the two, over 14 years ago. He and Omar were orphans. Laab was only six years old when he met Omar, who was five.
It was at school, during their early days, that they met Cibele. She was just four years old at the time. Since then, the three had been inseparable. They played, fought, laughed, cried, slept, and ate together — like a family.
Laab loved Cibele and Omar as if they were his younger siblings.
Cibele's parents owned that café, and when Laab turned 16, they invited all three of them to work there. They also helped Laab and Omar get a home when the two turned 18.
Laab's life was simple, but good. A rare peace in dark times.
But that scent…
That scent was not ordinary.
It seemed insistent, enveloping, alerting.
And even so, Laab continued to ignore it.
For now.