Miles Phillips was sitting in a cafeteria, pristine white elegance– tables allotted a golden colour scheme with the chairs resembling every ethereal dream known to mankind. Beside him was his 'saintly brother', Micheal Pendragon– also known as Sir Pendragon the Tenth Saint of Floria, The Knight. The table had 10 seats– Miles sitting on the edge whilst the rows flowed with Micheal and then the 4th Saint of Floria,
Rosamire Dianaste, the Diamond — pixie cut, body built like a siege weapon — the strongest saint by brute force. Stronger even than Amarze or Gabriel. Her skin was brown similarly to Medea- relating to her heritage as a Medean who was displaced into the Florian Empire She had the 9th Saint of Floria — a snarling werewolf — in a chokehold he barely escaped.
"Relax yourself," He spoke- biting with every vowel stated, spitting across the room with precision, "I don't want to get violent". Merlin Pronasces the Ravenous was the stereotypical werewolf, buzzing fur jumping up like a screeching banshee and the guild of Floria branded on his chest, his dedication the guild recognisable from that alone– bright blue eyes piercing into Rosamire's eyes before sighing and giving up. Before looking across the table to beg the 6th Saint of Floria for assistance,
"I'll stop you right there," Lianous Cragis shut down Merlin, rolling his eyes- he had purple hair with pink highlights, all the Saints had the same armour, pure white elegance with a bulky exterior however the Lusted had neon colours emerging from his chestplate. "Ask Miles the Gold for help, he's the highest ranking one here." he bitterly stated, biting his thumb in contempt whilst glaring from across the table at Miles.
But the Golden wasn't listening, his eyes peering at below contemplating. His mind scrambled: He'd swallowed enough guilt and silence to drown. "Watching them laugh felt like a curse. Gabriel bleeding out. Saraline vanished. Amarze imprisoned for decades. Did no one else remember?"
14 Days Until the Second Grand Reprisal.
When an announcement bellowed from the skies, it wasn't an electronic relay of information but instead a transmission from above– but the Saints knew the reality, The Gods just forcefully inputted the information in the brains of all.
"Cheer up, golden boy." a voice that spoke in pure synchronisation echoed, the twins from opposite Miles spoke out, dressed in the same clothes- same dark black hair and nothing behind their eyes– "Miles Phillips of Asaldom? Why are you the only one who's given that acknowledgment? We all come from different areas so why is it you?" The twins, known as Castor and Pollux Wilson- the 5th and 8th Saints of Floria respectively but also together known as the Arcana.
"Go bother Thidos if you want answers." grumbled Miles, clearly careless towards the circumstances however Micheal began to speak.
"Are any of you participating in the second reprisal?" Micheal spoke, typically he was cheerful but his eyes and tone conveyed animosity to anyone who may dare do so, "This is a family, do not be selfish and attempt to break it up."
"Is it though?" Miles spoke, getting up from his seat- the other tables consisting of the Angels and Priests gazed onto a potential incident, "Thidos doesn't care for us, he let his son die. Then he gets mad when we can't do anything about it." he pointed towards the seventh saint's chair, "Saraline could be fucking dead and nobody gives a fuck about it! Where's Gabriel huh? He's gone– opening that damn bar and forgetting all of us, just to get destroyed by that filthy devil!" Miles pushed Michael's chest, "So don't come talking to me about anything relating to a family or being selfish, when we aren't a family and this is just self preservation!" he yelled, passionately.
"Relax yourself, first choice." the formerly first saint, the decimator– Amarze walked in, alongside him an adolescent young boy with spiky hair and a punk rock aesthetic. "You throwing a hissy fit won't give anyone a joyous mood."
The room bellowed in laughter, pointing at Miles..
They all thought he was a joke, the teacher's pet– gets let off for doing jack shit and then complains about not enough special treatment. The only one who saw the truth, Saraline, she's gone. Was she really as bad as he thought?
"Due to the insect being squished," Amarze made a gesture with his hands representing clapping a fly out of existence, "We got a new winner from a trial, welcome Paris Guildford, a balaterinian."
However nobody clapped once they heard that last part, instead they sneered and then ignored- including the saints.
"Of course they hate me," Paris thought. "A balaterinian shows up and dares to act proud? Blasphemy."
Amarze awkwardly pushed Paris onto the table before quickly exiting.
This didn't phase him though, used to be an outcast. He sat on Amarze's seat and kicked his feet on the table slamming it with enough force it simply disappeared; however his leg was still floating- the food that was to be consumed by the saints was frankly gone. Paris laughed out, "If any of you people have a problem, we can fight it out." blowing his hair to make it form into a mohawk with purple highlights similarly to Lianous who he was sitting next to- mocking him. Before darting his eyes to Miles, glowing them in a bright red.
Acknowledgment. Power. Revenge. Whatever Paris wanted, it started now.